Enzan. John Donohue
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to getting in way over my head, and that he had an obligation to pull me out. In my defense, it wasn’t always my fault. But that didn’t change anything. Mickey was a man who walked through life deeply convinced of his own competence and wildly suspicious of the ability of almost everyone else. Especially me.
“Hey, come on,” I told them. “I’m not here to get dumped on.”
“You’re here to drink some fine liquor on our expense account,” my brother pointed out.
“You invited me,” I said. Mickey opened his mouth to say something else, and then thought better of it. He looked across the booth to Art, who was draped along the padded seat like a man on his living room sofa. Art was smiling slightly, listening to us talk, but watching the people come and go.
“What?” Mickey prodded.
Art jerked a chin. “See the woman in the black parka who just came in?”
Mickey took a peek. “Fur-lined hood, red boots?”
Art nodded. “We’ve seen her before, but I can’t place her.”
Mickey squinted in thought. They had seen a lot of people in their time. Some were crooks. Some were just familiar. “She a pro?” he asked, meaning a prostitute.
Art closed one eye and tilted his head. “I don’t get that vibe …” he said. He sighed. “Well, not my problem, I suppose.” He turned to look at me. “You, on the other hand …”
“You idiot,” my brother added.
I rested my drink on the napkin and looked down at it as I slid the glass in small circles on the wooden table. “Look, I’m not crazy about the deal, either. But it’s something I’ve gotta do for Yamashita.”
“Ooh, we’ve been to this movie before, eh Mick?” Art smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Mickey leaned forward, brushing his tie down with the flat of his hand. He had spent most of his adult life in crumpled sport jackets bought off the rack at Sears, and now success had made him curiously fastidious, as if the absolute chaos of the world he worked in could be somehow kept at bay through good grooming.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and took a sip of his drink. The two of them were deeply skeptical of the Miyazaki and their request. I had been there myself, but since I had agreed to help, I had the disorienting experience of repeating the same conversation with Ito all over again, only now I was arguing the exact opposite point of view.
“They just want this guy’s daughter found,” I explained. “She’s a wreck. They want her home.”
Mickey took a breath, but Art held up a calming hand. “Let’s walk through this step by step, Connor, OK?” I nodded in agreement.
Art came out of his slouch and sat forward. “They would like her found, yes?”
“Yes,” I said.
Art nodded. “Fair enough. But why come to you? There are any number of people who do this professionally.” He placed a big freckled hand on my arm. “And I don’t like to hurt your feelings, Connor, but they can probably do this better than you can.” Across the table, Mickey snorted in agreement.
“Look,” I said, “I pointed that out to them. But it’s a Japanese thing. It has to do with family reputation. They don’t want some stranger involved.”
“You are a stranger, you idiot,” my brother pointed out.
“No, I’m not. I’m Yamashita’s senior student and he’s got some connection with them. He owes them.”
“How? Why?” Mickey was skeptical.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I said.
“OK, leave that for a minute,” Art continued. “It might be useful to know more, but you know what you know. Let’s get to the heart of things here.” He leaned forward and took a sip of his martini. “Mmm. Shaken, not stirred.”
Mickey looked suddenly alert, and I knew we were about to take a detour into the odd version of Trivial Pursuit they had developed over years of stakeouts. “You mean, ‘shaken and not stirred,’” he said, eyes gleaming.
Art appeared affronted. “Surely you jest. The movie Goldfinger, my man—1964. Check it out.”
Mickey smiled wickedly. “And yet, when we go to the source, Ian Fleming himself wrote the phrase ‘shaken and not stirred.’ First uttered in the book Dr. No in 1958. They left the word ‘and’ out in the movies.”
Art was not impressed. “Like you’ve ever read a book, Mick.”
The two of them had an almost inexhaustible interest in pop culture trivia, especially when it came to action flicks. I let the bickering go on for a while, and then interrupted them.
“You know my favorite line by James Bond about martinis?” They stopped arguing and looked at me with the disapproval you give to people who let themselves in on a conversation without being invited. “Casino Royale, 2006,” I continued. “Someone asks Bond if he wants his drink shaken or stirred. Know what he says?”
Art smiled, his eyes crinkling almost shut. “Sure. He says, ‘Do I look like I give a damn?’”
“Exactly,” I said, pausing for effect before I continued. “Let me just say he speaks for many of us.”
Art looked at Mickey. “It seems not everyone shares our interests.”
“Go figure,” Mickey said. “Too busy getting tangled up in half-assed schemes, probably.”
“Well, it appears that I digress,” Art commented, and took another swallow of his drink. “Where was I? Oh, yeah. What do these guys really want?”
“They want her found,” I answered.
Art smiled. “Oh, my boy. So easily misled. Yes, they want her found, but that’s just the prelude. Once you find her, what then?”
“They want her to come home.”
Mickey leaned in. “But they’ve had this conversation with her, haven’t they? And she’s not home, is she?”
“She’s messed up, Mick,” I told him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Art said, shaking his head. “She’s not a minor. She’s not being held under duress that we know of. She’s free to be as messed up as she wants.”
“Which means,” Mickey put in, “what they want you to do is not just find her. They want you to take her. Against her will. And deliver her to them.” He looked at Art. “Now why would they want someone to do that for them, Art?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“Hmm, good question, Mick.” Art rested his chin in his hand, miming deep thought. “Perhaps because, hmmm, let me see, perhaps because, oh, I don’t know …”
“Because it’s kidnapping, you asshole,” Mickey hissed at me. “A federal offense. They want it done, but they don’t want to get their hands dirty doing it. They won’t hire someone to do it because they can’t trust them not to roll over if they get pinched.”
“I would,” Art said.
Mickey looked at me. His eyes are grey and can be terribly cold. “So they sell you a line about honor and favors owed by Yamashita and figure you’ll get it done for them.”
“Why would they ask me to do it, if I’m such an amateur?”
Art smiled. “Now, Connor. Don’t be sullen. You’re very capable in your own special way.” He paused to scan the room once more. “I also imagine these people are very well informed about your skills. Your persistence.”
“Your incredible knack for generating shit storms,” Mickey added.
“An unpleasant point, but true,” Art concluded.