Keeping Him Honest

Only one person knew about the war that was about to engulf Tokyo, and his name was Orihara Izaya. But this would be a far cry from his perfect dream of chaos and beautiful humanity clashing, the dream that had failed nearly two months ago when he had tried to arrange the gangs of his town into a full-out brawl. In fact, the coming war would give Izaya no pleasure. Because he was to be the first casualty.

The first twitch in the web of information that alerted the informant was the death of his agent in the Yakuza. This man had regularly kept him in the loop, the cousin of one of their higher ups. He had tipped Izaya off about a few choice bits over the years, a delivery of a shipment here, a promotion within the ranks there, and Izaya had kept him in favor. But when his throat was cut seemingly out of nowhere, Izaya had a sinking suspicion his rat had been yanked from the field because of him. Not that he felt any remorse or feelings for the man, unless you counted annoyance. He was an informant. He needed to know everything, and being blind was not an option. Irritation filled his heart. Not that you would know it. His face maintained a blissful, satisfied smile. Even though he hated doing his own leg work. Even crawling through the tight air ducts of the building where the Yakuza handled their business to lay bugs, his face displayed no hint of the anger rolling in his stomach. The distasteful work was well rewarded though.

A week after he had planted his devices, he caught the snip of information that would turn his town on its head. To make matters more interesting, it wasn't the conversation of their overload he found most fruitful, but the simple exchange of two lower ranking distributors.

"I get it, we have to move operations. I don't get why. And I don't get why there."

"Fuck, man. I know. There are so many fucking heavy hitters there. So many fucking rumors."

"All I know is that when they assemble the hit squad for Heiwajima, I'm fucking out."

Izaya has been unbearably, suicidally bored, listening to the playback on his bugs and scrolling through the Dollars chatroom with the expression of mild interest and surprise on his face. Izaya thought he could count on one hand the number of times where his feeling had matched his expression. But when that bit played in his headphones, his interest had been peaked. His pulse picked up. There was a possibility that the Yakuza were moving their operations. Here. Izaya was impressed that he hadn't heard a single whisper of this before now. His head whirled, trying to imagine time tables, factors, how they would do it, how he would have done it. Which means that when Namie looked up, she saw a dissatisfied Izaya, when in reality it felt as if he had just won a marathon. He checked the date on the recording-a week old, maybe more. What had happened in those days? How much did he not know? Searing, embarrassing doubt in his own abilities threatened to strangle him. After all, he was only 23, and no stranger to self-guessing. He flipped the next disk into his Walkman and continued listening.

"Izaya, there's a man on the phone who wishes to speak with you immediately." Namie interrupted.

His eyes flicked to her, and with the grace of an offended cat, slipped his earphones down around his neck.

"Hmm?"

"Sorry, but he says it needs to be now. He didn't give me his name."

Izaya sighed at his secretary/playtoy and motioned for her to bring him his phone.

"This is Orihara."

"Good evening Mr. Orihara. My name is Otoro Mikasa, I represent certain interests of the Yakuza."

"Good for you!" Izaya purred. "I am so happy you called to tell me so! You know how much I love information."

There was silence on the other end. Izaya did not think he expected to hear a breathy, excited child. "Have I reached the Informant of Ikebukuro?"

"Ahh, hai, you have! Do you need proof? Should I come visit your son, who is in the hospital for accidently stabbing himself in the leg with his own knife? Silly boy! Or how about" he dropped his childlike acting and returned to his normal voice "You stop wasting my time or I'll come see your wife on her way to the teashop she works at?"

More silence. "Orihara Izaya, my boss wishes to employ you. We need information on a few different people. The information is to be gathered and delivered to him, in return for the sum of 300000000 yen."

This time, it was Izaya who stayed silent. The man hadn't risen to his challenge, which was interesting. It could have meant quite a few things, the most likely of which that his boss, whoever was really attempting to employ him, was listening and did not appreciate theatrics. "What do you need to know?"

"We want to know who leads the Yellow gang of Ikebukuro. And his details." Izaya sighed heavily.

"That's common knowledge. Anyone knows that. You're still wasting my time."

"We want to know who runs the Dollars."

"And why's that?" Izaya asked. "Why would you want to know a thing like that.

More silence. "We will pay you the agreed amount. Contact us when you have the information.

"I have the information."

"Then we will meet you at the baggage warehouse in the international airport tomorrow at 1:00AM."

"Bring him with you."

"Who?"

"Why, the man telling you what to say, of course."