Kono got a glimpse of the work in question. From this angle, the damned thing did look real. He did a double take when he saw the figure in question. It might have been bronze, but the woman it depicted looked real, all the way to her shoes, socks and red running pants as she tried climbing over the wall, she was the spitting image of the transvestite Kono had rescued.
“Thanks,” he said, and shook the guy’s hand. He didn’t ask why the fire department was there but figured it was a slow day. Kids in Far Rockaway were all about shooting people and shooting up cars. Not setting fires…yet. That, he realised was a damned good thing. He radioed back to headquarters, returning to the station.
Suddenly, the idea of going back there depressed him. A lot.
* * * *
Once opened, the envelope revealed more photographs of the target or barazoku as Nobuo-san had referred to him as with great disrespect. Shiro felt a tingle in his groin as he gazed at the pictures of Detective Kono Takumi who had a slightly different effect on Shiro than his dream Keizo who he’d left in Japan. This man was filled with strength, honour, and determination. He was not a man to trifle with as seen in his eyes. There was both tenderness and cold steel evident, and it had the effect of making Shiro feel safe somehow.
He decided at that very moment that he would never even attempt to kill this man of beauty but instead, work to save his life somehow without endangering the lives of the two women who were dependent upon his actions to save them.
As he searched through the pictures, he came across ones showing Kono coming out of the precinct and getting into his police unit. Other photos revealed where he liked to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner. They had actually followed the homicide detective for an entire day. Much work had been put into setting him up for the kill and Shiro was frightened that retribution would be swift and terrible should he not follow through on the assignment.
Overcome by tiredness since he’d slept very little on the plane, he lay down on the bed and was tempted to take a nap when a knock on the door made him bolt upright causing pain to course through his chest from where the needles had pierced his flesh. He quickly moved to the door with fear eating at his insides at the thought that somehow they had been followed. When he peaked through the door, he saw a little old Japanese woman standing there with bags of groceries in her hands.
He opened the door cautiously and once he was satisfied the woman was alone, opened the door to allow her to come in.
“Shite kudasai, kuru,” he said inviting her into the apartment. “Tabemono o tsurete kite itadaki, arigatō gozai masu,” he said thanking her for bringing the food.
“Watashi wa sābisu no koto o kōei ni omoi masu,” she said in return saying she was honoured to be of service to Shiro.
Without further word, the lady gave a slight bow, turned and left the apartment with her eyes cast downward the entire time. Shiro seriously doubted she could even describe him to anyone who would ask.
Shiro unpacked the bags and put away the food, generally pleased with the selections made by the old woman. He made himself a sandwich and when he’d finished eating, he felt a hundred times better. Still, he was worried now on two fronts. He refused to carry out his assignment, which meant death for him and the two women in Japan, and he was being hunted by adversaries of the Harada clan.
He put the dishes in the sink, grabbed a soda that had been delivered along with the food, and headed to the sofa with the material left for reading. As he began to read he saw mention of a hidden location for a nine-millimetre automatic that he was to use should he chose to shoot his target. He wasn’t exactly sure where the place was, but he knew all he had to do was either take a taxi, or ask Chizu. The note told him to take the ticket with him when he went to pick up the gun. It was a plain, ordinary ticket, like one from an old movie theatre that said simply, “Admit One.” There also was a number down the side of the ticket.
Highlighted in the notes with the photos was the name and address of a bar in New York City. The name was “Iron Hand,” and Shiro guessed that since Kono was gay, that it was more than likely a gay bar. The hint was obvious—this would be a good place to terminate the target. The address of the bar said Eighteenth Street in Manhattan. The bar just might be the answer to the problem.
It was doubtful that the Yakuza would follow Shiro into a gay bar where they would stick out. Even if they did, the music would be loud and he could talk to Kono in secret. He decided that was the best course of action. In preparation for going there, Shiro needed to retrieve the handgun and keep it near him. But first, he needed sleep above all things.
* * * *
The next morning Shiro woke up around nine o’clock, got out of bed and took a quick shower. Standing in the kitchen with just a towel around his waist, he found everything necessary to make coffee and put a pot on. He was quintessentially a Westerner in that he needed coffee in the morning. As the coffee brewed, he threw two pieces of bread into the toaster and that was his breakfast.
He counted the money that he had received from Chizu along with what he’d been given in Japan and found he had a little over four hundred dollars. The Yakuza evidently thought that was more than enough for Shiro to do the job and get back on the plane to Japan.
Shiro decided to venture out on the streets and try and determine if anyone was looking for him. He went down and out of the building and walked to the corner. It took him a moment to adjust to the craziness of the city. Stores and cafes seemed to be squeezed into tight spaces next to each other. At the corner, he hailed a cab. Once inside, he gave the address of the location of the gun that was intended for his use. He reached the location, which turned out to be a pawn shop, and the ticket now made sense.
He entered the shop and looked back out the windows to see if he could spot anyone watching. When he felt it was safe, he approached a three-inch thick plate of bullet-resistant glass that had a bank teller type sill at the bottom. He rang the bell and a little old man of Japanese descent came out.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
Shiro slid the ticket into the metal sill where the shopkeeper took it and read the number. He went to the back of his shop and brought out a small gym bag and opened the locked door at the side.
“Here, this is for you. I have no idea what’s inside, you understand?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Good. Now go…”
With that the door closed and the man disappeared into the rear of his shop, leaving Shiro alone. He walked out of the store, kitty-corner into a vintage clothing shop. The windows were filled with garishly clad mannequins, so he couldn’t be seen from the outside. The smell of used things got to him. His mom adored second-hand clothes. He did not. Siono had a knack for finding brilliant stuff, though. God… as much as his mom sometimes infuriated him, their lives, their stories were entwined. He zipped open the bag. Inside, he found a case and in that a nine-millimetre Glock with two clips of hollow-point ammo.
He didn’t know much about guns, but his best friend back in Oahu was a gun fanatic and had even spent time in juvie for carrying a loaded weapon. Shiro knew a hollow-point bullet meant serious business. He zipped the bag back up and left the shop once again looking around when he hit the street. Everything was Greek. Every corner boasted a Greek café. Even the cleaners seemed to be a Greek establishment. A sign in the middle of the block read Astoria. He wondered if that was the name of the area. Seeing no one that even resembled an Asian male or female, he went into a local café that advertised tasty-looking frappes in icy glasses.
He took a table by a huge, open window. It felt good to feel the fresh air and the throbbing in his chest began to, once again, ease. The waitress was bossy, asking him if he’d tried the Greek coffee drink before.
“It’s strong,” she warned.
”Strong is good.”
“It’s very strong.”
“I like strong.”
He was starting to feel paranoid. Was she trying to give hi
m a code word for something? He blinked at her, weighing his response.
“Anything else?”
Boy, she was intimidating. He scanned the menu. Normally he loved grilled calamari steaks, but he couldn’t even think of eating fish after seeing the live, skewered creature back in Tokyo.
He settled for an early lunch of chicken kabobs. He had food back at the apartment, but it depressed him there. The waitress brought him the frappe. It looked good, in a long, narrow glass with a spoon poking over the edge. Within seconds, black coffee materialised at the bottom of the glass, the rest a kind of foamy, creamy mass. He took a sip and it took a few seconds to taste the liquid. He was shocked at how strong it was. She watched him, a smug expression on her face. She seemed to soften, inexplicably and suggested he keep beating the coffee with the spoon as he drank. He did. He didn’t think he’d ever order another frappe. He longed for a Hawaiian iced tea. He longed, badly, for his whole life. How calm, how full it had been with his studies at the University of Hawaii at Manoa.
There, the toughest thing he’d had to get through was reams and reams of material on wet tarot farming. For three weeks, he’d laboured over the mind-numbing data his college professor had given him. Only thirteen students had chosen the course Shiro had and most of them struggled too, until Shiro’s grandma mentioned one day that tarot farming was the root of all Hawaiian spirituality. Everything back in the day revolved around the seasons, offering different gods fruit and the taro root at different times of the year.
Grandma had cracked the case for him, helping to understand his studies. He read the Hawaiian classics and realised now how privileged his life as a student had been. He wished he’d made more offerings to the Moon goddess, Hina. Maybe she would have looked after Siono who worshipped the watery deity.
What day was it? He checked his cell phone. Friday. Man, he’d lost all track of time. In Hawaii, if he were home right now, he’d be grabbing a picnic lunch and heading over to ‘Iolani Palace to listen to the Royal Hawaiian Band entertain the locals with songs written over two hundred years ago. He missed everything about his island home. Why hadn’t Siono ever grown to love the place?
The waitress brought his food and he nibbled at the surprisingly greasy contents of the big white plate. He kept an eye on the street but saw nothing that gave him a concern… except a volatile game of backgammon being conducted by two old men across the road at an outdoor café. They shook their fists in each other’s faces.
As Shiro finished, he put a quick call through to his grandma. He didn’t give her any news, just left his new number. He didn’t say aloha, or that he missed her. Grandma wasn’t like that. As he rose, he saw the two old men were hugging each other. He left the café and caught a cab back to his neighbourhood, getting out about a block from the apartment. He walked slowly, stopping occasionally, using the windows of stores to look around the immediate area. Finding nothing that concerned him, he sped up and returned to his apartment.
Once inside, he took out the weapon and jammed a clip into the handle and pulled the slide back, inserting a round into the chamber. Man, he’d learnt too well from his buddy back home. Home. He looked to make sure that the safety was on and put the gun down on the bed. The weapon both scared and comforted Shiro. He’d never killed someone before but felt, if he had the chance, he would kill the men who were after him now.
The ring of his cell phone jarred Shiro out of his musing.
“Hello?”
“This is your Aunt Sadie. Did you have a fine lunch at that Greek restaurant today?”
“How did you know about that?” he asked nervously.
“I told you before, you are being watched continuously and the fact that you were not aware of it even though you took amateurish attempts to spot someone, you failed. When are you going after the package?”
Knowing she was talking about Kono, he responded, “I’m going to try and find him tonight and study him first.”
“You have two days to complete your assignment. Do you understand? If you fail, those who wait for you will not fare well.”
“Wait! No one—”
Chizu hung up without letting Shiro finish.
Damn that woman! Once again the life of his mother was being threatened even though Shiro believed her to already be dead. But he knew Miki was still alive and therefore in danger.
Panic began to set in as Shiro felt the noose tightening around his neck. He had to take action, but what kind of action? Should he call Kono and explain everything to him? Or was his cell phone being monitored somehow? He didn’t dare risk using the one given to him by Chizu.
Shiro put the gun under his pillow, left the apartment and went up one flight of stairs and knocked on the door to apartment four-o-one. When a little old man answered the door and almost slammed it back in his face, Shiro stuck his foot in the door.
“Please, do you have a phone book I can look at? It’s most urgent,” he said with pleading eyes.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I’m your new neighbour who has moved into three-o-nine and I don’t have a phone yet.”
“Three-o-nine? That’s Mrs. Tenaska’s apartment. Has something happened to her?” he demanded to know.
“No, she’s fine. She’s visiting friends in Colorado and I’m staying here for a few days while she’s there. Now can I please see a phone book?”
“Okay, come in,” the elderly man said. “Can’t trust too many people around here, end up getting hurt or worse.”
“I understand, sir. I really do, which is why I appreciate your letting me in. The phone book?”
“Oh, it’s right here.”
Shiro took the book and looked up the phone number for the one hundred and first precinct and found a phone number also listed for the homicide bureau. “Can I use your phone? It’s local.”
“Well, go on, you might as well, you’re here now,” he said slightly irritated.
“Thank you, sir,” Shiro said as he dialed the number.
“Homicide, Brooks speaking.”
“Yes, is Detective Kono Takumi there? It’s urgent.”
“Hold on, lemme see if I can find him,” came the terse response.
As Shiro waited, the old man paced the floor mumbling to himself about letting strangers in his home.
“Takumi, how can I help you?”
“Ah, Detective, you don’t know me but it’s real important that I meet with you tonight and not in the station. What time do you get off duty?”
“Who is this? And what do you want to see me about?” a suspicious voice asked.
“My name isn’t important for the moment, but believe me when I tell you it’s in your best interest to meet me say at the Iron Hand, around eleven tonight?”
“First of all, I don’t go to that bar and second, if you think I’m just gonna meet someone who calls on the phone and won’t identify himself, you’re nuts! Now either answer my questions, or I’m hanging up.”
“My name isn’t important. What’s important is that I was sent to kill you. I’m not going to do that, but we must talk or your former affiliation in Japan will be the end of you.”
“Japan? How do I know you won’t try and kill me if I show up at the bar?”
“Would I be calling you now and warning you if I intended to kill you? Wise up man, and trust me. I’m trying to get both of us out of a jam here.”
“It doesn’t matter what time I get off. I’ll meet you at eleven at the Iron Hand. But I warn you, if this is a trick, you’ll be the one that ends up in a box, you get me?”
“If we’re not careful, we’ll both end up in boxes!”
“Eleven,” Kono said and hung up.
Shiro felt a slight bit of relief that he’d made contact and that he would be meeting Kono to figure out what they were going to do.
“Are you finished?”
“Oh, yes sir, thank you very much. Can I give you something for your trouble?” Shiro asked pulling out some money.
Shiro quickly left the apartment and flew down the stairs and back into his own apartment. There he sat down on the small sofa and tried to get his breathing under control. He’d crossed that invisible line that now made him a target with two Yakuza clans and placed the lives of four people in jeopardy.
Shiro decided to call Chizu and tell her he was going to watch and observe Kono later tonight and grabbed the cell phone. He looked up the call list on the phone, found only one entry for Aunt Sadie, and hit the dial button. The phone rang and rang with no answer. He waited a couple of minutes and tried again. This time the phone was answered.
“Yes?” said a male voice.
Startled, Shiro didn’t know what to do.
“Who is this?”
“Is Aunt Sadie there?” Shiro asked with this heart in his throat.
“No Aunt here,” the gruff voice said and the line went dead.
They had gotten to Chizu. Shiro panicked again and jumped up from the sofa and grabbed the gun placing it in the gym bag along with all of the photos and information on Kono. He knew that if the Yakuza had Chizu, it was very possible they could break her and find where he was living. Shiro had to change locations once more. Taking one final look around the apartment, Shiro headed down to the first floor and quickly hid behind the stairs when he saw four Asian men approach and enter into the front of the apartment building. He listened as they quarreled at not finding Shiro in the apartment. With a feeling of relief, Shiro left through a back door that led to a very smelly alley that members of the homeless community apparently used to sleep in at night.
Where to go? Shiro jumped into a cab. Fear had a firm grip on him as much as relief. He’d escaped them once more.
“Where to bud?” the cabbie asked.
My Yakuza Page 5