Max grunts. “Day spa? I thought the entire building was a Shiguro front company, and data warehouse, and all the other -“

You’re still scanning the street. “Not that kind of day spa.”

“Oh.”

By “day spa,” Max realizes you mean an interrogation and torture suite. These rooms are rare, even for Yakuza. A wealth of conceivable and inconceivable devices that allow for nearly limitless methodologies of extracting… whatever. Shiguro thinks big. You’re counting on this.

Max is contemplating the assortment of torture devices, by the look on his face. “What do we need the iPod for? I stripped its components already, and it’s not like Harris or his goons are going to -“

“Harris wasn’t using it to track me. The iPod is Shiguro’s, meant for someone else.”

Max is expressionless. “You must be buzzing with one hellacious headache right now.” He has no idea. “What do you know?”

“I realize why you had me kill Harris, for one thing. And I know that I’m not cleaning up any more of your mess.”