A Total-E-Bound Publication
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My Yakuza
ISBN # 978-0-85715-372-2
©Copyright A.J. Llewellyn and John Simpson 2010
Cover Art by April Martinez ©Copyright December 2010
Edited by Delaney Sullivan
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated total-e-burning.
MY YAKUZA
A.J. Llewellyn and John Simpson
Dedication
This book is dedicated to gay cops everywhere.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Pretty Woman: Touchstone Pictures
Manga: Starz Media, LLC
Lincoln: Ford Motor Company
The Princess and the Pea: Hans Christian Andersen
Rambo: Lionsgate
Delta Airlines: Delta Air Lines, Inc.
Yakuza Diary: Christopher Seymour
Sudoku: Glazer & Kalayjian, Inc.
Glock: Glock Inc.
The Wave: Wave Publishing Company
Corolla: Toyota Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha
Tropical Swing: Bill Tapia
Howard Johnson’s: WHG TM Corp.
Shell: Shell Oil Company
fruit roll-ups: General Mills, Inc.
Avalon: Toyota Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha
Second Life: Linden Research, Inc.
Sheraton: The Sheraton LLC
The Yakuza: Warner Bros.
UFC: Zuffa, LLC
Twinkies: Hostess Brands, Inc.
Kevlar: E.I. du Pont de Nemours and Company
Bluetooth: Bluetooth Sig, Inc.
CNN: Cable News Network, Inc.
Tempo: Ford Motor Company
Somewhere Over the Rainbow: Isreal Kamakawiwo’ole (IZ)
Velcro: Velcro Industries B.V.
Hanalei Bay Resort: Trading Places International
truTV: Turner Broadcasting system, Inc. A Time Warner Company
K-9: Department of the Army
Apple Store: Apple Inc.
United Airlines: United Air Lines, Inc.
Dollar: Dollar Rent A Car, Inc.
Princess Kaiulani Hotel: Starwood Hotels & Resorts Worldwide, Inc.
Ala Moana Hotel: Outrigger Hotels Hawaii
go!: Mesa Air Group
Ford: Ford Motor Company
Chapter One
He didn’t have much time. Shiro wanted to pound Matsumi-san’s head into the shiny, red-lacquered bar top. Instead, he remained passive, watching Matsumi-san drain his second bottle of beer.
Lava-lamp style lights swirled across the bar as two girls in a suspended cage lip-synched to the pop singer Shakira high in one of the corners. Matsumi-san swayed to the music. Shiro signalled the bartender who brought them another round. The price of two more drinks included more snacks. This time, they received a small platter of sliced fruit.
Matsumi-san’s face went slack. “This strawberry. It reminds me.”
Shiro strained to hear over the loud music. Friday night. Tokyo was hopping. Everyone was in the mood for love, booze and karaoke.
“What does it remind you of?” Shiro asked in his half-baked Japanese.
“She is sweet, like fruit.” Matsumi-san poked at the delicate sliver of strawberry that was cut into a perfect heart shape. “Siono can make a man forget everything. Her lips are like wine, her tongue so sweet…like this strawberry.”
Dude, this is my mom you’re talking about. Shiro took a deep breath, hiding his disgust for the inebriated, middle-aged office worker, and waited. The music thumped a little louder through the bar’s four rooms.
They’d just opened the fourth room right above them. A hypnotic disco beat made Shiro’s foot inadvertently tap against the leg of his barstool. At the age of twenty-three, the disco era had bypassed him. His generation was hotwired to different times, so his body’s response to the music surprised him.
Young couples clustered in corners, up against bars and by the door. Half of the glazed-eyed men were being catered to by whores. Beautiful, alluring women, but whores all the same.
“She’s so beautiful,” Matsumi-san crooned. “Her laughter is like the river.” He moved his hand in a wavy gesture.
Oh, brother.
“Can you remember the name of the hotel?” Shiro asked again.
Matsumi-san was a sweaty guy. He palmed liquid from his forehead.
“Blue lights out front. Many blue lights.” He stared into space. “Many. That’s what I remember.” His eyes grew huge as he turned back to Shiro. “Is it true she is dead, Shiro-chan?”
That’s what Shiro had been told. He had no idea if it were true, except it seemed unlikely that Siono would just disappear. Shiro noted the colloquial form of his name and felt a sudden burst of excitement. The guy was going to remember.
Matsumi-san clapped his hand on Shiro’s arm.
“Hotel If. That was the name!”
Matsumi-san was so excited, he jumped from his stool, his hand raised high, sloshing half his beer in the air.
Hotel If. Man, how hard could it have been to remember that?
Shiro thanked him in gentle tones, catching the Masta’s eye. The man who owned the bar nodded. He had assured Shiro that they’d find a suitable female companion for the lonely guy, once he received Shiro’s signal.
With genuine feeling, Shiro thanked Matsumi-san again and took off.
“Blue lights, remember that. Right in the middle of town!” Matsumi-san called out after him.
It had stopped raining, but the seat on his bosozoku was wet. No matter. He had, at most, ten minutes before Shun’ichi’s goons missed him. He jumped on his motorbike, hitting the street. He swung his helmet onto his head as he took the first corner sharply. One street, then another flashed by him. The half beer he’d had made him dizzy as he skidded and swerved through rain-slick streets from one brightly lit hotel to the next.
And there it was.
He stopped, one foot dropping to the road as he stared at the entrance of the Hotel If, watching a giggly young couple enter. Just one of the dozens of love hotels in Tokyo’s Shibuya district, he’d finally found it.
For days he’d snatched moments between his message drops, trying to find Matsumi-san, the man who’d last hired Shiro’s mom for a couple of hours of love. For the first day, Matsumi-san had played coy. Tonight he’d confessed he had seen her and had also heard that Siono had disappeared right after their tryst.
Hotel If. Shiro felt the emotion catching in his throat. It was just where Matsumi-san said it would be, right in the centre of the love hotel district off Dogenzaka
Street. Shiro lost count of the number of drinks he’d poured into the guy these past couple of nights, trying to get answers.
He gripped the handlebars of his bosozoku, drinking in the blue lights surrounding Hotel If. The sky felt heavy, perfumed with fresh rain that threatened to unleash its force again.
This was the last place his mother had been seen alive. He switched off the engine and removed his helmet. The cool night air fanned his warm, damp skin.
Why had Siono come here? Why this place? Matsumi-san said she was the one who had selected it.
“I saw her ad in the newspaper. She met me at the bar. We had some drinks. We had some love…” No…how had he put it? We had some rest.
Now that was a quaint way to describe fucking. What had he expected by coming here? His mother lying in a battered heap in the lush landscaping out front, calling his name? A trail of blood? Her ghost pointing a long finger in the direction he should look? Physical evidence? A note? God…it was all so hopeless. If she had been there…he caught himself looking at the name of the hotel again.
If. How apt. If she had come here. If she had died here…if she had been here at all there would be no way of proving it. He’d waited a long time to overhear snatches of a conversation and Japanese was his third language. He wasn’t learning his mother tongue quickly. He glanced around. Encouraged by the distant chatter of strangers, he swung his leg over the seat. He walked towards the entrance. There were signs out front. Two different prices—one for resting for two to three hours and double for staying the night.
Photos of the available rooms, decorated in surprisingly attractive ways, were lit up by a light box just inside the lobby. He was both impressed and dismayed. Guests had complete privacy because they clicked on the box for the room they wanted and money went into an automatic cash machine. He stepped into the well-lit hallway. Small pockets of tropical flowers and plants surrounded each doorway. Some had lights on, some didn’t.
He went back to the light box again. Half of the room photos were dark. He checked room number two against the darkened entrance ahead of him. Both were dark. It was ingenious. He was certain it meant the room was occupied.
Which room had she been in, if she had been here?
Shiro walked outside again, taking time to sort through his emotions. He should never have let Siono come here. Fool! How could I have stopped her? He raged against the forces that had separated them—her fantasies and the mysterious Yakuza who had spirited her away to Tokyo. Siono had lived and breathed the city, even when Shiro was a toddler growing up in Honolulu. She always said she would take him back there. In Tokyo, the sun was bigger, better, brighter. He knew she was dreaming from the movies he saw.
Then came the Japanese businessman who’d booked her for the night. Shiro had known his mother was a prostitute. She worked intermittently, but with Shiro in his final year of college and preoccupied with his own life, she’d drifted back into bad habits.
He begged her not to go with the guy to Tokyo. He tried to tell her he had a bad feeling. He’d read the papers. She was a prostitute. Businessmen like the one who wanted to lure her away, often turned out to be Yakuza who trafficked a stream of hopeful women to Japan each year as virtual sex slaves.
“You have no romance in your soul,” Siono had said. “Didn’t you ever see Pretty Woman?”
No, he hadn’t. Unless it involved manga, anime, or smooth John Woo-style action sequences, he wasn’t interested.
Siono tried to tell him all men wanted a whore they could redeem. She was convinced Shun’ichi Harada loved her and wanted a better life for her. So, his mom had fled Honolulu. What she found was exactly what he’d feared. She had been put to work as a prostitute. She seemed upset at first but, she’d told Shiro, she felt she had an edge to the other hookers. She was one of the few Japanese women working the streets. Most were blonde, Korean or Filipina. She felt she had a special place in Shun’ichi’s life.
She had called Shiro twice more, the last time to say she’d escaped her Yakuza’s clutches. She was coming home.
“How did you get your passport back?” he had asked her. She’d cried when she told him Shun’ichi had taken it from her.
“Never you mind,” she said. “Mahape a ale wala‘au.”
That was Hawaiian for let’s not speak of it. Sort of the tropical equivalent of a great big elephant sitting in the living room. His mother had said it often, starting with why, when Shiro was five, his Hawaiian-born father had abandoned them. He grew up being Jawaiian as they called the half-Hawaiian, half-Japanese kids. Now, he was proud of his heritage.
Unlike his mom, Shiro loved Hawaii. He missed the scent of his beloved islands, the smell of flowers on his skin. Tokyo sure was nothing like she had told him.
Siono never arrived home. She never called again. His maternal grandmother received a call from a man saying that Siono had died. He said she’d fallen out of a hotel room window. Death, he’d said, was immediate. Grandma had started to ask questions, but the man hung up.
Nobody had called again. The American embassy was useless. There was nothing in the newspapers he scanned online. It was as if Siono Kanake had never existed at all.
Shiro scraped money together with help from friends and family. He was forced to set aside a critical thesis to fly to Tokyo. He had no desire to be here. For four long weeks, he’d ingratiated himself into Shun’ichi Harada’s clan. His family was the biggest name currently reining Yakuza clan. Shiro had never met Shun’ichi and frankly feared the very idea. One of Shiro’s uncles worked for the Japanese bank in Waikiki. He had always held a soft spot for Siono and offered to help Shiro.
“I know a man who worked for the Harada family,” he had said. “I can get you in there, but take your time, boy. Don’t start asking questions about Shun’ichi Harada the second you arrive.”
He got Shiro an appointment with Nobuo-san. He in turn, slotted Shiro into the bottom rung of bike messengers working for one of the many companies belonging to the Harada Empire. Shiro’s grandma thought it was a fine plan since Siono had never told Shun’ichi that she had a son.
He worked directly for and reported to Nobuo-san, one of the big guy’s employees, a hundred times a day.
His cell phone rang, interrupting his reverie.
“Shiro-san?”
“Hai.”
“It’s Miki.”
He grimaced. Miki was the one who had told him his mom had placed the ad in a local adult newspaper. All the ‘girls’ did. Miki knew because she was one of them. She was a tiny slip of a thing from Cebu, Manila. Many years younger than Siono, she too had bought the Pretty Woman myth and now she was stuck. She’d gone from hostess in a karaoke bar to hooker in a matter of weeks. She’d been promised the return of her passport many times, but the deadline repeatedly came and went. He got to know her through the Harada clan. He’d taken her to various appointments and they’d struck up a friendship. He knew Miki liked him, but he had one mission here and that didn’t include a girlfriend. Besides which, he was gay.
“You didn’t forget our date, did you?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t forget. I have one parcel drop-off then I can pick you up.”
She giggled, which she always did, making him wonder what she thought was so funny.
“I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”
He climbed back on his bosozoku. His stomach was in knots just thinking about his date. He’d taken a risk confiding in Miki, but she’d assured him he could trust her. His heart bled for her situation. She’d virtually been sold to the Harada clan by her own parents. He unlocked his seat and retrieved the package he had for Keizo. He already knew it was pencils and brushes. Just touching the package made him feel an erotic high…Keizo was the most beautiful man he’d ever met.
Keizo lived in the heart of Ni-chōme, Tokyo’s gay district. Shiro longed to explore Ni-chōme more, but he worked almost all the time. When he wasn’t working, he was sleeping, snatching time in the small lodge room
he shared with two other guys who worked for the Harada clan. He zipped through the maze of allocated sexual zones,, fascinated by the number of streets reserved for different gay fetishes. BDSM had its own zone, bears had one, twinks had one…and those who were men who just loved men were another. Keizo’s apartment building topped a café and bar that catered to gay couples.
Shiro buzzed the eighth floor unit. Once he’d identified himself, Keizo buzzed him in. Shiro removed his shoes just inside the entrance. Being raised by a Japanese mom had taught him well. He took the elevator up, inhaling the scent…of what? It seemed to Shiro he could smell floor cleaner, polish and…sex.
Keizo opened the door to him as soon as he left the elevator. Shiro had only seen him three times, but each time, Shiro became increasingly useless. He was so intoxicated by Keizo’s beauty he couldn’t speak. Keizo was magnificent. He had long, shoulder-length, straight black hair that gleamed. Keizo wore jeans and a white T-shirt, a silver Buddha on a chain around his neck. His face was lovely. He looked as if he belonged to a time hundreds of years ago. He had a beautiful physique but his presence was angelic…there was something dignified and gentle about him. He smiled as Shiro extended the parcel to him.
“Thank you, Shiro-san. You are the only one I trust with my valuables.”
Shiro felt himself blushing as Keizo took the package, their fingers touching. Shiro’s heart started to beat faster and a goofy smile was his only response.
“I just finished a new piece. Would you like to see it?”
Shiro nodded, stumbling over the entrance. Keizo was a mangaka, and Shiro had learnt, one of the most successful and prolific in all of Tokyo. He let out a cry when he saw the piece, balanced on Keizo’s massive work table. It leaned against the wall.
It was extraordinary. A warrior, clad in Feudal-style robes, strode forward, as if he was about to burst through the painting. Everything about him was fearsome, except his face.
My Yakuza Page 1