My Yakuza

hungry. I don’t feel so good. I’ll just have some sake.”
Nobuo-san studied him a moment. The waitress brought their drinks and took the food order, hurrying away again.
“Your target is a man named Kono Takumi,” Nobuo-san said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Shiro shook his head. “No. Should it?”
“No. I’m just curious.”
You’re just toying with me. Shiro wondered if it wouldn’t be easier and a lot less painful to run outside, eyes closed and allow himself to be killed by cars coming from all directions.
“He came to Japan, joined our family. Like you, he was less than honest. He infiltrated our ranks. Unlike you, he was a little smarter and didn’t rely on cheap whores for help. He lasted a whole year before we discovered he was working undercover.”
“Undercover?” Shiro’s thoughts raced. “What—”
“He’s a cop.”
In spite of his terror at the idea of killing anybody, let alone a cop, he kept his voice steady. He hoped.
“What was he investigating?” In spite of all his fears, Shiro was fascinated.
“It has little to do with your assignment, however, it’s only fair I should give you all the information I can.” Nobuo-san seemed to enjoy his moment of power. “He was investigating the disappearance of a…New York business man who…had some ties to my family a few years ago.”
“Did he find him?”
Nobuo-san took a sip of his sake, refilling his tiny stone cup.
“No. He did not. And that’s not the worst of it. I liked him. I trusted him. He turned out to be barazoku. A homo. Can you imagine?”
Shiro felt his cheeks flaming.
Nobuo-san leaned towards him, his breath foul. “Now I have something to say to you.”
The waitress returned with a large fish on a platter. Served over ice, the fish had been filleted, bite-size portions arranged daintily around its hollow cavity. It took Shiro a moment to realise the fish was still alive. Its eyes stared sat him in mute horror and he was certain, pain. Its mouth opened and closed, its eyes disbelieving as Nobuo-san picked up his chopsticks and ate the poor creature’s flesh as it watched.
The fish had been served on a skewer inserted from the base of its tail through its body. The spike poked out again just under its neck. And still the unfortunate sea-creature gasped for breath…its mouth opening and closing, its eyes, panicked. It was a painful reminder of Shiro’s session with the needles. Shiro and the fish stared helplessly at one another.
“Imagine this animal is your mother,” Nobuo-san said, swallowing another bite. “Her life hangs in the balance, Shiro-chan. Please us and you will have her back. Displease us and she will die.”
* * * *
Shiro couldn’t get the image of the living fish out of his mind. Where was Siono? Games and more games. That’s all he’d gotten since he’d arrived in Tokyo. Nobuo-san returned his cell phone to him that evening when he dropped him at a love hotel. The Hotel If, of all places. It felt so cruel and deliberate. Two armed Yakuza escorted him to a room where they kept watch over him. The room was tiny with a bed, a sink and a small toilet. A shower was down the hall.
He sat on the medium-size futon, made with black sheets and a coverlet. It was not comfy. The wooden frame underneath made him feel a bit like The Princess and the Pea. He stared at the velveteen painting on the wall in front of him, of a woman playing the shamisen, a popular Japanese-style lute. He wondered if this had been his mother’s room. His distracted thoughts were interrupted by one of the Yaks handing him a manila envelope.
“This has everything you need to know about your target,” he said in heavily accented English. The two goons hovered over him as if he would attempt escape at any moment. Of course he would, but he knew he had no chance. Not if Siono was being held captive somewhere. For a moment, he stared into space.
Who had the mysterious phone call come from informing grandma that Siono was dead? He had to call and ask her. He let out a long, sad sigh and unfastened the clasp on the envelope. He shook the contents out. A photo fell out first. Man, he was hot. Wow. Kono Takumi was a big, muscular handsome guy who looked to be of Japanese heritage and something else delicious thrown in, too.
Shiro felt a pang at the realisation he would never see Keizo again. Maybe he wouldn’t live to see anyone or anything if he failed his mission. His passport fell out next, then some type-written notes on Takumi. He was a detective in New York City in the homicide division of the one hundred and first precinct in Queens. There was his name, social security number, his banking details, his gym membership, his home and work addresses, and phone numbers.
Whoever had been following him had compiled a detailed dossier.
There were a couple of of newspaper articles. It seemed that Takumi was in the middle of giving evidence for a Grand Jury in a possible murder trial. The accused was a Japanese man people said was a Yakuza. He denied it. He had apparently been detained on immigration violations. Shiro studied the photograph and felt a chill run through him. The article said that although the man travelled with a fake—and a very good fake—passport, he was believed to be Shun’ichi Harada, the ultra-violent Harada clan leader. He had one missing pinkie finger but other distinguishing characteristics were his distinctive, full-body tattoos and his tendency to shake.
Shiro blinked. This couldn’t be happening. Shun’ichi was sitting in a New York jail pending a murder trial? According to the article, Shun’ichi had been detained four months ago at Kennedy Airport.
Oh man, I turned up at just the right time. I bet Siono isn’t alive at all…I bet she’s really dead, but somebody screwed up and Shun’ichi could go down. The entire Yakuza industry