Weeds in the Jungle

remote surf shop, he would do it. All he knew was he couldn’t go home. That was the life he had lost.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Your friend’s house will do fine. I will appreciate the chance to rest and think about things. Are we going there now?’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Waneta. ‘But don’t stress yourself out thinking too much. Remember, by the time you’ve been called in to do something, the thinking has already been done, and by experts in their fields. That’s why everything has been running so smoothly.’

  Taro did not reply. He did not tell her that what he wanted to think about was whether now was the right time to get out or not. And he did not tell her that the gun in his hand didn’t feel much different to his hairbrush.

  37

  It was ten o’clock in the evening and Taro still hadn’t made his choice. He would have to go soon. The double storey house, his sanctuary until there was no longer a price on his head, was a half hour walk out of Shinjuku. Taro would have to decide if he was going to settle in or head for the bus station and a one way trip to Shikoku and its beautiful surf beaches.

  As he procrastinated, Taro glanced around the house from a very comfortable recliner chair in the living room. The open plan revealed much. There was a TV with satellite channels, there was a well-stocked kitchen, and there was the biggest bed Taro had seen outside a love hotel. Waneta said she would drop by when she could. There was a considerable porn collection to keep him preoccupied in the meantime. Some of the covers were quite eye catching. Although they were all Portuguese, he doubted there would be much talking to be had anyway. But something to while away the hours.

  His phone rang on his lap and Waneta’s name came up on the screen. He wondered if the porn collection might be a topic of conversation. Waneta had shown him the television but neglected to mention what was in the cabinet underneath. Now would be as good a time as any to make amends.

  ‘Hello,’ he said as smoothly as he could. ‘I found something we might want to watch together.’

  She didn’t even hear him. ‘I’ve betrayed you.’ The voice was choked up and barely decipherable.

  ‘What did you say?’

  He heard her swallow hard, and her voice came with a pant. ‘He took someone close to me, put a gun to her head. I told him where you are. I gave him your address.’

  ‘Who?’ Taro felt cold beads of sweat roll down ribcage from his armpit.

  ‘Akutagawa.’

  Taro stood up from the living room sofa. He closed his arms to stamp out the flow of sweat. ‘When did you tell him?’

  ‘Around forty minutes ago. I’ve been pacing up and down not knowing what to do. I’ve tried to call Tokin, but I can’t reach him. You’re on your own. Get out of there.’

  ‘Do I have time?’

  ‘I think he’s already there.’

  ‘Can you call the police?’

  ‘That’s not a choice. If you call the police, Tokin will kill you.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘If you stay in that house, you’re dead for certain. You’ve simply got to get out.’

  ‘But he’s waiting for me.’

  ‘The way he took me, used me, I understand now why they say he is the best.’

  The line went dead.

  Taro was going to throw up. With half a bottle of whiskey inside him and his heart pounding with the tension, he couldn’t think straight. The gun was still in his pocket. He pulled it out and felt it in his hand. He would walk out waving it in front of him; if he caused a panic, it might put the assassin off. Or maybe it was a sniper’s bullet that was awaiting him. That wouldn’t be so bad: death without a face.

  Taro turned off the television and picked up the house keys. He wasn’t going to run. For the most deadly hit man in Tokyo, he was going to walk.

  He didn’t make it to the front door. It flew open. A man charged in. He was tall and wiry and there was a gun in his hand.

  Taro pressed against the wall to steady his aim. The eyes that flashed on him were burning with a raw fury. Taro knew he couldn’t let the gun come onto him as well. It would mean instant death. But it was already moving, so quickly it was just a blur. Taro’s eyes slipped off it to the man himself. He was wearing a ubiquitous black suit and white shirt. After he had shot Taro, he could ride a train home like everyone else. He could while away the journey reading a newspaper or surfing the internet on his phone. Taro’s death would merely be an obligation fulfilled, a name on a daily schedule that could be ticked off. Taro would do anything to avoid such an ignoble fate. A mix of repulsion and determination shook him out of his malaise and he pulled the trigger. His good fortune was where his gun happened to be pointed. The man’s head whipped back. Blood and brain matter spattered across the wall. The body dropped limp, like a pile of dirty laundry.

  Taro did not fire a second shot. He knew there was no need. He did not look down as he walked past the body. He went straight out the house and down the street, moving in a daze. He walked for blocks and blocks and still he did not look up - the weight of killing another person.

  He took a taxi to Shinjuku. It was not until halfway through the trip that he realised the gun was still in hand. The taxi driver had been too unobservant to even notice it. Taro slipped the gun into his jacket pocket, checking that the stone-faced taxi driver’s eyes were still on the road.

  He turned his attention to the people going about their businesses on the narrow footpaths outside the taxi. There was more than glass separating them now.

  The head had exploded with the bullet. It may have only been a hit man’s brain, but it was on lease from a superior being, and Taro had desecrated it.

  He stared fixedly at his hands as he paid the taxi driver. There were ten fingers that had suddenly become strangers to him. He worked hard to get the money across and didn’t wait for the change. He got out of the taxi and didn’t look back, skipping across the road to the bus station. The bus station’s entrance hall was a hive of activity. Overhead screens were listing pending departures to Nagoya and Aichi. The people milling around looked about as homeless and lost as did Taro.

  ‘I want a one-way ticket to Shikoku Island,’ Taro said at the ticket window.

  ‘That bus has already departed,’ replied the attendant earnestly. ‘The next departure is at seven tomorrow morning.’

  Taro backed away to a wall. There were a couple of unkempt young men, backpacks on shoulders, who reminded him of Shimizu. Perhaps Taro could ask them where they were going and get himself invited along; another life in another faraway place.

  Taro snarled at himself for being so squeamish. All he had done was solve a problem. Tokin had been suffering a hit man with an overinflated opinion and value of himself, now he wasn’t. Akutagawa had disrespected him too, barging into the house like he had been late for another appointment. No strategy, no tact; without the element of surprise he had not been much of a hit man at all.

  Taro spat on the concrete floor of the bus station. He couldn’t get out of this decaying, depressing building soon enough. He strode onto the street. Probably it would be safe to return to his Roppongi apartment. Or at the very least he would stay at an expensive hotel. No more sleeping in parks. He was moving up in the world.

  The Central Hotel was closest. It would do. Taro was walking that way when a message sounded in his phone. He snapped open the phone, wondering if it was Waneta in one of her check-ups to see if he was still alive. He did not know how he would feel about that. She had both betrayed him and saved his life in the one moment, so their relationship was complicated. But the message turned out to be from Tokin himself. It was instructions. And there was nothing complicated about them.

  38

  ‘You did what you had to do. No hard feelings. You simply proved that he really was being overpaid.’

  Tokin hadn’t shaved. And he was wearing dark sunglasses and a black leather jacket. He was looking just the way those old late night movie stereotypes said he should.

  There were three b
lack Mercedes Benzes parked in a row in the downtown Shinagawa street. Tokyo Tower was looming large over a crush of office buildings jostling for height like trees in a forest striving to claim the most sunlight. The tower was also directly behind Tokin. Tokin firmly grabbed Taro by the arm and steered him through his bodyguards to the last of the cars.

  Taro’s heart was pounding again - almost to the level he experienced with Akutagawa’s visit. He wasn’t sure if it was reservation or excitement he was feeling with Tokin’s decided look of approval.

  ‘I’ve still got the gun,’ Taro said. ‘Should I ditch it?’

  Tokin frowned. ‘Why would you do that? It’s expensive, and it seems to work.’ He slapped a heavy white envelope against Taro’s chest. ‘This can keep it company. Forget anonymous deposits. I want you to see what those numbers on a cash machine really represent. And I want you to see clearly the hand that feeds you.’

  The envelope was unsealed. The amount of money may not have actually allowed it to be sealed – though the denominations were small. Mostly one thousand yen notes. Taro’s eyes widened upon them.

  ‘Hard times require hard currency,’ said Tokin. ‘Are you ok?’

  Taro nodded.

  ‘Are you sure? You’ve come a long way in a short time.’

  ‘I really am fine.’

  ‘That’s good. All the same, it would be best if you went away awhile. All those warnings to the police have worked them up into quite a state. I