by H. L. Valdez
“Stay with me tonight," he said roughly. "I don’t want to be alone. Besides, I know you love me," he said with an insincere grin. "No other man can satisfy you like I can. I know how you like it.”
“Watch your mouth in public. Don’t get too smart,” she warned, looking at him from the corner of her eye as they walked the length of the bar toward the cashier. Nick's bodyguard looked up from the paper, sipping his beer.
“I make you quiver the best,” he snickered.
"You jerk!" She shouted, abruptly turning, whacking Nick with an uppercut to the jaw, sending him reeling against the bar. Nick’s bodyguards saw the commotion and hurried toward him. Sasha’s beefy 290-pound bodyguard was already standing in place, moving toward Sasha and signaling two massive Yakuza soldiers waiting at the front door to enter the restaurant. The restaurant manager rushed to aid Nick as the bartender was jumping over the counter. Instantly, Yoshida delivered a side snap kick to the bartender's groin knocking him head first into the marble edge of the bar. With blood leaking from his scalp, he rose quickly to attack Yoshida, who rapidly kicked him again, knocking him face first, into the bar, with blood spurting from another gash in his head. The manager lunged at Sasha from behind, punching her head. Countering quickly, she delivered an elbow strike to his face followed by a knee hammer kick to his groin sending him reeling and screaming to the floor with a broken nose, doubled over in pain. Behind each of her punches were years of grueling training with yakuza karate masters, who were ancestors of ninja warriors, trained as espionage agents in feudal Japan. Her muscle memory in Ninjutsu made her warrior trained -- Ninja trained.
Nick, regaining his senses, stood up, made a fist with his right hand, and swung at Sasha’s bleeding scalp. Automatically extending her arm, blocking his punch, she delivered a full-force middle-straight punch from her side, imparting a powerful shock to his solar plexus, deftly following with an upper-straight punch to his face, followed with a lower straight punch to the abdomen. In seconds, her swift, powerful punches knocked him against the counter, sending him reeling to the floor, stunned and delirious. From behind, one of the Mexican bodyguards punched Yoshida in the kidneys. Unfazed, Yoshida turned snapping his forearm outward in a 180-degree semicircle cracking the bodyguard in the face with a back-fist strike. Completing his turn, he countered with a fierce hammer-fist strike to his opponent’s face, knocking him backward onto a dinner table, sending him crashing to the floor with dishes, food, and water glasses falling on top of him. From the opposite direction, another Mexican hit man pushed customers out of his way, then punched Yoshida hard on his right temple knocking him back a few steps. Yoshida shook the daze off and as the gunman charged again, Yoshida counter attacked with a crescent kick straight to the Mexican’s groin. As he fell backward from the fierce kick, Sasha raised her leg, side kicking the Mexican on his chin as he passed her. Hitting his head on the silver foot rail as he fell, his head bounced off the floor with a broken jaw and a mouth bursting with blood, while his upper front tooth fell to the floor. The other hit man on the floor pushed the dinner table off him, jumping to his feet; only to be met by a massive fist plunging into his throat delivered by another Yakuza soldier.
“Let’s go, Sasha-san, before the police arrive,” Yoshida said, looking in all directions for another attacker.
“Hold on,” she quipped pulling a pistol from Yoshida's waist holster. “Nick, it’s a horse on you,” she screamed, aiming the pistol at him. “This is the last favor you’ll ever get from me,” she yelled, firing the pistol and purposely missing his head by inches. “Next time you're in my sights, you’re a dead caballero,” she screamed with rage as horrified and confused customers screamed in fear.
“Sasha-san, come on,” Yoshida urged, gently taking the pistol from her hand.
“Stay out of Asia, Nick, or you’ll suffer the consequences,” she yelled, as Yoshida clutched her arm, lightly pulling her backward.
"We'll get you! We'll never quit!" Nick screamed.
"Sasha-san, time to go," Yoshida said cool-headed, escorting her to the front door past horrified and screaming customers. Reaching the doorway, she turned and looked at Nick for the last time as he lay bleeding on the floor staring at her.
"You're an asshole," she said, pointing at Nick as a Yakuza wearing sunglasses held the door open as another crew-cut Yakuza stood guard with a machine gun, ready to shoot anyone who dared follow. Clutching Sasha, Yoshida signaled his men to stand fast with a closed fist, while quickly leaving the restaurant to the waiting luxury limousines as the driver opened the back door of the sedan while Sasha slid into the soft leather seat. The two Yakuza soldiers were slowly walking backwards, leaving the restaurant, and monitoring the Mexican gang when suddenly one of the dazed guards staggered to his feet firing his pistol. In quick response, the Yakuza immediately emptied his magazine clip into the Mexican's body, splattering his flesh and blood onto customers’ and the clean floor. From the flank, the bus boy raised a shotgun, aiming at the Yakuza guards. The second Yakuza at once shot the bus boy, knocking him backwards, then emptied his magazine clip shooting liquor bottles, glasses, and mirrors, sending glass fragments flying in every direction. Screaming in fear, terrified customers covered their heads, and ducked under tables as both Yakuza soldiers reloaded and continued spraying bullets into the restaurant from two machine guns.
“I want Tony hit,” Sasha shouted with intense rage.
“Any preferences?" Yoshida asked. "Explosives, fire, bullets, accident?”
“Do it your way," she ordered. "Make it appear as though the Colombians did it.”
“Should we do it in Mexico or America?”
“America, while we’re here,” she ordered trembling with anger. “That mother...” she mumbled, gritting her teeth. “I’ll fix him, I’ll fix him,” she seethed as Yoshida looked back at the second car signaling them to catch up.
“Relax, Sasha-san," Yoshida soothed her. "I'll take care of it. I’ll get it done."
"I should’ve killed him, but I didn’t want his father to know I killed him,” she said, punching the seat.
"I'll take care of it right away."
"Son-of-a-bitch!" she shouted angrily, punching the seat repeatedly. "I just lost a good lover and a good place to eat."
"All in one day, too," Yoshida said, smiling.
"We won't be back there for a while," she said, grinning.
"Especially after we killed everybody," he said as they laughed, pathologically.
"Take care of the hit!" she said grimly, her mood shifting, looking out the window.
"Killing him will start a long drug war,"
"So be it," she replied wiping her knuckles. "Fight the war and concentrate on selling drugs."
“Should we stop for wine?”
“Let’s stop for hamburgers. I missed lunch.”
“You want fries with that?”
“We gotta leave the States. It’s time to go,” she snickered, shaking her head grinning.
“I know, we’re becoming too Americanized,” he said smiling, and reloading his weapon.
The Compromise
2 September 1964. Yokosuka, Japan. It was Thursday night and Detective Butch Moriguchi was comparing the time on the dashboard clock in his black and white squad car to his watch--both read seven pm. One hour south of Tokyo driving on crowded Route16, he was slowly snaking his way through the S curves in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Rolling down the window, he tossed his remaining cigarette; the high humidity and pungent smell of iodine from Yokohama Bay assaulted his senses. At each red light his frustration increased as his irritation shifted to anger, breathing the stench from the low tide pounding against dead fish rotting in decaying seaweed. Screeching seagulls circled overhead as he rolled up the window and turned up the volume on the radio listening to Frank Sinatra sing, The Second Time Around. Lighting another cigarette, he began thinking of his father, his childhood, his wife, his looming fatherhood, his future, and what needed to be done to reorganize his
personal life.
Approaching the heavily used Yokosuka Japanese Naval prison facility, the stark exterior gave the appearance of an abandoned building, annoying Butch’s senses. Built in 1883 during the Meiji period, the prison also served as the confinement facility for U.S. Forces in Japan convicted of felony crimes. Easing the patrol car into one of the four parking spaces, Butch surveyed the dark, archaic, dirty, soot-stained, square, two-story gray concrete administration building. Turning off the ignition, he threw his cigarette out the window and grabbed his large, oversized, black briefcase. Leaving the car, he gazed at the fast moving rain clouds as he approached the blue uniformed police officer standing guard at the prison entrance.
"Konbawa," the prison guard greeted, bowing lower in deference to Butch's rank while opening the glass door.
"Konbawa," Butch replied with an artificial smile, bowing slightly passing the sentry and walking beside glass display cases filled with prisoner made shoes, wooden boats, figurines, Japanese masks and statues. Entering the bleak front office, four gray metal desks were positioned against each other in the center of the room.
“Konbawa,” an older guard greeted deferentially, looking up from his newspaper, bowing at his desk.
“Konbawa,” Butch answered, bowing slightly as a younger guard rose from his seat bowing, then sat down and continued reading Friday, a weekly gossip magazine. A warm breeze flowed in from a large open window, sending stagnant cigarette smoke curling into spirals. Fans and air-conditioners were not visible. The room was quiet. Radios were not played. Telephones never rang. Nothing stirred, except the pendulum of a large black clock hanging from the green faded wall.
Butch walked across the room to a gray steel filing cabinet, placing his brief case on a corner desk scattered with newspapers, books, and documents stacked sloppily alongside a cigarette filled ashtray. An old prisoner dressed in a drab gray uniform and a World War II Army cap glanced at Butch, and then continued wiping the worn green tiled floor with terry cloth rags. Butch looked at the haggard prisoner, then the two guards, both pre-occupied with drinking coffee, bottled liquid vitamins, and reading newspapers. Opening a drawer, he fingered through folders searching for the prisoner’s file. The young guard periodically looked up from his newspaper, watching Butch take notes from a document, as the older guard ignored him.
“Arigato,” Butch said politely, closing the file drawer.
“Hai,” the guards responded in unison, bowing their heads, watching him leave the office, and turn to the right. Walking down the small dark green hallway, Butch began inhaling a mix of lingering stale odors from decades ago. The musty draft circulating throughout the corridor was activating childhood memories. A perceptual distortion crept into his consciousness recalling when his father had brought him here during multiple investigations. The clammy air reeked of a forgotten era, as though time itself were held captive against eternity’s frontier. Inside the prison walls, time stopped for the criminals, all linked together by anti-social and pathological behaviors. A gloomy reception was being preserved for future inmates possessing similar criminal patterns and thinking errors. Walking past the single chair barbershop, Butch exchanged glances with the grey-haired, glum-faced prison barber, after a few steps, he stopped in front of a large wood and steel door; after a few knocks, a short, fat guard in a blue tight fitting uniform came to the door.
“Konbawa,” the guard greeted cheerfully, accepting Butch's identification card through a small slit in the door. “OK,” the guard replied smiling, and then inserted a large brass key into the antiquated door, turning the lock open.
“Arigato,” Butch replied, accepting his I.D. card, entering a small, plain, austere concrete courtyard. Looking at the dark, fast moving rain clouds, aggressive large black crows shrieked overhead, staring down at Butch as he ignored raindrops falling on his suit while walking to the next building housing incarcerated, dangerous, and devious criminals.
"Konbawa,” Butch shouted, banging on the old wooden door. Another guard promptly turned the old-fashioned lock open leading to another door, and another clumsy metal lock. Effort and sweat came first. Electronic security took a back seat to physical effort.
"You're on your own from this point," the sleepy guard said in Japanese, wiping his eyes.
"I know. I'll let you know when I'm ready," Butch responded, walking into the long, isolated, dimly lit cellblock.
"No rush, just another slow night," the paunchy guard laughed, locking the heavy, bulky door. Walking slowly and deliberately past rows of bleak and stark concrete cells, Butch stared at the prisoners, whose eyes were swollen with despair, doomed to live and slowly die in a life filled with anguish. Each cell had a small ceiling window, and a high-tank wooden toilet with a pull-chain. From the ceiling, an uncovered light bulb hung from a black electrical cord, revealing a small steel cot, a torn piece of rug, and porcelain sink, representing the existential existence of each man’s career in deviance. Each prisoner, it seemed, had taken the vow of poverty. In some cells, pictures of scantily dressed girlfriends or wives sat on a tiny shelf fastened to the concrete wall, soothing each prisoner’s emotional neglect. The happy faces of the women were free from the shock that gripped each prisoner's soul in a cultural compression chamber of private agony. Each man was alone in his small cell wearing a sleeveless undershirt or World War II Japanese Army clothes and caps. The old prison lacked air conditioning. Men wiped their brows with towels while Butch’s shirt became saturated with perspiration as he walked the length of the quiet cellblock. Passing lifeless men with cryptic stares, it seemed that a psychological disease contaminated each felon. For those men serving life sentences, it meant creating a psychological wedge to cope with prison life. Surrounded in the abyss of solitude, each prisoner lay motionless, some looking up at Butch and returning his stoic stare. Stopping at the last cell, Butch viewed the prisoner in silence.
“What do you want?” Terry Ming asked harshly, lying on the steel cot with his hands resting behind his head.
“May I come in?” Butch asked, standing in front of his cell.
“Sure, it’s party night,” he said, oozing with sweat.
“Well let’s have a party,” Butch answered, adjusting himself to Terry's mood.
“Don’t trip.” He yawned.
“Are you Terry Ming from Hong Kong?” Butch asked, inserting the large brass key into the steel lock.
“Who are you?” he asked, defensively.
“I’m a cop. I'm Butch,” he said, unlocking the thick steel door.
“What do you want?” Terry questioned, turning his sweating face on the dirty pillow, resting on his side.
“I’m with a crisis response team tracking heroin movements. I’m developing a case to prosecute drug lords and drug trafficking conspiracies,” he replied, leaving the cell door open and the key in the lock.
“Sounds serious.”
“You will live here for the rest of your life if our conversation doesn’t go well.”
“Sounds serious.”
“If we can make a pre-trial agreement, we could save the courts some money and you can walk out a free man.”
“No such thing as a free man,” he replied, watching Butch remove and fold his suit jacket. “I have nothing to offer you.”
“Maybe I can offer you something,” Butch countered, laying his coat on the floor.
“I think you have me confused with one of your snitch bitches.”
“Just hear me out,” he suggested, loosening his tie, unbuttoning the collar button of his dark blue shirt.
“Save your breath,” he answered, wiping the sweat from his forehead, exposing a small dragon tattoo under his bicep.
“Bad answer.” Butch answered, shaking his head.
“I like this place. It’s nice and quiet,” he said as Butch noticed his tattoo. “The crooks are not the problem, it’s the cops.”
“Example?” Butch asked, opening his eyes wide, tilting his head.
“The day be
fore my trip, Hong Kong police were arrested for smuggling fifty kilos of heroin into Taiwan.”
“How much was that worth?”
“At least forty-five million, Hong Kong dollars: lots of dirty money around. People are getting rich.” Terry answered, suspiciously. “And, lots of dirty cops out there.”
“There’s a connection between narcotic traffickers and government officials in there someplace,” Butch replied, trying to key into Terry’s psychological headset.
“No shit. Did you join the force yesterday?”
“Be nice, man. I’m just looking for international fugitives whose organizations are making over five billion a year,” Butch informed him, with a hard stare.
“That leaves the Mafia out. Their take has been cut from one-third to under ten percent.” He grinned.
“You’re talking about the American heroin market,” Butch said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.
“How come the Mafia is going to Europe?” Terry asked sitting up, placing his bare feet on the dirty concrete floor.
“Tell me.” Butch replied, opening his hands wide.
“One: public fear; two: increasing evidence; three: official corruption.” Terry answered, counting on his fingers, Japanese style, starting with his thumb placed against his palm, followed by his index finger against his thumb, then his social finger on his thumb.
“Interesting.”
“The drug lords are hard to beat.” Terry stated. “And it gets worse. Clever Chinese gangsters are merging forces with international drug traffickers in Southern China to create a staging post for heroin coming from the Golden Triangle.”
“My problem is that every time we reach a certain level, we have a homicide on our hands,” Butch stated, opening his oversized brief case.
“The streets are filled with bag men, informers, enforcers, and couriers.”
“Terry, I need a target list of heroin transshipment points. I’m working against major criminal conspiracies that span jurisdictional boundaries. You know how tough that is.”