by Amy Tasukada
“Don’t let them keep you here too long. Your ward needs you,” Nao said. “And I want your ward to be the tightest of all in Kyoto. So get well soon.”
The subtle hint of a good-bye was lost on Fujimoto, who brought up something else to talk about before Nao could get out the door. He listened as patiently as he could but eventually cut Fujimoto off to say a firm good-bye.
Ikida’s mother was staying at the other side of the hospital, and with another fruit basket bought, Nao and Kurosawa made their way down the halls. He passed a few nurses, who scurried away from them. Nao could only guess that the word was out that a bunch of mobsters were wandering the halls, and Kurosawa walked with so much swagger it was impossible to hide their connection with the underworld.
Kurosawa opened the door for them, interrupting Ikida midsentence as he read a book to his mother. The wrinkles on her face looked like a withered satsuma orange, and the machines around her beeped steadily.
In a way, Nao was happy his father had never had to go through a slow, lingering death. But being filled with bullets and having his eyes plucked from his head was something he would never have wished for either.
“Father Murata.” Ikida stood and gave a deep bow that showed off a bald spot on the back of his head.
“Sorry to hear about your mother,” Nao said. “We brought you a fruit basket.”
Kurosawa presented the fruit—more peaches and apples—and put it on the table beside some flowers.
“Thank you for your gracious gift,” Ikida said. “I’m sorry for my absence from the meeting with the allied godfathers. I can assure you Sakai did not steer you off course when he suggested myself as the underboss.”
The formality of Ikida’s words felt sincere. Perhaps not all of Sakai’s suggestions were designed to spy on him. He had met Ikida once before, at the party to honor him as godfather, but his memory of everyone had been blurred by the pain medication and sake.
“Do you come from the street or the business side of the family?” Nao asked.
“I used to be one of the lawyers helping when the police interrogated members of our street teams. I hope my time with them will lead me to be an underboss you can rely on for communication with both the street and business sides of the Matsukawa.”
Nao smiled. “I hope so, Ikida. Has she lived in Kyoto all her life?”
“We come from an old aristocratic family. She still lives in the same estate built in the Edo period.”
A pang of jealousy shot through Nao. Before World War II, his family had worked as meat-packers, a profession better left forgotten. Nao pressed his lips together. To be able to trace a family line back to the 1600s and to have aristocratic blood on top of it was astonishing.
“Do you have the key to Miko’s apartment?” Nao asked.
“Of course. Do you need it?”
“I wanted to send her some family photos for Obon.”
“What a wonderful idea.” Ikida reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of keys before detaching one and handing it to Nao.
Nao took the key and put it into his pocket. What he needed to do was flush Miko’s drugs down the toilet and, with that, destroy the last connection with drugs the Matsukawa had. Detective Yamada was not going to legally pin that dead body on them.
“Well, until next time,” Nao said.
Ikida gave a formal good-bye, which left Nao smiling. Finally someone treated him like he deserved.
Nao held on to the key inside his pocket, its teeth pressing into his palm, as they walked outside the hospital.
“I parked over here.” Kurosawa pointed to the parking lot in the opposite direction of the train station.
“And I’m used to taking the train.” Nao shrugged. “It’s a good way to see the city.”
If they took a car, Nao wouldn’t be able to sneak back to the train station to destroy the drugs.
“Most godfathers don’t take the trains.”
“Most of them are old men who dress in tracksuits.”
Nao continued his stroll down the street, and Kurosawa followed.
“I’ll call someone to get the car,” Kurosawa said.
“Good idea. They can drive Fujimoto home.” Nao glanced to Kurosawa. “You know the way to Miko’s house?”
“Of course, Father Murata.”
“YOU KNEW OYAMA?” Nao asked, referring to the street leader who’d died at the hands of the Koreans.
“I helped him out when he needed to be two places at once,” Kurosawa said.
“Hmm… I don’t remember ever seeing you with him.”
“Because I was always in the other place he needed to be.”
Nao slowed his pace, allowing Kurosawa to jump ahead and open the door to the lobby of Miko’s condo. The white marble floors glittered, and two purple orchids flanked the reception desk. They bypassed it and entered a shiny, copper-colored elevator.
Kurosawa’s reflection warped, exaggerating his bulk. Once they got to Kyoto’s main station, he’d have to distract the block of muscles while he went to Miko’s locker and dumped the drugs. Perhaps Kurosawa would obey better if Nao were friendly with him.
“You have a wife or something?” Nao asked.
Kurosawa glanced back over his shoulder, a blank look on his face. “Nope.”
“Girlfriend?”
“The job’s my girlfriend.”
There went any plans to convince Kurosawa to spend a night with a loved one instead of watching him. Maybe Nao could wait until Kurosawa slept and sneak out then.
“You know, my last bodyguard hated following me,” Nao mumbled.
“And the day he didn’t, the Koreans killed him in a failed attempt to kidnap you.”
“Yeah…”
Another lie Nao had told his father. Lies had rolled off Nao’s tongue so easily the few months he’d intertwined his life with the Korean second-in-command, Saehyun. Nao had told one thing to him, another to his father, and a whole other bundle of lies to himself.
Nao ran his fingers through his hair and swallowed the truth.
It would’ve been easier if he had died during his raid on the Koreans. Sakai knew everyone, and everyone trusted him. Nao couldn’t gain all the families’ trust in such a short amount of time. He cursed himself for not staying in the Matsukawa instead of his four-year retreat as a tea seller. He would’ve developed a relationship with everyone instead of them watching him fail at every turn.
If he were gone, then Sakai would be the active godfather, but Sakai didn’t care about the city. He cared about profits. The city called out for Nao to protect it, and it was the only reason why he was still alive. Nao couldn’t reject what the city willed. All of Japan looked to Kyoto to keep the old traditions flourishing, and if Nao didn’t fulfill his duty filth would corrode the city and Kyoto would be reduced to a junkie’s wet dream.
Kurosawa cleared his throat. “This is our floor.”
His arm blocked the elevator door from closing, as if Nao had been too distracted and the doors had tried to shut on them. Nao mumbled a thanks and stepped out.
A few meters down the hall, they entered Miko’s home. The blue-gray wall did little to inspire, and the clean lines of Miko’s white leather furniture left Nao lackluster.
He ran his finger through a thick layer of dust on a wooden end table. “Who’s taking care of Miko’s place?”
“Ikida had the key, remember?”
“So I should blame him for the mess. It’s disrespectful. The dust bunnies have taken over.”
“I’ll tell him to clean.”
Nao glanced at a clock. It was dinnertime, so if Detective Yamada wanted the biggest audience to hold a press conference it would be the perfect time. Nao clicked the TV and in a few seconds found a news station.
One minute passed, then two, and no word about a press conference with the police. Even the ticker at the bottom of the screen showed no upcoming talks. Nao chewed on his bottom lip. He’d gift wrapped the Korean drug dealer for Yamada.
He had his person to blame. Unless Kurosawa had told someone to clean up the dealer before the detective came. But that would be ridiculous since he’d known Nao had personally told the detective to come.
“Missing a show?” Kurosawa asked.
Nao shrugged. “Checking the weather.”
“Not worrying about the body?”
“Why would I worry about a drug dealer?”
Nao turned but left the TV on. The design of the modern room kept the family altar notched into the wall by the entry. Nao ran his fingers across the surface of one of the picture frames, making a clean line through the layers of dust.
“Clean these when you get the photos out,” Nao said. “I’ll look to see if she has more elsewhere.”
Thankfully, Kurosawa decided the condo was safe enough to not follow Nao as he wandered off down the hallway. Miko’s copy of I am the Cat called him, and the lingering acid in his stomach wouldn’t leave until he’d destroyed every last one of the Matsukawa’s drugs. The family didn’t need to keep such a vile contingency plan.
He opened doors, coming to a bathroom and bedroom before finally arriving at Miko’s office. The walls were lined with books, and a metal desk stood in the center.
He skimmed the bookshelf until he found I am the Cat nestled between a few other Japanese classics. Nao had read most of them, including the one he held. For a brief second he forgot about the key inside the book and imagined how Nobu would describe life at the Matsukawa headquarters. There’d no doubt be a chapter dedicated to throwing pens and the joy of watching the humans scurry about when she knocked over teacups.
He shook the image of Nobu scribing away in a notebook and took the book off the shelf. He flipped through the pages until a notch appeared in the center by the seam.
His breath burst out of him like he had been punched in the gut. The hole was big enough for the key, but it wasn’t there. Nao turned the book over, flipping through the pages in case she had crammed it in a random page, but still no key. He grabbed the other books on the shelf. He might’ve misheard her, but all the Japanese classics were thin and unable to conceal a key with an attached locker number tag.
His fingers tingled until they became numb. If the key was missing, it meant someone had gotten to the drugs. He closed his eyes, pressing his head against the edge of the bookcase. Perhaps Yamada was right. The drugs coursing through the city weren’t the Koreans’ fault but the Matsukawa’s.
Sakai knew about the drugs. He could’ve come before Ikida or Fujimoto had even possessed Miko’s apartment key and taken the locker key for safekeeping. Then he’d chosen not to tell Nao about it because he knew Nao would never accept the Matsukawa dealing.
There was no way Nao could ask Fujimoto, Ikida, or Sakai the whereabouts of the key. Whoever had taken took it would realize Nao knew about the locker filled with drugs and would be tipped off. Then Nao would never find out who deserved punishment.
A dusty framed picture of a woman and a girl dressed in yukata sat on top of the desk. The girl resembled a young Miko, and the woman must’ve been her mother. Nao had never looked as happy in any of the photographs of him with his father.
Nao rubbed his face and plopped in the chair. The dust bunnies scattered over pens and papers, but then he noticed it. A line of dust was disturbed beside a silver box on the desk.
Nao hadn’t touched anywhere near the box. Someone else had ventured into Miko’s apartment recently, or else dust would’ve covered the line. He lifted the lid on the box, and there was the key.
Not returning the key to the correct place meant there had to be two people involved. Unless the first didn’t care about keeping the key where it belonged and had only wanted the drugs.
“That’s not good,” Kurosawa said, his voice muffled from the distance between them.
Nao pushed the key into his pocket and snatched the family photo. He sprinted into the living room.
“What’s going on?” Nao asked.
“They’re predicting rain all this week. If that’s true, they think they might not be able to light the Daimoji.”
The Daimoji was the culmination of the Obon festival. Kyoto lit five bonfires in the mountains surrounding the city, each representing a different Buddhist symbol to guide the spirits back to the underworld after their three-day stay with their living relatives. The first day of the Obon celebration started tomorrow night when the spirits of the dead came back to visit.
“They’ll be able to light the fire,” Nao said. “They always do. Did you get the photos ready?”
“Yes, and I texted Ikida about bringing a team in here once a week to clean.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“Dinner should be ready by the time we get back to headquarters,” Kurosawa said.
Food was the last thing on Nao’s mind. He could worry about eating after he’d flushed the Matsukawa’s “contingency plan” down the toilet. They were done with that as an option forever. Then he could spend the night searching for any more Korean mobsters who’d slipped through his fingers.
“NEXT STOP, MAIN Kyoto station,” the prerecorded voice said over the train’s loudspeaker.
Headquarters was still five stops away, and for the last twenty minutes, Nao’s scattered mind hadn’t come up with any excuse to get off early. Nao ran his fingers through his hair. He needed to get the drugs out of the locker and flushed down the toilet so the Matsukawa could once and for all be done with any connection to them.
Kurosawa jiggled his foot as he poked at his phone, no doubt sharing every detail of Nao’s day with Sakai. Nao’s chest tightened as more people shuffled around him like they knew the Matsukawa dirtied itself like the Korean mob. He felt like an idiot for trusting what his father had said about the Matsukawa never dealing drugs. Not even if father had cared if all of Japan looked to them to keep the old traditions alive; they were helping the city spiral into decay.
“We would’ve been home by now if we’d taken the car,” Kurosawa said. “But I got the house to delay dinner so it won’t be cold.”
Nao ignored Kurosawa, focusing on the train map on the wall alongside advertising for the different Obon festivals.
Like any good Kyoto festival, smaller ceremonies lead up to the final celebration Daimoji bonfire. In the past, Nao had participated in each one, but with the mountain of paperwork at headquarters, he probably would be absent from half of them. He pressed his lips together, a soreness pressing against his throat.
He used to enjoy Obon. The thought of Shinya, the man he’d planned to spend the rest of his life with, returning for three days was welcomed. But with his father’s and Saehyun’s ghosts returning as well, all the warm fuzzy feelings disappeared.
“I was thinking,” Nao started, “it might be nice to buy some imagawayaki for the new recruits. You know, for Obon. To show how we’re their family now.”
The only thing Nao had eaten today was miso soup in the morning and the tea Aki had served. No wonder food became the excuse to leave the train. Imagawayaki, two cakes with red bean paste sandwiched between, was his favorite summer snack.
“We can always have one of the recruits get them. Then you can get to the paperwork Sakai left for you,” Kurosawa said.
“The gesture will be lost if someone else gets them. Miko says I have to build a relationship with the new recruits, and I haven’t done that yet.”
“Well you have told them they can’t make tea.” Kurosawa chuckled. “All right, they’re bound to have them at the main station.”
Kurosawa looked like he wanted to say something else but then pressed his lips together. It probably would’ve been something about Sakai.
Another announcement for the next stop echoed in the train. Nao slumped on the bench and readjusted the sling strap irritating the back of his neck. Nao needed to be tough to gain the respect of recruits who had never met him or didn’t believe the stories floating around. Parading around with a sling would make him a weakling and not gain respect from the rec
ruits.
Kurosawa cleared his throat. “Your father talked about you a lot.”
Kurosawa’s small talk wouldn’t convince Nao not to replace him.
“Did he talk about how I should get married or how he was glad I stopped being in the yakuza?” Nao shrugged.
“What you were able to accomplish for the Matsukawa in one night—”
“If it wasn’t for what I did, more than half of Kyoto’s underground would be speaking Korean, and who knows what the crime rate would be.”
“Exactly, you’re—”
“I didn’t ask for you.” Nao narrowed his eyes and deepened his tone as he continued. “Sakai put you by my side, and if you die while watching me, I won’t sip my tea any differently.”
Kurosawa shook his head and said nothing else. He was a muscle-bound jackass who wanted nothing more than to peel away each layer of Nao’s life and text it to Sakai. Kurosawa and Nao could never get on friendly terms.
Their stop came. Nao stepped off the train and moved with the bustling crowds to the main shopping area. Nao pressed the locker key against his palm, letting a crowd of ladies pass.
Kurosawa would follow if he went to the lockers, but Nao couldn’t allow another person to know about the Matsukawa stockpile of drugs. Nao needed to distract him. He glanced back. Luckily, Kurosawa poked at his phone, no doubt texting Sakai.
“Did you see that?” Nao asked.
“What?” Kurosawa looked up from his phone. “What happened?”
“He stole that guy’s wallet.” Lying was the only thing Nao could think of to separate himself from Kurosawa.
“Who?”
“The guy in the suit.” Nao pointed to a cluster of suited men walking by. “We can’t allow petty crime in Kyoto or else people will think they can do anything. Go get him.”
Kurosawa hesitated, looking back at Nao and then to the crowd.
Nao sighed. “I’ll do it myself, then.”
The sling threw off his balance toward the left, but he managed a good sprint toward one of the nameless suits in the crowd. Kurosawa joined a few feet after. Their chase of whichever suit was heading in the right direction continued down the escalator and toward the movie theater.