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It was dark but the city was filled with light. Neon signs reflected off glass buildings; kaleidoscopic mirrors. Advertisements beckoned customers from multiple angles, rain-lit tarmac beamed back car headlights. Mordent was struck by the multitudes. People oozed out of subways, department stores and offices; were absorbed into subways, cars and taxis. Sharp-suited businessmen cut corners in the corners of his eyes, smart-dressed women flashed around his peripheries; everywhere Mordent looked there was movement…movement…movement. It was real life at 24 frames a second shot through a neon-noir filter and pushed into his head at a hundred miles an hour. Yet despite the skewed familiarity he craved a haven. Before leaving New York he had searched the internet to find a refuge. Their website featured an old time American jukebox with the navigational buttons animating records and leading to menus, photos, archive material and pretty girls. Mordent was a creature of habit when it came to food. Kovacs could have the job. But Kovacs was young and fresh and just on the cocky side of confident and felt he had to display all his knowledge immediately, just like Tokyo city itself. Very simple. Very fast. All the staff were Japanese. Mordent paid the taxi driver and stared. The US flag bent a rainbow over the entrance, and a cute Japanese girl in a red and white starred waistcoat and blue and white striped mini-skirt beckoned him inside. Flags jutted out from the walls every five paces in a wedding sabre arch flanked by long chrome tables that resembled ironing boards, channelling customers along the central walkway that led to the waitresses and their ever present teeth-whitened smiles. Mordent walked obediently towards the hostesses, glancing from side to side at the all-Japanese clientele holding burgers in both hands, fries piled neatly to the side, salad left untouched — more decoration than foodstuff. Yet the smell of the food teased his stomach, as though the Ghosts of Burgers Past had infiltrated his nostrils and made their way towards his intestines, an olfactory reminder of how food should really taste. She was no more than nineteen, had braces on her teeth, and a strangely shaped face that resembled playdough left in the sun. Mordent checked out his brain with the greeting and decided to satisfy himself purely from the food and the ambience. If he closed his eyes he might believe he were still in New York. No, if he closed his eyes and ears that might be the case. The Japanese language accompanied his experience as steadily as the boxset of American classic 50s hits from the jukebox. Mordent sighed as he viewed his All American Burger. He reminded himself why he was here. Why Kovacs was here. He sank into reverie as his teeth sank into the burger, satisfying his stomach if not his curiosity. They had hauled her into the precinct with a few thousand dollars worth of cocaine strapped in a package near the top of her right thigh. Mordent led the way in the search, almost finding more than she bargained for, before Kovacs burst into the interview room like a dog through a paper hoop and halted the investigation until the proper procedures could be adopted. But Mordent held back and handed the Mercado girl over for interview. It was only later, once Kovacs had gone home, that Mordent blagged his way into her holding cell for something resembling a private chat. Ruby was all lips and hair. A Latino with pasty skin, she looked like she needed to be left out longer in the sun. They had tangled before: both professionally and unprofessionally. One of the reasons why Mordent wanted to tackle her before Kovacs. You might as well blow this sky high. It was a gentle slap, a puppy slap, but a slap all the same. I can guess the ruse. The cocaine is passed through a complicated system of fake pimps, whores and johns. From A to B. Ruby smiled. Her accent fell away with her guard. Kovacs piggybacked his way to the top and I want to make sure he squeals as part of the process. Mordent stretched and looked out of the window at the Bunkyo Civic Center. From there he could see the entirety of Shinjuku, the buildings standing like students in a classroom photograph, the shorter buildings at the front and the taller ones at the back. Behind them Mount Fuji dominated the skyline with a reminder that Earth could throw up greater structures than all the architects of the world combined. Kovacs came to stand by his shoulder. Mordent pretended not to listen. The snow on the top of Mount Fuji was whiter than white. It was a clear day and not even a single cloud sullied the skyline. Rather than supplanting Kovacs, Mordent found himself bound to him. When those above contemplated sending a local team overseas so as not to appear heavy-handed with their corresponding foreign authorities the names of Kovacs and Mordent were top of the list. In that order. He knew Kovacs was quieter when he was talking. Mordent pulled out the keychain toy, laid it flat in his palm. It literally means infinite bubblewrap. You pop times and it farts. Mordent pocketed the toy. Kovacs had no idea how amused he had been to find it. But then Kovacs had no idea of his fetish. Mordent looked up from his position on the floor. The girl standing over him was naked from the waist down. Her top half was semi-see-through; her breasts distorted viewed through the overlapping layers of bubble. She squeezed her forearms against her chest and one of the skeins burst as she giggled. Mordent felt himself harden, and as she squatted over him more of the bubbles burst and he almost came there and then. He moved from pimp to whore to john: back and forth, always in that order. The network was immense and complicated. The pimp scored the cocaine and cut it. The whore needed the rush for the job. She carried it to the john who got the whore as part of the sweetener. The whore got a bonus hit from the john as a thankyou. It was a neverending case of supply and demand, with all parties being satisfied. It was always dirty, right along the line. Mr Yakamoto bowed and also shook their hands, then beckoned them to sit at the long oak table that dominated the room. Mordent noticed that Kovacs sat with his back to the view. He assumed from plain ignorance. That is, from the himo to the baishunfu to the okyakusan. This is not a new problem, of course; these types of people are always part of the connections which form a drugs ring. But from our discussions we understand that the relationship is more complex than that. There is an expression in the West, is there not, that there is nothing new under the sun? Mordent nodded. But he preferred the relationships that operated under the dusky, night-drenched glow of the moon. They left the Bunkyo Civic Center only a little wiser than when they had entered. Mr Yakamoto had advised all investigations were in hand, that the two departments — foreign to each other — would communicate through the usual channels. Kovacs had nodded in an officious, accepting manner. Mordent had also nodded, but the mugen puchipuchi popped multiple times in his pocket as they descended the elevator. Halfway down, it farted. As well as the mugen puchipuchi in his pocket he had a list of names. Kovacs eyes lit the way an educated man might raise his eyebrows at hearing a beggar speak Latin. Mercado had supplied a handful of names for contacts in Japan. It seemed that the semi-prostitutes masquerading as drug runners masquerading as prostitutes had developed their own network for staying safe. They had a Facebook group. And whilst all of them used false names and locations, Mercado was chatty enough to have made a few friends. Everyone had to have a payoff. That was how Mordent got information and Kovacs got paperwork. But whilst it lasts, the life is good. We have them to thank for our booking. Kovacs mouth hung open. The bar was tiny and unassuming. There were only seven seats in the establishment. His eyes roved around the menu. These normally have to be made months in advance. But I pulled a string. They sat at a table. Mordent watched as Kovacs accepted the situation, the beauty, delicacy and taste of the food on offer. As they ate, the temperature outside the bar dropped, the sky grew cloudy, and fat flakes hit the window and slid down the pane picking up dirt on the way, so that by the time they reached the bottom of the glass they were almost black; like cotton wool used to remove nail varnish. He passed it over to Kovacs. Watched him eat. Kovacs looked up. I got more information in one evening than he would have got all year. His tastebuds had overtaken his other senses. He was in sensory paradise. Mordent let him have his moment. There were four other occupied seats in the bar. Each contained a Japanese male of portly appearance. Gold rings adorned their fingers. The remaining seat, the one closest to Mordent and Kovacs, was unoccupied. Then the door opened and the American Mordent had watched leave the Embassy shook a light covering of snow off the shoulders of his jacket and took the remaining seat beside them. He pulled the thin plastic tube out of his pocket, was about to pull the rolled slip of paper from the inside, then thought better of it and passed it to Kovacs. Kovacs looked puzzled, but the surrealism of the situation had surpassed his usual demeanour. He placed the tube in his mouth and blew hard. Jamieson unrolled the paper and ran his eyes over the names. He raised his right hand, slowly; within seconds the four Japanese businessmen had left the sushi bar, each accompanied by their personal law enforcement officer. He nodded to the girl at the entrance, shivering in her mini-skirt. She had added thick white woollen tights to her ensemble, but would need a hug if she were going to get warm. Mordent ducked into the heated establishment and made his way down the tables to find the seat he had occupied the previous evening was empty. She placed a cool jug of Sapporo Fuyu Monogatari on the table. Mordent checked himself out a large double cheeseburger with bacon and a hefty portion of fries. Then Mordent raised his glass and muttered a word of thanks to Ruby Mercado. It was 7pm in Tokyo and so 2am in New York. Her funeral would have taken place the previous afternoon. And according to his sources it had also been snowing in Brooklyn. Find out more about author Andrew Hook here. There are no lengthy forms to fill out and we need nothing but your email. You will receive a regular newsletter but no spam. Notwithstanding the foreignness, he almost felt at home. Its dirty snow, you got that? Dirty snow. Kovacs glanced at him furiously. Kovacs nodded at the door which had swung open. The girl bit her lower lip, then sat. Kovacs grimaced. Mordent smiled, pulled it from his pocket. Our work here is done. Mordent smiled. Mordent slid a hand between her legs. We work from the inside out. The food was sour, but the bar was the sweetener. Mordent held out his hand. Kovacs opened his mouth to speak, realised it was full of sashimi, and closed it. Jamieson stood. Licked his lips. View all stories. Email Address. First Name. Last Name.

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