by Frank Stein
I nodded. “Sounds good. A bit of the Milwaukee scene plus high-end cuisine.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s the plan? We’re going to kill them in a restaurant? That’s pretty over-the-top, I guess.”
“No, you ass. We’re not going to kill them in the restaurant.”
“Then what?”
“We’re going to set up the scenario at Fifth Base. You’re going to start a fight with a group of guys.”
“What group of guys?”
“I don’t know yet. A group that’s drinking. Some dudes who look like they could be capable of violence.”
“So you want me to start a fight and hope these guys come over and beat our Japanese clients to death? Doesn’t sound like a very good plan. How do I stop them from bashing my head in?”
Mo looked up at the sky. “Ya-Allah. You need to start thinking a couple of steps ahead. No, you want to get to a point where things get heated, but nothing violent actually happens.”
“Okay, then what?”
“Then we leave and head back to the cars. Fifth Base has a rear parking lot that’s quite secluded and usually empty—it’s only used for the overflow when there’s a ballgame.”
“Okay.”
Mo was quiet. She looked at me and smiled. “You finish the scenario now.”
I thought about it. It was obvious now. “We kill them in the lot and then take off? Or we injure ourselves a bit and say we were all attacked by a bunch of drunk biker-thugs?”
Mo nodded. “That’s about right. We can work through the details over the course of the next few days, but that’s generally right.”
I flicked my cigarette into the river. A young woman in jeans and a tie-dye gave me a look that would have killed me if looks could do that.
I turned back to Mo. “You know, with all this talk of death plans and cannolis and swordfish, I just realized something.”
“What?”
“I don’t even know what these guys have done. I mean, why are we killing them?”
TWENTY
“Yoshi and Aki are part of a group called the Japanese Young Patriots,” said Mo.
We strolled along the Milwaukee River as we discussed the reasons why we’d be murdering three relative strangers who were trying to set up a business in America’s heartland. I wanted it to seem out of place, but somehow it didn’t.
“So what?” I said. “Japan is an independent democratic nation and one of our closest allies. I can’t imagine we need to be worried about patriotic Japanese youth. I mean, come on—Japanese kids soak up American culture.”
Mo nodded. “You’re right, for the most part.”
“So correct me.” I lit another cigarette and nodded at a group of teenagers drinking beer at an outdoor table.
“You know our history with Japan, I assume?”
“You mean World War II?” I looked at her.
She nodded.
I smiled. “You’re kidding, right?”
Mo shook her head. “That wasn’t so long ago.”
I laughed. “This is absurd. You’re saying that Japan wants revenge for losing in the Pacific?”
“Not Japan per se, no. The Japanese government itself is staunchly pro-American.”
“Then what? Some old timers that are still pissed about Hiroshima and Nagasaki? We had no choice, you know. We would have sacrificed hundreds of thousands of our soldiers if we had to fight the Japanese one island at a time. So this group is just some faction of hardliners, like there must still be some old Nazi sentiments alive in Germany?” I thought for a moment. “Wait, but you said Japanese Young Patriots. So these are Japan’s neo-Nazis?”
Mo smiled. “Not exactly. JYP is actually a peaceful group that is probably closer to something like the Young Democrats or Young Republicans in the US. Basically students and activists with mainstream political ambitions. No big deal at all.”
“Then why are we about to butcher two of their members?” I was getting sick of Mo’s roundabout explanations.
“Japan is a unique country. The people are a product of an island nation mentality combined with a historically powerful imperialist culture. I’m talking about thousands of years of military dominance in the region. Remember, some people argue that World War II actually started when Japan sailed up the Yangtze River to invade China in 1937.”
“Okay. Get to it, Mo.”
“This is important,” said Mo. She stopped walking and sat down on a bench overlooking the river. I stood in front of the bench and looked out across the gently flowing water.
“Fine. Go on,” I said.
“Anyway, the imperial culture of Japan runs so deep that after World War II, the people literally looked to the United States as their new ruler. General MacArthur, the American who oversaw Japan’s transition to democracy after the war, was thought of as a king.” Mo paused to light a cigarette. “So, in some way, Japan subconsciously believes itself to be a dominion of the United States.”
“This is getting a bit heavy,” I said.
Mo smiled. “Let me finish.”
I nodded.
“And now that more young Japanese are studying their history, these subconscious beliefs are bubbling to the surface and manifesting themselves as feelings of inferiority and subjugation. The Japanese are used to being the dominant empire, and these needs are deeply ingrained in the country’s psyche.”
I shook my head. “We’re psychoanalyzing an entire nation now?”
Mo took another drag on her cigarette and quietly watched the smoke hang and then dissipate in the hot Wisconsin afternoon. “My point is that now there’s a growing faction of young Japanese men and women who sincerely believe that Japan must effect some kind of military victory over the United States. It’s an idea that satisfies this old need for dominance.”
“So it’s revenge.” I shrugged.
Mo shook her head and sighed. “No. It’s deeper and more complicated than that.”
I was quiet. Some of this was going way over my head. Not all of it though—there was something in Mo’s conspiracy theory that rang true. Still, I was having a hard time connecting this abstract analysis with the very specific and practical act of killing two men in cold blood.
“So you’re saying Yoshi and Aki are part of this fanatical youth faction that wants to go to war with the United States?” I said. “But, if what you say is true, there must be hundreds of people like them.”
“Yoshi and Aki are two of a small group of people who are taking real and measurable steps towards creating a military infrastructure for this underground movement,” said Mo. “Their work here is part of a larger scheme. A pretty ambitious scheme that, quite frankly, I don’t think could ever work.” She smiled and shook her head. “But regardless, we have to take it seriously, because no one else is.”
“What’s the scheme? They’re going to start a biker gang that invades US cities on cheap Harley knock-offs? We already have gangs running most of our cities. Good luck to Yoshi and Aki. They wouldn’t get past Ohio.” I laughed.
Mo smiled. “You’re not so far off base. They are looking for ways to begin stockpiling heavy military equipment in the United States.”
I stared at her. “And this motorcycle company idea is going to be a cover for hiding military equipment that the Japanese underground youth will eventually leverage to launch an attack against the US? That’s absurd.”
Mo shrugged. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s their plan. This new company will eventually build heavy duty motorcycles as well as all-terrain-vehicles. Part of their plan would be to import manufacturing equipment from Japan.”
“So they can smuggle in parts for military equipment by disguising it in shipments of random other parts and machines?”
“That’s one aspect of the plan.”
“What’s the other?”
Mo shook her head. “Apparently, their US manufacturing facilities will contain basement areas dedicated to actually building tanks and othe
r armored vehicles.”
I laughed so loud that some people on the deck of a passing tourist boat looked up at us. “You are not being serious.” I looked at Mo. She was serious.
“Look,” I said. I had to wait for a minute so I could stop laughing. “Even if this is true, then why not just hand over these so-called plans to the FBI or Homeland Security? They can watch for any signs of it and then bust it up the legal and nonviolent way.”
Mo shook her head. “Even if our government takes this seriously, they will likely launch an investigation. Which might scare off Yoshi and Aki.”
“Well, good. Then we won’t have to kill them. And the USA will be safe from the angry Japanese kids.” I shook my head and lit another cigarette.
“Frank, I promise you these guys are serious. This plan may sound like a joke to us, but these guys are not joking around. If they get scared off, they will find another way.” Mo shook her head and got up from the bench. “No, we have a chance to take these guys out, and we have to do it. In fact, the longer we wait, the more likely it becomes that our government will get wind of their plans, and then these guys will disappear and we'll have missed our shot.”
“Okay. But even if we do take them out, won’t some other leader of this youth movement just step up?”
“Maybe, but they won’t have the same resources at their command. Yoshi and Aki are part of the Chimura family—rogue members, but secretly so. With them gone, the movement will not be able to use the Chimura group of companies as a vehicle for their plans.” Mo started walking back towards the office. She looked back at me and spoke over her shoulder. “Remember, people with far-fetched plans but a shitload of cash are more dangerous than those with great plans but no means to implement them.”
I jogged to catch up with her. “Okay. But what about Takahashi? He certainly ain’t no youth.”
Mo laughed. “No, but he’s in on it with Yoshi and Aki. No doubt about it. All three have to go. We do it now, so our kids in uniform don’t have to do it later and at greater risk to themselves and civilians.”
I shrugged. “I guess it’s fitting enough for potential enemies of the US to be beaten to death outside a sports bar in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”
“Yes,” said Mo. “There’s something poetic about that.”
I nodded as I felt a blast of adrenaline race through my system. I didn’t say another word as we walked for almost twenty minutes along the river. I was thinking about the next few days and how I would talk through PowerPoint presentations and financial models with the men I would be killing at the end of the week.
TWENTY-ONE
The rest of that week flew by. I worked with Mo in a small corner office at C&C’s downtown building. I only saw our three clients once—they stopped by to meet with Mo. No PowerPoint needed, so I was left in the small office alone to figure out which sets of optimistic assumptions to plug into our ludicrous Excel financial models.
We didn’t speak about our end-of-project plans at all. There was a lot of work to be done on the strategy report, and it was just the two of us working it. Mo was surprisingly hands-on for a partner, and she embarrassed me several times by pointing out errors with my revenue and profitability calculations. With everything else going on, I had forgotten how good a consultant Mo was, not to mention how focused you had to be to work with her. By Friday night, I was exhausted both mentally and physically.
I got back to the hotel and collapsed on the bed and lay there for what must have been close to an hour. After I blinked away the recurring images of spreadsheets and pie charts, I stood up and changed. I contemplated the gym, but instead simply went through my evening routine. I had found that to be almost as good as a workout, with the added benefit of the odd mental peace it gave me. What I had only suspected earlier was now clear to me: that feeling of tranquility was in fact confidence. I was learning to accept what I was becoming.
I slept well that night, which was good, because Mo called my cell at seven on Saturday morning.
“Good morning, Frank.”
“Hey,” I mumbled.
“Breakfast in ten?”
“How about fifteen?” I rolled over and reached for my cigarettes.
“Ten,” said Mo. She hung up.
Twelve minutes later I was downstairs. I saw Mo sitting at a table in the hotel coffee shop that overlapped with the lobby. She was surrounded by a plate of fruit and a cup of coffee and a newspaper, and it looked like she had been there for a while.
“You’re late,” she said as she folded the paper and dropped it onto one of the three empty chairs near her.
“Not that late,” I said. “Not late enough for you to have finished the newspaper and drunk your coffee and eaten breakfast already, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Mo smiled. “Well, well, well. Aren’t we in a perky mood this morning. Slept well?”
“Actually, yes.”
Mo nodded. She smiled again.
“What?” I said, and smiled back at her. It had been a long hard week working in close quarters with Mo, and we had gotten to know each other pretty well. Not well in the sense that we talked about childhoods or personal lives. More like we were getting used to being around each other. I kind of liked it—and her. She was tough and demanding, but she also had a sense of fairness and straightforwardness that made you want to do well and please her. She was an excellent leader, and she must have been a wonderful mother.
I went to the breakfast buffet and filled up my plate with a small portion of the heavily buttered scrambled eggs, two Wisconsin sausage links, and a large bowl of fruit and oatmeal. I ate quickly and in silence, not in the least bit self-conscious about the fact that Mo was watching me shovel the food into my mouth. As I said, we had eaten every meal together for the past week now, and I pretty much expected her to be around at any given time.
Mo waited until I was done with everything but my coffee. “Okay,” she said, “should we step outside for a smoke?”
I nodded and gulped down the rest of my coffee. We walked outside down to the end of the block facing the Milwaukee Convention Center, which was not being used that weekend. There were a surprising number of birds flapping about and chirping away, and it was only when I noticed how low the sun was that I remembered it wasn’t even eight in the morning yet.
Mo lit both our cigarettes and then put on her sunglasses. “I think we’re going to do separate cars this Friday.”
“You mean you and I will drive to the restaurant separately?”
“No. I mean we’ll tell Takahashi and Yoshi and Aki to meet us there. I checked with them, and they have a rental car that they’ve been sharing.”
I shrugged. “Okay. That makes it easier for us, right? I mean, we won’t have to fake any injuries to ourselves this way. We can just do the job and leave in our car and tell the police that we left before they did, end of matter.”
Mo nodded. “Yes, that part is easier. We just need to make sure they park in the rear lot along with us.”
“Right. So we need to meet beforehand and get them to follow us there. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“No, I don’t think so. They’re staying at the Hyatt, which is pretty close to the C&C office.” She dragged on her cigarette, took a look at the burning butt, and then dropped it into the gutter near the curb. “We’ll just have to remember to have one of us step outside during dinner to move our car.”
I looked at Mo. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s going to be a messy scene. We can’t afford to have our car dirtied or dented by accident.”
I thought for a moment. “Oh, I see. Since they’ll be following us into the lot, they’ll probably park right next to us.” I nodded and smiled. “Damn. That’s what I call detailed planning.”
Mo smiled. “Remember, paranoia is king.”
I shook my head and looked at the ground. I would have to learn to think like this. This was almost more important than practicing my slasher moves in the hotel room.
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br /> “Don’t worry,” said Mo. “It’ll come to you. Soon you’ll be going over these situations from every angle as often as you breathe.”
I nodded. My cigarette had burned halfway through the filter and it smelled awful. I threw it into the street and lit another. “You said messy. What are we going to use? Knives?”
“I’m not sure yet. It kind of depends on the group of guys we pick on at the bar.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I looked down the empty avenue. “Seems like our plan still depends on a random group of guys being there. And me being able to rile them up enough that other people notice.”
Mo followed my gaze down the deserted street. “Yes. But there’s a plan B.”
I turned and looked at her. “Which is?”
Mo sighed. “If we can’t pull off the scene in the bar, then you and I will have to stage a mugging in the lot. And then we’ll use knives.”
I felt cold even though the sun was moving higher and getting brighter. “Okay,” I managed to say.
Mo looked at the ground. “I don’t want to have to go to plan B, though. It’ll be a lot more complicated.”
“Because we’ll actually have to rob them? Which means we might leave evidence on their clothes or on their wallets or watches or whatever?”
Mo nodded. “That, and also because the police will pay a hell of a lot more attention to something that looks like a pre-planned robbery-murder.”
I paced on the sidewalk and then stopped and crossed my arms across my chest and nodded. “Whereas if they find these guys killed in what seems like a bar fight that ended in the parking lot, they’re more likely to chalk it up to a one-time thing and give up on it if they don’t find much evidence up-front.”
“Exactly.” Mo smiled. “But I think we’ll be okay. What are the chances of a bar in Wisconsin being empty on a Friday night?”
TWENTY-TWO
The chances, it turned out, were zero. In fact, we wouldn’t even have gotten a table if Mo hadn’t made reservations in the dining area at the back of the bar. The bar itself was overflowing with people wearing everything from standard Harley leather to ballroom gowns. Wisconsin truly was the heartland of the melting pot.