Striper Assassin (6 page)

With them is Nigao Yorito from personnel.

Apparently, the whole group has banded together to keep Nigao occupied, covering for Enoshi’s absence.

Enoshi walks rapidly up the center aisle, apologizes for the delay. His failure to arrive at the usual time has upset the entire office and disrupted the usual morning routine. He should have been here almost thirty minutes ago. He must hasten to regain lost time. “Ms. Harrington,” he says briskly, “would you please show Mister Nigao into the inner office? Thank you.”

That much done, he turns to the others.

“I will be with you in just one more moment.”

At the front of the room, he moves quickly behind his own desk, sets down his briefcase, and removes his pocket secretary bound in dark red synthleather. With that in hand, he steps through the connecting door leading into Ohara-
san
’s office, the “inner” office. An expansive wall of windows arcs gently around to the rear of the imposing onyx desk situated on a low dais. Enoshi pauses to exchange brief bows with the man from personnel, then also shakes hands.

Ms. Harrington goes out to summon the rest of the office staff. Enoshi takes his position in front of the onyx desk, and invites Nigao to stand beside him.

The group comes in, a mixture of Asians and occidentals of various ages, three males, five females. All are meticulously groomed and attired. All wear plastic-laminated badges identifying them as employees of Exotech Entertainment, Inc. The only one not wearing such a badge is Nigao Yorito. His badge of course identifies him as an employee of the parent corporation, KFK.

To begin, Enoshi gives a brief nod of his head and says, “Good morning.”

The group responds in kind, most nodding in a casual manner or smiling in addition to saying good morning. That is quite acceptable. The only reply that really stands out is that of the statistical aide, who bows and says,
“Ohayo,
Enoshi-
san
.”

Enoshi suppresses a wince. Many of the ethnic Japanese on the staff make the error of overusing familiar habits acquired in Japan or elsewhere in their youth. It is the policy of Exotech Entertainment, and its parent, Kono-Furata-Ko, to mitigate wherever possible the differences between East and West, to take the best of each and blend them together. Though Enoshi is originally from Kyoto, Japan, where traditions are greatly respected, he has made every effort to appear westernized. He expects no less of his subordinates. He must have another private meeting sometime soon with the Japanese on his staff and encourage them to “loosen up”.

As he takes a moment looking from one to the next, he realizes that something more is wrong. Several of the group look distressed. Two of the women seem emotionally upset. One wipes briefly at her eyes. Enoshi opens his mouth to ask what is going on when abruptly it strikes him, hard enough to shock him.

How could he be so insensitive!

Here again, one problem threatens to compound another. In his haste to regain lost time, he has nearly missed what should have been obvious. He composes his features, striving to seem solemn, but also sympathetic.

Though of course he knows English well, he struggles to find the proper words.

“By now, I’m sure you have all heard of the tragic death of Mister Robert Neiman of Special Projects. Please be assured that Mister Neiman’s family is being looked after and that the police are investigating. Unfortunately, little is known at this time of the circumstances surrounding Mister Neiman’s death, other than what you may have seen on the news. However, I will keep you informed as new information becomes available, and possibly we will have some official announcement later in the day.”

Several of the group smile or nod as if to thank him, and by this Enoshi perceives that what little he has said, what little he could say, is sufficient.

“For the moment, I believe our best course would be to continue per usual.” He says this carefully, so as not to seem cold or unfeeling, and the group seems inclined to go along with his suggestion. He offers a tentative smile—his wife is always reminding him to smile—then turns slightly to indicate the man standing beside him.

“This morning. Mister Nigao of the Kono-Furata-Ko Personnel Department has some things to tell us.” With a brief nod and a subtle bow, he invites Nigao-
san
to begin. Nigao nods to Enoshi, and also bows, subtly, then smiles and turns to the group.

“Good morning,” he says, with another slight bow of the head. The group responds in kind with a few nods and a few awkward bows. Nigao begins by saying that with Enoshi’s permission, they might offer a moment of silence in memory of Robert Neiman. Enoshi consents to this, of course, and silently chastises himself for not having thought of it himself. How loudly the words of his father echo inside his head throughout the quiet few moments that follow.
There is always room for improvement!
Next time he will do better. Next time he will think twice!

Nigao goes on to make his announcements, all quite routine. It is the express policy of Kono-Furata-Ko Incorporated to maintain close relations with all its employees, including those of subsidiary corporations. This is to ensure, among other things, that the employees of subsidiary corporations, such as Exotech Entertainment, remain informed about the policies and general strategies of the parent corporation. It is also desired that all employees remain informed as to their rights, obligations, and benefits.

Nigao concludes by speaking briefly of some new benefits available under the corporate health insurance plan, then hands out brochures and invites any who have questions to contact him at his office.

“Thank you, Mister Nigao.”

Enoshi leads the group in a brief bow, then smiles and shakes Nigao-
san
’s hand in thanks. Hand-shaking, of course, is an essential part of daily business within the bounds of the United Canadian and American States, however extraneous the gesture may otherwise seem. Nigao departs. Enoshi consults his red synthleather-bound pocket secretary and turns to face the group.

The dark cloud conjured by Robert Neiman’s death seems to have diminished, if not faded altogether, at least for the moment, and now a few smiles come out, reminding Enoshi to smile as well.

“It is my pleasure to announce,” he then says, looking from one member of the group to the next, “that for the third month in a row the clerical support group assigned to Mister Bernard Ohara has achieved a significant increase in productivity. Congratulations.”

Enoshi makes a point of showing appreciation by answering a few quick, somewhat awkward bows with a bow of his own, and then by going down the line shaking hands and again offering congratulations. Several of the group seem quite delighted, and this pleases Enoshi as well. People should be happy with their own superior performance, and that performance deserves to be recognized. When everyone performs beyond expectations, the corporation excels. He does not even really mind when a few of the women, rather impulsively, given him quick hugs.

Back in front of the desk again, he says, “Now I believe it is time to hear a few words from Ms. Stevenson.”

Enoshi leads the group in a brief round of applause, merely to encourage this morning’s speaker. Laura Stevenson, the receptionist, by far the most attractive woman in the group, is always a bit a nervous about giving the morning address, though she has done it many times before. Enoshi is encouraged by such nervousness. It is rewarding to see that a woman of obvious European ancestry should be so concerned about her words that she actually gets nervous.

Stevenson joins Enoshi in front of the desk and there spends a few moments pursing her lips, adjusting her hair, her suitdress, clearing her throat…

Enoshi smiles and touches her shoulder. “No need to be nervous. We’re all family here.”

Smiles flare brilliantly all around, and several of the group chuckle or laugh, just as Enoshi had hoped. If he chooses his moment correctly, he is usually able to inspire just such a reaction, even if the joke is not really a joke at all, but merely kidding around.

Ms. Stevenson blushes and nods, her smile gushing wide. She seems embarrassed but not uncomfortably so. “Well,” she begins, consulting her notes, “what I want to talk about, I mean what I’m going to talk about, is the importance of always trying to do your best.”

Enoshi nods, and remembers to smile, smile with approval. Ms. Stevenson’s theme is one he considers of vital importance, and he is always pleased when the morning speaker chooses to expound upon it. He often does so himself when he feels the need to personally give the morning talk. A corporation is no better than the sum of its parts. Every part, every individual, must always strive to give the best performance if the corporation is to succeed in the very competitive global marketplace.

“It’s so easy to get complacent,” Stevenson continues. “I see myself doing it sometimes. Oh, that’s good enough, I say to myself. But then I realize, no, that’s not good enough. It’s not as good as I can really make it, and that’s how good it really ought to be…”

Stevenson concludes before long. A lengthy speech is not necessary. The idea is to inspire hearts or jog forgetful brain cells, not to put everyone to sleep. Enoshi leads the group in brief applause, then adds his own voice to the woman’s words. “I believe it was the Italian artist-scientist Leonardo da Vinci who said, ‘Details make perfection, and perfection is no detail.’”

The quote is well-received with smiles and nods of the head, even another little burst of applause. Nothing more need be said, Enoshi decides. He must remember to thank his wife, for it was she who came across the quote in her reading.

Time now for the corporate creed, the “pledge,” as some of the employees call it. Enoshi takes the printed notecard bearing the creed from the inside flap of his pocket-secretary and leads the group in reciting it. He of course knows the creed by rote, backward and forward, as he has since the first day of his employment, but he does not wish to appear pretentious or in any way superior beyond his station.

That task he leaves in the able hands of his “boss.”

10

The dingy little restaurant sits just off Spring Garden Street on the fringes of Chinatown. The dining room is about the same size as a studio doss, and boasts eight linen-draped tables and six booths. The rear booth is near the swinging door to the kitchen and provides a good view of the street via the restaurant’s front windows. A pair of brass-colored fans turn slowly on the ceiling. The lacquered wooden floor is worn.

The girl who waits tables comes by again. “More?” she inquires.

Tikki shakes her head. The girl is already sufficiently amazed to remember her long after she’s gone, and three plates of
yauk hae
have her feeling a little lazy. Food in quantity has that effect. Especially
yauk hae,
also known as steak tartar. Raw meat in sauce. Tikki regards it as one of the rare signs suggesting that humans might be an intelligent species after all, and considers the dish definitely one of the more interesting ones humans serve. Tikki could eat a ton of it. Gorge herself till she feels barely able to move. Unfortunately, this is not a good time for her to gorge. Biz awaits.

She lights a slim Dannemann Sumatran cigarro and blows the first flavorful drag up toward the ceiling.

“Cha.”

The girl nods and gets the tea.

Tikki watches the other few people in the restaurant and on the street out front. Those who preceded her in here, like those who came in on her heels, finish eating and leave. People out on the street keep moving, hustling along the sidewalks, in and out of doorways. No one lingers. No one does more than glance in her direction. It appears that she is not under surveillance.

The girl returns.

“I want to see the owner,” Tikki says.

“Owner not here,” the girl replies.

“Kim Tae Hwan says you’re wrong.”

The girl stares, just for an instant, then looks at Tikki long and hard, as if trying to see through the mirrored lenses of her Toshibas. “I find out. You wait.”

Tikki nods vaguely, turning her head toward the front windows as if to look out at the street again, but watching peripherally as the girl hustles through the swinging door leading into the kitchen. There is no “Kim Tae Hwan”, at least not at this restaurant. The name is a password.

Tikki sips her tea and waits.

A few minutes later, the girl returns. “The owner says, how you know Kim Tae Hwan?”

Tikki replies, “Black Mist.”

“You wait.” The girl turns and goes off again, but is soon back.

Tikki has a last drag of her slim cigar, finishes her tea, then follows the girl through the swinging door into the kitchen. A powerfully built adolescent male waits right there, a heavy automatic tucked under the front of his belt. “You got heat?”

Tikki draws the sides of her jacket wide open. The boy gives her a quick frisk. Naturally, she isn’t carrying any guns, knives, or any other tool of the trade. That would be bad form. But that does not mean she isn’t armed. Even naked and empty-handed, Tikki would never be unarmed.

“You follow.”

Tikki follows the boy through a door at the rear of the kitchen, and into a narrow, garbage-strewn back alley. The boy knocks on a metal door of a building opposite the restaurant, three knocks, then two more. The door opens. Tikki follows the boy through the doorway, down a dimly lit hall, through a room jammed with piles and carts of clothing, through another room occupied by a dirty man seated at a worn wooden desk, down another hall, through a door, then down a wooden stairway. The air at the bottom of the stairs smells of guns, gunpowder, and the assorted oils and other chemicals used to clean and maintain guns.