Sly knew Kamikaze Sushi, had been there a few times herself. It was another of the contradictory aspects of the north pier area, seemingly out of place on the west side of Alaskan Way . A small and rowdy restaurant, it was known for its all-night parties (in blatant defiance of licensing laws) and for the fact that it featured classic rock music at brain-numbing volume. Old stuff—the Rolling Stones, the Doors, Genesis, Yes—bands that had kicked off half a fragging century ago. The owner of Kamikaze Sushi was a big Japanese guy who called himself Tiger, and when it was him working behind the sushi bar, he was the restaurant’s biggest draw. Cybered reflexes made Tiger the fastest sushi chef in the plex, but his habit of matching customers drink for drink—even trolls who outmassed him by fifty kilos—tended to take the edge off his skill. Thanks to "minor accidents" while under the influence, four fingers on his left hand and two on his right were cyber. (One recurring rumor claimed that the day he lopped off his left pinky he’d served it to an inebriated customer on rice with a dab of wasabe . . . and said customer promptly ate it.) But none of that seemed to slow Tiger down.