My Yakuza

could end up in turmoil. They need me, an expendable force, to get rid of the only one standing in his way. Kono Takumi. Really, it’s quite brilliant. I am an American citizen, I’ve been on vacation in Tokyo…I won’t stand out. God help me…
Details in his file notes kept drifting through his mind. It grew late and the two goons seemed tired of his silence and complete lack of interest in trying to act like Rambo.
One sat on the bed as Shiro slept fitfully. The other one went and stood by the door. At some point, they switched. He heard their faint chatter but he was too sleepy to listen or remember what they said. Early in the morning, they shook him awake.
“Time to go,” one of them said.
He was relieved. He wanted to get out of Japan and be on his way to New York.
“You will be met at LaGuardia by one of our associates,” one of them said. “Don’t even think of doing anything foolish.”
“I won’t.”
The guard gave him a sharp look but didn’t say another word. He was hustled into the back of a taxi, one of the guards beside him. Shiro sat, looking out the window as the city blew past him. He had no idea what time it was. He turned on his cell phone. Six-forty in the morning. As they cruised into Narita International Airport, the rain came back. Rain was a good omen in Hawaii. It signified birth and death. It heralded great change. He looked for rainbows in the sky, a sign of good fortune. None. They stopped outside the international terminal, which gleamed in the grey, misty morning.
His heart sank when he saw Nobuo-san waiting for him outside the Delta Airlines sign. Shiro stepped out of the taxi, his manila envelope and cell phone in hand. Nobuo-san escorted him to the check-in counter.
Smart. Booking me on an American airline will attract less attention.
“Now, be a good boy and don’t do anything stupid.” Nobuo-san punched numbers into the automatic machine, which spat out Shiro’s boarding pass.
“You have no bags to check, but you will carry this.”
Nobuo-san handed him a small, cabin-size bag on wheels.
“Where are all my things?” Shiro asked.
“What things?” Nobuo-san’s expression was contemptuous.
He handed Shiro his wallet. He opened it, surprised to see his Hawaiian driver’s license in it, his credit card, library card and some cash.
“Don’t spend it all at once,” Nobuo-san said. He took Shiro by the elbow and escorted him to the security gate.
“I can’t accompany you further, since I have no boarding pass and I am required to remain here on important business, but remember you will be watched at all times. I will send you something…fun in a few minutes, in case you contemplate doing something stupid.”
Yeah…I can’t wait.
“Keep your cell phone on,” Nobuo-san said and winked at him, walking away.
Shiro’s hands shook as he waited in line to go through the checkpoint. The airport was huge, with dozens of floors, awash with bright lights. He longed to run but knew he couldn’t. As he neared the X-ray machine, he hunkered down and rifled through the bag as best he could with the line moving faster now. He found some of his clothes and the book he’d been reading. Yakuza Diary. He cringed, wondering what Nobuo-san had made of his reading choices. Why had they put that in there?
Because the immigration people wouldn’t think a Yak would be reading a book about Yaks. He wanted to toss the damned thing there and then, but didn’t. He sailed through the passport and ticket inspection and made a beeline for the men’s room. As he peed in the urinal, he received a call on his phone. He checked the read-out. A photo. He was horrified to see that it was a long cage, lying on a floor lengthwise. Miki was inside, trussed up and handcuffed, her head poking out one end. He blanched as he saw the image. She looked as if she was crying.
The message read, two birds awaiting their fate…
Oh, God. As if he hadn’t been given enough warnings. He finished peeing and zipped up, sensing that eyes were on him everywhere. He walked towards his gate, feeling like crap. The last thing he wanted to do was to read his book. He’d had enough of the Yakuza to last several lifetimes. He stopped at a newspaper kiosk, picking up a bento box of sushi rolls, and a couple of manga comic books. He saw one featuring Keizo’s work and his heart felt as if it might shatter. He bought all three and took a seat, waiting for his plane to board.
* * * *
He arrived in New York at nine p.m. and found a beautiful Japanese woman waiting for him. She fell in step with him just beyond the final security gate as he left the terminal.
“My name is Chizu. Pretend we are old friends.”
He nodded. “Hi, Chizu.”
The tension he had felt before he’d boarded the flight now returned. All the way from Tokyo, he’d buoyed himself with the faint hope that he could shake off his Yakuza guardian and drop his mission. She was beautiful, around thirty years old, but he knew, looking into her cold eyes, she was probably as lethal as her Tokyo counterparts. He was surprised to see her beautiful hands had an odd stiffness. He realised as they walked outside and grabbed a taxi, her pinkie finger on the left hand was a prosthesis. What had she done to displease the Yakuza?
She flagged down a taxi and they climbed inside. It was dark, the city lit up be street lights. The temperature was warm, in spite of it being late. She said little, except to ask if his flight had been okay and if he was hungry.
“Yes,” he said. He hadn’t eaten on the plane because he’d still been upset. Now that he was here, Tokyo and the nightmare of two women, whose fates rested on