The Ongoing diary of Casey Neal

A Real Cyril Takayama

(March 2020)

“Casey Neal,” the voice said with an accent that you could not miss.

I hung up, and was doing a quick check of all the things I might have done to piss the Russians off.  Couldn’t think of a thing.

My last stories were about baseball here, focusing on contracts and money and how the quaint air of small-time business (albeit corporately funded small-time business) was being replaced rapidly by the cash-rich feel of a bigtime sports entertainment cabal.  I had dropped a bit of a bomb on the Nicaraguan police force when they wouldn’t allow Ichihara’s assistant inspector into the country to interview a scout who was contracted to work for both Kure and Charleston at the same time, but I couldn’t see how that would cause crime lords in Russia any never-mind, organized or not.

The phone started ringing again.

Same number.

I felt DK’s staring at me as I answered.

“We have something you might be interested in,” the voice said this time.

“What’s that?”

“Cannot say on phone.”

“Ah, okay,” I rubbed my eyes, then checked the clock to see that, yes, it was still getting late at night and I was still dead tired. “Where do you want to meet?”

“No meet.”

“You’ve got to give me something I can use here, dude.”

“We will pick you up.”

I paused.  “Okay … when?”

“Tomorrow. 7:30AM. Sharp.”

“All right.”

“Pack clothes. Small bag. Two days.”

“Where are we going?”

I could almost hear the smile over the phone. “Small bag. Two days.”

Then the phone went dead.

#

DK was certain of only one thing, and that is that I shouldn’t go.  When it became obvious that I was most certainly going, he downscaled his warning to “you can’t go alone,” then he grabbed his jacket and hat and started packing a bag.

“I don’t think they plan to take you,” I said.

“We see then,” DK replied.

They hadn’t told me not to call anyone else, and since the Ruskies knew we were connected I figured that meant I was supposed to, or at least expected to, call Ichihara and tell him.  So I did.

“It’s probably best you go,” he said after some time to let the situation stew.  “I don’t think they will hurt you.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how reassuring that makes me.”

“They have the number of your phone, and they will plan to pick you up, so that means they already know where you are. If they intended to hurt you, it would be done by now.”

“Maybe they just want to take care of me quietly.”

“You watch too many movies, Casey. This is real life.  Real life is more … ah … direct … than movie.”

“Whatever.”

The idea of being in a car, plan, or any other form of transportation made me feel sick to my stomach, no matter what Yuni Ichihara might say.

“Just be careful.”

“Thanks.”

We both hesitated. I had a strange sense that Ichihara wanted to talk.

“Are you still in the office?” I finally said.

“Yes. Always in office.”

“Anything new?”

I could literally see him shaking his head stiffly. I heard the sound of a cigarette being lit.

“No. Nothing new.  We have four places where one of the MSBs was last seen, and maybe number five in triangulation.  Then nothing. Poof! Gone like he’s some Cyril Takayama.”

“Who?”

Cyril … like … uhnn … magician.  You know.  Cut woman in half, put back together.”

“Okay, yeah, I got it.  Like David Copperfield, or David Blaine.”

“Yes, he’s disappearing to escape.”

“A real Harry Houdini.”

“Who?”

I smiled.  “Never mind.  Just another magician.”

“Anyway,” Ichihara said, and I could see him sitting at his desk and looking papers he had posted on his wall to cover the case, pointing to each with the hand that held the smoldering cigarette. “We have that.  And we have a his flats, flats that are all paid for with automatic deductions made from accounts opened in person with cash deposits to bank tellers who can’t recall him, so they go nowhere.  We have cash transactions that flow from the accounts of LRS teams through a murderer’s row of the best banks in the world until the money just disappears. We have a background check on a bright but probably depressed kid who became a ghost for several years before popping back into existence with enough moxie to convince five owners to hire him.  And we have a string of people, acquaintances at best who know, but can’t tell you anything about him except that he’s great to have around at a party.”

“So, yeah, we’re pretty much hosed everywhere we look. What’s your point?”

The phone is silent.

“Maybe I don’t have a point.”

“I’m sorry, Yuni.”

“It is no problem. I understand. Get sleep tonight. Good luck with the Russians.

“Thanks.”

“Call me with what you learn.”

“You know I will.”