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like that of the Russian Winter Palace, with a traditional sushi counter slapped right in the middle. The seats there were fine, but the booth seating was tatami under marble walls, an extreme imbalance of design if I’d ever seen it. It was impossible to guess at the price of the sushi based on this, but there was a hanging curtain on the ceiling that promised “Hassle-Free Pricing! All Items Market Value!”
    Despite the simplicity of that promise, it left me feeling more uncertain than ever.
    It was already a low-expense project, and I had a feeling I’d need to pay for this one out of pocket.
    True to expectations, the Russian who ran Russia Sushi recommended all of the most expensive items. I tried to maintain a pleasantface to keep him in a talking mood. I soon found out that the manager and Simon knew each other from the same city in Russia.
    I didn’t know why a black man like Simon would have been in Russia, but it had nothing to do with my research, so I left that detail for another time.
    After sampling a few sushi (it wasn’t bad at all), Simon had come back inside from his duties advertising to pedestrians outside, and I asked him about the man named Shizuo Heiwajima.
    “Oh, Shizuo. My best pal.”
    So they did know each other. After what the yakuza had said, I half assumed he would be a legendary figure, a tall tale I’d been fed, but this looked to be solid info.
    I put aside the topic of Heiwajima and asked Simon about fighting in town, but I didn’t get far.
    “Oh, fighting, very bad. Get very hungry, need food coupons. You eat sushi, good for you,” Simon told me and started ordering me fresh urchin and salmon roe sushi.
    That was the last straw. Before long I’d have no choice but to run before the bill arrived.
    As I checked the contents of my wallet, the Russian chef took note of what I was after and spoke to me in fluent Japanese.
    “Sir…Simon’s a pacifist, so you won’t get anything worthwhile about fighting out of him.”
    “N-no, I’m just asking who’s the strongest fighter around here…”
    “You talking about Master Heiwajima? You just brought him up yourself.”
    “Uh—”
    It all snapped into place. The chef gave me an extra piece of info on the house.
    “You won’t get anything out of Simon about Heiwajima. He’ll just tell you he’s a good guy. If you truly wanna know about the real Heiwajima…”

    “Who told you about me?” the man demanded with expressionless eyes, rolling a shogi piece in his fingers. “If they even knew my address, it must be a pretty close client of mine…”



He was much younger than I expected. Very young to have a suite in a high-class apartment building in Shinjuku and unnaturally young to be such a well-connected information dealer. He didn’t look much older than twenty.
    His name was Izaya Orihara. I heard about him from the chef at the sushi place, but his name also turned up several times during my first round of surveys on the street from the more knowledgeable types.
    “My source is confidential,” I said, covering for the sushi chef. The slender young man put on an inscrutable smile, leaning back against the sofa.
    There was a shogi board on the table between the two of us. Interestingly enough, there were three kings on the board.
    “Claiming confidentiality to an information dealer… Fine, that’s your prerogative.”
    I began to describe the course my research had taken me, leaving out the sushi place. But to my surprise, he had apparently been reading my articles.
    “You write ‘Tokyo Disaster,’ don’t you? The column about odd events and the various groups active around Tokyo… If I recall correctly, the next issue will be having a big Ikebukuro special.”
    “Oh, you read us? That should make this easy,” I said, somewhat relieved that things would proceed smoothly.
    I was wrong.
    “Is your high schooler well?”
    “Wha…?”
    “Wasn’t Mr. Shiki from the Awakusu-kai considerate?”
    “…”
    Then I