My Yakuza

bleakness. He felt panicked in confined spaces, thanks to his year in Tokyo where he had feared for his life on a daily basis. In a city that piled people on top of each other because of the cost of living space, it had all felt like one gigantic coffin that could slam its heavy lid shut at any moment.
The only thing he missed about Tokyo was the gorgeous men he’d met. Oh, man, some of them were hot. Japanese men in the city knew what they wanted and they wanted it fast. He’d gotten through a difficult assignment with some hot-ass assignations in a series of love hotels. Now that he thought of it, Far Rockaway could use a few of those. If kids were fucking, they wouldn’t want to shoot. Make love, not war.
He pulled up to the crowd of vehicles on the city side of the bridge and for a moment, caught a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline across the expanse of water. He got out, trying to pick out the jumper among the throng on the bridge. Traffic was backed up, impatient drivers honking.
“False alarm,” a fire department official told him as Kono neared the bridge. “It’s one of them ferkin’ bronze statues that idiot artist keeps putting all over the place. Third one that’s showed up this week. I hope we nail this goofball, wasting valuable resources.”
Kono got a glimpse of the work in question. From this angle, the damned thing did look real. He did a double take when he saw the figure in question. It might have been bronze, but the woman it depicted looked real, all the way to her shoes, socks and red running pants as she tried climbing over the wall, she was the spitting image of the transvestite Kono had rescued.
“Thanks,” he said, and shook the guy’s hand. He didn’t ask why the fire department was there but figured it was a slow day. Kids in Far Rockaway were all about shooting people and shooting up cars. Not setting fires…yet. That, he realised was a damned good thing. He radioed back to headquarters, returning to the station.
Suddenly, the idea of going back there depressed him. A lot.
* * * *
Once opened, the envelope revealed more photographs of the target or barazoku as Nobuo-san had referred to him as with great disrespect. Shiro felt a tingle in his groin as he gazed at the pictures of Detective Kono Takumi who had a slightly different effect on Shiro than his dream Keizo who he’d left in Japan. This man was filled with strength, honour, and determination. He was not a man to trifle with as seen in his eyes. There was both tenderness and cold steel evident, and it had the effect of making Shiro feel safe somehow.
He decided at that very moment that he would never even attempt to kill this man of beauty but instead, work to save his life somehow without endangering the lives of the two women who were dependent upon his actions to save them.
As he searched through the pictures, he came across ones showing Kono coming out of the precinct and getting into his police unit. Other photos revealed where he liked to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner. They had actually followed the homicide detective for an entire day. Much work had been put into setting him up for the kill and Shiro was frightened that retribution would be swift and terrible should he not follow through on the assignment.
Overcome by tiredness since he’d slept very little on the plane, he lay down on the bed and was tempted to take a nap when a knock on the door made him bolt upright causing pain to course through his chest from where the needles had pierced his flesh. He quickly moved to the door with fear eating at his insides at the thought that somehow they had been followed. When he peaked through the door, he saw a little old Japanese woman standing there with bags of groceries in her hands.
He opened the door cautiously and once he was satisfied the woman was alone, opened the door to allow her to come in.
“Shite kudasai, kuru,” he said inviting her into the apartment. “Tabemono o tsurete kite itadaki, arigatō gozai masu,” he said thanking her for bringing the food.
“Watashi wa sābisu no koto o kōei ni omoi masu,” she said in return saying she was honoured to be of service to Shiro.
Without further word, the lady gave a slight bow, turned and left the apartment with her eyes cast downward the entire time. Shiro seriously doubted she could even describe him to anyone who would ask.
Shiro unpacked the bags and put away the food, generally pleased with the selections made by the old woman. He made himself a sandwich and when he’d finished eating, he felt a hundred times better. Still, he was worried now on two fronts. He refused to carry out his assignment, which meant death for him and the two women in Japan, and he was being hunted by adversaries of the Harada clan.
He put the dishes in the sink, grabbed a soda that had been delivered along with the food, and headed to the sofa with the material left for reading. As he began to read he saw mention of a hidden location for a nine-millimetre automatic that he was to use should he chose to shoot his target. He wasn’t exactly sure where the place was, but he knew all he had to do was either take a taxi, or ask Chizu. The note told him to take the ticket with him when he went to pick up the gun. It was a plain, ordinary ticket, like one from an old movie theatre that said simply, “Admit One.” There also was a number down the side of the ticket.
Highlighted in the notes with the photos was the name and address of a bar in New York City. The name