My Yakuza

by A. J. Llewellyn

  They drove a few miles to Roppongi and Shiro tried not to let his relief show. At least it wasn’t a river where they could shoot him in the head and dump him. They were going to Nobuo-san’s office and Shiro knew that Nobuo-san never did dirty business in his office.

  The car paused out front. Nobuo-san waited for the driver to let him out, but barked at Shiro, “Open your own door.”

  Shiro followed him up the white marble stairs to the front door. He realised now that Nobuo-san was very angry. Inside the building, he pressed a button but this time he pressed down. Not up. There was an evil glint in Nobuo-san’s eye. They rode down in silence, and as the doors slid open, Shiro knew this man was going to hurt him and that he couldn’t wait to do it. So much for never doing dirty work in the building. His minions lied to me.

  They walked out into a long, dark corridor. It was cool and quiet. Their footsteps echoed on the cement floor. Shiro noted several doors to rooms on either side of the corridor. On their left, a Buddha had been etched in the middle. Nobuo-san opened the door and indicated that Shiro should walk ahead of him. A small, low, black-lacquered table stood in the centre. Two cushions adorned either side of it. Against a wall underneath a mirror stood a long, black side table. Shiro gulped when he saw various needles lying on it and stacks of gauze.

  Nobuo-san told Shiro to sit on one side. He did, tucking his feet underneath him as Japanese custom, and especially with the Yakuza, dictated. He kept his hands on his lap, thumbs tucked in. He was petrified, afraid he would pee his pants.

  “I want to know why you’ve been asking about Siono.”

  Nobuo-san removed his jacket and put it on the sideboard. He came to the table with his little tray of needles. He removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

  “I—”

  “No. Wait…I want you to be honest.”

  “I’ll be honest.” Shiro thought he might have a heart attack and die.

  “I want you to remove your T-shirt.”

  “My…” Shiro took it off, wondering exactly what his boss had in store for him.

  Nobuo-san paced the small space unbuttoning his shirt sleeve when, quick as flash he lunged at Shiro, who gasped at the pain in his chest. He looked down, surprised to see a needle, about three inches long, inserted in his chest under his left nipple. It was imbedded lightly, coming out about an inch below the entry point. He stared down at it stunned by how much it hurt.

  Another flash and this time he cried out when a second needle sliced into him. How did he get them in so fast? The second needle seemed to be in a little deeper. The pain was surprisingly bad. He blinked away tears. He couldn’t focus as Nobuo-san tugged his face towards him.

  “Why have you been asking about Siono?”

  A tear fell down Shiro’s cheek. “She is my mother.”

  That surprised Nobuo-san, he could tell. Shiro had been very careful not to tell a soul about his relationship with Siono. Who had told Nobuo-san that Shiro had been asking about her?

  A third needle joined the other two and he felt a different sensation, a light-headedness. Almost a feeling of being high. No. He was going to pass out.

  “Who is she?” Nobuo-san asked.

  “I told you. My mother.”

  Shiro barfed up his entire breakfast and sobbed. A fourth needle entered his right nipple. Nobuo-san began to twist it. Shiro felt a fire in his chest, then the world slid from under his feet.

  * * * *

  He awoke…he had no idea how much later, to a glass of water being thrown on his face.

  “Get up,” Nobuo-san said. Shiro lifted his head from the floor. He’d fallen with his legs under him, drool falling in a thin line on the white, tiled floor. He tasted blood. His tongue hurt. He must have bitten it when he’d passed out.

  Nobuo-san held the door and pointed to the left. “Go and wash yourself. Report back in five minutes.”

  Shiro picked up his T-shirt, but it was covered in vomit.

  “Leave it,” Nobuo-san barked. “There are fresh clothes in the bathroom.”

  Shiro found only one of the doors in the corridor was ajar. He pushed it open. It was a white bathroom. A shower and toilet stood at one end, a sink to his left. Solid, blinding white tiles and towels greeted him. He gasped when he saw a speck of blood on the floor near him. Was it his? He glanced and realised it wasn’t. He’d thought the parasite museum was bad. This was the real house of horrors. His gaze dropped to his chest. The needles were still there. His nipple bled from the one inserted there. A soft tap at the door made him turn.

  A young man in a suit and incongruously wearing a white surgical mask and gloves, walked in. His eyes conveyed nothing as he studied Shiro’s chest. His gaze went from Shiro to the speck of blood on the tile and back again. He opened a small black bag in his hands and deftly removed the needles. The holes they left bled profusely. He dabbed them with a clear liquid that smelled like alcohol. Shiro reeked of vomit. It clung to his pants and, he realised, he’d peed all over himself.

  The man left him alone again without a word. Shiro peeled off his jeans, longing for a shower. A tiny, square wedge of soap lay in the shower recess on a small tile jutting out of the wall. He took a quick shower, trying to avoid the three wounds under his left nipple. His right nipple ached. When he touched it, he realised the bud had become almost severed from the areola. It continued to seep blood.

  He ran out of soap fast. It seemed to liquefy under the hot water. It had an odd, antiseptic scent. He turned off the taps and he stepped out. He found the same man waiting for him.

  Shiro dried off and found the man leaning towards Shiro’s right breast with an odd, round, tubular contraption.

  “This will hurt, but don’t scream. He likes that.”

  The voice that came out was young and the English, halting. He placed it over the wounded bud and punched. Shiro saw stars. When the man lifted it away again, Shiro saw that his bud had been stapled to his chest with black stitches.

  “They will dissolve.”

  Shiro nodded. The man put some ointment and piece of tape over the nipple, then swiped some more over the other three wounds, covering them with gauze and more tape.

  He pointed to some jeans and a clean T-shirt on the back of the door. They belonged to Shiro. They must have gone to his room and brought them to him. There were no underpants. He put everything on, feeling the pain in his chest and in his heart. What had they done to Siono? Had she suffered long?

  When he turned, the man with the mask was gone. The door was open, however. Probably the guy had others to tend, other nipples to realign.

  Nobuo-san was waiting for him in the same room. There was a fresh needle tray on the sideboard. Shiro almost wept at the sight of them, but Nobuo-san was sitting at the table, his shirt open.

  “Sit down.”

  Shiro bowed and took a seat on the other cushion. He stared in shock at Nobuo-san’s garishly tattooed torso, which he could see now. Nobuo-san leant forward and poured him some sake. Shiro stared at the Noh mask tattooed on his boss’s chest. He had read something about Yakuza exposing their bodies…Shiro struggled to remember what it was that he’d seen.

  “Now, we drink some sake, we make a bond.”

  “What kind of bond?” Shiro’s gaze flickered over to the needle tray.

  “Come now, Shiro. You were honest with me. Finally. A drink.” Nobuo-san held up his cup and Shiro lifted his. “And now, we bond. You make me a promise, or I can stick needles into you until I make your heart stop. The choice is yours.”

  Oh, fuck. “Okay,” Shiro said.

  They sipped. The sake was good. He drank one cup, then another. The pain that swamped him became muted. He almost didn’t care about anything in that moment.

  “What is it you want from me?” he asked.

  “Are you my friend?” Nobuo-san asked.

  “I’m…loyal to you, Nobuo-san.”

  “Very good. Then it should be no hardship for you to kill an enemy for me.”

 
* * * *

  “Did you hear me, boy?”

  Shiro came out of what must have been a long silence. He felt sick. Surely he’d imagined what had just transpired.

  “You say Siono is your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, I assume you want to help fulfil her obligation to me.”

  “Where is she?” Shiro asked.

  Nobuo-san smiled. “All in good time.”

  He held up a hand. Shiro’s thoughts still whirled around his obayun’s smile. It was a smile peculiar to the Yakuza. It hid a multitude of sinful thoughts. Shiro’s chest throbbed…thoughts, and deeds. When Nobuo-san leaned across the table and slapped Shiro’s right nipple, Shiro wasn’t surprised, just further wounded. Blood seeped through his bandage and shirt. He refused to cry.

  “When did you last hear from her?”

  “Five weeks ago.”

  “I believe you. That’s why you have four piercings. One for every week you worked for me and lied.”

  “I didn’t lie to you, Nobuo-san. I just didn’t tell you the truth. You never asked about my mother.”

  Nobuo-san’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s go for a drive.”

  “Please, tell me. Is she alive?”

  Nobuo-san ignored him, getting to his feet. Shiro rose and for the first time, realised the mirror on the wall was probably hiding a window on the other side. He wondered if his mother’s lover was watching.

  “Was the story you told me about your father true?” Nobuo-san asked.

  “That he left when I was a child? Yes.”

  Nobuo-san pressed a button. The masked man in the suit returned.

  “Clean him up,” Nobuo-san said. To Shiro, he said, “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  Shiro sat, feeling dispirited. He felt his T-shirt coming up and over his arms and head, more ointment on his nipple and a fresh dressing with an extra layer of gauze.

  The other man said nothing.

  “Is she worth it?” he whispered when Shiro dressed in a different T-shirt and left the room.

  It was a question he’d been asking himself since he’d arrived in Japan. In spite of everything, he loved Siono. He knew she loved him. She’d provided for him the way she knew how. With her body. She’d hated being married and thought of it as being a cheap whore. Getting paid cash to screw meant more to her, or so she’d said. He often thought that his mom’s idea of sex was all wrong. And yet, the one time she fell in love with her Yakuza, he saw her joy, her contagious excitement. She was young again. He’d wanted to believe her man Shun’ichi was everything she’d hoped. Even Grandma, the eternal pessimist, had hoped and prayed.

  He took the elevator back to the street level. He’d yearned for adventure. Now he wanted to go home. He didn’t like the big city. He suddenly remembered the time, when he was five, and his mom shampooed his hair with coconut oil. He’d been stung by bees as they’d walked through Ala Moana park in Honolulu. Siono had screamed as the bees attacked him. It took a total stranger to liberate the insects from his scalp as he lay on the grass writhing and screaming in pain. He wondered who’d liberate him now.

  Nobuo-san was waiting for him. He ended a call on his cell phone as Shiro climbed into the car. Shiro felt empty and useless. He had no money on him. His cell phone had been taken from him and God knew where his passport was.

  “I’m sending you on an assignment to New York,” Nobuo-san said.

  That surprised Shiro. He’d never been to New York. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about this enemy he was supposed to kill. In his heart, he hoped he’d be able to disappear once he got to New York.

  The car stopped outside a restaurant that had a sign claiming, The Freshest Sushi in Japan. That was some boast. Shiro didn’t feel like eating, but he followed his boss inside. Great tanks stretched from the entrance all the way to the back, right down the middle of the room. Filled with live fish, the bubbling tanks dominated the enormous restaurant, its tables and open-plan kitchen clustered around them. Shiro felt sorry for the cramped fish, virtually immobile. A kimono-clad waitress led them to a table. Nobuo-san ordered more sake.

  “What will you have? Do you like sakana no ikizukuri?” Nobuo-san asked.

  Shiro shrugged. “I don’t know what that is. Is it sushi?”

  Nobuo-san smiled that odd, predatory smile of his. “Sashimi, actually.”

  “I’m not very hungry. I don’t feel so good. I’ll just have some sake.”

  Nobuo-san studied him a moment. The waitress brought their drinks and took the food order, hurrying away again.

  “Your target is a man named Kono Takumi,” Nobuo-san said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Shiro shook his head. “No. Should it?”

  “No. I’m just curious.”

  You’re just toying with me. Shiro wondered if it wouldn’t be easier and a lot less painful to run outside, eyes closed and allow himself to be killed by cars coming from all directions.

  “He came to Japan, joined our family. Like you, he was less than honest. He infiltrated our ranks. Unlike you, he was a little smarter and didn’t rely on cheap whores for help. He lasted a whole year before we discovered he was working undercover.”

  “Undercover?” Shiro’s thoughts raced. “What—”

  “He’s a cop.”

  In spite of his terror at the idea of killing anybody, let alone a cop, he kept his voice steady. He hoped.

  “What was he investigating?” In spite of all his fears, Shiro was fascinated.

  “It has little to do with your assignment, however, it’s only fair I should give you all the information I can.” Nobuo-san seemed to enjoy his moment of power. “He was investigating the disappearance of a…New York business man who…had some ties to my family a few years ago.”

  “Did he find him?”

  Nobuo-san took a sip of his sake, refilling his tiny stone cup.

  “No. He did not. And that’s not the worst of it. I liked him. I trusted him. He turned out to be barazoku. A homo. Can you imagine?”

  Shiro felt his cheeks flaming.

  Nobuo-san leaned towards him, his breath foul. “Now I have something to say to you.”

  The waitress returned with a large fish on a platter. Served over ice, the fish had been filleted, bite-size portions arranged daintily around its hollow cavity. It took Shiro a moment to realise the fish was still alive. Its eyes stared sat him in mute horror and he was certain, pain. Its mouth opened and closed, its eyes disbelieving as Nobuo-san picked up his chopsticks and ate the poor creature’s flesh as it watched.

  The fish had been served on a skewer inserted from the base of its tail through its body. The spike poked out again just under its neck. And still the unfortunate sea-creature gasped for breath…its mouth opening and closing, its eyes, panicked. It was a painful reminder of Shiro’s session with the needles. Shiro and the fish stared helplessly at one another.

  “Imagine this animal is your mother,” Nobuo-san said, swallowing another bite. “Her life hangs in the balance, Shiro-chan. Please us and you will have her back. Displease us and she will die.”

  * * * *

  Shiro couldn’t get the image of the living fish out of his mind. Where was Siono? Games and more games. That’s all he’d gotten since he’d arrived in Tokyo. Nobuo-san returned his cell phone to him that evening when he dropped him at a love hotel. The Hotel If, of all places. It felt so cruel and deliberate. Two armed Yakuza escorted him to a room where they kept watch over him. The room was tiny with a bed, a sink and a small toilet. A shower was down the hall.

  He sat on the medium-size futon, made with black sheets and a coverlet. It was not comfy. The wooden frame underneath made him feel a bit like The Princess and the Pea. He stared at the velveteen painting on the wall in front of him, of a woman playing the shamisen, a popular Japanese-style lute. He wondered if this had been his mother’s room. His distracted thoughts were interrupted by one of the Yaks handing him a manila envelope.

 
“This has everything you need to know about your target,” he said in heavily accented English. The two goons hovered over him as if he would attempt escape at any moment. Of course he would, but he knew he had no chance. Not if Siono was being held captive somewhere. For a moment, he stared into space.

  Who had the mysterious phone call come from informing grandma that Siono was dead? He had to call and ask her. He let out a long, sad sigh and unfastened the clasp on the envelope. He shook the contents out. A photo fell out first. Man, he was hot. Wow. Kono Takumi was a big, muscular handsome guy who looked to be of Japanese heritage and something else delicious thrown in, too.

  Shiro felt a pang at the realisation he would never see Keizo again. Maybe he wouldn’t live to see anyone or anything if he failed his mission. His passport fell out next, then some type-written notes on Takumi. He was a detective in New York City in the homicide division of the one hundred and first precinct in Queens. There was his name, social security number, his banking details, his gym membership, his home and work addresses, and phone numbers.

  Whoever had been following him had compiled a detailed dossier.

  There were a couple of of newspaper articles. It seemed that Takumi was in the middle of giving evidence for a Grand Jury in a possible murder trial. The accused was a Japanese man people said was a Yakuza. He denied it. He had apparently been detained on immigration violations. Shiro studied the photograph and felt a chill run through him. The article said that although the man travelled with a fake—and a very good fake—passport, he was believed to be Shun’ichi Harada, the ultra-violent Harada clan leader. He had one missing pinkie finger but other distinguishing characteristics were his distinctive, full-body tattoos and his tendency to shake.

  Shiro blinked. This couldn’t be happening. Shun’ichi was sitting in a New York jail pending a murder trial? According to the article, Shun’ichi had been detained four months ago at Kennedy Airport.

  Oh man, I turned up at just the right time. I bet Siono isn’t alive at all…I bet she’s really dead, but somebody screwed up and Shun’ichi could go down. The entire Yakuza industry could end up in turmoil. They need me, an expendable force, to get rid of the only one standing in his way. Kono Takumi. Really, it’s quite brilliant. I am an American citizen, I’ve been on vacation in Tokyo…I won’t stand out. God help me…