NEAL STEPHENSON

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devils. That’s what they call us. Foreign devils. How d’ya like that?”

Jason just laughed appreciatively.

“After all the good things we did for them. But here in America, Jasie boy, we’re all foreign devils, ain’t we? We all came from someplace-‘cept for the fuckin’ Indians. You ain’t gonna interview over at the Lakota Nation, are ya?”

“No, sir, Mr. Caruso,” Jason said.

“Good thinkin’. I agree with that. I’m gettin’ away from my main point, which is that since we all have our own unique ethnic and cultural identities, we have to get a job with an organization that uniquely respects and seeks to preserve those distinctive identities-forging them together into a functionin’ whole, y’know?”

“Yes, I see your point, Mr. Caruso,” Jason said.

By this point, Mr. Caruso had led him some distance away and was strolling with him down one of the metaphorical Highways o’ Opportunity. “Now, can you think of some business organizations that fill that fuckin’ bill, Jasie boy?”

‘Well. “

“Not fuckin’ Hong Kong. That’s for white people who want to be Japs but can’t, didja know that? You don’t wants be a Jap, do ya?”

“Ha ha. No, sir, Mr. Caruso.”

“Y’know what I heard?” Mr. Caruso let go of Jason, turned, and stood close to him, chest to chest, his cigar zinging past Jason’s ear like a flaming arrow as he gesticulated. This was a confidential portion of the chat, a little anecdote between the two men. “In Japan, if you screw up? You gotta cut off one a your fingers. Chop. Just like that. Honest to Cod. You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you. But that’s not all of Japan, sir, Just in the Yakuza. The Japanese Mafia.”

Mr. Caruso threw back his head and laughed, put his arm around Jason’s shoulders again. “Y’know, I like you, Jason, I really do,” he said. “The Japanese Mafia. Tell me something, Jason, you ever hear anyone describe our thing as ‘The Sicilian Yakuza’? Huh?”

Jason laughed. “No, sir.”

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