I sat on the toilet, took hold of the handicap railing on both sides, leaned back, and raised my feet in front of me.
In my acute state I heard the distinct sound of a folding blade clicking into place. Then another.
Footsteps, to my left. I breathed quietly through my mouth.
The footsteps came closer. Closer.
The footsteps stopped directly in front of me. I saw a shape through the crack at the edge of the door. The shape started to move lower as the yakuza angled for a better peek.
I bellowed a war cry and shot my feet into the door. It exploded outward and blasted into the yakuza's face. He fell backward and something clattered to the floor.
I sprang out. The other yakuza was on my left, a blade in his right hand. Before he could get over the instant of shock produced by my yell and the sight of his partner going down, I bellowed again and grabbed his wrist with both hands.
I trained in judo at Tokyo's famed Kodokan for a quarter century. A quarter century of daily hours of gripping and twisting the heavy cotton
I squeezed hard and the yakuza howled. His knife clattered to the floor. I stepped in close, grabbed his balls with an undergrip, and squeezed as hard as I could. He shrieked and doubled over.
The other guy was on his knees now, groping for his knife under the sinks. I grabbed him by his leather jacket and hauled him back. He tried to catch me with a donkey kick, but I'd anticipated that and was too far to his side. The kick snapped past me. I scooted toward his head, braced my hands on his back, and shot a knee into his face. He fell back. I dropped down, grabbed the knife, and rolled to my feet.
The other guy was staggering for the door now, still doubled over. I snagged one of his pants legs at the ankle and yanked it back toward me. He went sprawling forward onto his face. I did a knee drop onto his spine, mashed his face into the floor, and brought the knife up under his neck. I dug in, then tore out and away.
There was a wet gurgling noise, half cry, half bubbling liquid. I jumped back to get clear of the blood and turned to his partner. He was on his ass now, scuttling backward. His face was a bloody mess — from the door shot or the knee or both, I didn't know.
He bumped up against the wall and started to struggle to his feet. I kicked him in the balls and he folded forward with a grunt. I stepped behind him, hooked my fingers into his eyes, and hauled his head back. Then I brought the knife around and practically took his head off. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound and I shoved him away from me. He crashed into one of the stall doors and went down.
I looked at myself in the mirror. There was blood all over me. The jacket I was wearing was dark enough to conceal the problem, though, and I zipped it up higher. I rinsed my shaking hands under one of the faucets, closed the knife, and shoved it into a pants pocket. Then I rinsed my face and wet my hair, getting the blood off and changing my appearance at the same time.
The swinging doors opened. I glanced over. A black man in a suit started to walk inside. He froze when he saw the tableau. 'Oh, my God,' he said.
'I was attacked,' I said, in a high, frightened voice, looking at his feet to make it harder for him to see my face. 'Find a policeman. Please.'
He backed out through the door. I really had to hurry now.
I ducked into the handicap stall and shoved my pants and shoes into the carry-on. When I came out I had to jump over the pool of blood spreading on the tiled floor. I wanted to wipe down the surfaces I'd touched, but there just wasn't time. I went out the swinging doors. The area was clear. I kept my head down and headed straight for a taxi stand.
Ten minutes later, I was in the back of a cab, heading into Manhattan. I started to feel giddy. A crazy thought zigged through my mind —
It was finally over with Yamaoto. I had just finished my last job. And Midori and Koichiro were safe.
52
I called Midori from the cab to let her know I was coming. But she didn't answer. I used the mobile browser on the phone to check her website. She had a gig at a place called Detour in the East Village. I called the club. The woman I spoke to told me Midori wouldn't be there that night. She had had to cancel.
'Do you know why?' I asked.
'No, I'm sorry. A personal matter, that's all I know.'
I told the driver to take me to Greenwich Village, corner of Seventh Avenue and Bleecker. I would walk to her apartment from there.
By the time the cab dropped me off, the trendy Village dinner scene was in full swing. I watched the laughing, contented hipsters and yuppies walking past me in their distressed leather jackets and Tod's shoes. It was like being on some surreal movie set.
I approached Midori's apartment carefully. Tatsu had said there were only two, but caution is a lifelong reflex for me.
When I was satisfied I wasn't going to run into another welcoming committee, I walked up to the front door. The doorman was there, the same guy as last time.
'I'm here to see Midori Kawamura,' I told him.
'Is she expecting you?'