Imamimi Notanobu - IX

His name is Zhang Liyuan, and he’s been working as an enforcer for what he describes as a ‘wholesome Chinese gang’ or the better part of a year. Having been smuggled from the mainland, he lacks any legitimate identification, and for all intents and purposes, could’ve been lying about his name too.

He hasn’t given much information beyond that, besides the vague inkling that he might know a thing or two about ‘transporting folk across borders’, which adds up, given that he himself must’ve got smuggled in one way or the other.

We’re walking rather overtly through the streets right now, and are being guided towards his intended destination. In the meantime, I’m just reflecting on what Zhang had to say. Gangsters. Murders. The Tearer.

This whole thing has gotten pretty out of hand, hasn't it?

For some reason, my heart palpitates at the thought, and the idea that I might play some hand in their downfall drives me into a frenzy. I can just imagine the satisfaction, surfing the rogue wave of such an accomplishment.

I laugh a bit to myself. It’s been a long while since I felt this sense of accomplishment from living.

Looking over at Mad Dog, I decide to inquire about the gang Zhang said he was affiliated with.

“The Ejīngbāng,” I say. “Ever heard of them?”

She shakes her head. “No. Too many gangs in China, you know. Walk ten kilometres, and there’s a checkpoint run by a gang. Walk another ten, and a warlord is asking for a donation.”

“Really?” I’m surprised at my own surprise.

“Yep. A third of them are like Zhang. Magic-people. Another third, martial artists with metal parts.”

“And the last?” I ask.

Mad Dog raises her hands, and mimes shooting an assault rifle of some kind. “Ratatata.” She continues for a good three seconds. Stops. And throws the imaginary gun away.

The image of a gangster pulling a firearm on me is enough to put a half-chill down my spine. Our plan after all, is just to intercept Zhang’s meeting with his correspondent, and interrogate them for information. But whatever happens between that… Who knows.

“Don't be worried, Nobu. People like Zhang are fish in ocean. Everywhere.”

“This gang’s different though,” chimes Yuura from behind us. “If they’re going as far as to operate overseas, they must be something bigger than small-time gangsters.”

“Correct,” follows Zhang from in front. “I'm at least a medium time gangster.”

“Doubt,” replies Mad Dog.

“Oh yeah, why's that?”

“You lost to Nobu-boy, and Nobu-boy lost to me. If he's a medium time magic-man, you're a small time magic-man, Zhang.”

He doesn't reply. Just sort of laughs, as if knowing something we don't.

“Well, say I am a small fry, say I'm too weak to get anything done. How do you think I survived this long?”

Mad Dog raises a brow. “Running?”

“Running with the right people. When you're at the bottom of the ladder, eating scraps for dinner, there's no one else to lord over. No one else to feel better than, no pride. So you huddle together with the rest of the bottom feeders, grow big together, and eventually you become large enough to sink your fangs into something greater than you.”

His sudden, quite well-phrased monologue gives me pause. When I think about it, I could easily turn his monologue back on him, and cite our own small-fry band. But I don't. Because really, not everything in life needs to be said.

After a while, the man chuckles. “It’s not too late to give up,” he says, hands in his pockets. “This whole operation’s a pretty big affair.”

“You can’t make a breakthrough with something small, you know,” I reply. If you’re not gonna aim high, you’re not going to reach high.”

Discovering things denied to me is fun, all things considered. That—and well. No one deserves to die without anyone knowing. But Zhang doesn’t need to know I’m soft.

“Good point, brother. Good point. Honestly, I respect the enthusiasm. I could just about turn around and kiss you right now.”

“Okay, but give me time to prepare. And no tongue.”

Yuura stares at me strangely. She’s clearly unamused by me and my Chinese brother’s back and forth.

“Don’t worry, lady, I’m not trying to steal your boyfriend from you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just close.”

“Snuggle up in bed close, or hold hands in the park close?”

“Do you want me to mention the welder again?”

“Yuura,” I say. “We’re just playing around. Locker room talk, you know?”

“Does locker room talk always relate back to this type of stuff?”

Zhang looks at her. “If you mean kissing and shit, then yeah. When it’s just us guys, things get pretty wild.”

I nod. “It’s ironic, of course. Like, I could text a guy-friend, ‘can’t wait to share a bed with you xoxo’, and he wouldn’t take it as an invitation for naughty stuff.”

“Hey—don’t speak for me. If I got that type of text from you, I’d be totally into it.”

“See?” I say, nudging Yuura with a wink. “That’s just how we play around.”

Keeping an eye on Zhang, I notice him round the corner, before coming to a halt. We do the same. We're in Hakata Ward. To our left is a tall building with glass panels advertising goods. The word ‘ming’ is in bold white letters above the entrance, the name of this mall, I assume.

“So,” Yuura opens. “This is where you meet with your correspondent?”

“What were you expecting, an abandoned building?”

“Yes? Didn’t you kill someone in an abandoned building?”

“Again, I didn’t kill. My boss did. Second of all, killing and talking are two different ballgames. One involves shooting hoops in places you don’t wanna get caught; the other, in places where people are comfortable. An abandoned building? Sketchy as an unmarried uncle. You don’t know if some homeless man is gonna creep around a corner and stab you. A mall? You got kids. You got drunk businessmen. You got hot ladies. It’s open and monitored, and it seems like neutral territory, feel me? Civil.”

“You have to admit,” I agree. “A mall does sound like the superior choice.”

Yuura crosses her arms and gives a ‘sure, whatever’ look.

We enter the mall. Zhang leads the way through the building, and we end up taking the escalator to the second floor. This place is pretty dead, all things considered. At least two-thirds of the stores are shuttered down with metal gates, leaving a last third, with a few people in them at most.

Back in the day, I used to loiter around malls with friends, so seeing one in this condition is a bit sad, to say the least.

Weirdly enough, it brings to mind the actual case itself.

Did the people whom the Tearer killed feel similarly?

That same sense of poignant isolation? That utter lack of companionship and life in the environment around them?

“Where’s the guy you’re gonna meet?” I ask.

“Here. Somewhere. He’ll show in a bit, don’t worry.”

Without saying anything more, Zhang finds a bench and sits facing a confectionery store. We stand there rather overtly for a few seconds before deciding that that probably isn’t the best way to go about things.

Yuura nudges me. “Should we… move?”

“Maybe,” I reply, taking a look around. “But where?”

Ideally, it’d be in a position where we can see and hear them talking, while not being obvious enough to seem like a setup. There are a few clothing stores nearby, but they’re just far enough to make hearing them impossible.

Mad Dog says nothing and quickly moves to the bench. She sits herself on the opposite end, and promptly… pretends to fall asleep. With all the convincing attire of a person twice removed from any home.

In the end, Yuura and I move to a clothing store and start browsing through some clothes. We’re at the edge of the shop, so I can just catch Mad Dog and Zhang in the corner of my eye.

Time passes. We scour the clothes with an air of superficiality, an uncommitted air that makes us seem more like passersbys than anything else. Despite that, it’s legit enough to invite a store attendee over to probe us with questions.

“Would you like to try this on, madam?” asks the store attendant.

She tugs at the hem of a red and black dress. It’s in a Gothic lolita style, with black lace and spider-web patterns sewn into its fabric. For a half-second, I become so engrossed in its design that I fail to recognise what’s happening.

Namely, that a figure has sat next to Zhang, sometime in the last ten seconds. As I consider that fact, a voice rife with apology emerges from Yuura.

“I’m sorry,” she says to the store attendant. “Could you give us a moment, please?”

The helper nods. Yuura tugs on my sleeve, and we exit the store. I take a discreet glance at who Zhang is talking to. An older-looking guy, maybe in his thirties, with a belted trenchcoat and a suitcase in one hand.

“He’s too far,” says Yuura. “I can’t hear him.”

Neither can I. “But do we have to? I mean, Mad Dog is right there, we could just ask her what they were talking about, right?”

Yuura gives me a strange look. “I think it’s better if we hear it for ourselves.”

According to my guidebook of Yuura—this expression reads as ‘subtly implying something is amiss’.

So, we end up nearing the two, and rather absent-mindedly, pretend to stare at some posters on the wall. After a minute passes, something approaching movement emerges from the bench.

“È? Nǐ zěnme bù shòu huà ne? Zài děng shénme ya?” I hear the stranger say.

It's Chinese—or Mandarin, so I can't understand anything. Except the vague bite in his tone, almost accusatory in how it comes out.

“Oh me?” replies Zhang in Japanese. “I wasn’t waiting for anything. What makes you think that?”

He wasn’t waiting for anything? I get a bad feeling, but keep looking for now.

“È wáng bā dàn. Wǒmen de lǎobǎn pǎo nà ěr le?

“Oh, not much. Just the usual. I’m a pretty reclused guy, you know, so I don’t get up to much these days.”

Silence. What follows is a period of droning quiet, where neither says or does anything.

“Ok,” relents the other man in Japanese. “I go toilet.”

I hear the man moving. Bit by bit, dragging his trench coat along with every click of his boot. He’s out of earshot before long, though I decide to give it a few more seconds just for safe measure.

My heart's beating. I have a bad feeling. I shift my glare from the floor to the wall, forcing myself to look as natural as can be.

I turn around at long last.

At the end of the hall stands the man.

Head turned towards us.

Watching.

He’s not near the bathroom. In fact, I doubt he was going there in the first place. He probably just wanted to see if we’d check on Zhang the moment we thought he’d be gone.

My heart races. A rush of adrenaline breaks through the floodgates and floods my brain with an acute sense of awareness.

We're screwed. Are we screwed? Hopefully not.

I let out a little chuckle and sit next to Zhang.

“So,” I say, with a smile on my lips. “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Not really,” he replies, with the same casual air. “Maybe… ‘patience is a virtue?’”

“Even if it's completely pointless, I'm going to ask what you just did back there.”

“I just told my correspondent the facts. That I wasn't waiting for anything and that I'm a pretty reclusive guy. How he decided to interpret me staring at your back with a brow raised, speaking in a language we never do, is completely up to him.”

“I'm going to strangle you.” Yuura’s voice is pure hatred.

Zhang says nothing. With a nod of his head and a cross of his legs, he reclines into the bench. As if to rub salt in the wound, he nods at his standing correspondent, now on the phone.

I look back at Zhang. “Let me guess, he's calling for backup.”

“It's possible. Either that or he's telling his mom how much he loves her. Filial piety and all that.” He puts on a slightly solemn look, as if recollecting an unpleasant memory. “Good luck.”

“We should get away,” says Yuura.

Zhang nods. “If you're lucky, you'll find a way out before the other four show up. If not… well, I’ll leave it to your imagination.”

Yuura pulls on my hand. I shoot a glance at Mad Dog, head angled back, and arms crossed.

“Hey,” I half-mumble. “Time to go.”

Nothing. Not a twitch of her muscle. Just a slight hum from her throat. The rhythmic cycle of breath so familiar with any lifeform on this planet.

I can't believe it but, somehow, she fell asleep. With a slight snore nonetheless.

Zhang laughs. “Don't linger. You'll just draw more attention than needed.”

Yuura tugs harder, and this time I follow her. As we make our way through the mall, a quick peek behind shows that Zhang’s correspondent–the man on the bench, is not far behind.

We're being tailed.

I keep a hand on my baton, as we make our way towards the emergency stairs. When we move into the emergency staircase room, Yuura pulls me upstairs, and signals silence with a finger on her lip.