Gomyo turned away and Jun glanced sidelong at Viper, who shook his head. He gestured towards the elevator.
"We should get going then," Jun said.
"We'll have the information for you by morning," Viper added.
Gomyo settled himself back on the mat. "No later."
They hoofed it for the elevator. Once the doors had shut, Jun transferred the old Nambu Type 14 pistol from his pocket to the nylon rig slung under his shoulder. "Gomyo's got some of his spirit back. It'd be a shame to smoke him now."
Viper nodded. "He'll die soon enough anyway, all that shit we've been feeding him."
* * *
Hideo "Needles" Nakane ran an all-night tattoo parlor in the seedier part of Uchiega district.
He had business even now at two a.m., with the rain leaking through his shop's cheap tarpaper roof. Jun held one of his skinny arms pinioned behind the back of an old dental chair. The flexible lamp Hideo normally used for detail work had been twisted to glare directly into his narrow face.
"How's it feel to be the guy in the chair for once?" Viper said, brandishing a tattoo gun. The cabinet nearby held jars of stainless steel needles in alcohol, gauze pads, and smudged ink-tubes. None of the equipment looked very clean.
"You two are in trouble," Hideo said. "Big trouble."
"So you keep saying."
"What'd you do with Chiyo? If you hurt her...."
He was referring to his girlfriend, whom he routinely pimped out for the benefit of waiting customers. Viper had shut her up in the shop's only bathroom, with strict orders to stay put.
"She's alright. We're not sadists, Needles."
"I don't have to tell you guys shit."
"What's with all the cockiness?" Viper shook his head. "You used to be one of Gomyo's most loyal clients. Did his family crest and everything."
"Gomyo's finished. Word is, you and Jun are the last two men he's got. Too stupid to leave a sinking ship."
Viper reached out and pressed the lamp's bulb against Hideo's cheek. A wisp of gray smoke rose from the contact.
"Let's try that again," Viper said. He jerked his thumb behind him, at a cramped waiting room cluttered with miss-matched chairs and stacks of bondage magazines. Along one wall three brand-new Paku Man consoles stood, their screens glowing. "Where'd you get 'em?"
Hideo licked his lips. "I don't have to tell you."
Viper nodded to Jun, who jerked Hideo's captured wrist higher. The little man beat his shoes against the chair like he was dancing.
"I'll talk," Hideo said. "I'll talk."
"So talk," Viper said.
"T-tachibana. I got them from the Tachibana Group."
"And they're providing protection, as well?"
Hideo nodded.
"Get the details," Viper told Jun. "I'm going to check on his girl."
A short hallway off the waiting area led to the bathroom. Viper kicked the door open.
Chiyo was gone.
Over the cracked sink gaped a two-foot square window. The cheap plastic pane had been torn out, and the metal grill protecting the exterior sagged to one side. Chiyo had somehow wriggled her way to freedom.
"Jun," Viper called out, bolting back through the waiting area. Just as he passed the front door it shuddered from a tremendous blow.
"What's going on?" Jun said. He'd released Hideo, who lay slumped at the foot of the dentist's chair.
"Chiyo must've gone for help. Get your gun."
Jun clawed at his shoulder holster, made a face. "I left it in the car."
"What?"
"I didn't think we'd need it for a guy like—"
The thin metal door crumpled, hinges popping from the frame. An enormous foot shod in patent black leather kicked the remains away. Attached to the foot was a burly pant leg thick as a stone column. Two hundred and forty pounds of Japanese/Korean hybrid rippled through the doorway, muscles barely restrained by the black silk confines of a hand-tailored shirt. Narrow eyes blazed out from the scarred face. Just below the right cheekbone gleamed a scarlet tattoo: an ace of spades.
"Holy shit," Jun said. "Eisu Crimson."
From the floor, a grinning Hideo said, "I told you guys you were in trouble."
* * *
Viper spent three days in the communal ward of Ryukogan General before being discharged. "You're running up too much of a bill," Gomyo told him over the phone.
Jun showed up with a wheelchair. Viper didn't remember the drive back to Uchiega district, but he did recall Jun helping him to the second floor of Gomyo's building. He stretched out on a couch in one of the deserted office suites and covered himself with a blanket. Jun brought juice and cigarettes.
Fifth day, Viper felt well enough to talk.
"Professional fucking wrestler," he told Jun, over a tray of cheap sushi. He had to chew carefully; his mouth was still tender.
Jun cracked a can of Asahi Super Dry. "He did his signature move on you. 'The Bullet Train.' Man, that looked painful."
Viper winced. When he closed his eyes he could still see Eisu's giant meat-hand closing around his right ankle, catching his attempt at a roundhouse kick. The tendons had sounded like taut guitar strings snapping. "How come he didn't give you the business?"
Jun pointed to the yellowing bruise on his forehead. "He caught me with a couple, but I managed to parley. My smooth-talking saved your life, man."
"I bet."
"Anyway, we've got lots to do." Jun handed over a mirror. "Brace yourself."
Viper looked. And groaned.
"It's not bad as all that. The teeth can be replaced. Your right foot's in a metal brace, but you can still walk on it. Don't try to run, though. Or kick. Your ribs have been taped, so don't breathe too hard, either."
"What about my hand? What's with all the bandages?"
"Oh, that. You don't remember?"
"Remember what?"
"The boss demanded an apology. He thought you getting trashed by a Tachibana goon caused him to lose face."
"Jesus." Viper felt for the tip of his left pinky finger. It wasn't there.
"On the plus side, I managed to save these." Jun produced Viper's sunglasses. One of the lenses was cracked, and the bridge had been wrapped with electrician's tape. Viper slid them on.
He felt better.
"I got the location of a warehouse from Hideo," Jun said, "just before Eisu showed. Main distribution point for the Paku consoles. Warehouse's full of 'em."
"We're going to steal some?"
"And burn the rest. Undercut the competition, like Gomyo said."
"But the Tachibana group's likely providing security." Viper shuddered at the thought of running into Eisu Crimson again.
"Yeah. We'll have to play it smart."
Viper tried standing up. His left ankle felt like molten gel. "I can't do this."
"Yes you can. I brought some special inspiration." Next to the sushi carton was a brown paper bag, wrapped tight with rubber bands. Jun snapped the bands back and extracted a prescription bottle. "Shootfighters take these just before a match. Mixture of painkiller and military-grade amphetamine."
Viper unscrewed the cap and shook out a large yellow pill.
"Think of it as one of Paku Man's power pellets," Jun said, grinning.
* * *
It took Viper two days to infiltrate the Toyondai Short Haul Trucking and Delivery Company. Jun helped him forge his application, and Gomyo's union contacts, along with several hundred yen, pushed the paperwork through.
"We'll need to make further arrangements to get you a shift," Jun said.
At five the next morning, Viper found himself hurtling down the Metropolitan Expressway. Traffic was heavy, despite the hour. Big diesel trucks roared alongside, silhouettes in the pre-dawn light.
He was riding shotgun on a big diesel himself. His bandages chafed under the snug white fabric of a Toyondai uniform. The warehouse with all the Paku Man consoles lay somewhere ahead, at the terminus of their morning route.
"Fifteen
years I've been hauling for this company," said Ishikawa, the carp-faced driver, "and I've never heard of you. Never seen your name on the roster."
"I told you back at the hub. I was a last minute replacement."
"And Goro's sick? He's never been sick before."
Viper shrugged. "Bad flu, I heard." His head was throbbing. The painkillers were wearing off again. Mournful gaijin country music wailed from the tape deck.
"Can't you turn that down," Viper said, "or change to something else?"
"Huh-uh. In my rig we listen to Tammy."
"Who?"
"Tammy Wynette, you moron. Me and Goro are huge fans."
The sun had just crawled up behind heavy cloud cover. A white disc, suspended over the steel waters of Tokyo bay.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later Ishikawa had finished backing the truck against the loading dock's concrete lip. "You're driving the next leg. Wait here while I talk to the dispatch office."
Viper cracked the passenger door.
"What'd I just tell you?" Ishikawa said, irritated.
"Going for a smoke."
"Stay out of the warehouse, then. This place is crawling with gangsters."
Viper watched him disappear through the loading gate. He pulled a Toyondai cap down low over his head, stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and followed.
His footsteps echoed off worn concrete. The warehouse interior loomed dark as a cavern. Forty feet to his left glowed the dispatch office windows, with Ishikawa inside. The driver was talking to someone behind a desk, waving his pudgy hands. Viper couldn't see anyone else.
He checked his watch. In a couple minutes, workers were supposed to start loading consoles onto the truck. Somewhere out there among the rows of plastic-wrapped boxes and wooden crates waited a fortune in Paku Man games.
"Hey, you," boomed a voice. "You can't smoke in here."
He whirled. A janitor in a gray smock came loping towards him, pushing a wheeled bucket. He had a thick head of hair cut spiky in punk-rock style, and after a moment Viper realized who he was.
"Nice wig."
Jun grinned. "Those coveralls are very slimming. Anyone watching us?"
"Not that I can tell."
Jun crouched and pulled a plastic bottle from the bucket's soapy water. He squirted sharp-smelling liquid onto a nearby pallet. "Lighter fluid. I've doused half the warehouse already."
"I'm supposed to deliver the consoles to a Shinjuku mall by eight. After I pull out, that's your signal to torch this place."
"You taking care of the driver?"
"Oh yeah. Got a roll of duct tape under the seat." He imagined chucking Ishikawa's music out the window. "But I think you pulled the dangerous job, this time around."
"Not to worry." Jun patted at his armpit. "I'm strapped. And a good thing, too. I could've sworn I saw—"
The crash of heavy doors slamming shut drowned him out. Overhead, bank after bank of fluorescent lights came snapping to life.
Shouts rose from the dispatch office. Four men in expensive blazers and Vuarnet sunglasses came boiling out, headed straight towards them. Ishikawa and a manager-type watched from behind a window. The trucker looked smug.
"Split up," Jun said.
Viper glimpsed a familiar bulky profile filling the office doorway. His heart caromed against his chest. Not again. He sprinted towards a row of forklifts. Big no-no, trying to run on an injured ankle. Splinters of pain shot up his right leg, making him gasp. He ran anyway. Ducked down an aisle formed by giant cardboard boxes and Paku Man consoles stacked two-high.
Footfalls scraped behind him. He darted left, taking another aisle. This place was a labyrinth. If it wasn't for the white light glaring down he could try and hide.
A fork ahead. He took the right. His ankle blazed like a furnace. No other choice: he had to stop and dose with Jun's magic painkillers. His hands shook, snatching two yellow tabs from his coverall pockets. He dry-swallowed.
Voices, coming closer.
Around his left wrist he'd sheathed a tanto knife with a six-inch blade. His instincts screamed run rather than fight, but there wasn't any other option. Out came the knife.
Adrenalin trickled through his fingers as he gripped the hilt. Or maybe it was the amphetamine kicking in. A synergy of both. He still felt the pain in his ankle, the fear, but it didn't matter as much. What mattered: two distinct pairs of footsteps, shuffling close.
Coming around the corner.
He thrust quick as his namesake. The tanto's chisel-tip pierced the first man's white blazer through the breast pocket. His eyes went wide beneath the big Vuarnet lenses. Viper yanked the blade out with a spray of arterial blood. The second man raised a hand, his mouth forming an 'O' as his companion slumped to the concrete. Viper's slash caught him across both carotids. He went down clutching at his neck, the red stuff spurting out between his fingers.
Sweet music hummed in Viper's head. His vision narrowed to a scarlet circle. Another Tachibana heavy came spilling around the far corner, clutching a knife like his own.
Viper loosed a war-shout that would've shamed a samurai. He charged. The knife-wielder hesitated, turned to run. Viper stabbed him just under his left shoulder blade, angling up. The man dropped like a wet leaf.
Three down, Viper thought. He turned a corner and found himself back in the warehouse's open area. Jun was grappling with the fourth heavy, both men rolling across the floor. Ishikawa and the dispatch manager were nowhere to be seen.
"Get off him," Viper said, leaning down over the two men. Jun had drawn the Nambu, but his opponent gripped it by the barrel. Viper reached between them and tore the pistol free. Jun looked up. His face contorted in terror.
"Behind you," he shouted.
Viper felt air shifting against the nape of his neck.
He turned, jerking back the Nambu's lever action, and fired point-blank into Eisu Crimson. The little gun coughed and spat. Eight millimeter rounds walked tiny holes up the front of Eisu's dress shirt. Struck the ace of spades tattoo, caving in a cheekbone. Pulped his right eye.
The big man fell.
Jun grunted a warning. Viper turned again to see the fourth Tachibana goon barreling for an exit. He aimed and put the pistol's final slug into the back of his skull.
"You should see yourself right now," Jun said, breathing heavy. "You look like a fucking werewolf."
Viper rubbed at his face. His hand came away slick with blood.
"What do we do now?" Jun said.
"What we came here for. Did you see them loading any other trucks with consoles?"
"Yeah. One. I think."
"Show me. We'll find the keys."
* * *
Tendrils of black smoke were already pouring from the warehouse when they roared off in a diesel rig identical to Ishikawa's. Viper, driving, didn't hear sirens until they'd cleared the industrial district.
"Gomyo's cousin has a garage on the waterfront," he said, watching the rear-view. "We'll make for that."
They made it.
After the truck had been parked and the garage doors closed safely behind them, Viper allowed himself a cigarette. He kept waiting for the medication to wear off, to leave him in the deflated, pain-wracked state he knew he had coming.
"You must've gone through those Tachibana men like a buzz-saw," Jun said, slapping him on the shoulder. "A real killing machine."
"I did alright."
"Those consoles will be hotter than hell. We'll have to find a way to swap out the serial numbers."
"Gomyo's got people, I'm sure." Viper tossed the keys to Jun. "Let's take a look at our haul."
The truck's back doors opened with a clang. Jun peered inside.
"Um, Viper..."
* * *
Four months later.
The line for Gomyo's yakitori stand curled around the block. A huge turnout, considering the little plywood shack had just opened for business. But after the first few customers, Viper figured out why half of Uchiega district
had shown up.
"There's not enough meat on here," said an old woman, who'd just received her plate of skewered chicken. "I want to talk to your manager."
Viper bowed so low the paper hat almost slid off his head. "Sorry. He's—"
"Get him out here, now."
Gomyo was already sidling up to the counter. He leaned forward, fixing the woman with the same glare he'd reserved for rival crime-bosses. She reached over and tweaked his nose.
"More meat next time, fatty," she said, "or I'll demand my money back."
Laughter erupted down the line of customers. Gomyo turned and slapped Viper's head. "More meat, idiot."
"Yes, boss."
"And tell that good-for-nothing Jun his break's over. I need him up here."
"Right away."
Viper limped out of the kitchen and into the shack's tiny seating area. Jun was hunched over a game console in the corner, the single Paku Man they'd found loaded on their stolen truck.
"Gomyo wants you," Viper said.
"Just a sec...there's a strawberry. No! Damn." Jun pounded the console.
"Move your lazy ass."
Viper watched his partner squeeze back into the kitchen. Behind him, Paku Man launched into a happy tune promising excitement.
He sighed and shoved a coin in the slot.
Mr. Elliott lives and works in Tucson, Arizona. Recent stories have appeared or are slated to appear in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, Pulp Modern #1, Drive In Fiction, Dirty Noir (Quarterly Issue), and BEAT to a PULP: Round Two. Follow him on Twitter at @TonyAmtrak.
A Small Thing at the Devil's Punchbowl
Kent Gowran
"This should take the edge off." Wally Zook rolled across the green and black checkerboard tile of his tiny kitchen and poured bourbon whiskey over his bowl of corn flakes. He shoved a spoonful of them into his mouth and talked around the mush. "It's like a pack of rabid monkeys playing skee-ball in my brain, know what I mean?"
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled Page 2
