The Devil Inside (11 page)

Crooked accountant. I snort in amusement. That’s what I’ve become. It’s a step up from what I was, I suppose.

My head is pounding. I need aspirin and a tall cup of strong, black coffee.
 

I roll down the window and light a cigarette, the next best thing. I’ve been trying to give up the smokes, because Adele doesn’t like it. But right now, I need something.

My mood’s gone to shit. I wanted to hang around, spend the morning with Adele, but when that guy, the Tarantino
otaku
housemate
,
appeared, I took off.
 

He was trying to act cool, but my appearance had him spooked. He knew what I was. I could tell by the look in his eyes.
 

Of course, he’s going to talk to Adele about it. That might complicate things.
 

My phone rings. I toss the cigarette and answer with my free hand. It’s Masa.

“
Aniki
, we need to speak. In person.” His tone of voice is all business.
 

“Problem?” The dull ache in the back of my head spreads, becomes a little sharper. I’m instantly on edge.

“There’s a request. For your expertise.”

“Yeah?” I keep my voice neutral. No need to let Masa know I’m surprised. Disappointed, even. This sounds like a job for the old me. I figured it would be coming, sooner or later, but I always secretly hoped the Kuroda bosses might forget about me.
 

Wishful thinking. This morning is turning out to be a pain in the ass.
 

Mendokusai
. A fucking pain in the ass.

“Can you meet me in an hour? I’ll text you an address. I’ll be on the top floor.”

“I’ll be there.” When the family calls, you show up. There’s no other option.
 

The address lights up on my phone. I recognize it. A driving range in Koreatown. Also owned by Kuroda. I do the accounts for that place as well. I raise an eyebrow. Masa’s into golf now, is he?

I pull into the parking lot of a drugstore, and find myself a pack of aspirin and a large, black coffee from a nearby donut shop. I feel a sudden stab of sympathy for hostesses around the world who have to drink to make a living.
 

Hangovers are no joke. I’m never drinking two thousand dollar sake again.
 

As I drive across town, the coffee does it’s magic, and I start to feel normal again. A strange feeling works its way into my gut, almost like I’m nervous.

Hell, I am fucking nervous. That’s not like me at all.
 

For the last three years, I’ve been a nobody, living a life that’s almost normal. I’ve escaped to this strange country where anything goes and everything is larger than life. I’ve had no trouble blending in. I don’t stand out here.

Now, there seems to be a request for my services.

My thoughts drift to Adele, the feeling of her silken skin under my rough, unworthy hands. Her curves, the warmth of her body. Her subtle vanilla scent, driving me crazy. I shouldn’t have gone back to her apartment. Should have kept my dick in my pants. But with that woman, my self control goes out the window.
 

There’s never been a woman who’s had a such a hold on me.
 

I realize I haven’t even given her my number. That’s probably for the best. Her lanky
otaku
friend back there is probably telling her all about our little run in. He’s probably made some assumptions of his own, and he’s probably right.

I run a hand through my hair and don a pair of shades as I pull into the parking lot of the Green Avenue driving range. The rearview mirror tells me I look presentable. The last thing I want to do is look like I’ve had a rough night.
 

The driving range is a curved building three stories high. It’s surrounded by tall nets. I make my way to the top floor. Masa’s standing in the centre slot, accompanied by four guys in suits. He’s wearing shorts and a polo shirt. He looks casual, relaxed. I stand at the back for a while, watching. His back is to me. They don’t notice me at first.

Masa takes a swing, and the ball flies out, landing at the two hundred and fifty yard mark.
 

I take a moment to observe.

I’m fascinated at how he’s changed. He grew up like me, the son of a prostitute. We had half a childhood between us. As a young man, he had a brittle temper. He was impulsive, unsure of himself, with a bit of a cruel streak.
 

I don’t blame him. Those of us who grew up in that place are all unstable, in our own little ways. A house full of prostitutes wasn’t a place for kids to grow up.
 

On the rare occasions that our mothers would spend time with us, nurture us, act normal, we’d soak it up like desert plants in a summer storm. We were staved of affection. The hard men, the pimps and pushers who passed through would sometimes find a smile, acting like friendly uncles. They’d slip us thousand yen notes and tell us to go buy candy. They could pat us on the head with an affectionate grin then go out into the street and stab a man in cold blood without thinking twice.

As I got older, I saw through the facade, as the background noise of drugs, fucking and violence became harder and harder to ignore. It’s the undertow we’ve been fighting against our entire lives.
 

The undertow almost sucked Masa in and didn’t give him back.
 

I remember finding him one night, in the deep of winter, passed out on a bench in Ikebukuro West Gate Park. He was spaced out, his pupils tiny black pinpricks under the streetlights.

I cursed and took him home, locking him in a room until the drugs were out of his system and he’d gone through withdrawal.

He’d screamed and begged, banging on the door, crying, pleading. I eventually let him out to wash off the sweat and piss and vomit. He was starving. I fed him, clothed him, changed his fucking sheets. I warned him I would shoot him if he left the house.

I watched over him for a week, never leaving the apartment. Some of the junior Kuroda guys came and went at my request, bringing us food and cigarettes.
 

Slowly, the old Masa came back.
 

I told him I would kill him if he went back to that shit again. I was dead serious. Better to die a quick death than fade away as a junkie.

As far as I know, Masa never touched the gear again. He joined the Kuroda-kai and hasn’t looked back.

I blink, jolted back into the present as Masa turns around. His eyes go wide. I nod and he walks over to me, waving his men away. They’re big, intimidating guys, all Japanese, staring at me with hard, suspicious eyes.
 

Masa reaches my side. No bow this time, but he looks apologetic. He speaks in Japanese. “Sorry for the short notice. The order came from Tokyo. Literally.” He utters the last word dryly. I don’t know what he means by that. “Thanks for coming.”

I nod, not saying a word. Masa’s left eye twitches. It’s an old tic he’s never been able to shake. It’s worse when he’s uneasy. He gestures towards the range. Balls fly out across the green, some striking the net at the far end. On the floors below us, golfers are practicing their swings.
 

“I’ve been working on my game. You play?”

“No.” I’ve never picked up a golf club in my life. “Get to the point, Masa. I’ve got work to do.”

“Sorry.” The place is noisy, the sound of golf balls being hit peppering the air. It’s a good place to meet. No-one will hear our conversation. Masa leans in close. His voice drops to a low murmur.
 

“That trouble you had with Lucini’s boys wasn’t an accident.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for Masa to elaborate.

“They’re hitting our businesses all over town. They’re agitating us for some reason, trying to expand their turf.”

“Why now?” I keep my expression blank as Masa’s small entourage checks me out. I know what they’re thinking. They’re wondering who I am, why I’m so tight with their boss. I recognize one of the men from Black Rose. He stares back at me with flat eyes. I glare back, and after a pause, he looks away.

“There’s a changing of the guard happening. Old man Lucini is doing poorly. Rumours are Lucini’s son has taken over most of the business, and he’s young blood. Ambitious and aggressive. They don’t like the fact that we’ve expanded under right under their noses.”

“Shouldn’t matter to them. Most of Kuroda’s operations here are partly or completely legit.”

Masa nods. “True. But they see us doing well, making money, and now we’ve expanded, in partnership with the Koreans and the Chinese. Business isn’t good for the old-fashioned racketeer right now. They feel threatened. They want us out.”

I watch Masa’s face carefully as I turn the facts over in my head. Something doesn’t add up. “So what do you need me for?”

“The old man’s son has done something unforgivable. Remember that night you told me to sort out those thugs who had threatened the sushi bar?”

I nod, watching from the shadows as one of Masa’s underlings takes a sudden interest in a golf club, lifting it out of its bag. He takes a mock swing. I shoot him a disapproving stare.

These boys, once they come to America, some of them lose discipline.
 

Masa continues. “We’ve had reports of this kind of thing happening for a while now. Because you cut off that guy’s finger, I thought things might get ugly. I went to Goto-san for advice.”

I raise my eyebrows. Kenichi Goto is the head of the Kuroda Group in LA. For Masa to seek his advice means this shit with the Lucini family has gotten serious.
 

Beside me, Masa shifts nervously. “Goto-san went to meet old man Lucini to sort the dispute out once and for all, to try and argue some kind of truce. But when he reached the agreed meeting place, the old man was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the son, Vincent, appears and all but tells him to get fucked. Of course, if you know Goto-san, he’s cold as ice and doesn’t give anything away, but inside, he would have been ready to tear the prick a new asshole.”
 

“Yeah?” I shake my head. “But this ain’t Tokyo.”

“I hear you. It gets worse. So that guy whose finger you amputated? That’s Angelo Gallo, Vincent Lucini’s cousin. Lucini junior took it real personal. Told Goto he would only stop fucking with Kuroda’s operations if Goto gave him his a finger in return. Of course, Goto refused. Vincent made him do it anyway. With a gun to the head.”

“You’re kidding.” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. A high-ranking Kuroda-kai member like Goto losing a finger because of a
gai-jin
? It’s unthinkable. And somehow, it’s tied to me. Fuck.

“You know Goto is married to one of the
kumicho’s
sisters, right?”

“Right.” No, I did’t know that Kenichi Goto had gotten himself hitched to one of Ishida-san’s sisters. Double fuck.
 

“Erika Goto flew back into LA yesterday. She’s aware of your reputation,
aniki
. And she wants to talk to you.”

Kaito

I ride with Masa in an Escalade with windows tinted so dark you can’t see inside. Two of his boys are in front, the other two follow behind us in a black BMW. We end up somewhere around Newport Beach, navigating quiet, suburban streets. The houses become bigger and bigger, and all of a sudden we’re turning. An electric gate rolls back, revealing a long, stone driveway lined with tall palms. I can hear the familiar rhythm of the ocean. In the midday sun, the air is warm and thick, laced with brine.
 

We roll up to a low set house, all sweeping, minimalist white curves. The cavernous entrance is lined with solid glass, stretching from floor to ceiling. Masa and I get out. He tells his men to stay with the car.
 

We’re met at the door by a quiet man in black who greets us formally and leads us through the house on silent feet. He moves with graceful economy, this one. He moves like a killer.

Takes one to know one.

We pass through a cool, tiled living space. The bleak, white walls hold dramatic, abstract paintings. Striking potted plants rise above pristine, white couches that look like they’ve never been touched. Through the endless expanse of glass on the other side, I can seen an infinity pool, stretching out to the blue ocean beyond. For a moment, all I see is an illusion, an endless joining of pool, sea and sky.
 

I put on my shades as we walk outside, into the sunshine.
 

At the far end of the pool are a set of lounges. A woman stands. She’s wearing a long, flowing, white halter dress. A wide hat casts shadow across her face, her eyes hidden by a pair of large, black sunglasses. As she turns, I see a sinuous dragon rippling across her back, as if alive.

There’s no doubt that this is the boss’s sister, Erika Goto, formerly Ishida.
 

She smiles as we come closer, baring perfect, white teeth. I stop and bow in response.
 

“Araki-san. That’s the name you’re using now, isn’t it?” She gestures for me to sit beside her, on a low pool lounge. She speaks in Japanese. “I’ve been waiting for you.” She turns to Masa. “Thank you for bringing him. Please, go help yourself to refreshments.”

Masa bows and disappears, leaving me alone with the tigress.

I wait for Erika to sit, lowering myself slowly onto the pool lounge only when she’s comfortable.
 

“The ocean breeze is refreshing, isn’t it, Araki-san? I hate Tokyo at this time of year. The humidity is overpowering.”

“Yes.” I stare out across the Pacific Ocean. It’s an endless plain of blue, shimmering under the midday sun.
 

Erika turns to face me, her expression inscrutable behind the dark shades. “I remember you, Kaito, now called Araki. Such a scary young man. You had so much anger. Though my brother saw a lot of promise in you. The fact that you’re still alive tells me a lot.” She pauses, staring out towards the ocean. Her voice becomes soft. “We’re all survivors in our own way, Araki-san.”
 

I’m quiet. It’s warm, but a gentle breeze caresses us. I feel as if I could sit here forever, suspended above infinity.