Crawford was still finding it hard to look Yohji in the eye. He kept thinking about Hirofumi. He kept thinking that he hated him.
“What’s the plan?” Yohji asked over an early lunch in a café near the flower shop. “We need to learn more about them. You have connections.”
“I’m still pondering what your ‘friend’,” and Crawford spat the word because he found it too easy to believe that the bastard had really used the young Yohji in that way, “told us about Saijoh Takatori.”
“He had two sons. One is your boss, the other, presumably, is the head of Kritiker. And Police Chief. Interesting.” Yohji shrugged. “Do you suppose Reiji knows?”
“I doubt it,” Crawford said, but he didn’t sound certain.
“We need to know more about Kritiker,” Yohji said decisively. “Kritiker were involved in recovering Mamoru, and now we find they’re headed by his uncle. That’s too much like coincidence to be so.”
“Those florists are Weiss,” Crawford said thoughtfully. “Weiss are the killing group, clearly. They must be getting information from somewhere.”
“We need to work out who their contact is,” Yohji agreed. “Stake out the shop. Watch for customers who appear after hours, or just as it’s closing.”
“We could bug it,” Crawford suggested.
“We ought to try and get a floor plan,” Yohji added. “I’m guessing those upstairs floors are just bedrooms, but there could be a back room or something. Somewhere they can discuss assassinations in private.”
“If we break in tonight we can explore,” Crawford suggested.
“Not if they’re in. No, we ought to wait until they’re out hunting some poor sod. I wonder if we can send them after Kotoku?”
“Oh, I hope so,” Crawford smiled.
“Didn’t like him much?” Yohji frowned.
Crawford stared moodily at the cheesecake on Yohji’s plate. “Last night, the two of you implied you were one of his, uh, boys?” he said carefully.
“Oh, no,” Yohji smiled. “Well, not one of those boys. We didn’t meet until I was in my later teens. But he was the first to employ me, and he kept me off the streets for a while.” The smile faltered, but he didn’t let it drop. “He’s a nice man, but not a good one.”
“The two qualities are rarely combined,” Crawford observed. “Still, I’m pleased it wasn’t as bad as I had thought.”
“That’s nice,” Yohji said distantly. He picked at the cheesecake.
“What shall we do about Weiss?” Crawford asked.
Yohji shrugged. “You said last night that they were your jurisdiction. Set your assassins on them. Let there be a war of death dealers. A battle of proactive defence.”
“I can’t see Hirofumi being overjoyed to learn that rather than reunite him with his baby brother, I had the boy killed. It would be best all round if we can bring the boy back to the Takatoris. Kritiker can be eradicated and the family brought back together. A nice Sunday afternoon special for others to nod and smile over at dinner.”
“Sunday afternoon special?” Yohji frowned.
“Family viewing,” Crawford shrugged.
“So we want the boy to go home. To a family like that.”
Crawford grimaced. “I do see your point. Are you willing to stake your life on it though?”
“I don’t suppose Hirofumi would believe us if we said he’d got the wrong boy?”
“He wouldn’t have brought you in if he wasn’t certain.” Crawford sat back in his chair. “And just to make you even more reluctant, I might hazard a guess as to where they saw each other. Hirofumi has hunting weekends with other political wannabes, some times, up in the mountains. Only, he hunts...”
Crawford trailed off. What was he thinking, telling Kudoh this kind of thing? It would get them all killed, or worse. Though the youth would probably be shot once he’d completed his job anyway. It seemed like a hideous waste to Crawford. Maybe he might as well tell him. Let him die for a real reason.
“Pardon?” Yohji stared at him. “Die for what?”
Too much time around Schuldig, Crawford grimaced. Thinking and talking blurred, sometimes.
“Hirofumi will probably kill you anyway, when we’re done. Or you might be one of the subjects for his next hunting party.”
“You never did finish that sentence,” Yohji observed dryly. “So he hunts people?”
“Doesn’t the inevitability of your death concern you?” Crawford frowned.
“Hasn’t sunk in yet,” Yohji dismissed him. “So, bugs. I’ve got my camera, but my last microphone was trampled by a giraffe.” At Crawford’s incredulous look, he added, “No lie. Strange case, that one.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“So what have you got?”
“No giraffes, I’m afraid, but I know somewhere I ought to be able to get what we’re looking for,” Crawford smiled. “I’ll go this afternoon.”
“And I?”
“You stay here and try and work out if their contact visits.”
“You mean I get to sit in the park and watch school girls traipse in and out. Wonderful. People will think I’m a pervert.” Yohji grinned at his third cup of coffee. “Almost restores your faith in mankind, doesn’t it?”
“You mean they’re not as stupid as they look?” Crawford snorted.
Yohji looked around. “Not hard, is it?”
“Have another cup of coffee,” Crawford tossed a handful of change on the table, “and start keeping your eyes open. I think we should do this tonight, whether they’re in or not. We’ve got no idea how much time we have. For all we know Hirofumi might demand the results by tomorrow.”
“Which one of us does this for a living?” Yohji raised an eyebrow at Crawford’s commanding tone.
“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised you made a living out of this. I guess I must have failed to noticed the well furnished apartment you keep in the bottom draw of your desk.”
“Oh hah hah,” Yohji rolled his eyes. Crawford sighed theatrically and left him to his caffeine addiction.
* * *
Yohji waited until Crawford had left him to park around the corner before he took a swig from his bottle of scotch. He knew the American wouldn’t have approved, but this was how he worked. Alcohol gave you an inflated sense of self-confidence. After Asuka left him, well, that self-same self-confidence had plummeted, and without a drop or too he was too distracted fighting the urge to curl up in a ball and die to get much done. Yohji took a deep breath and watched his hands until they stopped shaking. Good.
The skeleton key was old and didn’t work on most locks these days, but the flower shop fire escape wasn’t much newer. He had lock picks clenched between his teeth, but he always tried the key first. He grinned as the door swung outwards, lock picks flashing like horizontal metal teeth from between his lips.
A slow beeping warned him a security alarm was gearing up to go off. He grinned and shook his head. Weiss, it seemed, were worried about having a security system that would make people suspicious. People would wonder why florists needed the same alarm system as the local bank. They depended on anonymity, on not being recognised. Oh, and their ability to kill people. That probably helped them sleep more easily at night.
With a flick of the wrist he pulled the cover off of the alarm and pulled the appropriate wire without having to think about it. He’d memorised every standard alarm a long time ago, as he had done most basic locks. When money was tight, well, there were people out there with a few too many ornaments, right, and some shops that earned a bit more than they really needed at the end of the day.
Yohji stared at the disarmed alarm blankly. He wondered when he’d fallen. It wasn’t the lack of money, or even the lack of Asuka. He’d put The Dream first and was sacrificing even strict moral codes to keep it alive. He’d stolen, he’d killed, he’d made deals with devils...
He wasn’t even aware of his actions as he took another swallow of scotch.
Looking around, he was in a
storeroom. Through one door he could see the front of the shop, and to
his left was a stairway. Up led to bedrooms, Yohji was certain. He’d
been watching them from the park, under pretence of bird spotting.
That excuse tended to get him odd looks in
So down it was. Down made more sense anyway. Fewer reasons to go into the basement. Yohji made his way past potted plants and curled up hoses and already knotted ribbons waiting to be stuck onto crinkled cellophane until he reached the foot of the stairs. The door in front of him was locked, and Yohji wasn’t surprised to find a far more sophisticated alarm system attached to it. He wouldn’t be surprised if there were cameras, either.
The alarm he could deal with. It was triggered to go off when tampered with, but Yohji knew this make had a reset button just under the casing. Easy to touch with his long fingers. It was just pressing it before the alarm caught onto the fact the casing was loose that would prove difficult. Yohji bit his lip. Pressure sensors, that was it. Now, where would they be? It was something the manufacturers would know, so they could disarm it.
Ah, of course. Around the edges, where it would be easy to reach to turn it off, but hard to spot. Tracing the edge gently with the tips of his fingers, a soft brush that would have any woman writhing, he found areas on both sides with a different texture to the rest. They were far apart, far enough that most people wouldn’t be able to touch both at once. Even Yohji’s long fingers couldn’t quite reach both over the raised plastic case of the alarm. He’d need one hand to get the case off. He’d need the pressure pads prepared before he even started unscrewing the case, which meant he needed to grow a few extra pairs of hands.
In the movies, there was always some dumb broad with chewing gum, or the detective himself would have a wad of chewing tobacco. Yohji had tried that, and found himself gagging. He’d stick to cigarettes, thank you very much, even if they were no use in a situation like this.
Yohji smiled to himself. Those ribbons. All those neatly tied bows and intricate rosettes. You got that double-sided tape and those gooey sticky squares holding them to paper and plastic and pots. Taking the steps two at a time he found himself back in the storeroom. Going through the carefully organised drawers and boxes Yohji unearthed what he was looking for. Unable to help himself, he nabbed one of the bows as well and stuck it to the brim of his hat.
Back downstairs he applied the sticky pads to the pressure squares. It didn’t have to be hard - as long as there was something touching them it ought to be okay. Unscrewing the case he took a moment to push the pads down a little firmer, sliding them under where the edges of the case had been. Pulling the case away a few centimetres he slid a finger under it and searched hastily for the button that would stop the already insistent whine. There was a click and Yohji breathed a sigh of relief. He keyed in a random code (they’d know he’d been, but there was no help for that) and opened the door.
As he stepped into the room he caught sight of the camera as it swung to see him. He ducked automatically and scrambled down yet more stairs on his hands and knees to roll behind the closest piece of furniture. He had two options. He could act like a thief, and take the computer, or he could simply place the bug.
Or he could nick the video from the machine tucked in the corner opposite him. It was happily recording everything the camera found. Yohji grinned. He’d rewind it on his way out and try and escape before the camera spotted him again. There was still the problem of the lock, but if he left the case dangling they might think it an aborted attempt at entry, especially if the video showed nothing. He glanced at the skeleton key. Yes, leave that snapped off in the door.
The room itself was relatively bare. Tucked behind the stairs was a computer, and in the centre of the room sat a large sofa and a wide screen television. The computer looked new and expensive, but still shop bought, and the television had no aerial. After a bit of experimentation Yohji confirmed his suspicion that it wasn’t set up to receive any outside broadcasts, and was linked solely to a video. There was a tape in there, which Yohji stuck into a deep pocket for further investigation. They might notice it was missing, but he’d have to risk that.
After some careful deliberation, he stuck the small radio transmitter to the back of the television screen. The sound it would pick up might be slightly distorted, but colour wise it blended perfectly and the power in the television ought to make it hard to pick up with a casual EM scan. Satisfied with his work, Yohji had one last scout around. There was a football abandoned in one dark corner, and he laughed to find a pair of boxer shorts lost in the back of the couch. The sofa had seen some action, it seemed.
He stalked over to the CCTV recorder and studied the machine. It was surprisingly basic, but the camera was well hidden and the recorder tucked away, so chances were a casual thief wouldn’t have bothered. He hit rewind and listened to the satisfying whirr. There might be a timer on the picture, but he’d just have to hope no one noticed the jump in time. Yohji waited until the camera was scanning the other side of the room, hit record, and sprinted up the stairs. Diving through the door it slammed behind him, loud in the night silence.
Outside he sat gasping for breath. That had been close. Was still close. If these guys really were assassins that could easily have woken them. Checking the door Yohji quickly jammed and broke his old skeleton key in the look (goodbye, old friend) and pulled the case from the alarm a little further.
Before he went upstairs he had another drink to steady his nerves. The bottle seemed rather emptier than it ought to be, and he frowned. Well, he wasn’t drunk yet. He climbed the stairs slowly. There was a sound from above.
Yohji thought fast. As steps came down the steps he made a decision that would plot the course of the rest of the night. The stair windows over looked the alley he’d made his entry from, and he’d never manage to lock the door before whoever it was got there. They might think him simply a thief, but these people were bound to be paranoid.
Aya stormed into the flower shop, sword raised.
“Hi! I want these flowers please!” Yohji held out a messy bouquet. He took a swig of Scotch, careful to swallow less than it looked like. He grinned.
“You... what?” Aya stared at him.
“I want these flowers please!”
“We’re not open,” Aya said slowly.
“I want these flowers please now!” Yohji held them out insistently. “Please!”
“We’re not open,” Aya repeated more firmly.
“I need flowers now,” Yohji said, letting his arm fall back to his side. He frowned at Aya. “Please?”
“We’re not open,” Aya sighed. “How did you get in?”
“Aya? What’s going on?” a voice came from upstairs.
“I’m buying flowers!” Yohji piped up.
“A drunk guy,” Aya said disapprovingly. Ken appeared, wearing soccer shorts and a bemused expression.
“How did he get in?”
“I don’t know,” the redhead said suspiciously.
Yohji took another drink from the bottle. He frowned at it. Alarmingly close to empty. Well, might as well finish it off. He needed this act to be convincing.
Maybe it hadn’t been so close to empty. He coughed and gagged, choking on the burning alcohol. Coughed so hard he lost his balance and stumbled backwards, knocking over a table and collapsing backwards in a spray of soil and stems. He sneezed.
“Are you okay?” Ken stood over him.
“I want to buy flowers,” Yohji said with mock forlornness. “It’s late and I need flowers because it’s our anniversary and I screwed up. And I’m drunk, so I need even more flowers because I’m screwing up really really badly.”
“I’ll say,” Ken said. He held out a hand to pull Yohji up, and Yohji used it to pull the brunette over. He needed to continue to appear off balance. He quickly stifled the thought that suggested he hadn’t actually meant to pull the brunette over so violently.
“Sorry,” Yohji mumbled.
“Kudoh?” a voice hissed from the still open side door.
Shit. He was still sober enough to know this was very bad timing on Crawford’s behalf. Sober enough? Sober, full stop. It took more than a few mouthfuls to get him drunk. He couldn’t be more than tipsy right now.
“You!” Aya held the katana to the American’s chin. “Die!”
“Don’t kill my boyfriend!” Yohji called out in alarm. There was a moment of uncertainty as he believed himself for a second. Oh, right, not actually buying flowers. Not actually in love with Crawford.
Aya didn’t move. Ken clambered to his feet and moved to stand near Aya. There was a clatter on the stairs and the youngest assassin was present as well, the smile of yesterday replaced by a look of utter professionalism. That look made him look like the man who had hired Yohji. It was hard to deny the family resemblance.
“Don’t kill my boyfriend,” Yohji said again. “I’m buying flowers.” He pulled himself upright. The tattered flowers he held clenched in one fist suddenly did seem woefully inadequate, and he grabbed a few more that he’d knocked off the table. He stumbled over to the cash register and stood there, rocking on his heels and whistling.
“We’re not open,” Omi said slowly. “If you come back in the morning...”
“I need the flowers now,” Yohji said with exaggerated patience. “That’s my boyfriend who’s getting a very close shave, and I need to apologise to him. I’m drunk, I’ve wrecked your shop, and I’ve had him chasing me around the city all night. There aren’t any chocolate shops open.”
Aya slowly withdrew the katana, but only into a battle ready stance. Crawford didn’t move. Yohji felt sick, but he kept the drunken smile plastered over his face. Omi picked his way through the carnage to the till and opened it. Yohji handed over a fistful of money and watched it disappear. He sighed and dug out the bottle. He went to take a drink, and stared at the empty bottle. It had been full, new, before this night started.
“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath. “I’m really drunk.”
“Are you really with this man?” Aya demanded of Crawford.
“Yes,” Crawford said. “And he knows nothing of all this.”
“Hardly a healthy relationship, then,” Ken smirked.
“Let us leave,” Crawford said calmly.
“I’m drunk,” Yohji repeated.
“I’m not sure we can,” Omi said from by the till. “I mean, you know where we live.”
“So move,” Crawford snapped. “Do I care where you live? I could have found that out any time I wished, with the trail Kritiker leaves. I want to take my lover and go home. Feel free to follow me, if you like.”
Yohji had stumbled towards the shop door and was sitting between two rows of tables, pulling petals off the flowers he’d just bought. God, he was drunk. Drunk enough not to remember that he’d already had a lot to drink, drunk enough to drink more, drunk enough to not realise he was drunk until he had the proof in front of his eyes.
“Kudoh?” Crawford called out. “We’re going.”
“No you’re not,” Ken balled his fists.
Crawford gave him a condescending look. “You don’t know the first thing about unarmed combat,” he observed.
“The bottle shouldn’t be empty,” Yohji announced dully. “I drank too much.” He stared at the empty bottle. Pretty, in its own way, like a vase.
“I’m not unarmed,” Aya pointed out, drawing Crawford’s attention again.
“I thought Weiss had honour. You would kill an unarmed man?” Crawford raised a superior eyebrow.
“Proactive stance,” Yohji mumbled. The flowers drooped in his hands. He’d screwed up. He’d been trusted to do this and he’d screwed up really badly, and now Crawford was involved, forced to confront a group of men who wanted him dead. Yohji understood that he’d be killed when he completed his task, or if he didn’t complete it, but Crawford ought to survive.
“Let me take my boyfriend and go,” Crawford said, voice softer, glasses off. “If I’d known you were here I wouldn’t have let him come the other day.”
From the far side of the room, gentle sobbing could be heard.
“Another time, Weiss,” Crawford said tiredly. He pushed past the stunned young men and began glancing under tables as he searched for the source of the crying. He found Yohji with his back to an urn, pushing the flowers he had bought into the empty scotch bottle. Only one of them still had any petals.
Yohji stared up at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. He stared down at the flowers he’d just bought. With a hopeless expression he held out the makeshift vase.
Crawford smiled reassuringly and accepted it, putting it into the pocket of his suit jacket. Yohji reeked of alcohol, but Crawford stoically ignored at as he looped his arms under the younger man’s armpits and pulled him upright. Yohji collapsed bonelessly against him, melting into his arms and sobbing brokenly onto his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Crawford soothed. “You did well.”
“I screwed up,” Yohji swallowed. “I’m drunk.”
“I’ve got used to that fact of life already,” Crawford said dryly, pulling away slightly. Yohji stared at him, lip trembling. He really wasn’t at all attractive when he was upset. Crawford sighed. “Come on, love, let’s get you back to the hotel. You’ll feel better after you’ve had some sleep.”
“I’ll never drink again,” Yohji said abruptly. The earnestness in his tone surprised Crawford. “I promise. I won’t screw up again. No more alcohol.”
“You’ll take that back in the morning,” Crawford sighed. “Come on. Before these nice gentleman change their mind and decapitate both of us.”
Yohji resisted his tugging though. Crawford glowered at him, but Yohji seemed oblivious. He was going through his pockets. Weiss watched in surprise as bottle after bottle emerged and lined up amongst the dahlias. Crawford laughed at their surprise. Yohji’s coat seemed to have the same properties as Mary Poppin’s carpetbag to the untrained observer.
Yohji turned to the shocked teens. “You can keep these,” he told them. “Some of the bourbon is expensive, and god only knows how I afforded the mature scotch. It ought to make up the cost of wrecking your shop. I’m sorry.”
“Uh, thanks,” Omi stuttered.
“You’ll have to make certain these guys save you a bottle until you’re old enough to drink it,” Yohji winked at him. He hiccupped.
“Are you ready to go now?” Crawford asked softly. Yohji nodded. He leant against the older man and wrapped an arm around his waist. Crawford staggered under the sudden weight, and steered the off balance young man back through the door they’d originally come through. Weiss let them go, though the tip of the katana followed them.
The grey light of dawn made navigating the alley a little easier, and as the streetlights flickered of Crawford pushed Yohji’s almost inert body into the back of his car. After a moment’s deliberation he crawled in after him, and settled along the wide seat. He pulled Yohji’s body into his lap and wrapped his arms around the younger man. Yohji sighed and nestled against his chest. He still stank of alcohol, and the kiss he gave Crawford was messy and wet. Crawford smiled and pulled Yohji’s hat over his unfocused eyes. Taking off his glasses, he settled down to sleep.