Gomi Boy had Masahiko’s computer in a plaid plastic carry-bag with quilted pink International Biohazard symbols on the sides. It was sitting on the little table beside the can of Pocari Sweat. What was a Pocari? She imagined a kind of wild pig, with bristles, turned-up tusks, like she’d seen on the Nature Channel.
Gomi Boy sucked on his cigarette, making the end glow. He squinted through the smoke at Masahiko and said something. Masahiko shrugged. There was a fresh mini-can of microwaved 156 William Gibson espresso in front of him, and Chia had another Coke Lire. In Tokyo there was nowhere to sit down unless you bought something, and it was quicker to buy a drink than something to eat. And it cost less. Except she wasn’t paying for these. Gomi Boy was, because he and Masahiko didn’t want her to use Kelsey’s cashcard.
Gomi Boy spoke again. “He wishes to talk with you,” Masahiko said.
Chia bent over, unzipped her bag, found the ear-clips. She only had the two, so she handed one to Gomi Boy, put the other on herself, and hit power. He put his on. “I am from Walled City,” he said. “You understand?”
“A MUD, right? Multi user domain.”
“Not in the sense you mean, but approximately, yes. Why are you in Tokyo?”
“To gather information about Rez’s plan to marry the idotu, Rei Toei.”
Gomi Boy nodded. Being an otaku was about caring a lot about information; he understood being a fan. “Do you have dealings with the Combine?” Chia knew he had said Kombinat, and the translator had covered it. He meant that mafia government in Russia.
“No,” Chia said.
“And you came to be at Masahiko’s because. . .
“Mitsuko’s the social secretary of the Tokyo chapter of the Lo/Rez group I belong to in Seattle.”
“How many times did you port, from the restaurant?”
“Three times.” The Silke-Marie KoIb outfit. The meeting. Zona Rosa. “I paid for presentation software, Mitsuko and I did the meeting, I linked home.”
“You paid for the software with your cashcard?”
“Yes.” She looked from Gomi Boy to Masahiko. Between and behind them, the rain. The endless racketing cascade of the little silver balls, through the glass across the street. Players hunched there on integral stools, manipulating the flood of metal. Masahiko’s expression told her nothing at all. “Masahiko’s computer maintains certain aspects of Walled City,” Gomi Boy said. “Contingency plans were in place for its removal to safety. When it became obvious that both Masahiko’s and his sister’s user addresses were attracting unusual attention, I was sent to secure his machine. We frequently exchange hardware. I am a dealer in second-hand equipment. That is why I am called Gomi Boy. I have my own keys to Masahiko’s room. His father knows I am allowed to enter. His tither does not care. I came and took the computer. Nearby is a small civic recreation area. The restaurant is visible from it. Seeing Oakland Overbombers, I crossed the street and spoke with them.”
“Seeing what?”
“A skateboard group. They are named for the California soccer club. I asked them if there had been unusual activity. They told me they had seen a very large vehicle, an hour before .
-A Graceland.
“A Daihatsu Graceland. There are fewer here than in America, I think.”
Chia nodded. Her stomach did that cold flip-thing again. She thought she might throw up.
Gomi Boy leaned sideways with his cigarette, which was short now, and mashed the lit end into a little chrome bowl that was fastened to the side of a game console. Chia wondered what this was actually used for, and why he did that, but she supposed he had to put it somewhere or it would burn his fingers. “The Graceland parked near the restaurant. Two men got out .
“What did they look like?’
“Gumi representatives.”
“Japanese?”
“Yes. They went into the restaurant. The Graceland waited. After fifteen minutes, they returned, got into the Graceland, and left. Masahiko’s father appeared. He looked in all directions, studying the street. He took his phone from his pocket and spoke with someone. 168 William Gibson He went back into the restaurant.” Gomi Boy looked at the carry-bag. “I did not want to remain in the recreation area with Masahiko’s computer. I told the leader of the Overbombers I would give him a better telephone, later, if he would remain there and phone me if more activity occurred. The Overbombers do nothing anyway, so he agreed. I left. He phoned twenty minutes later to report a gray Honda van. The driver is Japanese, but the other three are foreigners. He thinks they are Russian.”