by Amano, Mia
I make no excuses for what I am and what I’ve done. My decision to get the irezumi tattoos was not one I made lightly. It was a rite of passage, my entry to the underworld.
Once marked, you can never go back.
I’d accepted this life; embraced it.
Until she came along.
Is there a life for me outside the yakuza? Or am I just kidding myself?
I haven’t been the same since I met her. My judgement is not as clear, my thinking clouded. I can’t see through the situation with the icy clarity I used to have.
For the first time in my life, I’m afraid. Terrified of losing her. Even though she’d probably be better off without me, I can’t let her go.
I’m selfish like that.
For a borderline sociopath like me, this is a strange feeling.
I feel more alive than ever.
So now I’m going to set a chain of events in motion. Whether he killed Ishida-san or not, Osamu Genda, the Kumicho of the Shibata-gumi, is going to die.
Because Erika Goto expects a death. She needs her katakiuchi; her blood revenge. It’s the only thing that will console her for her brother’s death.
Because he thinks he can send his people after me, try to fuck with me and survive. He should have known better; he should have killed me when he had the chance.
Because, years ago, in another life, he was nothing more than a fucking pimp who kept my mother on his payroll, making her a slave to addiction.
Because he knows about the existence of the one person on this earth who is precious to me.
Who knows what might have been, had Genda never come into our lives?
Banri told me about a particular place, a soapland, that Genda is known to frequent.
Soaplands are a purely Japanese phenomenon. In a country where having penetrative sex for money is illegal, we get around the law by transforming bathhouses into brothels, where prostitutes massage the clients to orgasm.
Without actually fucking.
Of course, real sex is available for a price. It’s just not spoken about.
It looks like Genda has never strayed far from the sex trade. How the hell does a guy like that become the head of a serious organization like the Shibata-gumi?
And I hear that since he’s become boss, the Shibata-gumi’s street presence has increased. Despite the recent crackdowns on organized crime, the Shibata-gumi have multiplied like cockroaches.
An entirely different direction to Kuroda. Our group has spread its tentacles in Japan and overseas, upwards into the steel and glass palaces of Tokyo’s financial district, taking control of entire corporations, of legal assets.
Hajime Ishida was the architect of all that. And my work helped to lay the foundation for Kuroda’s success. The assignments I was given were carefully selected. I’ve come to realise that now.
Before I started doing my work in LA, I never understood any of it. I was just a soldier, following orders.
Now, his strategy seems to make perfect sense.
The anti-yakuza movement in Japan has gained momentum since I’ve been away. So if they’re trying to crush us, we’ll just go where they can’t touch us.
Become semi-legal.
But rivals and threats still need to be dealt with.
Rivals such as Osamu Genda and the Shibata-gumi. I wonder if Erika knew, all along, that it would come to this.
Taking advantage of my loyalty to the man who saved my life. Planting the seed of fear that she might use Adele and her family to get to me.
Maybe she was the architect, all along.
Nothing in this life is simple anymore.
Looks like I’ll be paying a certain soapland a visit. And tonight, it’s very likely that someone is going to die.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adele
Madoka and I remain silent as Erika glides across the room. “Come Adele-san, let’s talk.” She nods her head in the direction of the balcony. We slip outside, opening the soundproof doors to the noise of the city below. Our side of the building is cast in afternoon shadow, and a chill breeze whips around us, tugging at loose strands of my hair.
Erika, however, is unflappable, unmoved, not a hair out of place. She puts on a pair of oversized dark glasses.
“So you’re the one,” she says, each word carefully pronounced. Her English has a slight American accent, similar to Kaito’s.
Something tells me I need to be extra cautious around this woman. I decide to keep my mouth shut, until she gets to the point.
“I can see why he’s so protective of you,” she continues, studying me carefully, giving nothing away. “You're absolutely stunning. And you must know by now, what he really is. Yet you stay with him.”
Erika gestures towards a small, grey marble table flanked by two geometric metal chairs. “Please, sit.”
Wordlessly, I obey, looking out over the city. In the distance, the characteristic red and white spire of the Tokyo Tower rises above the city, a striking bolt of color amongst a sea of grey.
“Adele Sullivan, there are only two types of women who end up with a yakuza man. The first are the crazy, unstable ones, looking for a type of man who doesn’t exist. That kind of relationship is a recipe for distaster.”
Her scrutiny unnerves me. I can’t read her at all behind those dark glasses. “And the second type?” I ask, unable to rein in my curiosity.
“Those who can hold their own against formidable men.” Erika reaches into her coat and pulls out a slim, silver tin and a zippo lighter.
She, lights a cigarette and offers me one. I shake my head. Does everyone in this place smoke? As much as I’d love to scold her, this is the one person I’m not going to bother about her smoking.
“Let me tell you something about Araki-san.” Erika tips a slender hand over the balcony railing, tapping ash from her cigarette into the breeze. “Even in our unorthodox society, he’s an exception. He was, and is, very, very good at what he does. Almost to the point of being irreplaceable. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I suspect you know very well what he does.” She’s testing me, probing to see how much Kaito shares.
“I know,” I agree. “I’ve accepted it.”
Erika nods, a knowing look crossing her face. “You need to understand, however, that the reason he performed so well in this role was because he had little regard for his own life.”
I open my mouth to contradict her, but I close it again without saying anything. That side of Kaito, I’m not so sure about. I don’t know what he was like before he met me.
“That’s no longer the case.” Erika takes a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling a long plume of white smoke that dissipates into the atmosphere. “Something has come along that’s given his life meaning. Or should I say someone. Lucky boy. It doesn’t always happen.” She draws on her smoke, the red embers at its tip crawling towards the end. When it’s finished, she flicks the butt over the edge.
“So the reason I’m here today is to find out whether you truly understand what you’re getting into. Are you going to be a distraction, a hindrance, a nuisance, or are you going to be an asset to me, Adele Sullivan?”
A spark of anger flares in me. “I’m not an asset to you, Goto-san. And Kaito’s not some piece on a chessboard. If this work is no longer suitable for him, if it’s becoming dangerous, then you need to let him leave.”
Erika laughs. It’s a cold, flat sound that sends chills through me. “And he’ll do what? Go back to being an accountant? You know that’s not for him, Adele. Besides, he can’t leave the Kuroda Group. When he joined, he relinquished his family ties. The tattoos you see across his back, they bind him to us. He can never lead a normal life in Japan.”
“So what happens if he leaves your organization?” I ask quietly, a feeling like dread pooling in the pit of my stomach.
Erika laughs again. “You don’t want to know.” The way she says it, with a cold finality, devoid of any emotion, is scary. “But relax, Adele. I have plans for him. He’s no
t going to be doing this dirty work forever. Not for long, in fact.”
She stands, turning her back to me, walking to the far end of the balcony, where the endless sky stretches out beyond the city, obscured in the distance by a fine haze. “The question is, Adele, where are you going to stand?”
The little spark of fury takes hold. I stalk after her, following her to the balcony’s edge, pausing at the railing. Forcing her to meet my eyes. “Look, if you’re trying to scare me, or intimidate me, or sow some kind of seed of doubt, it’s not going to work. I don’t know what your ulterior motive is, and I don’t really care. But what Kaito and I have is none of your business. I’m responsible for my choices, Erika, and no-one is going to tell me who I should or shouldn’t be with.”
She stares at me for a long time, saying nothing. I glare back, holding my breath. Did I just push this intimidating woman too far?
After what seems like an eternity, a trace of a smile appears at the corners of Erika’s mouth. “Good,” she murmurs. “I can see how you might be good for him.”
My legs tremble a little, but I hold my ground, forcing myself to stay calm. If anything, Erika’s smile becomes just a little bit wider, maybe a little bit more genuine. Or perhaps I’m imagining things.
“Welcome to the family, Adele Sullivan. And don’t worry so much. We do take care of one another. Yakuza just have a funny way of going about it.”
Kaito
I wait until night falls, sitting across the street in Kabukicho in a small izakaya, a bar that serves beer and snacks.
Tokyo has two faces. There’s Tokyo in daylight, when the city is overrun by workers, and the trains of the subway pump through the city’s beating heart with clockwork-like efficiency.
Then there’s Tokyo at night.
That’s the Tokyo I’m used to. This city never sleeps. When the sun sets, it comes alive. The salarymen and office workers crowd the small bars and pubs, drinking away the tension of the day, before taking the midnight train home. The love hotels and hostess bars and soaplands thrum with discreet activity.
And bit by bit, the civilized veneer of day is chipped away, to reveal the rawness underneath. And people get drunk, and high, and they seek pleasure and they fuck.
Until the sun comes up.
Then it starts all over again.
From day to night, Tokyo never stops.
I’m watching the place across the street, sipping slowly on my beer. It’s a soapland called “Tropical Paradise,” the lurid sign above the entrance displaying a neon coconut tree.
The Shibata-gumi own most of the businesses on this street, and Tropical Paradise is one of them. Banri told me he’d spotted Genda entering this place frequently.
He’s probably got a thing for one of the prostitutes. Happens all the time.
In the time it takes me to drink half my beer, customers have been coming in and out the place. It’s a weekday, so they’re mostly middle-aged men in suits.
The men who leave wear contented smirks.
Now, they’ll go home to their wives and have a good night’s sleep.
As I watch the street traffic flow past, illuminated by the garish glow from the multiple neon lights lining the way, I see a black BMW roll past, entering a narrow side-street. The crowds part as it pushes through, people seeming to sense that they should get the fuck out of the way, or else.
This is probably Genda. Not many people have the gall to drive through a crowded Kabukicho street.
There’s a strange, niggling feeling I’ve been getting ever since I arrived. Something’s not right. But I can’t put my finger on it.
My timing’s all off. Normally, on a job like this, I’d take weeks to plan it, even months, depending on the urgency.
Observing, following, learning patterns, habits, weaknesses.
Then, I’d choose the perfect moment to strike.
But now I’m impatient, edgy. It’s not like me. Adele’s here, in my city, and all I’m thinking about is getting back to her. I need to finish this, fast.
And I can’t forget that Erika’s put a deadline on it. Three days until the Kuroda-kai hold an election for the new Kumicho. It’s best to strike before that happens.
The Shibata-gumi need to understand that targeting Hajime Ishida was a huge fucking mistake. An unforgivable mistake.
I bet Erika’s planning to crush them.
Ah, fuck it.
I put down my half-empty glass and take off, crossing the street with a slow, slightly uneven walk.
Anyone who didn’t know better would think I’m just another drunk salaryman, looking for some action.
But these days, there’s only one woman I care to be with.
Adele would never forgive me if I didn’t come back.
As I walk, I get on the phone. Erika picks up on the first ring. “Kaito-kun.”
“Have you got a name for me yet, Onee-san?”
“Genda’s daughter? It was surprisingly easy, but expensive. Our contact in the visa office did a search. Genda’s name is on the actual application.”
I weave around a drunk couple, arms around one another, staggering down the street. It’s close to midnight, and the crowds are starting to thin out.
“Anyway, she’s studying. In New York. Medicine, of all things. Can you believe it?” She laughs. “How did a man like Genda raise a child like that?”
“Hm. We have people in New York?”
“Of course.”
“Her name?”
“Mariko. Mariko Richards.”
“Richards?” I can’t help but sound a little surprised.
“She’s a hafu. Apparently, she kept her American mother’s name.”
“Hm.” I hold my tongue, but part of me is intrigued by the possibility. The term hafu is a loaded one in Japanese society, referring to people who have one Japanese parent and one non-Japanese parent.
Several years of living in America has revealed to me how wrong our treatment of hafu can be.
And this Mariko, she seems to have shied away from her Japanese roots. But with a father like Genda and his criminal history, I don’t blame her.
Look at me, becoming philosophical about someone I don’t even know.
Maybe I’m just thinking about the possibilities for our children.
Fuck, did I just think about having kids?
I’m losing the plot.
“I’m going to send a man to find her,” Erika advises. “Does Genda really care about her?”
“I don’t know what their relationship’s like,” I reply. I can only guess. Banri told me he saw a framed photograph of the girl in Genda’s office.
It seems even a cold-blooded shark can form attachments.
Human nature is funny, like that.
“Onee-san, I have to go. You’ll hear from me soon.” And with that, I disconnect from Erika, not giving her a chance to reply.
As I reach the entrance to the club, I loosen the top button of my shirt, trying to give off the image of a salaryman who’s had one too many beers.
I don’t know if I’m fooling anyone.
Maybe I’ve been followed. Maybe Genda’s waiting for me.
There’s only one way to find out.
I’m going in. Stupidly, blindly, because there’s no way out. Only way out is to survive.
How the fuck did I get back into this mess? I guess when you’re in my position, it’s inevitable.
Time to see what this old man wants.
Kaito
Plastered across the wall in the reception area is giant mural, a photograph of a serene, tropical beach, complete with coconut trees. It’s at odds with the fluorescent pink light streaming from the ceiling, bathing me in a lurid glow.
Under that light, everything seems different, as if I’ve entered some kind of fucked up twilight zone.
An alternate reality.
The Mama-san of the house appears. She’s a tiny woman, reaching up to my chest, even with heels on. She’s not Japanese. She looks So
uth East Asian. Filipino or Thai, maybe. But her command of our language is perfect.
“Can I help you, sir?” Her gentle voice is at odds with the cheap, tacky backdrop. I ignore her, turning around to lock the front door behind me.
The latch clicks shut with cold finality.
“Excuse me,” she says, her voice a little louder now. There’s a slight edge of panic there. “What are you doing?”
“Mama-san,” I say, pulling one of the guns from my back. “Go hide.”
She freaks a bit, but pulls it together. But not before her eyes dart up to the ceiling, giving me a clue.
A dome camera blinks at me. Soaplands are riddled with the all kinds of hidden cameras and listening devices.
I stare up at it and raise my gun, as I contemplate putting a bullet through it.
But there’s no point. If they’ve been watching, then they already know I’m here.
Mama-san backs away, her hands up, her fingers trembling slightly. She disappears down a narrow hallway, clearing the way for me. I enter a corridor lined by plastic palm trees. The same fluorescent pink light illluminates the area, like some kind of sickly sunset.
They’re playing a Jpop song through the speakers. The raucous guitars drown out the sounds of fucking that leak from the rooms lining the corridor.
I’m entering a garish world of plastic palm trees, outlined in pink and black.
I reach a stairwell that points to the second and third floors. There’s also a basement. There’s one way up or down, and no way out. Effectively, it’s a trap. It’s not ideal.
If I’m smart, and if I have more patience, I should call Erika right now and ask for backup.
But I’ve always worked alone, and I want to end this, tonight.
There are too many people here, too many unknowns. I need some chaos. Too risky to go looking for Genda. I’ll shake him out.
There’s a fire alarm on the wall. I smash the glass panel and set it off. Its screeching wail pierces through the tinny music, and all of a sudden, doors everywhere are bursting open, half dressed men and women scrambling out, confused expressions on their faces.
