Details in his file notes kept drifting through his mind. It grew late and the two goons seemed tired of his silence and complete lack of interest in trying to act like Rambo.
One sat on the bed as Shiro slept fitfully. The other one went and stood by the door. At some point, they switched. He heard their faint chatter but he was too sleepy to listen or remember what they said. Early in the morning, they shook him awake.
“Time to go,” one of them said.
He was relieved. He wanted to get out of Japan and be on his way to New York.
“You will be met at LaGuardia by one of our associates,” one of them said. “Don’t even think of doing anything foolish.”
“I won’t.”
The guard gave him a sharp look but didn’t say another word. He was hustled into the back of a taxi, one of the guards beside him. Shiro sat, looking out the window as the city blew past him. He had no idea what time it was. He turned on his cell phone. Six-forty in the morning. As they cruised into Narita International Airport, the rain came back. Rain was a good omen in Hawaii. It signified birth and death. It heralded great change. He looked for rainbows in the sky, a sign of good fortune. None. They stopped outside the international terminal, which gleamed in the grey, misty morning.
His heart sank when he saw Nobuo-san waiting for him outside the Delta Airlines sign. Shiro stepped out of the taxi, his manila envelope and cell phone in hand. Nobuo-san escorted him to the check-in counter.
Smart. Booking me on an American airline will attract less attention.
“Now, be a good boy and don’t do anything stupid.” Nobuo-san punched numbers into the automatic machine, which spat out Shiro’s boarding pass.
“You have no bags to check, but you will carry this.”
Nobuo-san handed him a small, cabin-size bag on wheels.
“Where are all my things?” Shiro asked.
“What things?” Nobuo-san’s expression was contemptuous.
He handed Shiro his wallet. He opened it, surprised to see his Hawaiian driver’s license in it, his credit card, library card and some cash.
“Don’t spend it all at once,” Nobuo-san said. He took Shiro by the elbow and escorted him to the security gate.
“I can’t accompany you further, since I have no boarding pass and I am required to remain here on important business, but remember you will be watched at all times. I will send you something…fun in a few minutes, in case you contemplate doing something stupid.”
Yeah…I can’t wait.
“Keep your cell phone on,” Nobuo-san said and winked at him, walking away.
Shiro’s hands shook as he waited in line to go through the checkpoint. The airport was huge, with dozens of floors, awash with bright lights. He longed to run but knew he couldn’t. As he neared the X-ray machine, he hunkered down and rifled through the bag as best he could with the line moving faster now. He found some of his clothes and the book he’d been reading. Yakuza Diary. He cringed, wondering what Nobuo-san had made of his reading choices. Why had they put that in there?
Because the immigration people wouldn’t think a Yak would be reading a book about Yaks. He wanted to toss the damned thing there and then, but didn’t. He sailed through the passport and ticket inspection and made a beeline for the men’s room. As he peed in the urinal, he received a call on his phone. He checked the read-out. A photo. He was horrified to see that it was a long cage, lying on a floor lengthwise. Miki was inside, trussed up and handcuffed, her head poking out one end. He blanched as he saw the image. She looked as if she was crying.
The message read, two birds awaiting their fate…
Oh, God. As if he hadn’t been given enough warnings. He finished peeing and zipped up, sensing that eyes were on him everywhere. He walked towards his gate, feeling like crap. The last thing he wanted to do was to read his book. He’d had enough of the Yakuza to last several lifetimes. He stopped at a newspaper kiosk, picking up a bento box of sushi rolls, and a couple of manga comic books. He saw one featuring Keizo’s work and his heart felt as if it might shatter. He bought all three and took a seat, waiting for his plane to board.
* * * *
He arrived in New York at nine p.m. and found a beautiful Japanese woman waiting for him. She fell in step with him just beyond the final security gate as he left the terminal.
“My name is Chizu. Pretend we are old friends.”
He nodded. “Hi, Chizu.”
The tension he had felt before he’d boarded the flight now returned. All the way from Tokyo, he’d buoyed himself with the faint hope that he could shake off his Yakuza guardian and drop his mission. She was beautiful, around thirty years old, but he knew, looking into her cold eyes, she was probably as lethal as her Tokyo counterparts. He was surprised to see her beautiful hands had an odd stiffness. He realised as they walked outside and grabbed a taxi, her pinkie finger on the left hand was a prosthesis. What had she done to displease the Yakuza?
She flagged down a taxi and they climbed inside. It was dark, the city lit up be street lights. The temperature was warm, in spite of it being late. She said little, except to ask if his flight had been okay and if he was hungry.
“Yes,” he said. He hadn’t eaten on the plane because he’d still been upset. Now that he was here, Tokyo and the nightmare of two women, whose fates rested on his success, seemed to ebb away.
They stopped outside a café.
“Just here is fine,” she said.
They got out, Chizu handing the driver some money. He was surprised to see it was a Chinese restaurant.
“The apartment is just around the corner,” she said. “I know the people who own this place. The food is very good.”
She turned to smile at him. The taxi took off and another car rolled up. Her eyes registered surprise. In a flash, Shiro turned, saw the gun poking out of the top of the rear passenger window. He didn’t hesitate. He ran as fast as legs would carry him.
Chapter Three
“Daiben!” Chizu yelled as she ran after Shiro to avoid the gun.
A shot rang out but missed either target, striking the front window of the restaurant, shattering the glass and forcing the patrons inside to scatter to the floor.
As they ran, they heard the squeal of screeching tires as their pursuers surfed around the corner bearing down on their quarry.
“Turn right into the alley,” Chizu shouted.
Blindly obeying, Shiro turned right into the next alley he came upon finding a row of dumpsters holding the scraps of food disposed of by the many restaurants in the neighbourhood. As they dodged in and out of the row of obstacles, Shiro heard the car come to a loud halt at the entrance to their escape route. As Chizu caught up with him, she urged him on.
“The next door on your left, open it and go in quickly!”
Once more Shiro did as he was told and much to his surprise, he found the door open and accommodating as the fugitives entered the building and slammed the door shut behind them. Chizu threw a bolt across the door, securing it from the inside.
“This way, hurry!”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Not now, keep running,” she urged.
The pair ran up a staircase and down a hallway to where they came to a door marked, “Roof.” Chizu yanked it opened and they ran up a short flight of stairs, which led to another door. When that was opened, Shiro found himself outside on a low level rooftop over one of the restaurants where the smell of chicken rose to fill his nostrils.
“Now what?” Shiro asked, out of breath.
“Over here. We go down this fire escape and down that alley over there. They won’t find us now, but we must hurry. We can’t use the apartment I had set up for you. They may know its location.”
Before Shiro could get any more of an explanation out of the resourceful woman, she was over the edge and down the escape. Shiro quickly followed her. They were once again on street level. They ran down the alley indicated by Chizu, which brought them out onto one of
the many side streets in New York.
“When are you going to tell me what’s going on? I’m not moving until I know,” Shiro said defiantly.
Chizu quickly looked around. He assumed she saw no immediate danger, because she pulled Shiro into the shadows with an annoyed look.
“Those were men from the Tinaken clan and they obviously knew you were coming. They are trying to kill you so that you don’t get the chance to carry out your mission and the Harada clan loses face and their leader to American justice. You must not fail! Come, we go to an alternate site for you to stay while you prepare.”
Once again they were practically running down the street, taking short cuts through alleyways until they arrived at a non-descript building that housed apartments. Chizu opened the main door to the building with a key and they quickly went up to the third floor and entered apartment three-o-nine. When the door closed, Chizu swiftly made sure that all the curtains were closed before turning on even a single light.
“You will stay here while you carry out your assignment. No one will bother you. There will be food in the refrigerator shortly and there is a coffee shop one block over, although I recommend you stay out of it for a while until we see if they are looking for you in this area.”
“How is it possible that they knew we were going to be at that restaurant at that moment? How could they possibly know?”
“I don’t know. I will call people in a short while and tell them what has happened. Before you arrived, I placed an envelope in both locations in a hidden place with all the information that you will need to make contact and decide on how you will carry out mission given to you by Nobuo-san. While you wait for food, please read the information and use this cell phone to call me. My number is listed on the phone as Aunt Sadie. Any questions?”
“Yes, who will bring the food and can they be trusted since there is obviously a leak somewhere?”
Chizu sighed and raised an eyebrow, which made her look all the more deadly.
“I agree someone has told the enemy that you are here. But the lady who brings the food for you is related to the Harada clan and can be trusted completely. I will go now, read the information.”
Chizu walked over to one corner of the room and lifted up the carpet. Underneath, she slipped the tip of a pen into an almost invisible hole and flipped up a small board. She reached down and withdrew an envelope and replaced everything as it was.
“Learn this material well and begin to plan your mission. Call me if you have questions or need something.”
With that, she left Shiro standing in the middle of the three-room apartment that had seen better days. He looked down at the envelope and decided that now was as good a time as any to see what he was getting himself into and to see if there was a way out of the mess. He briefly reflected on the fact once more that he was in his current predicament because of a mother who long ago had stepped foot on the wrong path in life.
* * * *
Kono Takumi tried hard not to be pissed about being stuck in the one hundred and first precinct. Not only did it have the dubious honour of topping the list of the most violent precincts in the state, but the irony was that he’d been assigned here to keep him out of Manhattan, away from danger. Being stuck all the way out at Far Rockaway was supposed to give him some measure of obscurity now that he had been subpoenaed to give testimony in the big Yakuza trial.
He listened to his lieutenant lecturing the morning crew.
“Our neighbourhood is saturated with firearms,” Lt. Orpheus Jerrell said, looking over his men who sprawled in their seats, arms folded across their chests.
They all knew how tough the area was. They dealt with it all day long. Not only that, some bastard had walked in off the street and stolen the department coffee pot, so everyone was grumpy.
“The kids have nothing to do and it’s a dangerous combination.”
No shit.
Kono shifted in his seat. He’d had a choice, complete submersion into the witness protection programme or brave it out in Queens. He was a queen. Well, he was gay, anyway. He’d never backed down from a fight and he’d be damned if he gave up more of his life to the damned Yaks. Being Kono Takumi had become more important than ever now that he no longer had his fake persona to protect.
A whole year I worked undercover. I still can’t shake the little bastards.
It had interfered with his whole life. It had prevented him from getting close to another guy…not that he hadn’t had plenty of opportunities. Until the trial was over he couldn’t worry about getting somebody he loved hurt, or worse. Still, something felt off. It had felt that way for days. He had the peculiar sensation of being watched. He’d tried numerous times to convince himself he was paranoid. Paranoia was good in a cop. It was when you let your guard down that you got caught…or got your cover blown.
He tuned back into Jerrell, who said, “Felony assaults are up, burglaries, grand larceny.” He pointed to a graph that materialised on an illuminated section of the wall. “Most of the crimes are against properties. Crimes of poverty.”
Jerrell nodded and his assistant clicked to the next image.
“We don’t want a repeat of this.”
Everyone in the room groaned at the photo of the man on the screen.
“Shut the fuck up,” Jerrell barked.
He was a Jamaican-American man, slim, diminutive, and deadly. He’d given up a career as a bantamweight boxer to take up law enforcement but he still boxed some. He coached silver and golden glove amateurs and when he stepped in the ring to show somebody how it was done, he could make his opponent piss blood for a week.
Jerrell sometimes scared Kono more than the Yaks. He was a mean mother and had single-handedly started community projects that kept local teens off the streets.
The Lieutenant, whom we all called the Loo pointed to the photo of a convicted rapist who’d been the biggest embarrassment to Far Rockaway’s one hundred and first precinct in its entire history.
“I know we have a few new officers here today, so let me educate you,” the Loo said.
Man, he was still pissed. Frankly, so was Kono. He hadn’t been part of the unit when the catastrophe had occurred but he dealt constantly with the continuing fall-out.
“Eric McCoy. Posed as a police officer. Tried to abduct a fifteen-year-old girl. She got away from him and approached a patrol unit. She told the two officers inside the vehicle that McCoy had attempted to rape her. McCoy assured them otherwise.”
Jerrell slammed his hand down on the desk in front of him.
“Two officers from this goddamned precinct listened to him. They didn’t listen to this child. They didn’t bother to check his name…didn’t run a goddamn thing. He abducted another girl six hours later and raped her. I fired those two officers and I will do the same to anybody here who doesn’t uphold the law and protect our citizens.”
Fair enough, chief. Any word on the new coffee pot?
There was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” Jerrell barked. A young uniformed officer pushed it open, poking his head around it.
“Is Detective Takumi here?”
Jerrell’s gaze swiveled to Kono, who sat up straighter in his seat.
“Here,” Kono said aloud.
“We got a call for you. Officers on duty at Marine Park Bridge are requesting you.”
“Me?” He asked, mystified. “Why?”
“We got a jumper.”
A few of the guys laughed until Jerrell silenced them with a glare.
“Hop to it, Takumi,” the Loo said. “And this time, don’t pull her hair off.”
Kono felt himself getting hot under the collar. It wasn’t his fault he happened to be driving home and saw a chick trying to jump from the bridge. After seven hours of discussion about TV shows from the fifties and Sudoku, he’d convinced her, or so he’d thought, not to jump. As he was leading her back over the safety rail, she took a leap and he caught her. News crews caught the action. In his anxiet
y to haul her back over the wall he’d held her head and her, or as it soon transpired, his hair came away in Kono’s hands.
The jumper was alive and apparently hadn’t tried any high jumps since, but the wig would forever haunt Kono. He found his city-issue windbreaker in his locker and headed out to the bridge. Since he’d rescued the guy, Kono had become king of the jumpers. All part of the new Rockaway plan for policing in action.
Kono drove out to the bridge, which overlooked one of the biggest beaches in the US. It also overlooked Riis Park, one of the best-kept secrets of Far Rockaway. During the day, it was a family paradise. At night, it was a haven for boozy brawls.
He didn’t mind the remoteness of the place, or the bleakness. He felt panicked in confined spaces, thanks to his year in Tokyo where he had feared for his life on a daily basis. In a city that piled people on top of each other because of the cost of living space, it had all felt like one gigantic coffin that could slam its heavy lid shut at any moment.
The only thing he missed about Tokyo was the gorgeous men he’d met. Oh, man, some of them were hot. Japanese men in the city knew what they wanted and they wanted it fast. He’d gotten through a difficult assignment with some hot-ass assignations in a series of love hotels. Now that he thought of it, Far Rockaway could use a few of those. If kids were fucking, they wouldn’t want to shoot. Make love, not war.
He pulled up to the crowd of vehicles on the city side of the bridge and for a moment, caught a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline across the expanse of water. He got out, trying to pick out the jumper among the throng on the bridge. Traffic was backed up, impatient drivers honking.
“False alarm,” a fire department official told him as Kono neared the bridge. “It’s one of them ferkin’ bronze statues that idiot artist keeps putting all over the place. Third one that’s showed up this week. I hope we nail this goofball, wasting valuable resources.”
My Yakuza Page 4
