Read Online Collector of Secrets by Richard Goodfellow - Free Book Online Page B

bench that ran the inside length of the Toyota Dyna van’s windowless cargo area. The gray vehicle was parked in a string of bumper-to-bumper cars lining the street opposite Mr. Murayama’s office. Late-afternoon traffic was sporadic, but apartment dwellers out for a Saturday stroll flowed by in an unending chain.
    He adjusted the padded headphones that sealed his ears, pressing down his permed, curly black hair. Beside him, Jun was shifting ceaselessly. Squeezed elbow to elbow with his partner, Hiro was growing increasingly annoyed at the younger man’s inability to remain still. The nearby police box concerned him. Jun’s massive size and constant movements shook the van and threatened to expose their listening post. The last thing they needed was for a concerned citizen to alert the police to the strange rocking vehicle down the block.
    Hiro pulled the left earpiece away from his head and whispered through thin lips. “Little brother, could you please stop moving?” The traditional Sempai-Kohai relationship of mentorship, reciprocated with respect and obedience, had never gelled between the two men. Forced together only through circumstance, they labored on common tasks, but would never truly mix.
    Jun’s grunt barely acknowledged the request; his eyes remained glued to the pages of the phonebook-sized Manga he was holding. What garbage , thought Hiro. The comic was disgustingly low-life, but he knew the young thug eagerly awaited new issues of Berserk . The violent fantasies centered on the life of an orphaned warrior named Guts, who led The Band of Hawks mercenary group. Every tale spun a bizarre story of heroism and glory, a life for which Jun clearly longed.
    Hiro glanced at the detailed bloodshed depicted on the Manga cover. He felt a look of disdain creep across his slender, hawkish face. He would never relate to Jun’s propensity for violence, but then their childhood experiences were so different. Jun had been orphaned in the late 1980s—raised on the streets, while Hiro had grown up with four older sisters. His mother would tell him how she had prayed to the kami spirits to send her a son. She knew his father wouldn’t rest until he had a boy to carry on the Yakuza traditions.
    Feedback from a transmitter in the office squealed as Hiro snapped forward to adjust the controls on the sound console running the length of the van’s opposite wall.
    The first hour-long shift had gone to Jun. It was now hour number eight, and there wasn’t much going on inside Mr. Murayama’s office. Two radio microphones had been planted by a night cleaning crew. Hiro could hear the sound of sliding drawers accompanied by the shuffling of feet. The old man was likely moving things around, but little else appeared to be happening.
    Hiro slid the pile of Coke cans and empty Styrofoam ramen bowls to Jun’s end of the counter where they belonged. The cleared space exposed several translated novels. He reviewed the stack, trying to decide which one to read once it was Jun’s turn to listen again. A classic, like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet , wasn’t the kind of story that could be read while crammed into the back of a van with a two-hundred pound gorilla. He fingered the outside of his dog-eared edition of the classic American tale, On the Road . It was a possibility, but his interest in it had waned for the moment. So the choice was between Cry Freedom and Che Guevara’s Motorcycle Diaries .
    Abruptly, the office telephone rang, and Hiro listened closely as Mr. Murayama answered.
    “Moshi-moshi?”
    “Hello, Murayama -san . It’s Rikyu, from the Mizuho bank. I’m very sorry for my slow response to your message. I was at the park with my family.”
    “No need to explain. I wish to move some things to my safety deposit box. It’s quite urgent, and I would like you to send a truck on Monday morning.”
    The line crackled with static as Rikyu sucked in air between his closed teeth. “Is that so?” The snakelike noise