flute. He poured the bubbly on the floor and filled the glass with Jameson, all the while expecting the bullet that would end his life.

“You’re right, I’m a scotch man,” he told the yakuza lieutenant. “But this is whiskey. It’s good nonetheless. Next time you want to get me drunk, crack a Speyburn or Balvenie.” He offered the flute from across the table, very aware of the finality of his play. Yakuza surrounded him, hands clutching pistols and someone held back The Lobster, who was filling the room with expletives and waving his own pistol recklessly.

Sugihara snapped out of his trance and took the glass. He looked to Etsuya, who stood disheveled, a thin stream of blood on his lip. “What’s wrong with you?”

Etsuya wiped his face with the sleeve of his...

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