Zero Sum Game (27 page)

She crossed her arms. "If you're having trouble with your bike chain," she said, "cut it with those things you have." She made a snipping motion with her fingers.

His eyes narrowed behind his large-framed glasses. "I don't know what you're talking about." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and put more of himself between Hina and the red bike. And his knapsack.

"You don't have a pair of bolt cutters with orange handles, black grips, and a black head?"

Hina enjoyed watching the boy's face go slack for a moment. Her powers still amazed her.
Score one for enhanced sight
, she thought.

He shrugged, trying to feign indifference but failing. "What I have in my bag is none of your business." His voice rose in pitch on the last word. "Go home."

He went to the bike, picked up his knapsack and slid it onto his left shoulder. He walked past Hina and slammed his right shoulder into hers, intending to shove her out of the way.
You've made me mad. You've messed up my plans and next time, I might use these cutters on more than the chain
. That was his intent. She didn't move; it was as if he had walked into a steel beam. He let out an "oof" of surprise, his momentum spinning him around and his feet tangled themselves together. He stumbled backwards but managed to stay upright.

Hina grabbed his wrist.

"What's your problem?" He tried to jerk out of her grip, but it was impossible. He jerked a few more times. "Hey, let go, all right?" He tried shaking his arm loose, it was like a kitten in a tug-of-war with a Saint Bernard.

She didn't budge as he pulled and shook; her hand was a steel vice around his wrist. She made sure she used only enough grip strength to keep him from running away, she didn't want to break any bones.

"What are you doing?" He attempted to dig his fingers underneath Hina's. She tightened her grip, and he gasped in pain. He pulled on her fingertips, but this failed as well. She didn't want to hurt him. Her job was capturing criminals, not beating them up. She held him in place, curious to what he might attempt next.

When he couldn't pry off her fingers, he shoved her shoulder. The move accomplished nothing. Not even a highway bus would move her. The boy punched her shoulder a few more times, each blow increasing in strength. Nothing hurt her.

"What the hell do you want?" His voice rose in pitch as panic settled in.

"You're going to turn yourself in for trying to steal that bike. We're going to the nearest police box."

"To hell with you," he said. Anger replaced his panic. He dropped the knapsack. With his free arm, he unzipped it, and removed the bolt cutters. Grasping one of the black rubber grips, he held it between them. "If you don't let go of my arm, you freak, you're gonna get it. I promise you that."

Hina glanced from the cutters to the boy and said nothing. He raised the cutters and paused, giving her one more chance to back off. She wasn't afraid. He held a threatening weapon above her, but she was calm about the situation, even amused.

The boy shook his head, a
your-choice-not-mine
gesture, and brought the cutters down. He swung them with all his might. The blow would have dented a car but the cutters hit her bare forearm and bounced off like a rubber ball. Hina felt the impact, but it was distant, like getting hit with a balled up sock while wearing a snowsuit. The boy's shocked expression turned to anger again. He raised his arm for another swing. She ripped the cutters out of his grasp. She needed a different tactic.

— — —

Officer Yamane liked the late shift at the police box he manned. It was quiet and little happened. It gave him a chance to catch up on his favorite fishing magazine and get away from his chatty wife. As a veteran officer, he believed he had seen everything.

Yamane heard voices from outside, indistinct but noticeable. It sounded like teenagers; perhaps a young couple fighting, or on the verge of breaking up. The voices grew louder, and Yamane stood up from his desk, watching the door.

He had decided to sit down when he heard the voices again. The words were unmistakable this time. "Open the door," he heard a young girl command.

The front door slid open, and a junior high school girl walked in. She carried a college boy inside; one arm under his knees and her other around his shoulders. His arms were around her neck. A pair of bolt cutters were tied into a pretzel shape around his wrists, like makeshift handcuffs.

She set the man on his feet and ducked as he freed his arms from around her neck. She dropped a knapsack at his feet. He scrambled away from her in a panic.

For a moment, the two said nothing. Yamane sat and grabbed the appropriate form. "Please state the nature of your visit."

CHAPTER 23

It was another night of patrolling. She was in a district of Hiroshima she hadn't been to for a while, one that Voice said was "cared for" by the yakuza—the Japanese mafia. Her image of the yakuza came from movies and TV shows: big men in dark coats who wore sunglasses no matter the time of day, had tattoos, and often a missing finger. She had never seen men like that in Hiroshima and wondered if yakuza existed in this day and age. Maybe they had once, but faded away and were now popular fodder for detective dramas. Voice tried to explain to her that one of the aspects about human nature was you couldn't tell what a person was like from their appearance alone. When violent crimes were committed, friends and family members often said the person in question "didn't seem like the type." "I never expected them to do something like this" and so on.

Hina argued that sometimes you could tell something about a person from their appearance: smart people wore glasses, geeks often carried knapsacks everywhere, Shibuya gals wore heavy makeup. Didn't that tell you something about them? Voice countered that only displayed superficial information, it didn't tell what a person was really like. He said a person wearing glasses may be intelligent but might also drown small animals for fun. The comment appalled Hina; Voice knew how much she liked cats. He said he was pointing out she couldn't judge a person from the outside.

It was his way of telling Hina to be careful in this particular area of Hiroshima and not let her guard down. She supposed yakuza needed sleep like other people because the night had been uneventful.

The past few nights, Voice had been teaching Hina how to enhance her sight in different ways: not only focusing on distant objects, but seeing in the dark as well. While Hiroshima was well-lit, with light coming through the windows of fluorescent lit 24-hour convenience stores, security lights posted on the porches of homes, and the neon signs of bars and shops, there were still many dark sections. Alleys and side streets far from the main thoroughfares and surrounded by tall buildings became valleys of darkness; murky depths that spit out creatures of the night, both of the four-legged and two-legged variety. Voice's training had helped out on several occasions, and in a few instances she had recognized the neighborhood. It amazed her how the same street corner could feel familiar and boring in daylight but become frightening and dangerous once shadows overtook it.

Metal rattled and a harsh voice yelled out. She turned the corner of the alley. A larger man pushed a smaller man against the corrugated metal gate of a shop. The smaller man wore a white shopkeeper's apron. He seemed familiar, but Hina couldn't place him in the dim alley. His face was angled away from her. The shopkeeper's hands flailed in helplessness.

The other man was twice the size of the shopkeeper. He had black hair swept back from his forehead and held in place by what must have been two handfuls of hair gel. The lights of the buildings reflected off the shiny starch. His lumpy face resembled an old punching bag that had been used for far too long, and his thick neck melted into his wide shoulders. His right forearm pushed against the shopkeeper's chest. Two large rings glittered on his fingers. He wagged his left forefinger in front of the smaller man's face. That hand had three rings, the largest one a gold horseshoe.

Hina ducked into a doorway and peeked around the edge. Large, impenetrable shadows draped the alley. She enhanced her sight and the world became brighter, like the sun coming out from behind a rain cloud.

"Me and a few others, now we come every week to your place, eat your food, and pay the same price as everyone else. We know you have your fee, so pay up." The yakuza pressed harder on the shopkeeper's chest.

The shopkeeper's face drew into a grimace of equal parts fear and pain. Gray hair snuck out from under his cap in tufts. Dried grease stood out on his white apron. Hina recognized the poor shopkeeper: Ami's grandfather, Atsushi. He couldn't look the bigger man in the eye and turned away, speaking over his shoulder.

"We can't. We can't. Maybe next week. I think we can…"

The mobster pushed against Atsushi, rattling the rolling door. "Next week won't cut it. How long have we been doing business? Huh? It's been the same day of every month of every year. Are you getting that old timer's disease? You might not remember my name next week. Is that it?"

Hina wondered what she should do. She wanted to rush out—the man was hurting her friend's grandfather. But Atsushi would recognize her. Would he say something about it to Ami? How would she explain herself to her best friend?

She tensed her legs. Ami's family was being hurt and she could,
needed
, to do something.

She gave in and stepped away from her hiding place. A door set beside the rolling shutter opened, and a woman stepped out: Junko, Ami's grandmother. Hina stopped and continued hiding behind the edge of the building. She could have grabbed the yakuza and taken care of him without Atsushi getting a good look at her face. Now she couldn't with Junko standing nearby.

Junko pressed her hands against her bosom. Atsushi's expression saddened, and the yakuza's head twitched like a snake in her direction. She shuffled towards him, like he was a dog she wasn't sure would bite or not.

"Tomorrow, you'll have it. We swear." She turned to her husband. "Right, dear?"

Atsushi said nothing, and the mobster dropped him. He sagged against the wall. The yakuza towered over Junko, his large size shadowing her in darkness. "I'll hold you to that. This time tomorrow night." He turned to the cowering man. "She really is your better half. Take care of her."

Hina continued debating whether to rush out or stay hidden, then it became a moot point: the yakuza walked deeper into the alley, away from the terrified couple and from Hina. She waited until Atsushi and Junko went back into their home.

She stepped out of the doorway and ran past the taiyaki shop, approaching the mobster from behind. She pushed him and yelled out "Hey!" at the same time. She meant it as a somewhat-gentle shove but he almost went through the air. He stumbled several meters on his tiptoes, swinging his arms. He fell flat to the ground and rolled onto his back. A bent and ruined cigarette dangled in his mouth.

Hina stood above him. "Leave these people alone."

The man rose, but Hina didn't move. She glared at him, having to tilt her head up. He had looked smaller from the doorway.

"You eat this couple's food. You don't need any money from them."

"You've got a mouth," the big man said.

"And you're greedy and a bully," she said. She kept her ground as the big man glared at her.

"This matter is for adults. I should turn you in for being out so late." He took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it. He frowned in disappointment, and flicked it at Hina. He grabbed another cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket and fired it up. He took a long drag then pointed at Hina, his cigarette tucked in between two yellow-tipped fingers. "Go do your homework, little sis."

"No. You must promise you'll—"

He slapped Hina across the face. It surprised her, but surprised him more. He barked out in pain and shook his hand. His palm and fingers were red from the impact. He dropped his unfinished cigarette. He sucker punched her in the stomach. Hina winced as his knuckles cracked upon impact.

She hooked her foot behind his and pushed. He fell to his back with a thud. He cradled his broken hand. She put her left foot on his chest and pressed down. He let out a grunt and grabbed her ankle, attempting to twist it, but to no avail. It was like trying to move an engine block from his chest.

She crouched down, still keeping her foot on his chest; as she did, his eyes moved downwards. Even as he was being beaten up and in pain, he couldn't help himself from looking up her skirt. She pushed it between her legs, blocking his view. She repressed an urge to press down harder; she might break some ribs or puncture an organ.

She reached into his jacket pocket and removed his cigarettes and lighter, along with a pair of sunglasses. She held them in front of his face and closed her fist. Disparate sounds mingled as the plastic cigarette pack crackled and glass shattered. Metal squealed as the lighter was flattened and fluid burst forth into her palm. The smell filled Hina's nostrils; a thick, repugnant stink. She threw the debris away and wiped her hand clean on the mobster's shirt. "Are you going to leave these people alone?"

"Get off me!" He grabbed her thigh with both hands and pushed. His arms shook with the effort, but she didn't budge. Feeling his hands on her skin embarrassed and disgusted her at the same time. He pushed and twisted; he might as well tried moving a steel pole cemented into the ground. "Get off me, you crazy girl!"

She grabbed a handful of his hair. It was brittle and stiff from the copious amounts of hair gel, and crackled under her fingers. She slammed his head against the concrete. His grip on her loosened and his eyes glazed over for a moment. Part of her felt good to be the one giving and not receiving, as she remembered her fight with Fujiya in the forest.

"Will you leave them alone?" she asked. He didn't respond. "Say you will."

He didn't reply. She let go of his hair and increased the pressure of her leg holding him down. His eyes widened in pain and he grunted. He clawed at her shoe, wedging his fingers underneath her foot. He sucked a massive lungful of air, expanding his chest and drawing in his stomach. He slipped both hands between her foot and himself. Like a man trapped beneath debris, he tried pushing the crushing weight off him. The strength of his arms and chest were useless against her one leg. Hina was unyielding.