Bad Blood

by Anthony Bruno

  “What’s ‘exam hell’?”

  “This is what we call the time in February and March when they give the important exams, the ones that determine whether you advance to the next level or not. Always a very crucial time for us.”

  Tozzi rubbed the back of his neck. Jesus, what a mess. “How many of you are there? Here in America, I mean.”

  Takayuki shrugged. “Hard to tell. There are sixty-two of us here at the chicken factory. There were at least three-hundred students on the ship I came over on, and there have been several other such shipments that we know of.”

  Jesus Christ. That asshole Ivers was going to demand to know what the hell he was doing here tonight, how he got in and all that. But that was all inconsequential bullshit right now. This went beyond legal procedure and Bureau rules. These guys were being held against their will as slaves for chrissake.

  “Okay,” he announced to all of them, “the nightmare is over. I’m going to unlock the other two trailers and, Takayuki, I want you to explain everything to them. You stay put right here until I can put something together. I’ll go call for help and we’ll have buses here in a few hours to—”

  A desperate hand suddenly gripped Tozzi’s forearm. “We cannot go with you,” Takayuki whispered frantically. “Mashiro will hunt us down. He will kill us the way he killed the others. His sword will find us. You cannot do this to us!”

  “Take it easy now.” Tozzi held his shoulder. “We can protect you. I promise. You won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

  “Your protection is useless against Mashiro. He is a samurai, a real samurai. He has dedicated his life to killing. His yakuzas will find us, then they will call him. That’s how they keep us under their domination. If we go with you, Mashiro will find us. He will kill us, all of us. I know this. Please go now and lock us in again. Please, you have stayed too long already.”

  “But—”

  “Please! Go!”

  Tozzi looked into his eyes and saw the liquid terror. Then that hot, cloying smell came up again. It was suddenly overpowering. It took him a moment to realize that this was the smell of fear. He could feel it creeping up around him like rising flood waters, cold and murky. He took in a deep breath and felt for the gun under his jacket for reassurance.

  He searched their pale faces for some sign of encouragement, for just one of them who’d be willing to save himself. But there was no one. The faces just hung there in the dark like helpless fruit on a doomed tree. He considered alternatives. He could contact Immigration and Naturalization, let them spring a raid on the chicken plant. But what about all the other slaves D’Urso imported? Who knew how many others there were? Hundreds, thousands? D’Urso sure as hell wouldn’t tell them where they were. And would one raid really affect this slave trade? Sure, they could put D’Urso away, but then someone else in the Antonelli family would be assigned the job. The slaves would just keep on coming.

  All of a sudden he could hear Ivers’s warning about the Bureau frowning down on individual efforts. He should report this, but knowing Ivers, it would do a lot more harm than good. Ivers would notify the Newark office and together they’d call out the heavy artillery, bust D’Urso, and hang him up on a hook like a dead shark for the cameras. Ivers wouldn’t want to hear anything about other slaves. If something’s wrong, just take care of it. That’s the way he thought. He never wanted to know anything about the big picture.

  Tozzi glanced around the trailer at all those pleading, terrified faces staring back at him, and that’s when he made up his mind. Fear like this has to be respected. He turned to Takayuki. “Okay. Have it your way.”

  He hopped down out of the trailer and slowly closed the door. He heard the annoying squeak of the rusty hasp, but it didn’t affect him now. Hooking the lock into the hasp, he held it in his hand for a long moment before he finally pushed it closed. Slowly he started to walk backward into the flood-lit lot, staring at the three trailers, still stunned by what he’d just seen and heard, wondering what the hell kind of monster could inspire this kind of terror in these poor people. He glanced up at the black power lines over the trailers, then noticed the red warning lights slowly flashing on a row of giant oil tanks in the distance by the river. He pictured Godzilla tearing Tokyo apart.

  A monster called Mashiro, he thought. That’s what kind of monster.

  He stared at the blinking lights, wondering what in the hell he was going to do now.

  TWENTY

  NAGAI TURNED AWAY from the noise and the action up on stage when the fish arrived at their table, the waitress bowing as she set the ugly thing in front of Hamabuchi. The fat fish lay tilted on its belly like a tugboat run aground, one dead eye staring in Nagai’s direction. Nagai stared back at the fish and sighed to himself. He never really cared for fugu and this whole ceremony was a bore. Sure, the first couple of times it was dangerous and exciting, the ultimate test of a man’s loyalty, the essence of the Fugukai. But ever since his exile to America, Nagai had abandoned the ritual himself, though he never told Hamabuchi. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten how to cut the fish or that his men were too cowardly to eat the potentially fatal flesh served up by their boss. It was just that the only blowfish you can get in America isn’t poisonous. The whole thing about making your men watch as you carefully remove the deadly liver and ovaries to test their trust and loyalty to you just doesn’t make any sense with American fugu. They don’t have the juice. What good is the ceremony if there’s no risk of dropping dead at the table? But with Hamabuchi it was different. The old boss always managed to have the real thing imported for his ceremonies, no matter where he was. Lucky him.

  Nagai glanced back at the stage where two young women wearing only the traditional sumo-wrestler’s loin knot were ramming into each other as the small crowd of respectable businessmen from his country raucously cheered them on. He wondered what their respectable American business associates would think if they knew about this place. A little bit of the Ginza tucked away in the middle of Manhattan. Everybody needs a little fun and relaxation now and then, even respectable bastards. Nagai turned his attention back to the two combatants smashing into each other, each trying to push the other out of the white circle painted on the stage. These couldn’t be Japanese girls, he thought. Not with those tits. He glanced back at the waitress for comparison, but her tits, if she had any, were hidden under the folds of her kimono. No, Japanese tits are nothing like those things up on stage. They don’t bobble and jiggle like that. Nagai smiled as the girls collided once more and shook flesh. Tits like fugu.

  “Are you certain you don’t want us to prepare the fish for you?” the waitress asked Hamabuchi sweetly in Japanese. “One of our chefs is licensed.”

  Hamabuchi waved her offer away with the heavy-duty black rubber gloves. “In Japan, a chef may need a license from the government to cut fugu, but I need no such license.” He gave her that funny little smile of his, the one that could be taken as either fatherly benevolence or utter contempt. He started to put the gloves on then, leaving her with nothing to do but leave. Nagai could tell from her stiff smile that she thought he was an asshole.

  Nagai considered telling him now but then decided he better wait until Hamabuchi was finished. The old man was getting up there, and he didn’t want to upset him before he cut out the poison parts. Just a tiny nick to the liver could taint the whole fish, and it was he, not Hamabuchi, who had to take the first bite. He sneaked a look back at the sumo girls. The one with the short hair and the big lips was very aggressive, but the other one was prettier. The old man was steadying the fish now, probing with the knife for the right place on the back of its head to start cutting. Nagai watched him make the first two deep cuts into the fugu’s neck, severing the backbone. He dug his fingers into the incision, felt around, then pulled out the backbone all in one piece which turned the fish inside out. He flipped the whole thing over and yanked on the prickly skin until it hung loose around the tail like a man with his pants down around his ankles. Th
e old man looked over at him then to make sure he was watching. This was the delicate part; Nagai knew he was supposed to look. Hamabuchi took off the gloves and went searching through the messy entrails for the liver and the ovaries, which he proceeded to cut out much too quickly for Nagai’s comfort. But of course he always did it this way. It was part of the test. Hamabuchi picked out the poison organs on the tip of his knife and laid them out in a small saucer. He cleaned the knife in a bowl of hot salt water, then went to work cutting the white flesh into thin, translucent slices, arranging them on two wooden trays. Hamabuchi set down the knife and washed his fingers in a second bowl, then presented one of the trays to Nagai with a bow of his head. He had that smile again.

  Nagai took his chopsticks, picked up a slice of fugu, and dipped it in his saucer of tangy ponzu sauce. The businessmen started shouting and cheering wildly as he brought the fish to his mouth, but he resisted the impulse to turn and see if the pretty one was winning. Well, down the hatch as they say here.

  He started to chew, staring up under his brows at Hamabuchi, waiting. If it didn’t happen in fifteen seconds, it wouldn’t happen at all. He swallowed, grinned, and bowed his head to his boss. The ceremony was completed. Satisfied now, old man?

  “So,” Hamabuchi said, dipping a piece of fish for himself, “any new developments since I was last here?”

  Hang on to your hat. “Yes. D’Urso is planning to have Antonelli killed.”

  Hamabuchi’s eyes started blinking, the fugu poised in front of his open mouth. Nagai had seen this reaction before. The old man wasn’t happy. “When? How? Have you warned Antonelli-san?”

  Nagai shook his head. “I just found out yesterday. I don’t have any details. I considered going directly to Antonelli to warn him, but I didn’t think it was my place to do that. I felt you should know first.”

  “Antonelli is my brother,” the old man pronounced grimly. “He cannot be betrayed this way.” He sounded like one of those old fart warlords from the samurai movies.

  Nagai nodded to reassure him. “I’ve sent a few men to watch D’Urso and his hot-head brother-in-law. If it looks like they’re getting ready to make their move, we’ll know about it right away. If you want, I can send Mashiro to kill them both.” He was still unsure about going into business with D’Urso. If D’Urso sent Antonelli to heaven and got away with it, then Nagai would commit himself. In the meantime, he’d go through the motions to keep Hamabuchi from becoming suspicious.

  “No, stay out of their way. We can’t interfere in their affairs. That would ruin things between us. It would mean the end of our joint venture, despite my friendship with Carmine.”

  “How would that ruin things if we save Antonelli’s life?”

  Hamabuchi seemed annoyed with his question. “How would we react if the Mafia started meddling in our private business? We’re sailing on rough waters here. It should not be us who capsizes the boat.”

  Thanks for the vivid imagery. “Will you tell Antonelli?”

  Hamabuchi was frowning like a bulldog. His eyebrows twitched as he considered the question. “I don’t know . . . I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? He’s your friend.”

  “Friends don’t spy on each other. If I tell him, I’ll have to tell him how I know. Naturally he’ll think I don’t trust him and never have trusted him. It will destroy our relationship . . . and a very lucrative partnership. No, I can’t tell him.”

  Some friend. Maybe D’Urso will be able to pull this off. Hmmm . . . Yes, but what if Hamabuchi goes ahead and tells Antonelli anyway? The old man was crafty; he might do anything. Nagai had to be sure. “Why don’t you tell Antonelli about D’Urso and tell him I did the spying? Blame me.”

  Hamabuchi glared at him. He looked like a mean, bug-eyed frog now. “You have been in America too long, Nagai. I’m responsible for anything my men do. I am the Fugukai. My honor rests on your deeds.”

  Here we go with the Kurosawa crap again. “Then what do we do?”

  “We make sure this execution doesn’t happen. Make sure D’Urso does not accomplish his goal, just don’t show your hand. Business must continue uninterrupted.” Hamabuchi paused to eat his fugu. “I’m sure you can put yourself in D’Urso’s frame of mind.” He was looking down at his saucer as he swirled another piece of fish in the sauce. “Do whatever is necessary to discourage him.” He cast his eyes meaningfully at Nagai.

  How subtle you are. Bastard. Sic the failed assassin on the would-be assassin. How fucking clever. Won’t you be surprised when D’Urso succeeds and we take over the slave trade for ourselves? Nagai dipped another piece of fugu and tossed it into his mouth. This really was very good, better than he remembered. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle D’Urso,” he said.

  Hamabuchi nodded resolutely and looked down at his fugu, dipping another slice. “Be sure you do, Nagai.”

  Nagai nodded as he took a slice of fugu.

  “It used to be so much easier to keep loyal men.” Hamabuchi swirled his piece of fish around and around in the sauce. “Tradition was incentive enough at one time. But times have changed. A boss must use management techniques with his people.” He kept moving that piece of fish in the dark sauce. “By the way, Hatsu sends her love to you.”

  “What’s that?”

  Hamabuchi looked up and raised his bushy eyebrows. “Hatsu. Your daughter. Have you forgotten her? Kenji swings a good bat now. Your boy may grow up to be the next Sadaharu Oh. And the little one—I think of her as my own granddaughter.” He chuckled gently and put the fish in his mouth.

  “You’ve seen them recently?”

  “Yes, of course. Didn’t they write you? They’re living at my country house now.”

  “Which country house? You have several, don’t you?”

  Hamabuchi just smiled and swirled another slice of fish. “You will see that no harm comes to my friend Antonelli, won’t you?”

  Nagai’s mouth was tingling from the fugu. The sauce was sour in his throat.

  Suddenly the businessmen started cheering again. Nagai looked up just in time to see the short-haired girl shove the pretty one down right on her ass outside the circle. She hit the floor hard, her tits flopping, and she winced in defeat. She looked like she was going to cry.

  “Nagai?”

  He turned back to that damned little smile. He pictured the kids, tried to remember where all the old man’s country houses were. It was useless. Hamabuchi could have them anywhere.

  “Nagai, you haven’t answered me. Will you protect Antonelli? With your life?”

  Nagai set down his chopsticks and wiped his mouth with his napkin. His throat was sore. He pictured Hatsu’s face, Kenji in a baseball uniform, the baby . . . then he held his breath and bowed to his boss. “Hai.”

  The old man smiled.

  Nagai watched Mashiro’s profile as the samurai pulled the Cadillac up to the loading dock behind the factory. He glanced at the three kids in the backseat, tough and quiet, all narrow eyes and moody lips, the three of them. He looked like that himself once upon a time. The old man had personally recommended these three. They worked well together, he said. Toshio, Hideo, and Ikki. Moe, Larry, and Curly. Initiated into the Fugukai by working as the old man’s personal house slaves for an entire year, the same way he came up. But that was a long time ago.

  Mashiro turned off the engine. The inside of the car was suddenly silent. Nagai could feel the kids looking at him, waiting for his order. He still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced that this was the way to handle this, but he couldn’t think of any other way. He’d let D’Urso know that he knew what he was planning. Just look him in the eye and leave it at that. Keep the warning unstated. Let him do all the wondering about who else knows. Maybe that would change his mind.

  He reached for the door handle and instantly the kids rushed out of the car to cover him. They moved swift and silent. Mashiro got out then, at his own pace. He wondered if Mashiro felt displaced by the presence of the kids. After all, the samurai was the
only force he’d ever needed before. The kids were for show, that’s all. He hoped Mashiro realized that.

  The kids mounted the stairs to the loading dock and waited for him, Mashiro lagging behind to watch his back. Just then Francione pushed through the hanging plastic strips that covered the open bay. Instinctively the kids fanned out around him, just in case. They were good.

  Francione made believe they weren’t even there. He jerked his head to flip that stupid hair out of his eye, the cocky bastard. “You’re just the man I want to see, Nagai. We’ve got a problem in here.” He jerked his thumb back inside. “Come fix it.”

  Hideo and Ikki held the plastic drapes open as Francione led the way into that back room where Mashiro had sacrificed his finger. Nagai caught a glimpse of Mashiro’s hand. The end of the finger was still bandaged.

  Two of D’Urso’s lumpy greaseballs in their tight suits were holding two of the chicken slaves with their arms pinned behind them. One of the slaves looked like he was going to shit his pants, the other looked angry and indignant. He recognized the indignant one right away. It was Takayuki, the little big mouth, the one Mashiro had to set straight. Apparently one taste of Mashiro’s hand wasn’t enough.

  D’Urso was standing off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back. Unlike his brother-in-law, he seemed unruffled by whatever the trouble was.

  Nagai looked at D’Urso. “What’s going on?”

  D’Urso just shrugged and nodded toward the two slaves. He was going to let Francione do the talking. He seemed to be giving the punk more responsibility these days, preparing Bobby for a bigger job once he becomes boss. Fat chance now, my friend.

  Francione pointed to the scared slave. “This guy has been dragging his ass all day. When I told him to get moving, he just started giving me lip. Three times I told him to shape up and he still didn’t listen, so I decided to beat a little sense into him. But when we pulled him off the line, this other guy follows us in here like Mighty Mouse to save the day. These guys are getting way out of hand, Nagai. Now are you gonna do something about it or do we have to? Huh?”