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Biz
here
was
a
constant
subliminal
hum
,
and
death
the
accepted
punishment
for
laziness
,
carelessness
,
lack
of
grace
,
the
failure
to
heed
the
demands
of
an
intricate
protocol
.
Alone
at
a
table
in
the
Jarre
de
Th
,
with
the
octagon
coming
on
,
pinheads
of
sweat
starting
from
his
palms
,
suddenly
aware
of
each
tingling
hair
on
his
arms
and
chest
,
Case
knew
that
at
some
point
he
’
d
started
to
play
a
game
with
himself
,
a
very
ancient
one
that
has
no
name
,
a
final
solitaire
.
He
no
longer
carried
a
weapon
,
no
longer
took
the
basic
precautions
.
He
ran
the
fastest
,
loosest
deals
on
the
street
,
and
he
had
a
reputation
for
being
able
to
get
whatever
you
wanted
.
A
part
of
him
knew
that
the
arc
of
his
self
-
destruction
was
glaringly
obvious
to
his
customers
,
who
grew
steadily
fewer
,
but
that
same
part
of
him
basked
in
the
knowledge
that
it
was
only
a
matter
of
time
.
And
that
was
the
part
of
him
,
smug
in
its
expectation
of
death
,
that
most
hated
the
thought
of
Linda
Lee
.
He
’
d
found
her
,
one
rainy
night
,
in
an
arcade
.
Under
bright
ghosts
burning
through
a
blue
haze
of
cigarette
smoke
,
holograms
of
Wizard
’
s
Castle
,
Tank
War
Europa
,
the
New
York
skyline
.
.
.
And
now
he
remembered
her
that
way
,
her
face
bathed
in
restless
laser
light
,
features
reduced
to
a
code
:
her
cheekbones
flaring
scarlet
as
Wizard
’
s
Castle
burned
,
forehead
drenched
with
azure
when
Munich
fell
to
the
Tank
War
,
mouth
touched
with
hot
gold
as
a
gliding
cursor
struck
sparks
from
the
wall
of
a
skyscraper
canyon
.
He
was
riding
high
that
night
,
with
a
brick
of
Wage
’
s
ketamine
on
its
way
to
Yokohama
and
the
money
already
in
his
pocket
.
He
’
d
come
in
out
of
the
warm
rain
that
sizzled
across
the
Ninsei
pavement
and
somehow
she
’
d
been
singled
out
for
him
,
one
face
out
of
the
dozens
who
stood
at
the
consoles
,
lost
in
the
game
she
played
.
The
expression
on
her
face
,
then
,
had
been
the
one
he
’
d
seen
,
hours
later
,
on
her
sleeping
face
in
a
portside
coffin
,
her
upper
lip
like
the
line
children
draw
to
represent
a
bird
in
flight
.
Crossing
the
arcade
to
stand
beside
her
,
high
on
the
deal
he
’
d
made
,
he
saw
her
glance
up
.
Gray
eyes
rimmed
with
smudged
black
paintstick
.
Eyes
of
some
animal
pinned
in
the
headlights
of
an
oncoming
vehicle
.
Their
night
together
stretching
into
a
morning
,
into
tickets
at
the
hoverport
and
his
first
trip
across
the
Bay
.
The
rain
kept
up
,
falling
along
Harajuku
,
beading
on
her
plastic
jacket
,
the
children
of
Tokyo
trooping
past
the
famous
boutiques
in
white
loafers
and
clingwrap
capes
,
until
she
’
d
stood
with
him
in
the
midnight
clatter
of
a
pachinko
parlor
and
held
his
hand
like
a
child
.
It
took
a
month
for
the
gestalt
of
drugs
and
tension
he
moved
through
to
turn
those
perpetually
startled
eyes
into
wells
of
reflexive
need
.
He
’
d
watched
her
personality
fragment
,
calving
like
an
iceberg
,
splinters
drifting
away
,
and
finally
he
’
d
seen
the
raw
need
,
the
hungry
armature
of
addiction
.
He
’
d
watched
her
track
the
next
hit
with
a
concentration
that
reminded
him
of
the
mantises
they
sold
in
stalls
along
Shiga
,
beside
tanks
of
blue
mutant
carp
and
crickets
caged
in
bamboo
.
He
stared
at
the
black
ring
of
grounds
in
his
empty
cup
.
It
was
vibrating
with
the
speed
he
’
d
taken
.
The
brown
laminate
of
the
tabletop
was
dull
with
a
patina
of
tiny
scratches
.
With
the
dex
mounting
through
his
spine
he
saw
the
countless
random
impacts
required
to
create
a
surface
like
that
.
The
Jarre
was
decorated
in
a
dated
,
nameless
style
from
the
previous
century
,
an
uneasy
blend
of
Japanese
traditional
and
pale
Milanese
plastics
,
but
everything
seemed
to
wear
a
subtle
film
,
as
though
the
bad
nerves
of
a
million
customers
had
somehow
attacked
the
mirrors
and
the
once
glossy
plastics
,
leaving
each
surface
fogged
with
something
that
could
never
be
wiped
away
.
