by Chris Bauer
She was out of her chair now, made no attempt to comply, instead backed up a single step and squared her feet. He undid his shirt and tie and removed his trousers, laid it all across the chair, then spoke calmly. “No reason to soil my suit. You really should take off your pants and panties, miss. Your top, too. If I have to do it, it will all end up in shreds.”
White cotton undershirt and briefs under his dark business suit. Heavily tattooed. A fleeting thought had her wondering how so boring a Yakuza-mandated uniform could cover such imaginative body ink. His first steps at her were casual, plodding.
She had little room to maneuver in the tiny space, so she did not give any ground. Once within arm’s reach he surprised her with his quickness, his hand snapping up to grab her throat. He squeezed, his other hand tugging at the waist of her gym pants, sliding one side down, past her hip, with her trying to push herself away.
The push didn’t work, but both her hands were still free, a mistake on his part. She grabbed the hot jumbo coffee from the dresser and shoved it down the front of his skivvies. He backed up, shrieking. Her other hand grabbed the second takeout coffee from the dresser, the cup still hot to the touch, and threw its contents in his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that coffee too hot?” she screamed at him. “Sue me—”
Fists pounded the front door, with two men shouting in Japanese and English to open it. Kaipo was busy, pummeling her attacker with hands and feet while he was on his knees, her final blow an upward palm thrust underneath his nose, blood from his nostrils and mouth splattering the dresser. She was ready to stomp his head in when the two men who’d pushed into the room subdued her against a wall, one with a handgun against her cheek, the other with yet another hand around her throat, and no more hot coffee within her reach.
“Calm down, miss. Calm. Down. The oyabun will deal with him—”
Motel housekeeping wouldn’t know what to do with her room, the blood, the coffee, the feces—he’d actually shit himself. She knew how it would need to be cleaned, but she wasn’t about to tell them. Maybe her host would move her to the room adjacent to his on the other side, to keep his hostage close.
Somehow, she’d figured early on, raping her was not part of the Yakuza plan. This assertion was being validated at that very moment. Still in her room, seated facing a shared wall, she listened as Yabuki scolded her attacker in Japanese and English. The dressing down was severe, addressing his insubordination, his wayward libido, and his incompetence at being bested by a woman.
Then she heard what she didn’t want to hear.
“You know the bushido! The way of the warriors! You understand the honors bestowed on all Yakuza who take the oath and follow the code. You are Samurai. You have brought shame to yourself, and to me. Death… is now your duty. Here is your tantō. You must use it.”
Tantō. A Japanese word she knew. A small ceremonial sword used as a knife… for disembowelment.
The adjacent room went silent. Footsteps were followed by the rearranging of furniture, followed by the distinctive sound of steel scraping steel, a long blade or saber being removed from a metal sheath. This was not the tantō. Silence resumed, no voices, raised or otherwise, no speaking, only whimpering, then soft crying, then silence again, until—
“I am sorry, Oyabun, for my weakness then, and for my weakness now.” Her assailant’s voice. “Please forgive me, O Master. Please, let me live…”
“Begging… does not become a Samurai,” Mr. Yabuki grunted.
“But I will do better—”
One angry yell from Yabuki in Japanese ended it. A thump on the floor. To Kaipo, the thud revealed an unconscionable outcome. Not hara-kiri; a beheading.
She’d now changed her mind. It had been a huge mistake to think she could ever be satisfied returning to mob life by hooking up with Wally again in any form, even temporarily. She needed to get off these islands immediately. Chances of that outcome were looking slim.
Within the hour, she was moved to a different room farther down the motel wing. An hour after that, Mr. Yabuki moved into the room next to hers.
28
Wally and Magpie walked past the storefront’s security detail in the lobby and approached the nurses’ station.
“Surgery starts soon, Mr. Lanakai,” Nancy said. She giggled, covered her mouth. “Sorry, sir. Our new patient, I love her, she’s always made me laugh so hard…”
A loud voice carried from down the hallway. Distinctively raspy, the African-American female comic was no stranger to foul language on stage and off. Repeated F-bombs and cocksuckers took up three quarters of the joke she was trying to tell.
Wally Lanakai’s diminutive Hawaiian nurse administrator was in stitches, their two patients, prospective donor and recipient, in various stages of surgery preparedness. Nancy lifted copies of paperwork off her desk and handed them to Wally. NDAs that he’d seen already, all signed by each doctor, nurse, patient, donor, and Wally. It wasn’t like a court of law would ever see these documents if a participant breached the NDA, knowing this business operated below the radar and bordered on unethical, but the prospect of retaliation put more teeth into Wally’s verbal threats of “you’ll be sorry” if any of the participants blew the whistle.
Suddenly the echoing guffaws from the hallway shut off, the joke cut short just before the punchline. Wally recognized the territory. The plaque in the woman’s brain had choked her off mid-sentence, leaving the speaker bewildered, confused. Nancy made busy work for herself at the desk, did not comment, the territory familiar to her as well. Dementia took no prisoners, could silence the best and the most gifted in all walks of life, and it did so without notice, without discrimination.
Two surgeries were scheduled back-to-back, surgery number one, removing a living-donor partial liver from a Miakamiian man. Surgery number two, grafting the partial liver from surgery number one onto the liver of a beloved comedienne from the smoky clubs of the seventies and eighties and the late-night talk shows of the nineties. Wally and Magpie passed Nancy’s station, entered the main hallway.
The banter started up again as abruptly as it had stopped, good-natured ribbing that the female comic had for her doctors and her donor. As they approached the operating theater, a large man—untucked tropical shirt with red parrots, shorts, silver swag around his neck, and a Rolex—appeared at the end of the hall and trudged toward them. The comic’s son. A masked nurse in full surgical gear exited the surgical theater, was on her way into the windowed anteroom to secure the doors. She switched on the overhead “IN USE” sign for the hallway.
“What the hell, Lanakai, what took you so long?” the hustling man called. They met midway, outside the operating room. “I’ve been waiting for you. I do not want you to start the surgery…”
Wally reacted, pointed at the nurse through the window, pounded it, then raised one wait-a-moment finger when he had her attention, signifying the surgery shouldn’t start yet.
“What’s the problem?” Wally said.
“I just read what my mother signed. She’s getting only part of a liver? I don’t think so.”
The problem for Wally and Magpie was this man was a cop—retired SWAT—and not all that clean. He was someone who could make things difficult for them going forward, if not right now, the testosterone levels in the hallway rising.
“That’s the way live donor transplants work,” Wally said. “It has to be that way. Partial livers for both parties. She’ll be back to her pre-dementia self in no time. You’ll just need to be patient with her.”
“Transplant the whole liver,” he said.
“I can’t do that,” Wally said. “You know why.”
“Yes, you can. I already checked out the donor. This guy’s a drug user with a record. Shit happens.”
“Shoplifting and receiving stolen goods. Hardly a record. And he’s in recovery. Four years. I don’t take active drug users as donors. If they lie to me about it, trust me, that’s when the shit happens. The answer’s no.”
>
“She’ll pay double. She’ll double your fee, Lanakai—”
“A million and a half? That’s… No. She doesn’t need the whole liver—”
“Make it happen or my mother and I leave now. I know people. Do it, or I shut this operation down.”
The discussion now had a large audience: doctors, nurses, the lobby bodyguards, and tiny Nancy. Magpie interceded, a hand on Wally’s chest, pushing him out of the way. Magpie got in the ex-cop’s face. “Back off, asshole…”
“Enough,” Wally shouted. He pushed past Magpie.
He eyed his audience with a sweeping look into the operating room, then down the hallway, returning his gaze to confront this pain-in-the-ass, uninformed, dirty-cop loudmouth with an iconic and beloved comic as his mother. Wally’s scrutiny went from the donor to the potential recipient, then wound up back on the donor again, where it lingered.
The donor’s family. Wally lamented about what he might need to do for them after this.
29
Philo piloted the SUV through a small business park, was nearing their destination, what was once a chicken farm on the mauka or “toward the mountain” side of the Kaumualii Highway in Kalaheo. Twenty-five-plus acres of prime Hawaiian real estate, the property was protected by a preservation society long working to have it recognized as an historical landmark. Today Philo and company would get a closer look at it during an impromptu sparring session arranged for his benefit by Wally Lanakai.
“The Yakuza want the fight here,” Philo said to passengers Evan and Patrick, “and I understand why. If I know the history, they for sure know it, too.”
Soon after the Pearl Harbor attack, the Kalaheo Stockade, a wartime detention center for Japanese and Japanese-Americans, rose from among the farm’s chicken coops and egg hatcheries, or this was the believed history at least. Elderly detainees with personal recollections of the internment camp had fingered the farm property as the most likely location, but their eighty-year-old memories were inexact. The inability to pinpoint the locations of their extinct barracks and cottages had hindered the historical designation process.
The SUV emerged from the commercial park and idled at a stop sign across the street from the farm.
“Far as I can tell from the car’s navigation, we’ve reconned the entire perimeter,” Philo said. “The old chicken farm, the business park, the residential neighborhood. This is it, gentlemen, this open space in front of us. Here we go.”
Philo goosed the engine, then immediately hit the brakes. A passing street sweeper bettered the forty-miles-per-hour speed limit as it ran the stop sign at the intersection and continued hauling ass, its large circular brushes raised. “One of these days I’m gonna call that ‘safety is our goal’ phone number…”
The first road into the farm was paved, the blacktop pockmarked and patched, with dips in places that made them hold onto their seats as they negotiated them. A bumpy ride, but not as bumpy as the dirt road Philo turned onto next, headed for a barn on the horizon. Make that two barns, side by side, as they drew closer.
“You really want to do this, Chief?” Evan said. “I’ve seen the YouTube videos of you out there. You’re good, but a lot of those guys you fought looked pathetic.”
“Checking up on me? Sure, there were a few tomato cans in there, but only a handful of my fights were filmed. Smartphones weren’t popular back then. Many of the guys I knocked out were monsters. ’Course, some of the bigger ones weren’t used to having smaller guys punch back.”
“A whole side of you I never knew about, Philo. But seriously, today you’re gonna fight some former pro?”
“Not today. Saturday. Today I’m doing some sparring.”
“Right. With that goon who watches Lanakai’s back, his bodyguard, Magpie whatshisname. What’s he weigh, three hundred, three fifty?”
“I have no idea. Him, plus Lanakai’s got another one lined up, a different body type, just to give me something to hit.”
“They’re bodyguards for a crime boss, Philo. You think they’re not gonna hit back?”
“You’re not helping my head here, Evan.”
Evan turned around in the front seat. “You have an opinion on this, Patrick?”
“‘Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.’”
Evan snorted. “You’re no help. All I can say is the chief here better have a white towel in that bag of his so you can throw it in when it gets rough in there, today and Saturday both.”
“Much appreciate the vote of confidence,” Philo said.
“Fine. How’s this, then. At least you kept yourself in shape. Still not an ounce of fat on you. Does that do it for you, stud?”
“Stamina makes little difference in these things. They’re usually over in five, ten minutes tops. But I do appreciate the man-crush. You made it move a little for me.”
The comment should have brought at least a chuckle, but Evan stayed somber, peering out the window, his look distant. “All these assholes will be carrying weapons, Philo. Way too risky…” Evan’s voice quivered; he couldn’t finish the thought.
“Look, Evan—you should sit this thing out. It could get ugly.”
Evan swept a tear away from his cheek. “No fucking way. I’m counting on it getting ugly. I wasn’t there to make a difference before, for a person I loved. This time I will be.”
Weathered gray, tan, and white, the barns had wooden frame windows that were missing glass panes, and a few of the planks serving as vertical siding had curled and shrunk. Both barns were still underroof, their overhead corrugated metal rusty but appearing intact. Philo stopped the car next to the one other vehicle parked already, Wally Lanakai’s gold Escalade limo. This was the fight venue, free and clear of Yakuza for today, that was the deal, so Lanakai and his fighter could scope it out. Philo pointed beyond the limo. “That building out there, three hundred yards at one o’clock,” he asked Evan, “is that a military bunker?”
“It’s a slaughterhouse. One of three on the property. They all date back to WW2. They were in use until the farmer went out of business. Empty for decades, far as I know.”
Now that the guest of honor had arrived, the limo’s occupants exited. Wally Lanakai was in a suit, his driver Magpie and one other man in gym clothing. Philo slipped his lanky frame out from behind the wheel, exited the SUV, stretched his back and neck muscles. He heard mumbling in Hawaiian coming from the limo audience, specifically the anonymous man, who was on the chunky side. He was sizing Philo up, a snicker or two mixed into his exchange with Magpie.
Philo had seen and heard this welcome before. No respect, his opponents oftentimes in designer nylon outfits with nicknames stitched across the backs of their shiny silk jackets, just like in pro boxing, their trash-talking mouths big but without the skills, or the balls, to back them up. Philo was in jeans and sneakers, and under his light jacket, a sleeveless tee. Under the jeans, a steel cup inside a jock inside his boxer briefs, for protecting the jewels.
“The clothing what brought you here.” Something his deceased sexagenarian boxing buddy Hump Fargas had routinely called Philo’s outfit. “No shame in going old school. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Oh, how he missed Hump.
He ignored the rude comments, tossed his gun, wallet, and phone back into the car. Magpie had not, however, ignored the rudeness, was instead teed off, chastising the other boxer in Hawaiian for his disrespect, backing him up against a car, a finger in the guy’s chest. Philo clearly heard the words “sixty-five and oh” in English before Magpie reined in his temper and quieted himself.
Respect. Good show, Magpie, who then invited Philo and his posse to enter the barn first.
Inside was what Philo expected: a barn, nothing more, or maybe something less after its many decades of non-use and decay. Two stories, a dirt floor, small pens for small animals left and right of an open center area, a second level of planked flooring that ran around the perimeter, for storing hay bales. The exterior vertical wood siding hung precariously
loose from the framing lumber in spots, was knot-holed, letting in sunlight that dotted the barn’s interior. No different from barns on the mainland, except for what Philo now noticed was on the dirt floor: spray-painted white lines in the center. A square, replicating a boxing ring, but larger. The large size interested him.
Wally spoke up while wandering the perimeter of the “ring” area, Philo walking it as well. “As I understand it, Trout, your opponent likes having room to move.”
This sent chills down Philo’s spine. For the first time in maybe twenty fights, he felt apprehensive about an opponent. Room to maneuver was Philo’s game. Most of his bareknuckle challengers over the years were larger than him, their size and girth the source of their bravado. That always gave him an advantage, his ability to stick and move and stay away. This much space was a surprise.
“I heard Mifumo’s a brawler, not a boxer, and big,” Philo said.
“Still big, Trout, maybe even too big, but now he’s fast,” Lanakai said.
“Huh.” Philo pondered this, a question hitting him dead center: What the hell did I get myself into? “Big and fast? How’d he manage that? Let me take a wild guess.”
“Yes. Steroids,” Lanakai said. “Word is he’s still using. Strength and speed both. So to answer the question you’re asking yourself right about now, yes, this guy is capable of really hurting you.”
“Huh,” Philo said, this time with less ponder, more God-fearing resignation, but soon chased by Navy booyah enthusiasm.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—
“Let’s get started.” Lanakai wiggled his fingers at his bodyguard.
—I will fear no evil—
“Magpie will take you through the paces.”
—for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.