The Yakuza Path: Better Than Suicide

by Amy Tasukada

  Nao tried to hold back his snickering when he found Fujimoto punching a bag, dressed in the same garish neon-orange outfit advertised at the train station. His gut bulged out of the shirt, and the shorts clung around his legs.

  Fujimoto gave a respectful bow then took off his gloves. “Father Murata, you wanted to hit the gym, too? I’ve always heard you were a natural fighter.”

  Flattery coming from the neon glow stick didn’t lighten Nao’s disdain for him.

  “What’s your excuse for not coming to the gym more often?” Nao eyed Fujimoto’s sweaty gut.

  “You know how it is, days slip by, and then all your pants are three sizes too small.”

  Fujimoto laughed, and a few listening recruits chuckled. There wasn’t anything funny about growing lazy and overweight, especially for a ward leader who needed to be an example to everyone under his control.

  “Is Kurosawa around here, too?” Fujimoto crossed his arms over his chest, and Nao noticed a distinct discoloration on Fujimoto’s finger.

  “You married?” Nao gestured to the lighter ring of skin on Fujimoto’s finger.

  “She ran off with someone you could have babysat for.” He shook his head. “Damn women. Maybe you have the right idea going after men.”

  “I wanted to ask you—”

  “You want to go a few rounds in the ring?” Fujimoto put up fisted hands. “I used to hold a record in my younger days.”

  Nao curled his lip. He wanted to get Miko’s key and leave, but it wasn’t like he could reject a fight. It would make him appear weak in front of his men. Nao needed to strike fear within each member of the Matsukawa. They should follow his every order without wavering.

  The image of Fujimoto laughing as the Tokyo and Osaka godfathers threatened to chop off Nao’s finger was still fresh in his mind. In a single match, Nao could show everyone at the gym that even injured and willowy, he outpowered everyone. At the same time, he could show Fujimoto the extent of what getting on his bad side entailed.

  A grin crossed Nao’s face. “Certainly.”

  Everyone offered Nao their spare set of gym clothes, and in less than ten minutes, Nao stripped off his suit. Each discarded layer exposed more of the red phoenix tattoo on his back. Nao didn’t bother wearing a shirt because even the tattoo showed his strength. Red ink brought about a fever, which lasted days after application, and red covered Nao’s back. All but for the bouquet of white chrysanthemums clutched within the bird’s claws.

  The gloves fit Nao’s hand like he remembered, but the positions of his fingers made his injured arm twitch. He wasn’t going to look like a weakling in front of his members.

  Nao walked out of the dressing room to a cheering crowd. Word had gotten out about Fujimoto and Nao’s fight, and everyone at the gym clustered around the ring. About half of the forty men were on their phones calling people or ready to record the fight. Nao would give them each a story worth telling to every Matsukawa member not there. No one would dare go against his orders after seeing what he could do.

  Fujimoto hopped about the ring when Nao jumped through the ropes. He might’ve warmed up, but Fujimoto was overweight and old, so Nao knowingly grinned at the crowd. The bell chimed a few times, quieting everyone there. Nao and Fujimoto stepped to the center, where a Matsukawa with a dragon tattoo acted as referee.

  “I’m sorry, Father Murata. I forgot about your injury.” Fujimoto gestured to Nao’s bandaged arm. “Forgive my indiscretion. We can postpone the fight until you’re completely recovered.”

  Nao shook his head. “Thinking like that is probably why your wife left you, old man. You need to take chances.”

  A hiss echoed from the gathering crowd, but then they cheered, rooting for both Nao and Fujimoto. Each cheer amped up Nao’s desire to put on a show they would never forget. They might not have known his history, but after the match, they would all fear him.

  Fujimoto laughed. “I won’t go easy on you since you’re young.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  The bell rang, and Nao squeezed his fingers in the glove, sending a bolt of pain through his arm like a cry of death.

  He ran to Fujimoto, delivering a quick punch to his unblocked face. It dazed Fujimoto for a second before he began a few light jabs to break down Nao’s defenses. They didn’t hurt and Nao couldn’t tell if Fujimoto was really that weak or was going light on him after all. Either way, it was a mistake.

  The crowd faded out of his conscience, and the pain in his arm became a reminder of what happened to weaklings. Seconds slowed down, and Nao stepped into the persona he knew he really was.

  He lived for fighting. Since he was thirteen and broke another kid’s arm in three places for insulting the Matsukawa, Nao had known the thrill of power. The battle had left his opponent in a cast for six weeks and Nao with a bloody nose and a year sentenced to a juvenile detention center.

  Fighting was the only time when he forgot about who he was. The calculated risk of his actions disappeared, and he let go of everything holding him back.

  By the fourth jab, Nao saw his opening and began his savage attack. He stuck two quick punches, one to Fujimoto’s gut and the other to his nose. Blood ran down his face, and Nao struck Fujimoto’s head with all his strength.

  The older man thudded to the ground, and a cheer erupted through the gym.

  Each breath Nao pulled in brought a desire for more bloodlust. He loomed over Fujimoto, waiting for him to get up so he could finish him off.

  The seconds passed… eight… nine… ten.

  The bell rang out Nao’s victory, and his pounding heart slowed as the cheering echoed in his ears. He’d won. He’d shown them all his power and strength in less than two minutes. If any of them even thought of joining the Korean drug dealers, they would waver, thinking of the beating Nao could give them.

  Nao pulled off his gloves and took the water offered to him by one of the members. Slowly, he took back control from the bloodlusting monster within.

  “Your bandages might need replacing,” said a member. “I think we have some in the back.”

  They were only speckled with blood and not oozing out like last night. Still, Nao found it odd it could bleed so much in such a short amount of time.

  “I’ll be fine.” Nao shrugged, taking another gulp of water.

  He turned back to Fujimoto. A minute or two had passed since the knockout, but Fujimoto still lay on the floor. A few recruits circled around him, trying to wake him up.

  A sour taste lingered in Nao’s mouth, and no amount of swallowing took the bitterness away. In a few quick strides, Nao was beside Fujimoto. Nao splashed the rest of the water on Fujimoto’s face.

  “Come on, get up,” Nao said.

  Fujimoto blinked then rubbed his eyes. They were glazed over but responsive. Even injured he could still answer Nao’s question about the key.

  “I guess I was the one who should’ve gone easy on you.” Nao smiled and tugged Fujimoto up.

  “Fahrr Murrta.” Fujimoto’s words slurred together.

  “Are you all right?”

  He let go of Nao’s hand and stumbled back then fell to the floor.

  “Fuck! We need to get him to a hospital.”

  THE WHITE VINYL FLOOR of the hospital echoed with each tap of Nao’s polished boots as he paced outside the doctor’s office. Fujimoto’s speech had stopped slurring together on the ride there, but he couldn’t understand when Nao asked him the simplest questions.

  Nao cursed himself. He should’ve had the restraint to ask Fujimoto about Miko’s key before jumping into the fight. He could’ve shown the other members his strength some other time.

  “Father Murata,” Kurosawa called from the hallway, Nao’s sling tucked under his arm. “You shouldn’t leave the house without telling me.”

  “Be ready when I want to leave, or else I’m going without you.” Nao crossed his arms.

  “Could you answer your phone next time, so I can meet you?”

  “Are yo
u going to watch while I take a piss, too?”

  “Bathrooms are another place where danger could lurk.”

  “People are going to think you’re gay when you follow me in.”

  Kurosawa’s jaw tightened. “You’re the Matsukawa leader. People will always be after you. You need some kind of protection at all times. If I told Sakai, do you know how disappointed he would be?”

  There Kurosawa was talking about Sakai again. Nao led the Matsukawa, not Sakai. Kurosawa didn’t even need to care. Nao had done him a favor by allowing him to work less, unless Sakai had ordered Kurosawa to spy on him.

  “Don’t be so disrespectful,” Nao warned. “Sakai should be more worried about what I think of him, not the other way around.”

  “I’m not following you for your safety, but for the family. We’ve had enough deaths these past months.”

  Nao sighed. Maybe Kurosawa was right, but Nao knew how to handle himself.

  “When the doctor’s done checking Fujimoto, he can take a look at you. Your arm looked really banged up last night.”

  “If he ever gets done with Fujimoto,” Nao mumbled.

  Kurosawa passed the sling along to Nao then dug through Nao’s jacket in the chair beside him. Nao narrowed his eyes. Kurosawa apparently decided digging through his things was okay.

  “What are you doing?” Nao asked.

  Nao’s phone blinked alive before Kurosawa put it back into the pocket and sat in the empty chair.

  “Try to keep your phone on. If you don’t want to answer it, then get a secretary and he can answer it for you. See? Easy fix.”

  The suggestion was a good one, but Kurosawa didn’t need to mock him. Nao hated answering phones. In the past when he’d answered, people had wanted stuff from him. To get out of the house, to come visit his father, to remind him to eat; things were simpler without the constant need to be at the beck and call of so many people. He missed his life of solitude as a simple tea merchant more and more each day.

  Nao glanced at Kurosawa. “You should get a fruit basket for Fujimoto.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  Kurosawa didn’t move.

  Nao cleared his throat. “I saw some at the gift shop.”

  “I’m waiting on you.”

  “You don’t need to watch me here.”

  Kurosawa laughed. “The hospital is the number one place godfathers die. So many people in and out. They send in the fall guy”—Kurosawa held up his hand in the shape of a gun and pointed it at Nao’s head—“then bang. The godfather dies and the power shifts. The last place I’m leaving you alone is in a hospital. If you want to get Fujimoto a basket, then we’re going to do it together.”

  Nao stood, and the last shred of his privacy disappeared. They wandered through the hospital gift shop, getting a fruit basket of apples, peaches, and yellow dragon fruit. Then back to the seats outside the room Fujimoto was in and waited.

  “So what’s the best gift you’ve ever received?” Kurosawa asked.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “You know, to help pass the time.”

  Nao pressed his lips together, but he had nothing better to do.

  “Shinya and I were walking in the historic district, and I admired this hundred-year-old raku-designed tea bowl.” Nao smiled. “A week later, on my birthday, he dressed up in traditional clothes and performed a whole traditional tea ceremony with the bowl. He had no idea how much I didn’t like matcha.”

  Kurosawa nodded. “That sounds nice.”

  “Yeah…”

  It took all of Nao’s strength to hold on to that single memory and not allow his thoughts to push it forward to the last night he’d spent with Shinya.

  “And yours?” Nao asked.

  “My favorite gift?” Kurosawa rubbed his neck but then pointed to the Matsukawa crest on his lapel. “When your father gave me this.”

  “That can’t be the best gift you’ve ever received.”

  “I didn’t have the kind of family you had. Your mother might’ve left you, but you still had your father. Mine left when I was fourteen, not that they were there much before. When I got the pin and drank the sake with the other graduated recruits, I was gifted a family.”

  Nao pressed his lips together, the words he wanted to say trapped within his chest. With all the deaths, the only family left for Nao was the Matsukawa.

  The doctor opened the door.

  “Is Fujimoto going to be okay?” Nao asked.

  “Just some rest for a few weeks, and he should be back to collecting on those debt payments.” The doctor laughed. “Or, you know, whatever you yakuza do.”

  “Good.” Nao grabbed the basket. “I need to see him.”

  The doctor pushed up his rimless glasses. “Mr. Murata, I’m glad you have your sling with you, but it doesn’t do much good unless you wear it.”

  “I forgot.” Nao tried to edge closer to the door, but the doctor blocked it.

  “You should look at his arm, Doctor,” Kurosawa said. “It looked red around the wound last night.”

  “Red?” The doctor grinned. “Did you rip out more of your stitches while having a nightmare again?”

  “I—”

  “Come on, let’s see the damage.”

  The doctor grabbed Nao’s good arm and pushed him into another room. Kurosawa followed with the fruit basket. The doctor patted the examination table, and Nao hopped up and unbuttoned his shirt.

  “I don’t mind you visiting and all. My little at-home care bought me a nice vacation house. So I can’t complain,” the doctor said through his mask.

  When Nao had been shot, he couldn’t go to the hospital. Guns were illegal in Japan, and any physician would be required to report it.

  The doctored whistled, holding Nao’s arm out. “This is rough. Do you keep it immobile?”

  “I sometimes forget the sling.”

  “You need to. Look, you have two stitches out in the front.” He lifted Nao’s arm away from his body. “And three in the back. We put them there so it would prevent you from reopening the wound.”

  Nao sighed. The look on Kurosawa’s face said “I told you so,” even if he didn’t say it out loud. If he did, Nao would punch him right there in the doctor’s office.

  The doctor gave Nao a shot, which soon numbed his entire upper arm.

  “Word is you’re the new godfather. Hmm… I thought they’d want someone older.”

  The media had a strange fascination with the yakuza. All the people in the top levels—the godfather, the underboss, the street leader, and business leader—were known to the public. At his father’s funeral, the media had swelled around the procession and at times had outnumbered the guests.

  “Your skin’s so raw I can’t use staples.” The doctor stuck the stitching needle through Nao’s skin. “How many times do you change the wrappings per day?”

  “Twice.” Yesterday’s didn’t count.

  “Try four now.” The doctor glanced to Kurosawa. “You can remind him, so we don’t have to cut off his arm due to infection.”

  Doctors and their exaggeration—but he finished the stitches without any more talk of cutting off limbs. The last thing Nao needed was to be out with a fever. Nao sighed. He needed to see Fujimoto and get Miko’s key.

  “You know they send me everyone with a tattoo now, even if they’re not in the yakuza. Even parents of yakuza become my patients.” The doctor snapped off his gloves. “I’ll send my service charge to your accountant.”

  “So I can talk to Fujimoto now?”

  “Don’t knock him out.” He grabbed a red lollipop from the jar and handed it Nao. “You’ll get another one if you don’t rip out your stitches before I see you again. Unless you want to keep helping me with those vacation house payments.”

  The doctor left with a laugh while Nao buttoned up his shirt and straightened his tie. Kurosawa handed the sling to Nao. He stared at it but then handed the sucker to Kurosawa and pulled on the sling. Nao needed his arm healed sooner rath
er than later.

  “Let’s go,” Nao said.

  Nao left Kurosawa in charge of holding the fruit basket as they made their way back to Fujimoto’s room. The lights were off, and even the curtains were drawn shut.

  “Fujimoto?” Nao called.

  “Father Murata.” He laughed. “I let you off easy this time because you’re so young.”

  Nao smiled; at least Fujimoto could form sentences.

  “I guess I have to learn to tone it down when I’m not in kill mode,” Nao said. “We brought you some fruit.”

  “They say I have a concussion, can you believe it? I’m not sick. The doc wants me to stay for a few hours. These doctors and their terms for things. You knocked me out, end of story. They won’t even let me smoke in here.”

  “There was something I wanted—”

  “I should’ve been on my guard more,” Fujimoto cut in. “I heard the story of what you did to those Korean mobsters. I guess now we know you’re a demon inside and out. Maybe that’s what we should call you, since Miko is away. Instead of Father Murata, it can be Demon Murata.”

  Nao laughed. “Then no one would want to practice with me.”

  “My ex-wife was never into boxing, but the guy she ran off with is some young coach. Can you believe it? Women never mean what they say.”

  Fujimoto sat up and ripped open the plastic-wrapped fruit basket.

  “Thanks.” He bit into a peach. “Sure as hell will beat whatever they’ll decide I should eat for dinner.”

  “Do you have Miko’s apartment key?” Nao asked, knowing he had to get in the questions while Fujimoto’s mouth was shut.

  “Miko’s key?” Fujimoto said, little bits of peach juice spitting out.

  “For the Obon holiday, I want to send her family photos to her.”

  “I gave the key to Ikida, since he’s the underboss. He’s a nice guy, you know? I didn’t see much of him, since he’s more of a business guy, but he came to visit just a few minutes before you did.”

  “Ikida was here?” Nao asked.

  Kurosawa cleared his throat. “His mother is here.”

  So the doctor wasn’t joking about taking care of parents of yakuza. He’d have to figure out how much money the doctor made off his ties with them. If keeping Nao’s bullet wound a secret was enough to get him a vacation home, it had to be too much.