“What was that about?” Ken asked, hanging up the phone.
“Nothing.” Dad dropped a piece of toast into Hopper’s mouth. “Just an old friend checking in.”
“You mean a yakuza friend.” Ken’s chest went tight. “Someone after you?”
“Course not.”
“Takahashi said you were in danger.”
“He exaggerates. That’s why he never made lieutenant.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said my son should enjoy his party tonight.”
“Are you in danger? Be honest. You owe me that much.”
“Fine.” He sat up straight in his wheelchair. Stared ahead with steely, ageless eyes. “One of my yakuza brothers was murdered last night in Texas. Takahashi worried I might be targeted next, but that’s not the case.”
“H-how do you know?”
“Because it’s my legs that are numb, not my brain. Believe me, I’d recognize danger, and this isn’t it. So quit worrying and give your father some space. A dear friend of his died.”
Ken had little clue how the yakuza worked. Mom had insisted on never discussing Dad’s involvement with the Japanese mob, and now Ken’s lack of knowledge left his mind whizzing with nightmarish possibilities, all of which ended with Dad sitting in a bloody wheelchair.
“You sure everything’s okay?” Ken asked. “We could book a hotel for a couple nights. Weather out the storm.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Get to school.” Dad sipped his coffee, then eased back into his chair with a wistful smirk. “Besides, if anybody comes after me, they’ll be the ones in danger.”
Chapter 9
Ken shook hands with each student who shuffled into psych class. Though this would be his last day teaching them, he still wanted their respect. Anyone’s respect, really. That particular commodity was hard to come by, especially in this building.
“Mr. Fujima!” a girl yelled after roll call. “Did the principal change her mind? Are you gonna be full-time?”
“Someday.” He shifted awkwardly. “Grab your textbooks and—”
“Can we vote?” she asked. “Yesterday before the fire drill, we were saying what a great teacher you are. I mean, we really do know who William James is. We just pretended not to so you’d push back the test.”
He chuckled. “Thanks. But sadly, students can’t vote on who teaches them.”
A jock yelled out, “We can write a petition though!”
“I’ll start it,” another boy said, tearing off a sheet of paper. “C’mon, everybody sign it.”
Bursts of Friday morning approval sounded throughout the classroom. Their kind words brought wet heat to Ken’s eyes. He turned to the chalkboard, marking down page numbers while he collected himself. He knew all the petitions in the world wouldn’t change Soward’s mind, but the gesture moved him.
“Once you’re done signing my death warrant,” he said, garnering laughs, “turn to the chapter on LeBron’s cousin William James.”
The petition traveled up and down the aisles until it reached Pete Chang in the front row. Pete had showed up on time today but brought the same gloomy attitude as yesterday. He stared transfixed at the petition as though it carried hidden meaning.
Ken approached him. “Mr. Chang, you need a pen?”
He stared.
“Something wrong with the list?”
He stared.
“If you don’t want to sign it, I won’t take offense.”
He lifted the sheet and tore it in two.
Nearby students flinched. One boy called out, “Yo, what the hell!”
Pete ripped it several more times, gathered the confetti together, and carried it to the wastebasket. Without a word, he dumped the scraps and left the room.
“Everyone, begin reading the chapter,” Ken said, hurrying out the door. “Underline anything that doesn’t make sense.”
He spotted Pete halfway down the hall. The boy’s shoes squeaked as he ran past the corner classroom, knocking against a locker with an echoing metal bang. Ken gave chase. When he turned the same corner, he found the hallway empty. No trace of Pete.
The only nearby door led to the custodian’s office, which was off limits to both teachers and students. Ken tried the door and found it unlocked. Inside was a converted restroom with tool cabinets stacked beside a lone toilet stall. The place stank of lemon floor cleaner. He held his breath and noticed a pair of sneakers beneath the stall.
Standing by the sink, he said, “Mr. Chang, you forgot the hall pass.”
The boy didn’t respond. With teenagers, you could rarely tell what was going on in their heads. Sometimes they clued you in, but Pete wasn’t surrendering a word.
Sighing, Ken leaned his forehead against the chilly metal stall door. “Did I say something that upset you?”
Silence again.
“Something giving you trouble?” he asked, searching for a grappling point. He didn’t want to bring up yesterday’s drug deal. That would upset the boy even more. “I saw your sketch yesterday, the one with jagged lines. It seemed…uninspired. You’ve drawn better.”
Pete didn’t bite.
“Any students giving you a hard time? You don’t have to name names. But if something’s up, maybe I can coach you through it.”
More silence. The lemon odor was wearing Ken down.
“Girl trouble? Is that it?”
A shuffling sounded inside the stall.
Must’ve struck a nerve. Either the kid got rejected or dumped. Maybe by his first love. Could be using drugs as a coping method.
“Whatever’s bugging you, you’re stronger than that. You just need to hang in there. Maybe this girl will change her mind about you. I’ve seen it happen. Women change their minds.” He thought of Angela Marconi and the nameplate on her classroom door. “Best thing to do is carry yourself with dignity. Storming out of my class like that won’t win anyone’s heart.”
“Whatever.”
Finally a spoken word. Now Ken needed to seize this opportunity.
“Pete, I want to make sure you’re okay.” He paused before adding, “You remind me of my brother.”
“Pfft. Why, cause I’m Asian?”
“Because you’re an artist. My brother Robby used to draw nonstop when he was your age. He wanted to work for Marvel, but after high school, he lost focus. Eventually he pieced himself back together, but it didn’t last. I’d hate to see you end up that way.”
Pete sat silent.
Ken peeled his forehead off the stall door. He took a hall pass from his pocket and slipped it through the door crack. “Here, hang on to this. I don’t want you getting a detention.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Pete took the pass.
“Listen,” Ken said, “if you don’t trust me, that’s fine. But if there’s another adult you trust, don’t hesitate to—”
His words were cut short as the custodian’s door opened behind him.
In stepped Principal Soward with her trademark scowl.
“Mr. Fujima.” No part of her face moved except her mouth. “You left your class unattended again. I walked past it and found chaos.”
“Mrs. Soward, I—”
“Principal Soward,” she corrected, peering past him. She noticed Pete’s shoes beneath the stall. “This is the janitor’s closet. Why are you in here?”
“Came to check on a student,” Ken said. “Pete rushed out, and I worried he might be sick.”
The stall door creaked inward. Pete emerged, hanging his head as he shouldered past them and fled out into the hall.
“Young man,” Soward snapped, reaching after him. “Get back here. Hey—I’m talking to you. That’s a detention!”
Pete hurried down the hall.
Soward faced Ken, her penciled eyebrows pinched together so tightly he expected her forehead to rip open. She glared at the stall, then back at him. “Something reeks in here, and it’s not the toilet cleaner. I don’t like this, Mr. Fujima. A student shouldn’t be disappea
ring along with a beleaguered substitute like yourself. Especially not a substitute with your history.”
“My history?” That was the last place he wanted this conversation to go. He held up both palms. “Listen, whatever you might’ve heard, those rumors aren’t true.”
“Rumor or not,” she said, “I don’t want you alone with any student—male or female—for any reason.”
“You need to understand. I was worried about Pete. He’s been acting strange lately.”
“So have you. And I don’t tolerate odd behavior from educators. Unless your goal is to get banned from this teaching district, I recommend straightening yourself out.” She planted her fists on her hips. “Do I make myself clear?”
His mouth went dry. There were a million points he could’ve made in his defense, but he knew better: that million would ultimately add up to zero. It didn’t matter that he had a student’s best interest at heart. All that mattered under this roof was the word of Principal Helen Soward.
“Return to your classroom, Mr. Fujima.”
Chapter 10
The day only got worse. When six o’clock arrived, Robby did not.
Ken waited on the front porch, fists clenched as he watched the sun sink toward the horizon. Before long it was past seven, and his brother wasn’t answering texts. Chances were, Robby wasn’t ignoring him because the job interview went well. More likely, the fifty bucks Ken loaned his brother had gone toward a narcotic nap.
“He’s not coming, I take it?” Dad asked when Ken reentered the living room.
“Apparently not.”
“Surprise, surprise.” Dad muted Wheel of Fortune. “Told you, Kenny.”
“After all the times I helped him…” Ken gritted his teeth. “It’s like I can’t trust my own family.”
“Not true.” Dad patted his arm. “You can trust me and the pooch.”
Hopper lifted his head from the couch cushion. His tongue drooped from his mouth in a doggy grin.
“Come on, Hopper,” Ken said, rubbing his head. “You’ve earned a can of Blue Buffalo for dinner.”
“What about me?” Dad said. “Have I earned a plate of your mother’s curry?”
“I’ll start the rice.”
Even though Mom had been gone two years and Ken had cooked the curry dozens of times, he still double-checked the recipe. It was in a scrap book containing photos from the ’90s, back when they’d lived in LA. In one photo the family sat at the table while Mom scooped a glob of curry onto Dad’s plate. Dad looked preoccupied in the photo.
Preoccupied by what? Ken wondered. An attempt on his life? Ever since that phone call this morning, he’d been dreading a visit from the West Coast yakuza. Though it probably wouldn’t happen, he couldn’t stop picturing scenarios where men in black suits drop-kicked through the living room windows, ripped Dad out of his wheelchair, and snapped his neck or shot his brains out or impaled him with a katana like they did in the movies.
Ken shut the scrapbook and started dinner.
By the time the meal reached the table, a rich, spicy aroma had claimed the house. The air tasted of calories, and before Ken sat down his stomach was half-full. Dad ate slowly, savoring every mouthful. As Ken tucked a forkful of short grain rice into his mouth, he closed his eyes and pictured Mom and Robby at the table, everyone alive, healthy, and getting along.
“Excellent, Kenny,” Dad said, scraping the plate clean. “Nothing will ever top your mother’s cooking, but this comes close. Takes me back in time.”
“Yeah.” Ken sighed. “Wish she were here.”
“You and me both.” Dad glared at the stack of mail on the counter. “I’ll tell you, I hope that damned doctor gets thrown in jail. You saw what the attorneys said, right? About those kickbacks?”
“Dad, let’s not get into it tonight. I’m not in the mood.”
“All right.” He wiped his lips. “What time you heading out?”
Ken glanced at the kitchen window. Shadows masked the backyard and the outside world beyond. For all he knew, assassins could be camped in the garden, waiting for him to leave. The thought spread icy tension across his shoulders.
“Soon.” He grabbed his plate. “But I won’t be gone long. Half hour, tops.”
“Hardly enough time to woo a prospect.”
“I got a shift at Walmart tomorrow.”
“Call off. Enjoy yourself for once.”
“I need the money.”
“Oh, come on. We can get by.”
“Dad…”
“Don’t ‘Dad’ me. Enjoy your party. Have some drinks with a girl. That’s what I’d be doing if I were you.” He scraped his plate, his expression wistful.
Ken frowned. “To tell you the truth, I’m worried about you.”
“I can climb into bed.”
“Not that. The phone call this morning.”
“Kenny, look at me.” When he met his father’s eyes, Dad continued, “We’ve gotten calls like these for years, and yet I’m still here. Besides, when you were growing up in LA, I had run-ins with thugs all the time. Believe me, I’m used to it.”
“Back then you had a younger body and working legs. No offense.”
“Some taken.” Dad narrowed his eyes and wheeled himself back from the table. “Let me show you something.”
In the living room Dad parked his chair alongside the fireplace. Though dirty old logs lay beneath the chimney, they never actually used the thing. It had been mere decoration since the day they moved in. Half the time Ken forgot the fireplace was even there.
Dad leaned sideways against his armrest and reached toward the chimney. “Remember ten or fifteen years ago when I yelled at you for trying to start a fire?” he asked, reaching up and patting his hand around the sooty chimney shaft.
“Dad, don’t hurt yourself. I’ll get it, whatever it is.”
Ken’s hand whacked something metal against the bricks; he recognized the rectangular edges of a strongbox. At his father’s urging, he lifted it from a hook and reeled it in.
Dad grabbed the crusty old box and set it on his lap.
When he threw open the lid, Ken gave a small gasp.
“See?” Dad said. “I’m prepared. Now go enjoy your party.”
Chapter 11
Ken paused outside Angela’s front door, finger hovering over the doorbell. In his other hand he clutched a bottle of cheap amaretto he bought on the way. Judging by the size of her two-story colonial and the nearby houses, cheap liqueur wouldn’t cut it in this neighborhood. If only he hadn’t been fool enough to let Robby fleece him out of fifty bucks.
Relax, Kenny boy. Worrying accomplishes nothing. Besides, no beverage offering will win Angela’s heart. Either she’s into you or she isn’t.
He rang the bell.
The night proved warm for late September, so warm he was already sweating underneath his polo and khakis. He thought about untucking the polo, but if he did, the wrinkle line would show and he’d look like a knob. Why had he tucked it in anyway? He was twenty-nine—decades away from dressing like his father.
Relax. Stay positive. She’s not Olivia.
The door opened. Before him stood a thick-shouldered man with soap-opera good looks and a square, dimpled chin. He wore a fitted suit, a laptop bag strapped across his sturdy chest. Behind him in the well-lit marble foyer a wheeled suitcase waited.
“Evening, pal,” the man said. “You one of Angie’s friends?”
“Yeah, I’m Ken.” He offered his hand.
“Dom Marconi.” The man shook his hand with a strong, practiced pump. “You a teacher?”
“Not exactly. I sub.”
“Gotta start somewhere.” Dom lifted his chin. “I didn’t get to where I am by accident. It’s all about working hard, staying hungry, and taking yourself seriously. Sure, I’d love to get drunk in front of the Eagles game every weekend like most guys, but if I did that, I wouldn’t be flying out to Hawaii.”
“On vacation?”
“No, for business. Big-
time pharmaceutical conference. I’m giving the keynote address.” He grinned, impressed with himself. A car honked along the sidewalk. “Shit, there’s my Uber.” He yelled over his shoulder, “Angie, hon, I’m leaving!”
Angela strode into the foyer, draped in a sporty white beach robe. Ken caught a glimpse of the black swimsuit underneath. Judging by her tangled wet hair, she’d already been in the pool and he missed it. He swore, right then and there, that he would kill Robby the next time he saw him.
“Bye, Dom.” She pecked his cheek the way a little girl might kiss her uncle. “See you Tuesday.”
“Take care of the house while I’m gone.” He smirked as he stepped past Ken. “Keep your party animals on a leash.”
“You behave out there,” she called from the doorway. After Dom loaded his luggage into the car, she faced Ken. “Bout time you showed up. I see you met my husband.”
“Yeah, he seems…accomplished.”
She snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.” Her dark eyes spotted the amaretto. She tapped the label. “Ooo, what have we here?”
“It was the only one they had,” he blurted. “At the liquor store, I mean. I would’ve brought a better one but—”
“Amaretto!” She yanked it from his grasp. “You remembered! I see you were listening when I mentioned my favorite drinks. You have a fine pair of ears, Mr. Fujima.”
He smiled. “Yours aren’t too bad either.”
“Hm? What?” She tucked a wave of dark hair behind an ear. “You say something?”
They laughed. When the laughter settled, she swayed in place, her hips tugging the fabric of her robe in torturous ways. “Party’s in the backyard. But let’s get you a drink first.”
At her insistence, Ken stepped inside and marveled at the two-story vestibule. A chandelier dangled overhead, casting rainbows along the marble floor. The nearby wall was burdened with a massive oil painting of Angela and Dom on their wedding day. The sight of the man in his James Bond tuxedo put a crimp in Ken’s gut. Her hubby was handsome enough to turn half the NFL gay.
Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller Page 5