Headhunters (10 page)

“And I do not want to work with someone who does not want to work with me. That would be bad business. We can agree on that, at least. Yes?”

“Yes,” he answered nervously.

“So we will part ways, as you suggest.”

He knew that there was something else to come. “But it’s not going to be as easy as that.”

Kazuki smiled. “It will be easy. We do one more job together, and then we can stop. It is simple, just as tonight. Nothing beyond you and your clever software.”

“What is it?”

“Another car. I will provide you with the details. What it is, where it can be found, everything that you will need. And, because this will be the last time that we work together, I will make it even more profitable for you. We will split the proceeds sixty-forty in your favour.”

“Why would you do something like that?”

“Because I am a fair businessman. And perhaps, when you see that, you will reconsider your decision.”

“I won’t,” he replied quickly.

Kazuki leaned back against the chair and spread his hands. “But you will work with me this one more time.”

His tone was rhetorical. It wasn’t a question.

“Once more.”

Kazuki beamed at him. He extended his hand across the table and, as Ziggy hesitated, nodded that he should take it. He did, and the man gripped it firmly. “Very good. I am pleased. Shoko will contact you with the details, just as before.”

Ziggy stood.

To his surprise Shoko stood, too.

“I will come with you,” she said.

She looked down at her brother and exchanged a glance. Ziggy caught it late, and couldn’t discern its meaning, but he didn’t know how to say no to her, even though he knew that he should. She reached down and slipped his hand into hers. It was the first time that she had done that. Her clasp was cold, her skin as smooth as polished ice, and, as she tugged him away from the table, he did not demur.

“WE GO TO YOUR PLACE?”

Ziggy flustered. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t go back to his apartment. It was in a shocking mess and, more important even than that, his memories of John Milton made him cautious enough to keep his address to himself. His brain locked and, even as he knew he was acting like a foolish schoolboy, he couldn’t speak. He was about to ignore his reservations and give her the address when she put the car into drive and said, with a cold little smile, “It’s okay. We go to mine.”

She drove them back into Ginza. She didn’t speak, her focus on the road and whatever it was that she was thinking about. Ziggy found himself fraught with nerves. He tried to start several conversations, useless small talk, but he didn’t know what to say and whatever he tried sounded gauche. He let his hands slip down so that they were beside his legs and clenched the edges of the leather seat.

She drove them into a district of concrete apartment buildings, each garlanded by a fringe of Japanese maple trees that had been planted around and between them. The locals jokingly referred to them as mansion apartments, or “man-shi-yons,” a euphemism that had been appropriated to describe this type of faceless concrete behemoth that provided accommodation to millions of people within the bounds of the metropolis. She slotted the car into an empty space in another underground lot before leading Ziggy to an elevator.

Shoko’s place was on the fifth floor. It was a typical space with cramped dimensions. Many of the mansion blocks dated back to the sixties but, in a land that experienced frequent earthquakes, the concept of renovating an old building was alien. The preference was to tear down and start again. Shoko, it seemed, had rebelled. The apartment was divided into two rooms with tatami flooring separated by
fusuma
sliding paper screens and a Western kitchen. Without a word, Shoko went over to a closet, opened it and took out a futon and blankets. She unfolded the futon and arranged the blankets. Ziggy tried not to think what that might portend.

He looked out of the window instead. He could see the dark shape of Mount Fuji to the west and the glaring neon lights of a “love hotel” to the east.

Shoko took a bottle of Yamazaki Single Malt and poured out two measures. Ziggy was not a connoisseur, but even he knew that the distillery had recently been named as the best in the world, and that its products were correspondingly expensive.

She led him to the futon, which she had placed in front of the wide window. The view was stupendous, but Ziggy narrowed his focus so that he could watch the reflection in the glass: him and, close enough to his right that their legs brushed together, Shoko.

She sipped the malt and, without words, stood up, unbuttoned her top and pulled it over her head. Her stick-thin arms were covered, from the wrists all the way up to her shoulder, with a tattoo that wound its way to her chest and across her back. The design was of a female courtesan, a dagger clenched between her teeth. He had seen it before. It marked her out as connected to the Yakuza. Her brother was Yakuza, too. Ziggy didn’t think he was senior—he was too young for that—but that was scant relief.

“If you want to see me, you must work with my brother. Do you understand?”

See me?
He did want to see her, like this, more than anything else.

He said that he did, but that wasn’t what he was thinking. One more time. One more car. That really was his limit, no matter what she said. He had known, of course, that he wasn’t dealing with Boy Scouts. He had been stealing quarter-million-dollar cars to order. He had known that he was being drawn deeper into the underworld, and he had allowed it. It was Shoko. He couldn’t resist her.

“You can trust me,” she said. “You can trust my brother.”

He didn’t answer.

Deeper and deeper and deeper. He knew that he had to get out.

After this last theft, he would stop. He promised himself.

But then Shoko sat down beside him, her skin silken smooth and glowing in the muted light, and he forgot all about promises and intentions. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be swallowed by the moment.

THEY WORKED hard the following day. It was just the same: hot, uncomfortable and filthy. Milton and Harry contested each other once again, and the result was the same. Milton narrowed the difference to five sheep, but Harry said that he was holding back plenty in reserve and Milton knew that he was right.

They finished in the early evening. Milton wiped the sweat from his eyes and followed Harry towards the buildings. The sky was on the cusp between daytime and dusk, and they stopped at a broken fence to gaze up into the sunset. The sky was enormous here, a vastness that was cast about with little fragments of cloud. The dying light refracted through them, painting the clouds in burnt ochre.

“Beautiful, right?” Harry said.

Milton nodded.

“I’ll never get tired of it.” He leaned his elbows against the rail. “You remember the sunsets in the desert? In Iraq?”

Milton nodded. The two of them had served together in the SAS during the Second Gulf War. They had been dropped behind Iraqi lines and tasked with directing air strikes against Saddam’s materiel. Harry had been with Milton when the botched strike against a Scud launcher had flattened a madrassa. Just thinking about that day was dangerous for Milton. It brought back memories that he had tried to obliterate with booze and, he knew, if he mused on them for too long, he would start to think about drinking again. It was a rabbit hole he had no interest in going down.

Harry looked over at Milton and realised that he didn’t want to talk about it. “Sorry.”

“Forget it.”

Harry changed the subject. “We’ve got another day here before we’ve finished the last of them.”

“After that?”

“We’ll go north. There’s about the same number of animals to shear up there.”

Milton was happy to go along with him, and said so. They stayed there for a moment, resting against the broken rail as the sun dipped beneath the line of the horizon, its orange corona fading and then winking out.

The dirt track to the station was as straight as a die, and Milton saw a plume of dust just at the far reaches of his vision. It bloomed above the road, masking the dot within the cloud that must have been the approaching vehicle.

“Hello,” Harry said.

“Matilda?”

“Probably.”

“Want to go and tell Mervyn?”

Harry chuckled. “You know she’d kick the shit out of him, don’t you?”

Milton nodded. “With one arm tied behind her back.”

They waited. The vehicle was still ten miles away, and it took another five minutes before it was close enough for Milton to see that it was a Jeep, and another two for him to confirm that it was the dirty white Wrangler Renegade that Harry’s sister drove. It was bouncing over the potholed road at a fair speed, dust and dirt streaking out from beneath the wheels. The Jeep barely slowed as it swung off the road and onto the track that led toward the station’s outbuildings. It raced ahead for the final half mile, then braked with a suddenness that locked the wheels and sent a spray of grit in their direction.

Matilda Douglas was wearing the same old battered Aviators that Milton remembered from the last time that she had visited them. She had blonde hair, a little unkempt, all the way down to her shoulders. She opened the door of the Jeep and stepped out. She was wearing a pair of dirty dungarees; they were double lined around the knees because that was where the cloth took the most punishment from the burr on the sheep. She had a white T-shirt beneath the denim and a pair of heavy leather boots. She was twenty-five, full of sass and the kind of no-nonsense attitude that you could only get from being brought up on a sheep station, surrounded by ranchers and shearers in the arse end of nowhere. She did not stand on ceremony. She swore like a navvy. Everything that her brother did, she did, too, and said that she did it better.

“Hello, boys. Finished for the day?”

“Yep,” Harry said.

“How many you do?”

“Hundred and three,” he said.

“John?”

“Ninety-eight.”

She sucked her teeth. “Getting better. He’s gonna catch you up, Harry.”

Douglas snorted. “Not a chance.”

“You know a hundred wouldn’t be enough to keep pace with me, though—right?”

“Want to put that to the test?”

She grinned at her brother. “You working tomorrow?”

“Thought I might. Where you going?”

“Up to Boolanga.”

“When?”

“Driving up there tonight. We’ll start work first thing in the morning.”

“You got a pen for me?”

“You’re full of it, Matty.”

“We’ll see if you’re saying the same thing tomorrow.”

Harry smiled at her. Despite all his gruffness and the sibling rivalry, Milton knew that he was devoted to the girl. He was fifteen years older than she was, and often more like a father than a brother. Their father, Harry senior, had drunk himself to death when Matilda was five years old. Their mother had remarried another man with indecent haste and left them to fend for themselves. Harry had brought her up more than the woman had.

Matilda knew how to press all of Harry’s buttons, but it was obvious that the ribbing and the mild abuse were all part of their relationship. For her part, while she pretended that Harry’s paternalism was something that irritated her, she was just as devoted to him. They had an extraordinarily close relationship. They were bound together by their shared experience, the bonds forged in the fire of bereavement and then tested through early hardship. What was left was unbreakable. Milton envied it. He had nothing, and no one, like that.

She cocked her head in Milton’s direction. “Want to join in tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there,” he said.

“I know. I meant maybe you want to put a little wager on the result?”

“Why not.” He pushed away from the fence. “I’m going inside.”

Matty winked at him and, just like the last time and all the times before that, Milton felt the little knot tighten in his stomach. He turned away, feeling the blood rise in his cheeks, and made his way to the dormitory. He took off his dirty clothes, wrapped himself in a towel and went through into the dingy shower. He cranked the faucet all the way around, waited for the hot water to run, and then stepped into the cubicle. The water sluiced across his body, rinsing the dirt and blood away, and soon the stream that was running into the drain was as black as tar.

Matilda was a very attractive woman, and he knew that she found him attractive, too. There had been an evening a month ago when she had been out to a station to shear with them. She had gotten drunk with the others, trying to tempt Milton to join them until Harry had chided her to leave him alone. She had been drunk, he knew that, but, in his experience, drink only made you do the things that you wanted to do. It loosened inhibitions, lubricated things, made them easier. They had been in a town whose name Milton had forgotten, in a tumbledown bar that reminded him of a Wild West saloon. He had gone outside onto the veranda to smoke and she had come with him on the pretence of cadging one for herself. She had flirted with him and then, before he could think about the consequences, she had kissed him.

He had let her do it, and kissed her back, before he realised that that was something that he could not do. Matilda was Harry’s sister. Might as well have been his daughter. Milton had no idea how he would react, but it wasn’t something he was willing to test. Harry was Milton’s friend, and he didn’t have so many of those that he was willing to risk the chance that he would see it as a betrayal.

But she had not given up. If anything, his reticence had made her try even harder. There had been several occasions after that kiss when she had found him on his own. After he had demurred for the third time, she had asked him what the problem was. He had explained: Harry was the problem, and what he might say. She had smouldered with anger, telling him that she was old enough to make her own decisions. He had explained that he didn’t want to risk losing her brother’s friendship, and her smoulder had caught light: she told him he was being pathetic, that she knew he felt the same way about her, and that he should be a man about it.