Free [Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black by Andrew Warren Page B

Kabuki-cho, and other neighborhoods.
    There was protocol to observe, in Japan more than most places. Business deals could take weeks to close. Social meetings—to exchange business cards, share drinks, give gifts—were all part of the complex process. Each step followed its own rules of etiquette. In the underworld, things moved at a faster pace, but the principles were the same. There was an established order, a way of doing things. There were rules.
    Caine didn’t have time to wait. So he planned to change the rules.
    As he twisted the pachinko wheel left and right, a stream of tiny metal balls poured into the machine. The wheel altered their speed, making them drop faster or slower, but the flow never ceased. Each tiny metal sphere would fall down the length of the machine, bouncing off a pattern of metal rods along the way.
    If the speed and angle of the ball were just right, it would spill out an exit hole, into a plastic bin. If the ball hit a “jackpot” bar on the way down, it would trigger more balls to come pouring out, increasing the player’s total ball count, and triggering flashing lights and music to emit from the machine.
    The object of the game was to accumulate as many balls as possible in the winning bin. By hitting multiple jackpot bars, the final ball count could far exceed what the player started with.
    Caine had chosen this particular machine not for its confectionary charm, but because it sat under a 360-degree security mirror. By looking up, he could observe the long, narrow room behind him. It was filled with flashing lights, blinking machines, and curiously sullen Japanese men who seemed to take no joy whatsoever in the lively, noisy game they were playing.
    He continued twisting the plastic wheel, then stole a quick glance at the security mirror. Pachinko was mostly a game of chance and, like all games of chance, an underworld of gambling had sprung up around it. In this section of Shinjuku, pachinko gambling was controlled by the Yoshizawa clan.
    That was why he was here.
    Sure enough, a few minutes later, a pair of Japanese men sauntered into the parlor. They were clad in shiny, sharkskin suits, their white silk shirts opened down to the chest. Their long hair was slicked back with pomade. A variety of chains and jewelry hung from their necks, and tattoo ink peeked out from either side of the open V across their chest.
    Yakuza.
    The two men made no effort to avoid jostling the gamblers as they navigated their way through the crowded room. Instead, the men and women at the machines shifted in their chairs or stood up and moved aside to make room.
    The men stared at Caine as they walked past. His was the only Caucasian face in the parlor, so he knew he stood out. Caine smiled at them. One of the yakuza scowled, but the other returned his smile, an exaggerated leer, and dropped his hand to the left side of his waistband. Brushing aside his coat, he casually revealed the butt of a gun.
    Caine watched as they walked past the redemption booth, where the manager of the parlor sat reading a manga. He put it down and bowed as the men walked past. They ignored him, disappearing through a red curtain hanging in the back of the room.
    A loud, blaring buzzer and blast of Japanese pop music distracted Caine. One of his balls had hit a jackpot bar. A stream of winnings cascaded out of the machine. The LCD screen burst into white light, then faded to black. A computer-generated graphic of an anime girl stepped onto the screen.
    Her hair was neon green and spiked into a mohawk down the center of her exaggerated head. Floor-length pigtails spun and twirled as she danced to an upbeat pop song. The character picked up a microphone, belting out the lyrics in chirping, high-pitched Japanese. A heavily accented announcer spoke over the singing: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Masuka Ongaku!”
    The machine’s light show flashed in time to the music. Caine shook his head and stood up. Only in Japan.
    Caine pushed the