part0009

My hands are dug deep into my pockets. The collar on my jacket is turned up against the wind. It’s not usually warm in these parts this time of year, but it’s been colder than normal the last couple weeks. It was fifty degrees yesterday. Doesn’t feel much different today.

The streets of Tokyo are almost schizophrenic. At night, they pulse with life and vibrancy, bathed in neon and drenched in culture. Markets and pop-up restaurants attack your taste buds. Clubs and bars assault your senses with lights and music thumping so loud the sidewalk shakes. But when the sun rises, the city transforms into an overcrowded petri dish of urgency and introversion. Tall, crumbling buildings form borders around the narrow streets, trapping people like rats in a maze. Small cars shuffle along to a soundtrack of blaring horns. Sidewalks are crammed with people who want nothing more than to get where they’re going without having to look at anyone. Everywhere is shrouded in a light haze, a mixture of social disdain and pollution.

It's like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

I twist my torso left and right, leading with my shoulders as I thread my way through the crowds, walking with unhurried purpose. It took me a while to get to grips with the landscape here. Not just the streets, but the city itself. Its structure and inner workings. Tokyo isn’t a city; it’s a metropolis—an amalgamation of cities and towns, split vertically down the middle. In the east, what we would call a city is known as a ward, and there are twenty-three of them. Chiyoda, where I live with Ruby, is in the heart of Tokyo’s financial district. Consequently, it’s a richer area than most. Property is more expensive, and the cost of living is high, but the place looks fantastic.

Our apartment overlooks Koto, which lies just across the river. That’s where I’m heading now. It’s another of the larger wards but one that’s steeped in tradition. Shrines and gardens are scattered throughout, and the overall tempo feels as if it’s a few notches below where I now call home. It’s a more modest way of life. People aren’t as wealthy, but they’re probably more welcoming than those who are used to the hustle and bustle of true city life. Restaurants aren’t places of extravagance; they’re small, one-story buildings, filled with the smell of hundred-year-old recipes being prepared by the great-grandchildren of the people who created them.

While I’ve adapted to life in Chiyoda, I feel far more comfortable in Koto.

I’ve been walking for almost twenty minutes. The sound of the busy streets fades away as I cross over the bridge. The dull hue is replaced by a warmth of color, which helps me forget the gradually declining fall temperature.

My errand involves meeting one of the few people I’ve allowed myself to befriend since moving here. Ichiro is maybe ten years older than me. Easily a hundred times crazier . He’s always chuckling to himself, even when he’s not saying anything. It’s as if he’s constantly telling a joke in his head. His skin is tanned and mottled, his head bald and wrinkled. A thin, gray beard stretches down to his chest. He’s always smoking a long pipe with God-knows-what inside it. At first glance, he looks as if he belongs in a temple. He even wears prayer beads around his neck.

But his appearance is deceiving. In his day, Ichiro was a feared member of a Yakuza family and served as one of their most dangerous enforcers. Now he spends his retirement running a noodle bar and working as a go-between for people looking to find employment in the global network of underworld activity that reaches this far east.

Maybe that’s why I got to know him. That similar approach to life. Both looking to start over. Both wanting a change, but both sticking to what we know. Kindred spirits. We occasionally meet for a drink, usually as a welcome accompaniment to whatever business we’re talking at the time. Neither of us speak at length about our pasts. Neither of us need to. He knows all about me. Most people do, even all the way out here. And the fact he not only survived the life he had but was able to leave it behind him says all I need to know about him.

His noodle bar is situated on a corner plot across from the park that divides the rural and modern areas of Koto. The street it’s on serves as a kind of DMZ for the ward. The whole place is Yakuza territory. The left, stretching back to the river, belongs to one family. The park and beyond belongs to another. But this street—his street—is holy ground for the rival factions. A show of respect for who Ichiro was and is today.

I push the door open and step inside. A wave of gentle heat and incredible aroma greets me. A low counter runs the full length of the right wall, serving as an open cooking area. A line of chefs hunch over huge woks, tossing noodles, meat, and vegetables expertly before ladling it into small cardboard tubs for the line of impatient customers. A handful of tables face the counter, but few people sit inside to eat.

It’s always busy in Ichiro’s place.

I idle near the door, scanning the crowd. My eyes rest on the doorway behind the counter, covered by hanging beads, leading to the kitchen area in the back. Standing just inside, seemingly in conversation with someone out of sight, is Ichiro. I recognize his outline. He steps out into the restaurant and looks around, surveying his small kingdom. His gaze falls to me. He nods and chuckles, signaling me over to him. I signal back with a slight wave. I reach the far end of the counter, and he lifts a section of it, allowing me to walk through.

He pats my shoulder as I pass him, still chuckling. “Adrian-san. Always pleasure to see Shinigami here.” He gestures me through the beads. “Come. Come. We talk. We drink!”

I step through, past some more staff and into the storage room on the far side. He follows me, closing the door behind us. The room isn’t huge, but it’s spacious enough for his stock. Metal shelving lines both sides. Piles of wooden boxes haphazardly litter the floor.

We walk to the far wall, and I side-step, allowing him to pass. About halfway up is a panel, roughly seven inches by ten, which lights up momentarily when he places his palm against it. A loud beep sounds, then a section of the wall clicks open with a hiss, revealing itself as a door to a hidden room. Ichiro pulls it open and ushers me inside.

This office is where he conducts the part of his business that doesn’t revolve around teriyaki sauce. A large painting of a samurai hangs on the wall facing the camouflaged door, above an old desk with a laptop and a lamp standing on it. He moves around it and sits in a worn leather chair. I sit opposite, shuffling in the creaky, wooden seat until I find some level of comfort.

Ichiro claps his hands together, grinning wide. “Good to see you again, Adrian-san.”

Despite having the luxury of technology to bridge any language barriers, it’s still nice to interact with someone who speaks the same language. Sort of.

I smile back. “You too, my friend. Business good?”

He nods. “Good enough. The client was impressed with how you handled last job.”

About a week ago, I took a small contract to kill a man who was sleeping with the client’s wife. Initially, I had turned it down. Domestic disputes don’t warrant a bullet from me. Ichiro had understood but had asked that I give him twenty-four hours to investigate, as the payout seemed unusually high for a job that appeared so mundane. I had no problem with that. Saved me doing it. Anyway, it turned out the guy sleeping with the client’s wife was also known to sleep with other peoples’ wives. And their daughters. Regardless of age. Or consent.

Six hours after Ichiro gave me that information, the guy was found hanging from the ceiling fan in the rented apartment he took his conquests to.

Staging a suicide isn’t difficult. We all know the different ways of doing it and what they’re supposed to look like. The hard part is making sure no one knows it’s staged. If you’re fortunate enough to have a target who is weak and spineless, as I was, the task is made much easier. I simply aimed my gun at him and explained that if he didn’t commit suicide, I would make him suffer to such an extent, his mind would give up trying to comprehend it. He noosed himself up real good. All I did was kick the chair out from under him.

No evidence I was ever involved. Easy.

I shrug, trying not to appear modest. “It was a simple enough contract.”

Ichiro laughs. “Shinigami !”

He claps again. I roll my eyes.

Shinigami is a nickname he gave me the first time we met. My reputation preceded me when we were introduced, and it’s what he called me. At first, I figured it was some kind of informal greeting, but I later found out the rough translation is God of Death, or Grim Reaper, to give it its western meaning. It was said with tongue firmly in cheek, but it stuck, and now it’s our little private joke.

I wave a dismissive hand, keen to change the subject. “You said you have another job?”

He nods. “Yes. Yes. But first…”

He opens a deep drawer on his left, then takes out a decorated porcelain bottle and two small matching cups.

I breathe out a reluctant sigh.

Great. This shit is lethal!

He uncaps the bottle and pours two measures. He takes one and passes the other to me. Raises his cup in a silent toast. I reciprocate, and we both slam it back. The flavor burns my throat. A combination of sweet and savory. The spice of the alcohol is offset by the hint of apples.

I suck a painful breath in through my teeth, grimacing as the oxygen stings my mouth. “How do you drink this stuff?”

Ichiro chuckles, slapping the surface of his desk with his hand. “Considering you so dangerous, Adrian-san, you can be real pussy!”

I roll my eyes again. Smile politely. “Thanks. So, this job?”

He packs the sake away. “Yes. Client asked for you specifically.”

“Repeat business?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just word…” He makes a snaking motion with his hand. “…traveling around.”

“Okay. Lay it on me.”

He spins the laptop around. There’s an image of a man, maybe my age. Short, dark hair. Narrowed eyes. A thin, curled line for a mouth. Wide jaw. Full cheeks.

“And what’s this guy done to deserve me?”

“Nothing.” He points to the screen. “He is client.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You know I don’t like knowing who’s hiring me, Ichi. All I care about is who they send me after.”

“I know, but client wants to give you job in person. Insisted I arrange meeting.”

That’s weird. Usually, the people who hire me prefer to distance themselves from the transaction. To minimize exposure and liability. Same reason I distance myself from them.

I can’t think of many reasons why anyone wouldn’t take that precaution.

“He is Santo, a kyodai for the Oji-gumi family.”

My Pilot translated the information in my ear, but it didn’t need to. I have a basic understanding of how the Yakuza works. A kyodai is a mid-level member of a family. He outranks the foot soldiers on the streets but answers to the lieutenants and advisors, who themselves speak directly to the head of the family.

That explains why he’s not interested in distancing himself from the contract. He’s high enough up the food chain that he’s practically untouchable. He simply doesn’t care.

“I’m not familiar with the Oji-gumi,” I say.

He chuckles. “They are biggest Yakuza family in all the wards. Nothing happens they don’t know about.”

Wonderful. That’s what I was afraid of.

I’ve always turned down anything that might involve me with or obligate me to Yakuza business. Hard to avoid completely, but if necessary, I only take low-level work. Nothing with any potential implications. I’m not here for riches or glory. I’m here to keep busy. I want things nice and simple.

I look back at Ichiro. “Not interested, sorry. You got anything else?”

His expression hardens. “Adrian-san, it would cause great offense to turn down a request from someone like Santo. It would not look good on you.”

I shrug. “My reputation will survive, I’m sure.”

He shakes his head. “Not your reputation I’m concerned with.”

“Yeah…” I take another deep breath. “But still, I don’t want to get involved in anything too high-profile. You know I don’t take jobs from known Yakuza. Just say I’m not available or something. It’ll be fine.”

Ichiro thinks for a moment before nodding. “Okay, Adrian-san. I will handle it.”

“I… heh… I do have one other job, if you interested? It’s from independent source. Local. As low-level as it gets.”

I nod. “That sounds better. What is it?”

“A young man fell in with bad people. He turned up dead.” He places two fingers to the side of his head and taps his temple. “Executed. The parents want justice, but police do nothing. The father now seeking revenge instead.”

A sadly familiar story. Like I said, Tokyo can be a dark place. If you’re not careful, it will eat you alive.

“How much are they offering?” I ask.

Ichiro checks his screen. “Three million yen.”

He checks again. “A little over twenty-six thousand, U.S.”

“That is low-level…” I think for a moment. “But if I’m honest, I’m a little bored, so what the hell. Who’s the target?”

A wide, almost maniacal grin creeps across Ichiro’s face. His eyes come to life with excitement.

My eyes narrow. “What?”

“Oh, you gonna like this, Adrian-san.” He starts chuckling to himself as he spins the laptop around for me to see.

I stare at the screen for a moment before frowning. “I don’t understand. That’s the guy who wants to meet me about the Yakuza job I just turned down. You’re supposed to be showing me the target for this new job. Seriously, Ichi, I keep telling you to lay off the sake before lunch, man.”

His chuckle becomes a laugh, deep and loud, from the gut. “Shinigami … it is same man! Potential client is also someone’s target!”

I lean forward in my chair. “You’re kidding?”

“No! Crazy, right?”

“Well, you would know…” I mutter with a smile before sitting back and folding my arms across my chest. The cogs inside my head are turning, suddenly alive with dreadful purpose.

“What I say, Adrian-san? You got to love this, no?”

He starts laughing to himself.

I run a palm over the stubble covering my jaw and throat, lost in thought as my mind analyzes a million different outcomes.

“Okay,” I say after a few moments. “The set-up is obvious, right? My concern is, can I take out this Santo prick without screwing myself over and becoming a target for his family?”

Ichiro’s chuckling subsides. He strokes his long beard thoughtfully.

“It is valid concern, yes, Adrian-san. There is always risk.”

I nod. “Big risk for that level of payday…”

He nods back. “Yes. But I know you. You will take job.”

My brow arches as I smile. “Oh, will I now?”

“Of course!” He leans back and starts laughing again. “You know how I know?”

I shrug. “Enlighten me.”

“Two reasons. First, it is stupid idea. Most people… logical. Say no. But you crazy… see that as challenge.”

I scoff and look away, silently cursing to myself at how accurate that statement was.

“And second,” he continues, “you see struggle of family who lost son. You do what is right.” He taps his own chest, then points at mine. “You are burdened with heart, Shinigami . You are master of this world. Yet, you do not belong in it. You are better than it.”

I hold his gaze as his words sink in.

That’s probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. And probably the most serious thing Ichi’s ever said to me.

Finally, I get to my feet. “Okay, accept the father’s job, then confirm the meeting with Santo.”

Ichiro stands and nods. “Consider it done, Adrian-san. Tell me… how will you ensure Santo is removed without retribution?”

I shrug. “Not sure yet. That’s the fun part.”

He chuckles as he hands me a piece of paper with an address and time written on it. I take it from him, then shake his hand. I leave his office. Make my way through the back, out into the serving area. The line of people is still taking up most of the space inside. As I lift the counter, I feel a hand on my arm. I look around and see one of the chefs standing there, smiling broadly. He’s holding out a box of food with a plastic fork sticking out of it.

I nod a thank you, take the box from him, and head outside. The temperature is a shock to the system after the heat of the noodle bar. I set off walking back down the street, heading for the bridge. I tuck into the food as I navigate the steady stream of people flowing both ways around me. It’s tasty and does a good job of warming me up.

For a brief moment, I wonder if I’ve just made a colossal mistake. But then I think about what that father must be going through, wanting justice for his son. Sure, his son made some bad choices. But haven’t we all? His decisions shouldn’t have been punishable by death. The way I see it, I get to do right by a family that deserves it, and I get to make a dent in a Yakuza family without getting directly involved with them.