“Ah, but Jack…”

  Jack cut him off with a look and then, “I was reading The Japan Times the other day. Curious story from the AP wire in Bangkok. Poor fellow. Woke up after a night of drinking with his nuts gone. Could you imagine that? Waking up with one’s testicles gone. Seems the boy deserved it, if anyone could. Turns out he was a pedophile, and out and out rapist. Specialized in young boys and men. Don’t ever call me ‘Jack.’ Don’t go near Adam Welsh again. Ever. Now, the business you called me here for?”

  The steady look, one of contempt and something else. Perhaps even more foreboding. The ambassador recovering immediately though. No heart or soul to the man. As if he had been bothered by a flea for just a moment. Back in stride now.

  “Yes, Jack, I…. Jesus, God please….”

  The table here at Paddy Foley’s very intimate. Couples could sit directly across from each other yet still be close enough to hear through the noise of the crowd. Even fondle each other’s lower extremities if the relationship had reached that point or the booze had accelerated it. In any case, Jack Bender now had the “Diplomatic Pouch” as it were of Peter O’Mara, Irish Ambassador to Japan, securely encased in his clenched fist. He began to twist. O’Mara turned a curious tint of pale gray. A moment or two before unconsciousness, Bender released his testicles.

  “Please bring Mr. O’Mara a glass of ice water and of course another whiskey. He appears to be working too hard lately. Out of breathe a bit. Yes, Peter, you need to get some exercise.”

  Jack Bender never breaking eye contact with O’Mara even as the waitress once again appeared out of nowhere. No doubt responding to the man’s cries of pain. She nodded with a quick bowing movement and rushed off for the drinks. O’Mara gasped for air, slowly regaining the composure or as much of it as a man whose balls were just placed in a vice can regain within any period of time. The thought that the scum would not be touching any young men for a while gave Jack a nice feeling of serenity.

  “Ja… Mr. Bender, for the love of God, was that really necessary?”

  Not waiting for a response. In any case, the consummate politician in Peter O’Mara holding full sway now. He would kill Bender for what he had just done. Would have killed him for a lot less, but alas, there was business to take care of. Sweet retribution later.

  “To the point, yes. We have a mutual acquaintance, you and I. The One, I believe he is called these days. I would very much like to know what you are doing for this man. You may be, how do you say in America, “In a bit over your head?”

  Jack Bender’s relationship with ambassador Peter O’Mara had been promulgated on their mutual interest in the head of the Aum Shinrikyo, Shoko Asahara. Bender, in his position as Head of the Toxic Waste Facility at Ship Repair Facility, Yokosuka, Japan, had first met the ambassador at the Navy Day Ball ceremony a couple of years ago when it had been held at the Sanno Hotel ballroom. The Navy Day Ball an annual ceremony celebrating the birthday of the United States Navy. It was an affair that included a dance and was steeped in tradition. Adam and Keiko had been there as well. Of course it was also a perfect excuse for one to get shit-faced to borrow the parlance of Commander Steve Blasingame, who hosted the party in his role as the present senior officer. In any case Jack’s first sight of the ambassador was in the men’s room of the Sanno. He stepped over his power-puking torso as he made his way to the urinal. Jack had even thought of taking the man to an A.A. meeting, but any thoughts of rehabilitation for this man were dashed the night that Adam Welsh had come to Jack in a fit of utter despair and related the story of the black-out with O’Mara and the ensuing compromising pictures. Adam had let it be known during a drunken rant with O’Mara that Jack Bender had many highly placed Japanese friends and hinted that Asahara might be one of them. Of course Adam had hit the bullseye so to speak without even knowing it. His idle boast actually turned out to be true. Using Adam and the pictures, the Irishman had been trying to get a meeting with Asahara through Jack ever since. Finally, after several rejections, Jack had agreed to a meeting. Jack despised O’Mara, but he felt he would be useful for the time being. A way to get him closer to Asahara and Jack’s ultimate goal-the destruction of the besotted West that had destroyed his Yumiko’s family so many years ago. O’Mara of course not knowing of Jack’s intentions either. Both men operating in the blind. All this considered, the particulars of the call to meet here at Paddy Foley’s a mystery to Jack.

  Until now.

  “Why would you want to know that, Mr. Ambassador, even supposing it was true. You may want to lay off the whiskey a bit. I know that I could become quite delusional when I wrestled with the demon rum. Even believed in leprechauns.”

  Jack hitting a nerve here. Adam had mentioned that the ambassador was called the “Little Leprechaun” with emphasis on “Little” behind his back. Jack continued.

  “Look, Mr. Ambassador, we are both very busy men. I deal with many Japanese people of all classes. My job as well as the fact that I have lived in Japan for a long time now makes this a necessity. This person called The One that you speak of, I have no recollection of having met. So if there is nothing else, I must be going.”

  O’Mara nodded slightly and passed the glossies across the table. Time encoded digital pictures. Very good quality. Bender in front of the Gas Panic bar. Another interior shot. Bender and Asahara himself. Trying not to betray any emotion.

  How did he get these?

  Jack’s mind racing now. No one knew he was meeting Asahara. Only Adam. Of course. Adam had given everything away. At least the little that Jack had let him know. Adam not aware that Jack Bender was involved with Shoko Asahara. Unfortunately, when Adam was in a drunken stupor he just assumed Jack knew all Japanese of note. O’Mara, a drunk but alas no dummy. He had evidently put it all together, thought Jack. Realizing now that there was more to it than Adam’s explanation that Asahara was an old family friend of Bender’s wife, Yumiko. God damn, that boy needs to get sober!

  “Mr. Bender, I have certain acquaintances, shall we say, that are very interested in Mr. Asahara and his group, cult, whatever you want to call it. I need to meet with The One as soon as possible. We could be mutually beneficial, symbiotic I believe they would call it in the animal world. In any case, let me put it a bit more direct. If you do not arrange a meeting, your NIS, is that what they call it, Naval Investigative Service will be delivered these self-same pictures you see in front of you. The originals of course. Yes, it is a rather unfair world. Do not go for my jewels again. You are only alive right now because I need you, Mr. Bender. I want the time and place of the meeting by tomorrow morning. Have another Diet Coke. Make it a double. It’s on me.”

  The Irishman got up, not waiting for Bender’s answer. Immediately joined by three men who seemed to come out of the woodwork. Bodyguards possibly. Or something else. Jack watched him slither out of the bar. No one even noticing him. Just another afternoon patron.

  Jack Bender stared into space momentarily and smiled at the waitress as she walked over with his drink. Without further ado, took out his cell phone which had been entangled in some old dental floss in the bottom of his worn Navy issue jacket and dialed a number which could only be answered by Shoko Asahara himself. One thing at a time. One step at a time. He would kill Peter O’Mara but not just yet.

  Of course Jack Bender had heard the rumors of Peter O’Mara’s involvement with the Provisional I.R.A. Hadn’t really paid much attention to them. Until now. These days, any Irish politician had some sympathy for the Irish Republican Army. Jack thinking that the Irish scum or the Provs, as the Provisional wing of the Irish Republican Army was called, must have the world’s best public relations firm. Only rivaling whoever Yasar Arafat, that other renowned scumbag, had.

  Bender’s musings interrupted by the Japanese voice on the other end of the cell. The usual code words spoken and a meeting arranged. The Gas Panic bar. Tomorrow. 1PM. As good a time as any to find out what the Irish vermin was up to before he killed him. Of course, Bender might not even have to. Asahara may well rid himself of the cancer that had plagued Adam Welsh and was, at least now, a minor annoyance to Jack Bender. Funny how things worked out if one worked a good A.A. program, thought Jack with a smile to himself. Lunch hour over. Time to get back to work.

  But first, a floss.

  5

  “Stand by for heavy rolls as the ship comes about.”

  Another turn, godamn it. Like it’s not rough enough out here.

  Fire Controlman First Class Adam Welsh aboard the USS McClusky (FFG-41) somewhere off the coast of Japan. Been out there for two days. Exercises. That’s all the Navy did these days was exercise. Pull out for a week. Come in for a week. Good in a way for an alky though. Chance to dry out. Adam would surely have been thrown out long ago if he’d been in the Air “Farce.” Shore Duty in all the choices places. Nine to five job. Might as well be a civilian. Yea, he would never have made it. The Navy was perfect. Couldn’t drink at sea. Well you could but what was the point? Adam was a bar drinker. He needed the camaraderie. The crowd. If he drank out here it would be like dropping acid in a mental asylum. The bar scene in that old Star Wars movie came to mind. The one where Luke Skywalker goes to the bar with all of the aliens. Yea, it would be just like that, come to think of it.

  The first day at sea had been hell. The usual shakes. Coming out of his body. Thank God he had made it through. Thanks to Rose and Starsky at the front desk of the Sanno. Threw him in the shower and poured him into the cab to the train station. Jack had been waiting at the brow of the ship. His look of disgust had abated somewhat when Adam had handed him the envelope from the ambassador. He just nodded, told Adam to “Keep coming back” and left rather hurriedly. Unlike Jack, Adam thought now. Weird.

  Of course the Chief had been a pain in the ass. The Mormon bastard, Chief Petty Officer Bonner. Bucking for officer and on Adam’s case all the time. Finally, after the ship was underway, he was able to lock himself in his space and sleep off the drunk from the night before.

  Hoisting a few with Art at the Sanno bar. Trying to erase the memory of the latest meeting with the human refuse, O’Mara. One too many Jack Daniels. He just needed to get his remaining time in and he’d have the retirement and the pension. Stay here in Japan. Teach English. No going back to the States. Nothing there for him. The suffocating mother and the brother who wouldn’t talk to him unless he got sober. Well he had no intentions of that. Not now anyway. He was doing all right playing the game. If only the Mormon piece of shit chief would get off his back.

  Lying in his rack. No Watch until tomorrow morning. About 2200 now. Taps. Lights out. Finally alone. He hated dealing with the people he worked with. The younger guys were the worst. The looks of disgust were seldom hidden these days. They knew he was a useless drunk. Things had been different a few years back. Respected. Off the sauce. Doing his job in Navy Intelligence. Yea, a contradiction of terms. A great life though. He knew his job and was respected.

  Different now. All over. Lost his security clearance. The Operations Officer at Edzell Base, a comms intercept site in Scotland might as well have put a knife in his heart when he came in to tell him. Escorted out of the building. One drink too many. Felt like scum. A nothing. All the things Dad had said years ago had come true. His life over. Felt like someone had died. Like when his father had died in fact. He hadn’t thought about the old man for a while. Hadn’t dealt with it. Come to terms with it. Funny the things you thought of in your rack floating around in the middle of the dark, endless sea. The harpies all came out to play.

  “You’re a zero! You hear that! Nothing. Not my son!”

  Years ago but just like yesterday. Davey Welsh standing at the bottom of the stairs. Drunk again. Adam’s mother crying in the other room. Adam not knowing what to think. Trembling. He loved his father.

  Why was he angry?

  Must be Adam’s fault. It had to be. He was a zero. Everything was his fault. His father and mother fighting, unhappy. All his fault. Ten years old. The cause of everything that was wrong in a family that lent new meaning to the word “dysfunctional.”

  Denial became the operative word in the life of Adam Welsh. Inherited from a mother whose life contained more secrets than the National Archives. Dad in and out of the bars. Getting sober for a while but never staying that way. Always back to the solace of the bottle. Funny how Adam could never understand it then, but it seemed clear as the nose on his face now. Booze was the answer. Life too much and God knows his father had his demons.

  Adam just a kid then. Getting off the bus from school. Walking towards the house. There at the door, Davey Welsh. The look of a dead man. Face as white as a ghost. A few drinks leading to a few more the day before. Walking into a supermarket with a loaded .38. At least that’s what it said in the police report. Davey went into the blackout after the third drink. Picked up by the Nassau County cops while swerving aimlessly on the Southern State Parkway. Beaten to a pulp. Body still alive but spirit absent. No more castles for Davey Welsh.

  The next time Adam would see that death pallor was at the Rikers Island morgue. Davey Welsh on the slab for identification purposes. Adam thinking he was ready but then the curtain coming down, and there was his father. Naked and in some ways surreal. Like a department store mannequin but this man on the table was not a mannequin. Could this be the human being that sat at Adam’s bedside and told him that life would be wonderful? Davey about thirty-four then and Adam, seven and already troubled by nameless fears.

  Back on the ship now. God he hated to space out like that. Go back to those days. If he only had a Jack Daniels, he would deal with it. Deal with it by not dealing with it.

  Beautiful Keiko. Here she was now. Floating around in his head as he sailed through the Sea of Japan. No escaping her. He would never forget the look on her face as she left for the abortion clinic. Alone. The tears had dried by then. She had wanted the baby. He didn’t. Responsibility was not in Adam Welsh’s vocabulary. He hadn’t even paid for it. Couldn’t. After all, he was a good Catholic. Dealt with it like he had dealt with everything else. Did nothing.

  Poor little, beautiful Keiko. Adam hadn’t seen her since that day. The doctor had been a drug-addicted butcher who partook of the same drugs he gave his patient. Keiko, the beautiful Japanese girl who only wanted two things in life, the love of Adam Welsh and to bear his children, would now never be able to have a child of her own.

  Adam prayed for sleep to come. He knew it wouldn’t though. Not without the booze. He was trapped here with all of his demons. Keiko holding court over them all, Why did you do this to me, Adam? At once her face in pain but then turning a ghastly hue of yellow. Contorting now, her mouth trying in vain to form words that would never come out. Only a guttural, tormented scream. One that encompassed all the pain in the world. At least it seemed that way to Adam as he tossed and turned along with the ship. Two more days. Then back to Tokyo. He would find Keiko. He had to. Time to banish the demons forever.

  6

  The ambassador had left an hour ago. Or maybe two? No matter. Adam was in the zone. Thirty-six, gaunt. Ichabod Crane with a Navy ID card. The booze had taken its toll. “Nothing ages like whiskey,” Jack Bender had stated on more than one occasion. Still there was some semblance of the fresh-faced kid he had once been. Brilliant blue-eyes that got brighter with a shot of Jack Daniels or a woman’s touch. The warmth had enveloped him. In this dark cavern called the Sanno Hotel bar with its smells of old whiskey and lost dreams he passed into and around any memory he wanted to visit. No shakes now. He appeared normal to the occasional visitor to his space here at the darkest corner of the bar.

  Dan was here of course. Going on now about Rose and Art and how Art was an old fool…you know, nothing like one.

  “Damn, Art, I’m your friend. Don’t you understand that? She’s no good for you. No good. Find yourself a young Japanese harlot.”

  “Fuck off, Dan. Stop with the harlot shit. Just because that thing between your legs hasn’t been inside a pussy since you were…”

  A laugh from the assembled cast of characters. All drunks. All with potential. The dreaded “P” word. Rose in the ladies room now. Out of ear shot.

  Rose Carney, thirty-nine-ish but built like the proverbial brick fertilizer house. Platonic consort for Art Chambers. A painkiller with breasts. Art had spent all those years in Vietnam. He had seen everything or at least it seemed that way. Left a bit of himself there. His friends were on that Wall. He went once, touched the names. It somehow-what was the word-validated them. They were once alive. They had dreamt the dreams. Fell in love. Had their hearts broken. All dead now. Art would never go back to that Wall. It was okay. Enough to know that Billy and Walt were there. They had lived, and all those who filed past would know that they had.

  No, Art didn’t fit back there anymore. He was sixty-five, strong as a bull. first gaijin stick fighting master in Japan, hopelessly in love with Rose. She was back from the ladies and was sitting next to him now but might as well have been on another planet. In another dimension. She turned to Adam.

  “So Mr. Sanno has got himself a room again! How do you do it, Adam? All those guys on waiting lists, and you just saunter up here and get one. Amazing.”

  “Oh, Adam is amazing, yes he is.”

  It was Dan interjecting as always. On his tenth gin and tonic. Beefeaters, always Beefeaters. Adam just nodding now. A wry grin. The “Luke” smile from that old Paul Newman movie maybe. “Hey, you just have to treat people right. It’s a New Yawk thing, right, Dan?”

  “Yes, Adam, we know how you are, and then we know how you are. Just make sure you make it to the bloody ship. Christ, ease off on that stuff. It’s almost eleven for the love of God. You will never make your retirement at this fucking rate.”