Free The Toyotomi Blades by Dale Furutani Page A

the train station I had directed the old woman to. It was the tail end of rush hour and there were still large numbers of people streaming into the station. I entered the train station, pausing briefly to buy a ticket from one of the numerous machines lining the walls of the station entrance. Tokyo has a subway system, but the trains are on elevated tracks, like the El in Chicago. I joined the crowd going up the stairs to the platform where you get on the train.
    I stood in the crowd waiting for the next train and chanced a quick look around. The two men were standing a few feet to my left. In a minute, a train came by the platform and stopped. A few people got off the train and as soon as they were clear the crowd moved forward as a single mass and squeezed onto the train. Once I got in the door, I stepped to one side, jamming up against a middle-aged businessman who glared at me. The crowd behind me continued to pack the train until I literally was immobile from the crush of bodies around me. They have that old saying about being packed like sardines, but sardines are dead when they’re put in a can. The people in the train car were alive. So far.
    A bell rang and the doors closed. The train lurched off. I didn’t need to hang onto a strap or pole to stay upright. The truth is I was wedged in so tight I couldn’t have fallen to the floor if I had wanted to. I had hoped that my two shadows might not get on the train, but I was able to see them near the other door of the car.
    We went to the next station and once again a few people got off but even more people got on. I braced myself and resisted all efforts from the boarding crowd to push me away from the door. I guess this is against Tokyo train packing etiquette because I had several people scowl at me as they pushed past me to get into the car. As we took off, I stole a glance at the two men and realized that the rush had moved them further into the car.
    At the next station, I waited until the debarking and boarding passengers did their thing. Once again, it was hard to stand my ground and stay near the entrance to the car, but I managed to. From riding the Yamanote line, I knew the sequence when a train departed from the station. First they rang a bell and a voice came across the public address system. Then the doors rapidly closed as the train took off. The bell went off and I pushed my way past a young woman and a teenager who were standing between me and the door. The closing door nipped at my heels as I burst out of the car and onto the platform. A blue-uniformed platform attendant came toward me saying something in Japanese, no doubt scolding me for waiting until the last second to get off the car. I didn’t pay any attention. Instead I was staring through the windows of the departing car, looking at the two men who were stuck in the crowd like flies in amber. They abandoned all pretense of not being interested in me and stared at me with blank expressions. I wondered if I was mistaken about the men following me, but they pivoted their heads to watch me as the car went past. I couldn’t resist waving good-bye to them, a big grin on my face.
    I left the platform and immediately bought another ticket for a train going back to the station where I originally got on. This train was as packed as the other, but somehow I could breathe a lot better. When I got off, I flagged down a cab to take me to the hotel. Through a mechanical contraption, the driver was able to open the back door of the cab for me without getting out. “Teikoku Hotel,” I said, mixing the Japanese word for Imperial with the English word hotel. The driver understood my linguistic amalgam and took off. I sat back into the plastic-covered seat of the cab and reflected that I liked walking in Tokyo, but I didn’t like being stalked.

9       
     
    I woke up around 3 A.M. and couldn’t get back to sleep. It was midmorning California time and I was wide awake. I called Mariko at the Kawashiri