they’d come looking for him. They even said they had people in America that could find him.”
“Yakuza in America?” Alvarez nodded.
Cain looked at the time on his phone. “Thank you for the bag and the drink, but I gotta go. I’m meeting with Champ.”
“You want me to go with you?” Alvarez asked.
Cain shook his head. “He was adamant about me going alone. If I can’t handle a Stars and Stripes reporter, then going against the yakuza will be a disaster.”
“Oh, it’s gonna be a disaster. I promise you that.”
Cain tilted his head and squinted his eyes, not quite sure how to take the chief’s comment.
“For them, that is,” Chief Alvarez remarked with confidence.
Chapter 65
Cain walked toward the white multilevel building with a huge red banner that went from one side of the structure to the other advertising PACHINKO. The motion-sensored double doors slid open. The sound inside was deafening, a stark contrast to Japan’s normal adherence to tranquility. Well, this is certainly different! Cain thought. This is like a mini Vegas. Japanese men sat in endless rows of chairs that were arranged in front of brightly lit and multicolored machines. Through the heavy fog of cigarette smoke, Cain observed men furiously slapping the flippers and watching the metal balls flinging around inside the machine’s glassed chamber.
It should be easy to spot Champ in here, he reckoned. Yup, that’s gotta be the Cat. Cain walked toward the only non-Japanese in the place. Even if the man wasn’t American, he would have stood out. He wasn’t wearing a dark suit like the other patrons. Champ wore a fedora that matched the brown tweed waistcoat that he had on over his long-sleeve white button-up. Instead of a cigarette, a wooden pipe hung lazily from his mouth. Cain couldn’t help but smirk as he thought, The New York Times called and they’d like their star reporter from the 1930s back.
Cain sat in the empty chair next to Champ, put down his expeditionary bag, and started playing the machine in front of him. “What gives? You got a gambling addiction?”
“Every man has his vice.” Champ spoke quickly, as if he was in a rush. “For some, it’s alcohol and prostitutes.” He turned to look at Cain; perhaps he was alluding to how Cain had gotten fired from the Secret Service. “Maybe even religion. My vices are simple. I call them the trifecta.”
Cain leaned in toward Champ, straining to hear him over the tremendous noise of the metal balls bouncing around inside all the machines in the establishment.
“Pachinko, America, and—”
“America?” Cain interrupted. “America is a vice nowadays?”
“I’m a flag-waving American who serves my country—perhaps not in the military like you did, but I serve by keeping people in powerful positions honest to those they serve. I hate having to air out dirty laundry, but somebody’s gotta take out the trash. It’s a responsibility I shoulder. I don’t expect you to understand. You took an oath of secrecy. I took mine to expose the secrets of corruption.”
“My oath was to defend the Constitution,” Cain said as he considered Champ’s words. “Finish the third so we can move on with this story.”
“I was telling you what my third vice was when you rudely cut me off.”
“Gomen nosai,” Cain said flatly.
“Ah, very good. Saying you’re sorry might be the most important phrase for foreigners to learn here in Japan. Who taught you that? Japanese girlfriend? They love Americans, you know. Mine tricked me years ago with foot massages and green tea served when I’d get off work. Then, before you know it, you’ve been married for seven years. If seven is lucky, I’d hate to see what year eight brings.”
“I don’t know how you endure it,” Cain said with dry sarcasm.
“Ha!” Champ chuckled. “Don’t let the stereotype fool you. You wanna know the difference between an American wife and a Japanese wife?”
“Look, I don’t have time for all your damn games,” Cain said.
Completely unfazed and without skipping a beat, Champ answered his own question. “An American wife will call you an asshole in public. A Japanese wife will wait till you’re home.” Champ let out a belly laugh.
“There are more serious issues at hand. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
“The noise is safety. Keeps the NSA from hearing my conversations.”
Oh, God. Not this conspiracy nonsense again. Cain’s head fell backward and he looked at the billow of cigarette smoke that clouded the ceiling.
“My grandfather was a great reporter,” Champ began. “I’m actually named after him. He earned a Pulitzer for his