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“I do not.”
“Oh, too bad.”
“Guess there’s not much you can do about that,” Dazai said with a smile.
“Sigh… I just got back from work, and my head already hurts…” Ango hung his head. He must have had a rough day.
“You work way too hard, Ango,” I told him.
“Yeah, you do.”
Ango glanced sharply back and forth between Dazai and me, then said, “It would appear so. I feel like I’m working unpaid overtime right now. I should get going.”
“What? Leaving already?” Dazai asked, a hint of disappointment in his tone.
“To tell the truth…” Ango’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “When I’m here drinking with you two, I almost forget that the work I’m doing is illegal. Barkeep, thanks for the drink.”
Ango removed his belongings off the counter, then stood up.
“You take that bag with you when you go out of town for business?” I asked, pointing at his small leather bag. I didn’t have any specific reason for asking; that’s just all I could think of to stop him.
“Yes. It doesn’t have much in it, though. Just some cigarettes, a weapon for self-defense, a small umbrella…” Ango opened the bag wide to show me its contents. “And this camera I use for work.”
“Oh, hey. Let’s all take a picture together,” Dazai cheerfully suggested out of the blue. “To commemorate today, y’know?”
“Commemorate what?” I asked.
“To remember we were here. Or to celebrate Ango being home. Or to celebrate you disposing of that dud. Anything will do, really.”
“Whatever the executive says,” Ango stated with a shrug before pulling a black camera out of his bag. It was an old roll-film camera, with the black paint chipped off here and there from age and use.
“Make sure it looks cool,” said Dazai.
Ango smirked as he took a picture of Dazai and me together. Then, by Dazai’s request, I took one of him and Ango by the counter. Dazai posed by placing one leg on the stool and leaning into it. “Taking it from this angle makes me look more handsome.”
“Why did you want to take photos all of a sudden, Dazai?”
“I just felt like if we don’t take a picture now, there’ll be nothing left to prove we spent this time together, I guess.” He grinned brightly.
It turned out Dazai was right. That ended up being our last opportunity to photograph that invisible something among the three of us—the only thing to make us aware of the void left behind once we lost it. We never got another chance to take a picture together in that bar.
Because one of us died soon after.
CHAPTER I
The Port Mafia has three rules: Follow the boss’s orders no matter what, don’t betray the organization, and always hit back twice as hard. The rules are ordered from most to least important, just like that. Which was why that morning, I nearly dropped the piece of bread I had in my mouth when I got a call telling me the boss wanted to see me. I was just putting on a pot of coffee.
The agent on the phone spoke in a monotone.
“Sakunosuke Oda, the boss wants to see you.”
Three phrases instantly popped into my head: Served his purpose. To be disposed of. Personnel cut. My fingertips turned cold and numb. After hanging up, I quickly stuffed the rest of the bread down my throat, then cut my Canadian bacon and scrambled eggs into thirds before inhaling them. I poured some freshly brewed coffee into my mug, tossed in a sugar cube with some cream, and drank it up all while slipping on my shirt arms-first. I started to wonder if I should just skip town, but the searing-hot coffee kicked my mind into gear, and the absurd notion vanished from my thoughts. I shaved, then put on some pants and hoisted my leather harness over my shoulders. It had holsters below my armpits, which I slipped my trusty 9mm handguns into. Finally, I tossed on my coat and left the house.
After getting into the car, I recklessly hightailed it to the office. I don’t really remember much about what happened along the way; I might’ve driven down the three-lane highway in the wrong direction two or three times. At any rate, once I made it to the office safely, I headed straight for the lobby. I briefly greeted my colleagues on guard duty before getting into the elevator to go to the top floor. Everything about the place was spotless, without even so much as a single fingerprint or speck of dust—from the lobby, which felt like something out of a luxury European hotel, to the time machine–like elevator itself.
This office was located in prime real estate in the middle of Yokohama. There were four other offices of the same scale in the neighborhood. As I gazed out of the elevator’s glass walls at the city, the number of buildings higher than my line of sight gradually dwindled until it reached zero. And still the elevator kept on going.
Looking down at the cluster of buildings drenched in the morning light, I mused over why the boss had summoned me.
