The Yakuza Path: Better Than Suicide

by Amy Tasukada

  “I get that you’re on edge because it’s our first time outside of headquarters,” Nao said, “but if you go against my direct orders again, I’m going to beat your face in so hard your teeth could be used for powdered matcha tea.”

  Kurosawa cocked an eyebrow. Perhaps he didn’t believe what Nao was capable of.

  Nao couldn’t blame him for doubting. For the past two weeks, all Kurosawa had experienced of Nao was bandage changes and doctor visits. Each night Nao had thrashed in his sleep, reopening the stitches. Blood had seeped through his yukata robe and stained the sheets. It resulted in more pain meds while the doctor closed the wound. The most strenuous activity Nao was allowed was choosing menu options for the meeting with Tokyo and Osaka. So of course, Kurosawa would doubt any threat Nao gave.

  “Do I make myself clear?” Nao said.

  “Yes, Father Murata…”

  “At least Sakai’s helping represent the Matsukawa.” Nao leaned back into the leather seat.

  The Matsukawa, like all the yakuza syndicates, was arranged with the godfather at the top. From there an underboss communicated between the street and the legal branches of the mob. Sakai, the only senior-positioned member who hadn’t been murdered by the Korean mob, led the legal side.

  “When you were talking to Detective Yamada, I received a call from Sakai,” Kurosawa said.

  “What did he want?”

  “There was an emergency meeting. He’s unable to go to tonight’s ceremony with the Osaka and Tokyo godfathers.”

  No meeting could be so important as to miss out on renewing the allegiance with their allies. Nao bit the inside of his cheek. He needed Sakai there because he had the experience in case something happened. It wasn’t like Nao and the Tokyo godfather were on the best personal terms.

  “He can miss it if he wants.” Nao half shrugged, keeping his injured arm limp. He couldn’t show his apprehension to Kurosawa.

  Kurosawa rubbed his neck like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. A headache grew along Nao’s forehead. They were going to look like fools to their allies if they haven’t already.

  Personal cars were forbidden on the centuries-old stone streets of the historic district, so Kurosawa parked in the surrounding area.

  Nao didn’t bother waiting for him and opened the door. The rough nylon sling brushed against his wrist. The other godfathers would see the weakness and transfer it to Kyoto as a whole. Nao shrugged off his jacket and passed it to Kurosawa. The sling came next, but Nao threw it in the car. Without the sling, the full weight of Nao’s arm pulled on the stitches and rubbed his skin raw.

  “Father Murata,” Kurosawa started, “the doctor said to keep the sling on for another four weeks.”

  “If I wanted your opinion, I would’ve asked.” Nao’s fingers twitched in pain. “I can handle myself, or do you think everything people say about me is a lie?”

  “I’m doing what was asked of me.”

  “You would not have questioned my father’s actions, so don’t do it with me.”

  Nao had assumed once he became the Matsukawa godfather he wouldn’t have bodyguard issues anymore, but it was clear Kurosawa still saw him as the past godfather’s kid.

  Nao was the youngest godfather in history, but he’d done more against the invading Korean mob threat than even the most senior Matsukawa members. His actions alone saved Kyoto, keeping it pure while other cities had been carved up by the Korean mob.

  His conquest still didn’t overshine the freshness of Father’s death. Nao had rejoined the Matsukawa after a four-year absence, and it left everyone with fragmented memories of him as a teenager. Nao needed to show them the person he had become.

  Each step along the stone walkway, Nao’s chest filled a little more. While the skyline in other parts of the city were dominated with utility poles and wires, here they were buried underneath the street. Their absence allowed the blue tiled roofs to glisten underneath glowing paper lanterns. A light mist streaked the wooden-framed buildings and filled the air with musk.

  Geiko fluttered down the street. Their powdered faces complemented the white collars of their kimono, while vibrant ornaments and long obi sashes of the geiko-in-training attracted all the tourists. Any of the features of the historic district deserved as much attention. Even the inu-yarai, the curved bamboo slats that emerged from the street to meet the edge of the buildings, were unique to each one.

  Nao would show the Matsukawa allies the beauty Kyoto offered. They would see why all of Japan admired the city for keeping the old traditions alive. More importantly, they would remember the strong alliance with Kyoto and wouldn’t waver because of the recent shakeup in ranks.

  Kurosawa cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Father Murata, but there’s something else I should tell you before we enter the teahouse.”

  “What is it?” Nao asked but did not slow down his pace through the stream of tourists.

  “When Sakai messaged me about missing the meeting, he also said he allowed Ikida to skip the ceremony since his mother took a turn for the worse.”

  Ikida was the underboss, Nao’s right hand in dealing with both branches of the Matsukawa. With the Kyoto street leader in Hokkaido to form relations with the yakuza there, it meant all three of the upper-level officers weren’t there with their allies.

  “All this happened when I was talking to the detective?” Nao cocked an eyebrow.

  Kurosawa nodded.

  “So our allies have shared the past hour with a ward leader for the Matsukawa host.”

  “Fujimoto knows how to show people a good time.”

  Nao’s nails bit into his palm. “I’ll discuss this with Sakai at tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “He thought you were already at the ceremony when he called me. I’m sure he would’ve made other arrangements had he known you were late because of the detective.”

  Nao ground his teeth, fighting the urge to shout out how it was Kurosawa’s fault they were late, but it wouldn’t solve anything. Instead Nao jogged the final half block to the geisha teahouse.

  The ebony wood siding contrasted against the two-story crimson building. A red banner with the teahouse’s name hung at the entrance. A crowd gathered outside waiting to sneak a picture of a geiko, should one leave to her next job.

  Kurosawa pushed back the crowd and held back the cloth curtain for Nao. Curtains were like doors, something Nao couldn’t possibly handle.

  The scent of flowery perfume and tea greeted Nao before the teahouse owner’s wife did. She gave Nao a low bow while putting out a pair of slippers for him on the straw tatami floors.

  “Mr. Murata, it’s always a pleasure.” She stood. “Please follow me, and I’ll take you to your party.”

  Muffled conversations hid behind sliding screens doors. The string melody of a shamisen whispered from one room, before becoming overpowered by shouts of laughter from another.

  Nao took in a deep breath, trying to take the essence of the teahouse inside him. He couldn’t afford to visit them when he’d been a tea merchant, but with the full weight of the Matsukawa bank account behind him, he could enjoy the more expensive traditions of Kyoto.

  The owner stopped in front of the last door, kneeled, and slid it open.

  Laughter poured into the hall. A dozen yakuza sat on the floor alongside red lacquered tables full of food. Salmon roe nestled into artfully cut vegetables was offered up for the taking on decorated plates, while thinly sliced fugu was arranged into flowers. Dotted between the yakuza were one geiko and five geiko-in-training.

  Most of the current entertainment came from a yakuza hiding on one side of a folding screen while a geiko-in-training hid on the other. They were playing some kind of drinking game while the others cheered them on.

  Fujimoto popped up from the party and walked over to Nao.

  “Father Murata, what did Detective Yamada want?” Fujimoto asked, keeping his voice low.

  His breath reeked of sake, and the buttons on his jacket begged for freedom.
His gut was too large for the slim cut of the modern suit, and the metallic blue seams glittered under the soft lighting. Nao raised a brow at the fifty-year-old’s spiked hair but couldn’t tell if he was oblivious or too drunk to notice his appearance.

  “It doesn’t concern the Matsukawa,” Nao said, wondering how Fujimoto learned about the detour. “You kept the Tokyo and Osaka godfathers entertained while I was away?”

  “You requested so many geiko here no one noticed you were late.”

  “You, out of everyone, need to make sure the Osaka godfather is entertained. Your ward is closest to his city.”

  Fujimoto laughed. “No worries, Father Murata. Osaka and I have been drinking buddies for years now.”

  Heat flushed Nao’s neck at his display of ignorance. There was so much for him to learn, but with only two weeks as a leader under his belt, it was hard to even remember everyone’s name.

  Fujimoto motioned Nao inside the straw-mat room, and Kurosawa followed.

  Nao sat beside the Osaka and Tokyo leaders. He knew their names, of course, but when Nao looked at them, all he saw were the cities they represented. They were twice his age and wore tracksuits rather than tailored suits. Tokyo still had hair, even if it was gray, and had more coming out of his ears than on his head, while Osaka had none.

  “Is it true?” Osaka asked, his head shining.

  Nao blinked. “What?”

  “That you killed fifty Koreans single-handedly.”

  Tokyo laughed. “We heard you sliced their heads off with a sword.”

  Nao grinned. In the two weeks since he’d taken out the invading Korean mob, the story had escalated from thirty men to fifty. Nao wondered how many there’d be in a year.

  “But in Tokyo, we know you’re willing to skin someone alive if they cross you.” Tokyo cracked his knuckles.

  The air thickened, and Nao frowned. He pressed his arm against the edge of the low table, happy for the subtle relief.

  “Should we get down to business? Bring us some fresh sake,” Nao said.

  One of the geiko-in-training called down their order while the room’s laughter turned to silence. Nao closed his eyes, mentally going over what needed to be done. He’d done the ceremony on his first day as godfather with all the senior members, but he’d been so pumped with meds that everything had fogged into a blur.

  The geiko-in-training arranged the sake before the three godfathers. Osaka and Nao drank first, since they were the oldest allies with the Matsukawa. They poured two gulps of sake into their bowls, then took a sip.

  “To the ever-growing bond between Osaka and Kyoto,” Nao said and exchanged sake bowls.

  They both drank, finishing up the sake. The same pouring and drinking happened with Tokyo. Yet when Nao placed his bowl in front of Tokyo for the exchange, Tokyo kept his close.

  “Don’t you owe us a pinky?” Tokyo said.

  Nao blinked. “Excuse me?”

  An uneasy silence flooded the room, making each frantic thud of Nao’s heart pound in his skull. Nao glanced toward Fujimoto, who stared off into the distance. Even Kurosawa ignored the situation, choosing to mess with his phone instead of react to the threat.

  Tokyo snatched Nao’s hand and dragged it across the table by his wrist. Nao jerked his hand back, but it sent a bolt of pain through his body. His eyes widened as Tokyo pulled out a knife and held it to Nao’s pinky. His thoughts thrashed to the beating of his heart. Tokyo was the biggest syndicate in Japan. People were either with them or were in fear of being swallowed by them.

  Anyone would be foolish to become their enemy, but with the way Tokyo’s blade kissed at Nao’s skin, he began to doubt the alliance they supposedly had.

  “I can cut off your finger, and then I will drink the sake with you,” Tokyo said.

  Nao blankly stare at Tokyo, even though each nerve inside Nao told him to flip the table, grab the knife, and slit Tokyo’s throat for daring to threaten. But he couldn’t do it, even if Tokyo brought up a debt Nao assumed had been paid four years ago. A case of unknown identity had left Nao’s lover drugged and killed. Allies or not, Nao sought vengeance and had slit open their stomachs on the Tokyo sidewalks. To quell the monster within him, Nao had left the Matsukawa to sell tea when he’d returned to Kyoto and had assumed his debt paid.

  Nao narrowed his eyes, and Kurosawa stood, reaching inside his jacket.

  Osaka laughed. “You should see your face!”

  Tokyo joined in, his laugh coming up from his belly like a horse. He stabbed the knife into the table and released Nao’s wrist.

  The sake gurgled in Nao’s stomach. He didn’t know if the threat had been some kind of new godfather hazing, or perhaps they’d proposed it as a punishment for his tardiness.

  “Tokyo will always be there for Kyoto.”

  Tokyo drank Nao’s offered sake, and reluctantly Nao followed. The laughter in the room burned his ears. Even Fujimoto laughed with the rest of the bosses. It was odd seeing his men laugh with the others. He’d show his followers the error of their ways once the night ended.

  “Shall we do a dance?” a young geiko asked.

  Her lips were the color of fresh strawberries, and her green kimono with pink and blue hydrangeas were a fresh relief from the stifling summer.

  Nao nodded. “It would be a pleasure.”

  It took a few minutes for the women to collect everything. All the while, Tokyo and Osaka continued to look at each other then burst into laughter again. How much had they drunk before Nao arrived? Still, Nao was thankful for the suggestion of a shift in focus.

  Three geiko danced while one played a drum, and the one who’d suggested they dance played a traditional wooden flute.

  The slow and deliberate dance emphasized a note from the flute or moved in a sweeping twirl on the downbeat of a drum, their fans opening or snapping shut with each note change.

  Nao closed his eyes, letting the traditional music flow into him. Each tick of tension floated away with the notes of the flute. Even Nao’s pounding heart became in tune with the beat. Although he didn’t recognize the song, he could sense everything the composer wanted to express in the fleeting melody.

  The song ended, and the ladies bowed while the yakuza cheered and clapped. With no further request of song or dance from anyone, Nao assumed the ladies had already performed some before he’d arrived. They shuffled back to their positions dotted among the yakuza.

  “What was the song about?” Nao asked when the hydrangea geiko returned to his side.

  “Escaping the summer heat.”

  Nao smiled. “It’s a perfect match for the humid weather. You play the flute beautifully.”

  “I still have a lot to learn, but thank you.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Yuiko.”

  Glancing back at Tokyo and Osaka, Nao noticed that they each had a geiko-in-training playing a drinking game. It was a waste of their artistic talents, but the godfathers looked entertained.

  “You don’t look old enough to be a geiko.” Nao could easily spot the difference since Yuiko’s only hair ornament was a sky-blue hydrangea comb, while the geiko-in-training had three or four different headdresses.

  “I moved up last month. I’m actually twenty, so I had waited a while.”

  “Wait, twenty?” Nao blinked. “You don’t even look seventeen.”

  She smiled, hiding her mouth behind her fan. “Thank you. We move on to geiko by our looks as well as skill. Some girls have older-looking faces, so they move on sooner. But since I have a childish face, it was okay for me to stay longer. Some people suggested I stay longer since geiko-in-training are more in demand, but it was my time to move on.”

  “But why? Geiko are more skilled.”

  Nao could see a bit of apprehension in her eyes.

  “Geiko-in-training are younger, and their style allows for cuter looks.” She folded her fan. “Perhaps there’s even a certain novice quality about them people find entertaining. Like finding beauty in the imp
erfections of art.”

  Nao ate a slice of fugu. His lips tingled, but the subtle taste was exquisite. Perhaps if he ate enough of it he could get some relief from his arm. He’d stopped taking the pain medicine the doctor had prescribed, since it left him in a fog.

  “Father Murata, why don’t we take our friends someplace that’s more hands-on?” Fujimoto said.

  Nao glanced toward the godfathers. Their drinking slowed, and one of them was ignoring the geiko-in-training to talk with one of his men. They had to be too drunk to hold a decent conversation.

  “There’s a nice place in the Shima red-light district they would like. The girls there can show them a good time.” Fujimoto elbowed Nao. “Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

  Nao rolled his eyes. A brothel was far from the greatest thing Kyoto had to offer. They were in the heart of Japan but would rather go to prostitutes they could get anywhere. Their lack of heritage pride curled Nao’s lip. Showing the Osaka and Tokyo bosses a good time meant more than culturing them.

  He turned to Yuiko. “I would enjoy hearing your flute again. Next time I’m at the teahouse, may I call on you?”

  “Of course, Mr. Murata. Call on me anytime.”

  One good thing came from the evening. He no longer had to leave it up to the teahouse owners to choose his geiko. Nao wanted to host more Matsukawa meetings there to support the tradition. So knowing he’d talk to Yuiko again made him smile.

  Nao turned to the other bosses. “Shall we move on?”

  UNDERNEATH CHAMPAGNE and fruity perfume, the undeniable stench of sex and vomit filled Nao’s nose. While the Tokyo and Osaka godfathers’ off-key karaoke accompanied the dizzying strobe lights assaulted his other senses.

  “You have such a toned arm. Do you work out?” a blond woman cooed in Nao’s ear. Her voice cracked in her throat like she’d smoked three packs of cigarettes a day since she was twelve.

  “You must go to the gym all the time,” the brunette echoed.