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Chapter 2 part 1

It drizzles for a while and stops.
Dazai is running around everywhere collecting information on Mimic. I roam the streets in search of clues. Although something important is slipping from my hands as the seconds tick by, I can't seem to tell what that something is. The more important it is, the harder it is to see it, especially when it's gone.
The time taken to think gets longer and longer.
Why did Ango disappear? At this point, we can say with certainty that Ango has some sort of connection with Mimic. As to what this connection is, it is still unclear, as is Ango's reason for lying about his travels. Like a lone zombie wandering in a clean cemetery, I roam Yokohama's streets looking for a non-existent glimmer of hope.
There is one conjecture that I dare not tell anyone, because I cannot bring myself to think it. Dazai probably has a similar conjecture in mind, but Dazai won't tell anyone about it as either.
Disappearing at the same time Mimic appeared, lying about his travels to fabricate an alibi, the gun in the safe, and a sniper urgently trying to retrieve said gun.
Sakaguchi Ango is a Mimic spy.
Such an assumption would explain everything.
Mimic brought Ango over to spy on the Port Mafia.
I shake my head. That's impossible. If that was the case, that would mean that Ango is a great spy that can deceive both Dazai and the leader with abilities beyond that of government informants. For Mimic to spare such a clever spy, what do they want from the Port Mafia?
"Odasaku, your face is all scrunched up. Are you having constipation?"
The boss of the Western restaurant is talking to me.
"It's not constipation, I'm just thinking about things. If it was constipation, I'd be avoiding foods like curry."
I am currently eating curry in a Western restaurant.
"Really? That's true... Odasaku, do you get angry if people talk about such things while you're eating curry?"
"Is that so?" I reply. "Should I get angry?"
"Uh... I'm not sure myself."
"Hey!" I look at him seriously.
"You don't have to force yourself, Odasaku."
The owner of this restaurant and I are old friends. He is at his prime, around fifty, with a belly protruding so much that he can't see the tips of his toes when he looks down while standing. His hair is thinning and the corners of his eyes are full of laughter lines. His yellow apron is practically one with his body, leaving people to wonder if he had been born like this.
I eat the curry here three times a week out of habit. Habits are a strange thing. If I don't eat here every few days, I start to feel thirsty and find it hard to focus. Because of the mafia's retribution, I have seen countless druggies. Perhaps they experience similar feelings.
"How's the curry?"
"It's the same as always."
The curry rice here is simple. There are vegetables cooked until they are soft and tender and beef tendons fried with garlic. The stock is clear. Cooked together with a blend of spices in the perfect ratio and drizzled over white rice, then mixed further. I usually beat the egg into the sauce and eat them together.
After I have my fill, I enjoy life's small fortunes while I drink coffee.
After which, I ask, "How are the kids?"
"They're the same as always," the owner says as he wipes dishes with a cloth, "They're like a small gang. Since there are only five of them, I still have them under control. If there were five more, they might rob an international bank. They're all on the second floor, you can go over and show your face."
I decide to do as he says. The space above the restaurant has been refurbished from an old meeting room into living quarters. Once I climb up the reinforced concrete stairs plastered with filthy wallpaper, I see the two doors that separately lead to the children's common room and study. I go through the door leading to the common room.
"Yo, how's everyone?" I say to the children.
The children are all occupied, focusing all their attention on individual activities. One is looking at picture books, one is drawing on drawing paper, one is throwing softballs the size of their fists against the wall, one is playing Cat's Cradle with a thick piece of rope. The youngest is a four-year-old girl, while the oldest is a nine-year-old boy. None of them raise their heads.
"Have you guys been giving Uncle trouble? Uncle used to be a really skilled soldier. If he wanted to, he could make the lot of you five-"
While I was joking around, I notice something - there should be five children, but there are only four in front of my eyes. There is a shuffling presence under the sheets of the double decker bed on my right.
I squat down immediately and maintain a low stance.
A swift moving shadow appears from under the sheets - it's the fifth child. I lower my head, dodging past the shadow charging towards me.
However, the attack is a decoy. The girl that was drawing leaps towards my right leg as I lose my balance. This was planned. Losing the freedom of one of my legs, I step my foot out against the real attack. However, I don't succeed. The multi-stranded rope used to play Cat's Cradle up till now had been placed in the direction my foot headed in. A trap! My ankle is trapped in the taut rope. My body lost contact with the ground and for a moment, I was flying through the air.
I use my right hand to grab hold of the double decker bed to prevent myself from falling. But they had long foreseen this action, smearing wax crayons on the bed's handles. Because of this, my right hand slips off the frictionless handle.
I stick both hands to the floor, hoping to use the counterforce to push myself up. But within that short span of time, my defenceless back is left exposed to the small gang in front of me. They wouldn't miss an opportunity like this.
Judging from their breathing, I sense the seven-year-old boy and eight-year-old girl leaping towards me from behind. If I take this attack, I can foresee myself being hauled up to the gallows like a criminal.
I need to show them just how terrifying a true mafioso is.
I use my hand to swiftly deflect an incoming softball. The softball rebounds against the wall, hitting the seven-year-old boy squarely in the face. Having missed his target, he falls to the ground in a bid to protect himself.
I twist my ankle with some force to free myself from the rope, placing my weight on my left foot. The child firmly wrapped around my right leg lets out a scream of delight as I raise my foot, before dropping on the floor. By this time, the remaining eight-year-old has leapt onto my back, but to leave him to suppress me is too great a responsibility for him alone. I stand while carrying the boy on my back.
The agile boy that was hiding in the sheets from the beginning is the head of this gang. Having seen the pitiful defeat of his subordinates, he still bravely leaps towards me. Since it is a battle led by him, he won't go down easily no matter how bad the loss.
I block the boy leaping towards my lower half head on. Aiming for the legs to disrupt one's balance is an excellent move, but the difference between our masses is too great. I grab the boy from under the armpits and raise him up, shaking him with his head down, feet up. The boy lets out a sound like a goat having a hangover.
"Do you want to surrender?" I ask.
"No way!" the boy shouts.
The remaining children have lost their will to fight, and instead, have come forth to watch how much longer their head can hold onto his post as commander.
"Then let's carry out a mafia-style interrogation." I grab the boy's armpits and tickle furiously.
"Buhyaaaaaa! Wait... Yaaaaaaaa!"
After two minutes and forty-two seconds, the boy agrees to sign the terms of surrender.