Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  When the most visibly nervous guest asked to see Krill’s fugu competency license, Tanaka intervened with a toothy smile and the voice of assurance. “One-hundred percent certified. She was taught by the best in Tokyo.”

  The guest was obviously dissatisfied with the answer but didn’t want to challenge Tanaka. That would be perceived as a public insult. It was important to save face.

  With assistance from Tony the bartender, Krill went about displaying the puffer fish, named so because as a defense mechanism it can expand to appear much larger, which helps ward off natural predators in the sea.

  As though preparing sashimi, Krill cut the raw fish into thin slices that were artistically arranged on seven small china plates. She avoided serving the liver because that organ contains the largest concentration of Tetrodotoxin, the poison found in the pufferfish’s skin, skeleton, ovaries and intestines.

  As the guests took their seats, in a show of fearlessness Tanaka remained standing and deftly plucked a slice of fugu with his chopsticks, dropping it into his mouth. He stuck out his tongue to show his guests the fish.

  As Tanaka savored the taste and sensation, Krill explained that her boss was among the more adventurous pufferfish aficionados who preferred to eat it with a residual amount of toxin left inside the meat. She also noted that doing so might leave a tingling in the lips, which is the sought-after effect. She assured them there was nothing to worry about.

  Tanaka clutched his neck and made a gurgling sound as though in the throes of death. When his guests realized it was a joke, Tanaka settled into his chair and smiled, lips and eyes closed, as if in a state of unbridled gastronomic pleasure. Two guests followed suit, quickly tonging and engulfing a slice of blowfish. Just as Tanaka had anticipated, the men were getting off on the thrill, the potential danger, which to some pufferfish fans was truly addictive.

  Krill explained that while the toxin was key to the ultimate pufferfish dining, ingesting too much could lead to a lamentable experience. She would have explained further that Tetrodotoxin does not cross the blood-brain barrier, so the victims remain fully conscious while their central nervous system gradually shuts down, first producing dizziness and incoherent speech, followed by paralyzing of the muscles. But she knew better. Most would simply not understand. It was obvious some of the guests had almost no attention span for such a detailed explanation.

  “Is anyone feeling dizzy?” she asked coyly.

  At that, Tanaka burst out laughing.

  “Please continue, Krill. Explain to them. Tell them what to expect.”

  “As I was saying, too much toxin isn’t good. This can lead to asphyxia, which means you are unable to get oxygen and you start to suffocate, or possibly die.”

  After a theatrical pause, she added, “There is no antidote for fugu poisoning.”

  Tanaka laughed louder than Krill had ever heard him, his entire body shaking as though in a fit. He raised his glass of sake. “To those of us who live life to the fullest.”

  The others lifted their glasses, some with obvious reluctance.

  Tanaka clenched a fist as a gesture of strength and defiance. “Now let’s finish our fish. If you don’t feel your lips tingle, you haven’t eaten enough.”

  Tony poured more sake and freshened the beers and mixed drinks while Krill set up a TV monitor on a wheeled cart.

  When dinner was finished and the plates collected, Tanaka stood and spoke proudly, saying another surprise was in store. Krill blew out the candles as previously instructed and switched off four of the six lanterns. Tanaka pushed the button on the remote control. The room suddenly filled with bright light and a blank image appeared on the screen. Seconds later, palm trees swayed on an idyllic sand beach. The camera zoomed to the surf, capturing its gentle rhythm. It was a scene that could have been captured on most any tropical beach around the world. Nothing special. The men in the room seemed puzzled. They had expected some high-grade pornography, or perhaps a snuff film. It was rumored Tanaka had one of the largest collections of porn in all of Japan. But there was only the beauty of nature before them – white sand, turquoise water, swaying palms.

  Tanaka raised his hands and with open palms urged his guests to be silent. The yakuza boss sipped deeply from a rum drink laden with fresh fruit. “Please be patient. I assure you it will be worth the wait.”

  On the TV monitor, it was obvious the camera was being carried along a trail that led through thick underbrush. Images bounced around. The labored breaths of the cameraman were recorded on the audio track along with the cries of seabirds. Moments later, a man’s distinctive voice could be heard over the seabirds and the cameraman’s huffing and puffing. The voice was pleading. The camera pointed at the sand beach, swirled toward the trees and then at the sky as it was secured to a tripod. The bouncy images were disconcerting and two of the men at the table complained of feeling queasy, a moment Tanaka used to jokingly suggest they had eaten too much pufferfish.

  A third man politely insinuated that Tanaka was wasting their time — they hadn’t traveled to Saipan to watch amateur nature films, they’d come for the party, the women, the endless drink and camaraderie, all of which was barely ten feet away on the other side of the thatch wall.

  Seconds later, the image of Yoshi Yamamoto flared into view, his body tied to a thick wooden post that had been driven into the sand. The men recognized the fear in his eyes and gasped at the sight of giant lizards biting and tearing apart the tattoo master’s body.

  When the six yakuza looked toward Tanaka for comment, he merely smiled and sipped his rum drink. Tanaka knew the video would strike fear into their hearts and make them understand he was capable of great cruelty to those not loyal. It was a warning shot.

  Only Hageshii, the oldest yakuza in the room, an octogenarian and accomplished international drug smuggler, was bold enough to speak. “I enjoyed your movie, Orochi. Yes, you got revenge for Yoshi’s betrayal. But where is our money? We are missing almost two hundred million between Yoshi and Asaki. Two dead men.”

  Tanaka’s face suddenly paled. He solemnly faced the older man and bowed his head slightly. “I am trying to find out. We believe Yoshi’s niece knows where the money is hidden. It’s only a matter of time before she tells us.”

  “And what of the local policeman who stole $36,000 of our money? Not much money, for sure. But just like Yoshi, the policeman, too, is dead, and therefore cannot repay his debt.”

  “I did not end his life.”

  “Perhaps not. But I assume you gave the order and that is the same thing. You let your temper get the best of you, Orochi. You must learn to control it.”

  Once more Tanaka bowed his head in respect and did not look up for several long moments, during which he envisioned slowly dipping the old man into a pool of sulfuric acid. “My deepest regrets, Hageshii. I have offended you. I beg forgiveness and offer yubitsume.”

  Hageshii sipped his tea. “That will not be necessary. Just remember, the dead do not speak. After those living have given you what you desire, you can do with them as you please — but not before. Orochi, you must learn to be patient.”

  Tanaka neglected to tell Hageshii that Akumu had killed the police sergeant in an overzealous moment and had not been acting on her master’s orders. Such information might lead Hageshii to conclude Tanaka lacked control over his underlings.

  On the other side of the thatch wall, Detective Mashima rubbed his eyes, feeling overwhelmed and astonished by the savagery he’d just witnessed. He sometimes grappled with the fact that certain people in the world were truly evil.

  30

  Home Movie Night

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Akumu became convinced Hiraku had told everything she knew about the conversations with the CIA and what had become of the stolen funds. She wasn’t looking forward to sharing that news with Tanaka. She was well aware his anger might burst into rage and turn violent.

  Tanaka had been in
a jolly mood since the business meeting had ended. The event had resulted in fresh partnerships and new goals, including an agreement to increase human trafficking and weapons sales.

  Tanaka had taken great interest in the international clothing brand manufacturers who sourced their goods from garment factories tucked deep into the jungles of Saipan. The factories were more like prisons, surrounded by chain link fencing topped by razor wire. Security lighting on tall poles burned throughout the night. Inside, predominately young South Korean and Filipino girls worked eighty hours a week for low pay and were allowed to visit the resort town of Garapan on special occasion, but only when chaperoned by company managers. Tanaka imagined these girls would be eager to accept new opportunities as hostesses for the many yakuza-controlled bathhouses throughout Japan, unaware of their intended fate.

  Trying out a new interrogation strategy, Akumu stayed away from the cellar for what Hiraku estimated was three or four days, maybe longer. Each day, a tray of food was pushed into the room by what appeared to be a barefoot young boy wearing a devil’s mask and a white martial arts karategi. Hiraku pleaded with him each time, but the boy never spoke or made eye contact. The meal consisted of Soba noodles in a steaming broth, several spoonsful of boiled rice, a small plate of sliced cucumbers and carrots, and a glass of water. Hiraku dreamed of cheeseburgers and French fries and a cold Dr. Pepper soft drink. That was the meal she should have been eating with her Uncle Yoshi at a McDonald’s in California. She knew Yoshi did not approve of fast food, but would nonetheless eat it to please her — maybe even dip his French fries in a puddle of ketchup. She hoped that day would arrive soon.

  When Akumu finally returned after her unexpected absence, she entered the room cheerfully humming a song from the hit Broadway show Cats. Hiraku was curled into an embryonic ball on the cold floor. Her body still ached from the beatings but all her senses were alert, tuned as always during these dark days to the possible approach of her torturer.

  Akumu continued to hum the bittersweet ballad called Memory. Perhaps she didn’t know all the words, but Hiraku did.

  “Daylight

  I must wait for the sunrise

  I must think of a new life

  And I mustn’t give in

  When the dawn comes

  Tonight will be a memory too

  And a new day will begin.”

  Hiraku wondered if Akumu was attempting to send her a message, to communicate without directly speaking. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  Akumu shouted. “Stand up and remove your clothes. You stink. You need a shower. Let’s go.”

  Hiraku felt every ache in her body as she clumsily removed her clothes. She felt dizzy as she walked out of the room and entered the bathroom at the end of the hall. The devil boy was there at the door, holding a clean towel and bar of soap. He handed it to Hiraku as she moved toward the shower in a dream state.

  Hiraku let the hot water stream over her body. It felt wonderful, and though she expected the flow would be shut off momentarily, that didn’t happen. Instead, she stayed under the shower for what she estimated was a half hour.

  Just outside the shower stall, the devil boy was seated on a three-leg teak stool with a folded terrycloth bathrobe in his lap. From what Hiraku could tell, the boy was staring at her naked body through his mask. The boy finally stood and handed her the bathrobe. No words were exchanged.

  Akumu was waiting in the hallway. “Did you enjoy your shower?”

  “Very much. Thank you.”

  “Life here can be much easier when you cooperate.”

  Back in the locked room, Hiraku, still in the terry bathrobe, was ordered to sit on the edge of the bed. She felt light-headed and questioned whether she was actually seeing the piece of chocolate being offered by Akumu.

  “For you.”

  Akumu popped a Sainsbury chocolate morsel into her own mouth while waiting for Hiraku to take the piece in her outstretched palm. Hiraku bit into the chocolate, savoring the rich flavor. Akumu offered a second piece, which Hiraku also devoured. The interrogator sat on the concrete floor with legs curled beneath her and gazed up at Hiraku. It was as though they were close friends about to engage in some confidential girl talk.

  Akumu tugged down her black elastic body suit to expose her shoulders. “As you can see, I have many tattoos, but none are as magnificent as yours. You must tell me the history.”

  Hiraku wondered why her torturer was so interested, or was it merely the woman’s attempt at gaining her friendship despite the odd captive/torturer relationship. She’d heard of Stockholm syndrome and assumed it was a condition to which Akumu aspired in an effort to build a mutual trust. But she felt no bond with this crazed woman, only hatred for her and her master, Tanaka.

  Hiraku was willing to tell the story of her tattoo, if only because it would delay the next beating or means of brutality. So she began with the days prior to her eighteenth birthday when she had only one tattoo, an elegant peacock feather on her left foot, a work of art that had caught the eye of Orochi Tanaka.

  At seventeen, she had wanted a tattoo, as did many of her schoolmates. But unlike the others, she was the adopted niece of Yoshi Yamamoto – recognized among the premiere tattoo artists in all the Pacific Rim. Yamamoto’s steady hand and artful eye for ink design had brought him into the social circles of royalty and those with unlimited wealth. A tattoo created by Yoshi Yamamoto was prestigious. And while Hiraku did not think of it in those terms, she recognized her uncle’s skill and was proud to serve as a canvas for his work.

  But the peacock — with wings that elegantly spread across her back and wrapped around her sides — was quite another matter. It was he, Yoshi, who had first proposed such a tattoo to his niece. He had told her it was important that she agree because the design might otherwise be lost on a lesser subject.

  Although still in her teens, Hiraku sat patiently for endless hours while Yoshi pricked and prodded, injecting colorful ink at precise times and places, until the peacock emerged. The process took months and finally lapsed into years. At first, Hiraku was uneasy, concerned she would be forever burdened by a body tattoo she neither admired nor understood. Yoshi had shown her dozens of examples from a book of ink drawings but none had connected with her heart, at least not until she saw the peacock.

  When it was finally completed, Hiraku spent hours staring at it in a full-length mirror, attempting to decipher each character, symbol and number. She was thrilled that Yoshi had included the names of her parents, the date of her birth, and the image of her cat Neko. The tattoo was magnificent, just as Akumu had described it, the best her uncle had ever created. And though she often asked her uncle to explain the details, he evaded certain questions or replied in vague terms, saying only that within the beauty of the raucous bird lay numbers that would one day lead to her salvation. Such answers only made her more curious.

  “My Uncle Yoshi is a great artist. But he did not explain the meaning of this tattoo. He did not tell me its story.”

  “I don’t believe you. Lay down on the bed.”

  Hiraku seemed puzzled by the abrupt change in Akumu’s mood.

  “Move. Now. Quickly.”

  Akumu pressed a Kubotan keychain against Hiraku’s wrist, inflicting immediate pain. Hiraku didn’t resist. She lay on her back as Akumu again tied her wrists and ankles to the bed with webbing.

  “Did you hear me? I don’t believe you.”

  Akumu dragged a straight-back chair to the edge of the bed so that she was face to face with Hiraku. “It’s time we talk about your Uncle Yoshi. I know you think he’s coming back to rescue you, but I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  Hiraku stared back defiantly into her interrogator’s eyes. “My uncle will kill you when he returns and finds out what you’ve done.”

  Akumu abruptly stood and hurled the chair into a wall, breaking one of its legs. She was manic. Hiraku held up her arms defensively to ward off the anticipate blow. But it never came. Akumu strutted to t
he door, yanked it open and left the room.

  Hiraku wished she could wipe the tears that flowed from the corners of her eyes. She hoped somehow she would wake up from a deep sleep and find this was all a vaporous nightmare. But a look at the wounds covering her body told a different story. So here she was, three years after the first ink had been injected into the peacock, flat on her back on an unyielding bed in the cellar of a Japanese mobster who wasn’t about to let her go free until she unveiled where her uncle’s stolen millions were stored. She was glad she didn’t have the answer.

  Akumu returned moments later cradling a camcorder with a thick battery attached and a coil of connection wires. The devil boy was right behind her, struggling to carry a small, portable TV monitor.

  Akumu tucked a pillow beneath Hiraku’s head, shooed the boy from the room and frantically began connecting the camera to the TV monitor. She cursed the camera, the wires, and most of all Hiraku.

  After more than ten minutes of fiddling with the equipment, Akumu was ready to show her videotape.

  “Watch closely,” she said. “You don’t want to miss the most exciting part.”

  Akumu started the video at the beginning, where the cameraman is pushing his way through the underbrush but not having an easy time of it. Impatient, and eager for Hiraku to see the most dramatic parts, she fast-forwarded the video until Tanaka was on the screen seated in a folding chair, sipping some sort of cold drink and talking to one of his bodyguards.

  Akumu stood next to the bed and slapped Hiraku across the face. “Pay attention.”

  The video played on, unveiling Yoshi lashed to the wood post in the sand. Hiraku gasped. She wanted to look away but forced herself to watch her beloved uncle being devoured by prehistoric Komodo dragons. When the film ended, Hiraku vomited on the bed.