Milton knew he shouldn’t be here. Every meeting he had ever been to, every share he had ever heard, all of them had included the same refrain: One drink is too many and a thousand is never enough. Milton remembered that and all of the other warnings and ignored them all. He picked a bar at random—the sign above the door said Nessun Dorma—and paid the seven-hundred-yen cover charge for one of the six stools at the bar.

Milton reached into his pocket and took out his eight-year chip. He put it on the bar and looked down at it, turning it with his finger. He flipped it and looked at the scene that was printed on the back: Bill W. and Dr. Bob, the founders of the Fellowship, trying to persuade Bill D. that he didn’t have to drink.

“What do you want?”

Milton looked up. The bartender was staring at him. “Sorry?”

“What do you want to drink? You can’t just sit there.”

Milton looked at the bottles stacked in shelves that had been crammed into narrow alcoves in the wall.

“Whisky,” he said. “Give me a double.”

109

Katsuro called a cab and had the driver take them to Sanya. The streets around the building had their usual atmosphere—a low-level throb of enmity and possible threat—but Katsuro knew that no one would be foolish enough to approach him. He was an imposing man, and, although it carried less fear than it had in its heyday, the Nishimoto name still had weight. He walked by the hiyatoi rodosha—the labourers—who were drinking cheap sake from the bottle, taking in their malevolent stares and returning one of his own. It felt good to have Sakura by his side. He liked the way they looked at her, and then the way they looked at him. He knew that they were jealous.

He reached the tower, stepped into the lobby and nodded to Kodama and Shinoda, the members of his father’s security detail who were on duty. He went to the elevator, pressed his key card against the reader, and ushered Sakura inside. He had the gaijin’s bag over his shoulder and was looking forward to his father’s reaction when he delivered the tantō to him. What had happened in Bali would be forgotten. Takashi had been depressed for weeks at the loss of the sword, and Katsuro would be able to make up for his errors by returning it to him.

* * *

The elevator reached the twelfth floor and the door slid open. He stepped straight out into his father’s apartment. The old man was sitting at the large dining table with a set of karuta cards laid out before him. Fumio was nearby.

“Otōsan,” he said, bowing his head.

Takashi looked up and removed the wire-framed glasses that he used for close work. He saw Katsuro and looked behind him to where Sakura was standing.