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He's at the hotel bar drinking when I walk in. Fits the description, late twenties, slim, dark-haired, Japanese. Yeah, that's all Interpol gave me. The trouble is, this is Tokyo and I've walked past a hundred guys like that. It'd be easier to look for myself. Me, I stand out. Quarter Spanish, the rest Japanese and it's given me height and fair hair, plus weird green eyes, so yeah, I'd be easy to spot.
This is where he's supposed to be though, so with no one else in the bar who comes close, target acquired.
Speaking of close, that's where I need to be. See, there's one other identifier. I guess he could use contacts to hide them, but he never has.
He's got blue eyes. That's unusual here. Unusual enough to give him his nickname? No. That's because of what he steals. Does he steal them because of his eyes? How the fuck do I know? I'm a cop, not a headshrinker.
So let's take a peek and see if I've got my man.
He's sipping out of a crystal tumbler, fancy as the rest of this place. I'm standing out again in my cheap suit and scuffed shoes, but my badge is polished nice and bright, and that got me in. The hotel doesn't like this operation one little bit, but they don't like thieves and pissed off guests either.
I saunter over, bumping into some lanky asshole with lazy brown eyes. I note his appearance automatically, floppy brown hair, little beauty mark low on his cheek, a fuck-you-peasant sneer I'd love to wipe away with my fist. Yeah, I'm not on Traffic, buddy, but I see you again and I'll find a reason to slap you with something that gets your wrists in cuffs. No one shoulder barges Azumaya Junta out of the way without paying for it.
Then I slide my ass onto the seat next to my target, he turns his head, and boom, I'm done.
Yes, he's got the eyes. Yes, they're sapphire blue, like the gems he lifts. It's not the color that gets me. It's him.
I've got a type, see? No one does it for me, so anyone will do. Never been a guy, but that changes, everything changes, when he looks at me and smiles.
It's a polite smile. Not friendly, not inviting. It's a hey, you sat next to me, when there's like a dozen empty stools to choose from, so I guess I'll act like that isn't weird smile.
I still want to lick it off his face.
It'd be sweet with a little bite to it, that smile, and the heat would kick in after I swallowed, I bet.
Shit, I'm supposed to arrest him. Get him talking, let the wire pick up some nice, incriminating dirt, then tell him the bad news that his career (if that's what you call stealing blue chunks of whatever the fuck sapphires are made of) is over.
He's over. Will be locked up until that dark hair's streaked with gray, those eyes have lost their sparkle, that mouth's a thin, bitter line. If he even makes it that long. Pretty boy like him? They'll be lining up for a shot at him.
Fuck that.
It's me. I want it to be me, so bad. Why? Can't say. He's mine, that's all there is to it. He doesn't know it, maybe, but I'll find a way to tell him.
Find a way to tell him a lot of stuff.
I raise my hand and the bartender drifts over reluctantly. Yeah, I'm scruffy. So what? I can buy the most expensive drink they've got and claim it on expenses, but I won't be doing more than pretend sipping, so what's the point? Besides, I've got the perfect way to start up a chat all lined up and rehearsed.
"Bombay Sapphire, on the rocks. Double."
Can't stand the smell or taste of gin, but that's his drink, down to the ice cubes, so he'll comment on it for sure and then we'll—
"Gin, huh?" He raises his glass, hand curled around it, long, elegant fingers, and I see the shimmer of amber. "I'm a single malt fan myself."
What? No! That's wrong, that's not what Sapphire drinks—
Is he trying to throw me off the scent?
The bartender smiles at me thinly and slides a bowl of nuts closer. Tall guy, broad shoulders, fingers stained with nicotine and cold, cold eyes.
I take a gulp of my gin, hold back a shudder, and focus on my job. "Really? Doesn't seem to suit you."
"You judge a man by his drink? I see. So if I were to take a sip out of your glass, what would that tell me about you?"
I want to push it over, twist the glass so his lips hit the place mine did when he drinks. But I settle for less. Story of my life. "It'd tell you I don't like gin. That I bought it to impress you. Guess that didn't work."
"Why would you want to do that?"
My tongue's thick in my mouth from nerves. I want to talk to him, not Sapphire, but this man, who's turned so his knee brushes mine. It's sparks and sizzles and I'm shaking here, deep down, where it doesn't show, thrills and chills and shit, I'm hard.
That's a lot from a knee bump. If he ever let me get my hands on him, I'd probably lose control. Fall to pieces. Break. I'd be on my knees, begging him to let me fuck him just—just once, just—
I reach into my pocket and kill the wire. Crush it, destroy it. Oops?
Should free my tongue, but it doesn't. He arches those eyebrows of his, winged, arched eyebrows, delicate slashes across his pale skin, like someone's drawn him, black ink on creamy paper.
That's not like me. Poetry and shit. I'm a practical guy. I've been around. Done a dozen jobs before I settled my ass down and joined the force.
"I don't get an answer? Pity. I was looking forward to hearing it." He toys with his glass, balancing it so the whisky tilts and sloshes, back and forth, over and over, wave after wave after wave…
My head hits the bar and when I wake up, Sapphire's gone, his gang's gone with him (were you paying attention? I sure as fuck wasn't, because later, too late, I remembered the bartender with the mickey and the asshole who bumped into me, spotted the wire and signaled his boss when I wasn't looking, but I sure as shit missed the mild-mannered no one reading in a corner, glasses glinting, and turns out he's wanted in even more countries than Sapphire), and so have a million yen's worth of gems from a room safe on the eighteenth floor.
And inside a pocket on my pants, one at the front, snuggled in deep, sharp edges digging into my balls, is a card with a message on it, neat writing, deep blue ink.
Consider me impressed by this at least. All for me, was it? I wish I'd got to know it better.
We'll meet again, Sapphire. And when we do, I'll impress the fuck out of you, I swear.
As many times as it takes to make sure you'll never forget me.
Seems fair, seeing as how I can't get you out of my head.