Free Collector of Secrets by Richard Goodfellow

continued. “I’d like to but the trucks require advance notice of one business day, which means Tuesday at the earliest. If it’s urgent, I could drive over myself on Monday.”
    “The items are very valuable. Do your best to send a truck, otherwise come yourself with a security guard at 8 a.m.”
    “Absolutely, Mr. Murayama, and thank you for your business.”
    Hiro pulled off the headset and tossed it on the console. “That’s it. We’re done here.” He interlaced his fingers and reversed his hands over his head, leaning forward to stretch his lithe, but muscular, five-foot-six frame in the cramped space.
    Jun remained engrossed in the pages of a raging life-and-death cartoon battle.
    Impatiently, Hiro kicked him sharply in the shin. The blow caused the big man to spring up, striking his head on the low metal ceiling. He unleashed a blistering yelp and dropped the Manga on the floor. The sound was much louder than necessary, in Hiro’s opinion. For a comic book warrior, he could be such a baby at times.
    Jun glowered as he rubbed his bald head, his eyes flooding with loathing .
    Ignoring the reaction, Hiro slid open the van’s front curtain. “I said, let’s go!”
     
    I n the twilight of evening, the van’s front tire rammed the curb while attempting to park near a FamilyMart convenience store.
    “Watch your driving!” Hiro snarled, slamming the passenger’s door before heading to a nearby pay phone. He unfolded a scrap of paper in his nicotine-stained fingers and inserted a stolen calling card. Cradling the receiver against his ear, he dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a package of Marlboros.
    On the third ring, Oto’s gruff voice answered. “Is there a problem?”
    “No, Master, but Jun should take driving lessons . . . and to learn to sit still for five minutes.”
    “He’s your apprentice. It’s your responsibility to teach him.” Oto paused. “And remember, even you have been known to make mistakes sometimes.”
    Hiro ignored the dig and took a drag on the freshly lit cigarette. He blew a smoke ring into the Plexiglas NTT phone casing. “The old man called Mizuho Bank to come retrieve some items for his safety deposit box. He didn’t indicate what he’s moving, but the appointment is for Monday morning.”
    “Are you prepared to carry out the break-in, then?”
    “Yes. We’ll go to the office tomorrow night. It should be quieter then. But I don’t know exactly where the leather satchel is. From the plans I saw, there are dozens of filing cabinets.”
    “So open them all! You’ve got the equipment.” Oto’s deep voice rattled with impatience.
    “Yes, Master.”
    “Do you expect difficulty from the building owner?”
    “No. He’s a drunk.” Hiro took another drag of his cigarette.
    “Well, that’s good for you, then.”
    “But I want to do the job without Jun,” Hiro blurted. “He’s too unpredictable.”
    “Out of the question!” Oto barked. “And don’t even think about leaving with my satchel.”
    The verbal blow was direct, and Hiro’s posture snapped rigid. It didn’t seem fair that he should continue to pay for an attempted escape, especially one that happened so long ago, but he swallowed his thoughts, forcing dutiful words from his clenching throat. “I understand, Master.”
    “And make sure that your Kohai doesn’t kill anyone else. At least not right now, anyway.” A harsh click on the line ended the call.
    Slamming the green receiver into place, Hiro snatched the phone card from its slot .
    I better not forget this. There are a lot of thieves out here .

MAX STOOD in the dim evening light below the pink-and-white candy-striped awning of the Almond Café. The busy corner on Roppongi Street was the most popular meeting spot for nightclub revelers to gather, and on a Saturday night, the rendezvous point was swarming with life.
    The once-quiet Six Trees district had sprung to life in the late nineteenth century when Japanese soldiers were