by H. L. Valdez
“How’d it go?” the well-tanned surfer asked, entering the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his thin muscular waist, brushing his long sun bleached blond hair.
“Fine,” she smiled. “Did you have a good shower?” she asked, reaching for the radio, turning up the volume, listening to Blue Velvet by Bobby Vinton.
“I love a hot shower after surfing all day,” he grinned, snuggling next to her.
“Well, it’s done, it’s over. I feel great. I feel relieved,” she smiled, rubbing his toned stomach. To her, he was the Golden Caucasian of the surf set -- her dream man.
“Let’s celebrate,” he prompted, with a wide grin.
“Let’s make love first, then eat dinner,” she said bubbly, removing his towel as he removed her negligee, revealing her ample bosom.
“What size are they?” he asked, feasting on her voluptuous bosom, then began licking, sucking, and squeezing each firm and luscious breast as she firmly gripped his burgeoning penis.
“36-D” she replied, repeatedly squeezing his engorged penis.
“They’re beautiful.” He gushed, in selfish lust.
“They’re just for you,” she assured him smiling, lying back on the pillows, looking up at the mirrors, glaring at their naked reflection with a obsessive, self-serving, narcissistic, pleasure seeking sexual drive.
Payback
9 September 1964. Little Tokyo. Los Angeles, California. Dense unhealthful particles of pollution dance in the air as the musical Fiddler on the Roof is being performed at the Hollywood Bowl. Martin Luther King has just won the Nobel Peace prize. Mass demonstrations are continually taking place all across America protesting the country’s deepening involvement in the Vietnam War. Hundreds of student demonstrators at the University of California Berkley are being arrested. The new Kodak Instamatic camera with a film cartridge is catching all the action while the “Addams Family,” premieres on television. The fundamental subatomic particle, omega-minis, is discovered, while the topless bathing suit is all the rage, and the See-through look is in. A new Volkswagen Beetle is selling for $1,695, and IBM introduces chips into its 360 system; and launches a word processor that stores, corrects, and retypes. Marshall McLuhan makes the statement, “In the electronic age, we wear all mankind as our skin.”
Nisei week celebrations are underway with a beauty contest, a calligraphy exhibition or shodoten, and Ikebana-flower arrangement exhibits. Nisei children of Japanese immigrants, and American citizens by birth, are struggling to maintain their ethnic heritage and preserve Little Tokyo that was established in 1886. Their parents, Issei, were immigrants from Japan and began to prosper in 1903 as they lay tracks for the Pacific Electric Railway.
Yoshida, Sasha’s main bodyguard, has just finished praying at the Nishi Hongwangi Buddhist temple, then entered one of four limousines strategically placed at diagonal corners, each with four bodyguards carrying automatic weapons. Nearby, construction is underway for Park Center, the new headquarters for the Los Angeles Police Department. The current economic boom saw the destruction of over 1,000 homes in Little Tokyo, and one-fourth of its commercial frontage destroyed, making way for economic progress, and fracturing the Japanese community.
Nick Nogales and Yakuza leader Hyde Yamano were having a dinner meeting to establish an alliance and discuss wholesaler distribution points for black tar heroin. Both men are in a private tatami room at the exclusive Meiji Japanese restaurant sipping hot sake and cold Japanese beer sitting on the tatami covered floor, made of woven rice and rush straw. The sushi chef, dressed in a crisp white uniform, is slicing vibrant colors of pink tuna, orange salmon and opalescent halibut and placing them on top of small ovals of rice, and setting them on a lemon scented Hinoki wood platter, a light colored cypress. Lanterns made from the bodies of preserved fugu fish, hang above the chef indicating a specially licensed fugu chef is preparing the exotic fish. Despite the tranquility of the waterfall cascading down the stone–lined wall behind him, the chef nervously watches Yoshida’s guard sitting close by, sipping green tea, monitoring his every move as well as the two high-level crime leaders discussing business while enjoying fresh sushi. Nicks eyes were still black and blue from the fight, and a small bandage was on his nose. Petite waitresses wearing elaborate dark blue silk summer Yukata with geometric patterns, secured with an obi sash tied in a bow, serve the leaders, discreetly staring at Nick’s discolored face.
In the intimate restaurant decorated with dimly lit red paper lanterns, Armondo is sitting alone at the end of the sushi counter. Clusters of potted bamboo trees obstruct his view of the crime lords, as he nibbles on deep fried tempura consisting of batter-fried prawns, sweet potatoes, and crab while washing the meal down with Japanese beer.
“Nick, it’s a tough road ahead,” the heavy-set Yamano said, sipping the warm sake. “A lot of bad guys out there hungry for business. No easy way.”
“But, it’s clear cut. I know what’s in front of me. Believe me,” Nick said confidently, sipping his cold beer. “My family is ready to compete.”
“Let’s work together. I like your ideas,” the bespectacled Yakuza Chief suggested. “You’re a smart young man.”
“Thank you Yamano-san, I was hoping you’d say that,” Nick acknowledged, raising his small Japanese style beer glass.
“This is a great time to increase business and make money. The economy is booming and opportunities are ripe. People want to have fun,” he replied toasting Nick with his sake.
“It’s a great time to be alive. I’m so happy we met and can work together,” he said as the sushi chef meticulously sliced a tasty Fugu fish, called a puffer fish, containing deadly poison in their organs, which in some cases can lead to a quick death, or a slow painful one, depending if the toxic liver, ovaries, and skin is not removed properly and completely. Meanwhile, Yoshida’s guard continued to scrutinize the anxious chef.
“I need a dynamic and strategic intervention,” Nick stated.
“Where?”
“Japan.”
“You don’t speak Japanese.”
“But you do.”
“I see.”
“Can you help?”
“I can help. It just depends on my profit margins. During the war my father and uncles worked as interpreters and translators in Military Intelligence at Camp Zama, Japan for the U.S. Army. My family still has many connections with the Intel community in Tokyo. We can do something, I’m sure.”
“Thank you. I’m happy to hear that. I’m glad.”
“I’ll introduce you to one of our inside contacts.”
“You mean I have to visit Japan?”
“Do you need the business? All transactions are face-to-face, not over the telephone,” he said, sipping his sake from the small white cup. “This business is not exactly about trust,” he grinned.
“I see,” Nick said, sipping his warm sake from the tiny cup, contemplating his role, traveling to Tokyo, and recalling Sasha’s warning.
“Gomennasai,” the meticulously manicured mature waitress announced, entering the room, serving multiple thin slices of translucent flesh on a small colorful platter, neatly arranged in a circle.
“Arigato,” the crime leader replied, looking pleased.
“Hai, dozo,” she said bowing, closing the wooden frame and paper shoji screen doors of the relaxing tatami room.
Dressed in a blue suit and blue striped tie, Armondo sat alone patiently waiting at the sushi bar reading the Los Angeles Times, and drinking a beer in the warm and joyful atmosphere. Standing up for a brief moment, he watched the waitress close the shoji screen door of the private tatami room, debating if he should walk to the room and open the doors.
“Now that the door is closed, let’s talk finances.”
“What’s this?” Nick questioned, scrutinizing the fish and curiously staring at the clear flesh, sipping his premium Yebisu Japanese beer.
“It’s Tora-fugu. It’s very delicious. You’ll enjoy it,” he said smiling, admiring the thinly s
liced fish, and the colorful pattern of the plate that could be seen through the thin slices and presented so removal of the slices would be aesthetically pleasing.
“Nick, you need to become Japanized if you’re going to survive in Japan. In Western Japan it’s called fuku or happiness. It means “to swell,” he explained, admiring the sashimi while in the background, two Skakuhachi players dressed in Samuee, the working clothes of Buddhist priests, were playing Japanese classics on bamboo flutes. “Dip it in the dipping sauce, it’s a mixture of citrus juice and soy sauce,” the Yakuza leader suggested.
“I usually don’t eat raw fish,” he grimaced.
“If you want to do business in Japan, you need to learn about the culture, which means the food,” Yamano advised, watching Nick sip his sake and study the fish.
“OK. Here goes,” he replied as they both savored the delicious and expensive fugu sashimi.
“Not bad. Very tasty.” Nick grinned, avoiding eye contact.
“Please take your time and enjoy.” He replied, smiling.
“Thank you,” Nick said sipping his beer, taking another piece of fugu and swallowing it quickly, then sipping his sake.
“This dinner is five-hundred dollars. Eat all of it.”
“My mouth and lips burn,” Nick said after several minutes, with a tingling on his lips and tongue.
“It always has a little bite, it’s because of the spices,” Yamano said, taking another slice of the sashimi.
“My finger tips feel numb,” Nick said gulping his sake, and sipping beer, feeling uneasy, and nervous.
“You’ll be fine. It’s your first time. Just relax,” the drug lord assured him, while beginning to feel physical discomfort, and sipping sake to relieve his symptoms.
“Are you sure this is normal?” Nick asked, feeling dizzy.
“It’s happened to me before,” he grinned nervously, as his face began to go pale.
“Chili sauce is like this, kind of,” Nick said, as he began feeling weak.
“This is a five star restaurant. The best.” Yamano declared with shaky confidence, as he began sweating. “Have some sake, it kills germs,” he suggested wearily, as they both refilled their cups, swallowing the warm sake in one gulp. Both men stared at the fugu and began hyper salivating while drinking beer to alleviate their symptoms.
“Can you call the waitress?” Nick asked, as his temperature began to fall. “I don’t feel good. I feel sick. I think something is wrong here. Please, call the waitress.” He pleaded.
“Good idea,” he replied attempting to stand up, and then suddenly fell down on top of the tatami pillows on his back.
“Are you OK? I think I ate too much and too quick,” Nick said, short of breath, trying to breathe normally.
“Me too,” replied the Yakuza Chairman, with a rapid and weakening pulse. “Something is wrong. This is not right.”
“I’ll get her,” Nick volunteered, and then fell to his side attempting to stand.
“I feel like vomiting,” Yamano said, rolling over on his stomach attempting to crawl on all fours, yet incapacitated.
“It’s hard to breathe. My chest feels heavy,” Nick said, trying to move; yet his body and brain were disconnected.
“We need help,” Yamano said, short of breath.
“I want to go home,” Nick said, hyperventilating.
“Try and get to the door,” Yamano said, helplessly falling on his back, and entering respiratory distress.
“Oh my God, Oh my God, I’m having diarrhea,” Nick said embarrassed, falling back like a turtle, trying to breathe.
“This has never happened before,” Yamano said, as his body began going numb while asphyxiating on his vomit.
“What’s happening?” Nick gasped in disbelief, lying on his back, unable to move, yet fully aware of his physical situation.
“We’ve been poisoned,” Yamano replied with a painful awareness as tetrodotoxin (TTX) a potent neurotoxin began shutting down the electrical signals in his nerves and binding to the pores of sodium channel proteins in his nerve membranes. Unable to speak or move, both men lay on their backs, fully conscious while every muscle in the bodies remained paralyzed, since TTX does not cross the blood-brain barrier. No one dared to interrupt the two fearsome and powerful crime leaders as their lungs collapsed and they slowly asphyxiated lying in their vomit and feces. At the same time, Armondo looked around then went outside for a cigarette as the sushi chef hurriedly escaped through the back entrance and entered the back seat of the limousine.
“Is it done?” Yoshida asked, watching a man suddenly appear in front of the restaurant and light a cigarette. “Take that guys picture,” he ordered his guard, sitting next to him.
“It’s done,” the chef replied, happily accepting an envelope filled with yen.
“OK, sit tight. Just wait. We’re sending you back to Japan.” Yoshida ordered. “Hey, go ask that guy for a light,” he ordered his guard, handing him a pack of cigarettes. “He doesn’t look Japanese. Check him out.”
Twenty-four Hours Later - Hacienda Nogales
“How did he die?” Manny Nogales asked.
“He was eating raw fish, and then he had a heart attack.”
“He’s too young for a heart attack.” Manny yelled.
“What did you do?” Elena asked, anxiously.
“I gave him CPR. The Japanese guy had a heart attack too.” Armondo answered, nervously.
“Maybe they ate rotten fish,” Elmo suggested.
“How did this happen?” Elena asked, jabbing her finger into his chest.
“I don’t know. They were drinking sake and beer. Then all of a sudden, Nick is choking and foaming at the mouth.”
“Foaming at the mouth?” Elena said, looking at Elmo.
“Sounds like poison to me,” Elmo said, skeptically.
“Where were you?” Elena questioned, pulling out her knife.
“I was sitting almost in front of him. Then I went to the bathroom and then went outside for a cigarette.”
“Did you notice anything unusual or out of the ordinary?” Elmo asked suspiciously. “Anyone talk with you?”
“No.”
“Think real hard Mondo,” Manny said, withdrawing his weapon as both men stood pensive.
“Dios Mio, OK, a guy asked me for a light when I was outside smoking,” he said exasperated, as beads of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Who was he?” Elmo questioned. “What did he look like?”
“A fat Japanese guy with short hair. I don’t know?”
“What did he say?” Elena asked. “What was he wearing?”
“He said, ‘Do you have a light?’ Big deal, so what?”
“What was he wearing?” Elena repeated
“A black suit and a black tie.”
“You were made by the yakuza. They made you, man,” Elmo surmised. “You’re lucky to be alive. They could’ve killed you.”
“He came out of nowhere. He was right there,” Elena said.
“They had a hit team staking out the restaurant,” Elmo concluded. “They had to be sitting in cars, waiting.”
“Nick is dead. Did he say anything?” Manny asked, frustrated. “Did Nick say anything before he died?” he asked, clenching his fist.
“No, he didn’t say anything.”
“What kind of fish did he eat?” Elmo asked.
“I don’t know - it was already cut up.”
“They only had one serving of fish?” Elmo asked.
“Let me think,” he answered, stalling for time.
“Think faster,” Manny ordered, impatiently.
“I don’t know, man. There was a bunch of fish in a big tank. They were ugly, and they could puff themselves up,” Armondo answered nervously, shaking his head.
“It’s a fugu or puffer fish,” Dr. Fortino Canales surmised.
“That’s what they called it,” Armondo bluffed, watching the group for their reaction.
“It’s about this size,” Dr. Canal
es said, holding his hands apart. “I studied them in medical school. It’s very poisonous, if cut incorrectly. There is no known antidote, and treatment consists of emptying the stomach, then feeding the victim activated charcoal to bind the toxin, and then taking standard life support measures to keep the victim alive until the poison wears off.”
“Sounds deadly,” Elmo responded, with a pained expression.
“The poison is called tetrodotoxin and is twelve hundred times deadlier than cyanide.” Dr. Canales informed the solemn group.
“They murdered my son,” Manny said, sadly. “They murdered my son. Nick didn’t have a chance. Those sneaky Japanese, no wonder the Americans lost Pearl Harbor.”
“Who killed Nick?” Armondo asked, as Elena and Elmo stared at each other.
“It was the Japanese!” Manny yelled angrily. “It wasn’t the Colombians. They can’t even spell sushi. It had to be an overseas job. It had to be his girlfriend.”
“Are you saying it was Sasha Nakamura?” Armondo questioned. “But, she wasn’t there.”
“It was well organized,” Dr. Canales stated confidently.
“This is war,” Manny said, making the sign of the cross.
“We’ll get her,” Elena promised. “We’ll get her.” She repeated, returning the knife into the black leather sheath.
“Yes we will, they will pay dearly. We’ll kill all of them.” Elmo said with conviction.
“Elena, you’re my daughter. I don’t want you involved, it’s too dangerous.” Manny stated, fidgeting.
“I’m already involved. It’s too late. Besides, if it has a penis, it’s dangerous,” Elena remarked, as the men remained silent, staring at her. “But I have a penis regulator,” Elena said, dressed in a black charro outfit with a white ruffled shirt and black leather iguana boots. The seams of her pants were embroidered with small white pistols. She wore two shoulder holsters each containing a custom made recoil operated Italian 9mm Beretta M 1951 single action type pistol with black jade grips. She wore no jewelry, no encumbrances, and had her hair pulled back in one solid braid. Inside her charro jacket was a black knife in a black sheath.