Interlude (Part 4)

Part Four is a week late due to Mr. 37 being slammed with edits for Fates and Curses, coming next month. This installment is longer though, so I hope it was worth the wait. You can purchase The Warning on Amazon by clicking this link.

If you haven’t already, don’t forget to support indie comic artist Richard C. Meyer’s Jawbreakers comic on indiegogo here as well as Ethan Van Sciver’s Cyberfrog: Bloodhoney comic here.

Interlude (Part 4)

It was probably the most normal job he’d ever had, Caleb realized as he methodically poured over a mountain of paperwork, scanning each line for inconsistencies and most importantly, over-payments. Technically he was Yakuza now, but his role was actually a lot less violence and a lot more bookkeeping than he’d originally anticipated. Nearly six weeks had passed since he’d succeeded in taking down the saiko-komon, but the time had passed quickly. He’d been strongly encouraged to take a room at the family compound, and against his better judgement, he’d accepted the offer. He still paid the rent on his empty apartment, and if Omri was having him watched, let him make of that what he would.

Hiro had taught Caleb many skills, the most valuable of which was not swordplay, as Caleb had first assumed, but the ability to speak in the Yakuza’s native tongue. It had been a fair trade at the time – Hiro had barely managed to master English, and Spanish was eluding him entirely. Caleb had taken up the mantle of interpreter, and Hiro had slowly taught him Japanese. Caleb had caught on easily to the methodical patterns that were very different than his native English and her fiery cousin Spanish. They’d used it like a secret code between them. Now this tool had become invaluable.

Caleb had skirted the line of the law for years as a bounty hunter, but he’d never crossed it. As a kid making his way to a different sort of life of crime than the one he’d been raised in, he’d entertained the brief notion of working with a cartel. He’d start small, maybe work his way up the ladder after he’d proven his skill with a side iron and his knowledge of the business. Hiro had found him on step one, and in a way, it was surreal to be here now, on the other side, starting not from the bottom but from the side, digging his way into the cartel from across an ocean but digging his way in nonetheless, much closer than he’d ever been running petty scams in dirty parking lots for tourists.

Few in the family spoke English, and none Spanish. This alone was a huge logistical problem. He’d already found half a dozen discrepancies, indications that the cartel that supplied guns to the family were either ripping them off or that someone in the family was siphoning off the top. Caleb wasn’t sure yet, but the answer was somewhere in these numbers.

A knock at his door drew his head up from his work. Behind the paper screen he could see the shadows of three men.

“Hai?” he answered. The screen opened, and in stepped Masaharu, Hiro’s younger brother, and two of his goons whose names Caleb hadn’t bothered to learn yet. Caleb’s eyes flitted to the brown bagged bottle in Masaharu’s hand, but he quickly looked away.

“A delivery,” said Masaharu, holding up the bottle.

Caleb steeled his expression. He hadn’t expected Masaharu of all people to intercept his delivery. He put his hand out for the bottle and took it with careful fingers. He pulled the bottle out of the bag a few inches. Top shelf American bourbon, and to his relief, the seal was unbroken.

“Care for a drink?” asked Caleb. It was reckless, but to not offer would have been even more suspicious.

“Of American trash? No thanks,” said Masaharu, making a disgusted face.

Caleb smiled.

“So, what brings you here? I doubt you came just to deliver my packages,” asked Caleb as he set the bottle on the table. Something flashed across Masaharu’s face, and Caleb knew the look. There wasn’t much physical resemblance between Hiro and his brother, but there was something in their expressions that Caleb was painfully aware of and couldn’t ignore. He’d said something to piss Masaharu off – insulted his worth to the family, maybe.

“My father wants to see you. He sent me to fetch you.”

Ah. So, the package that Masaharu is delivering was Caleb. With a silent nod, Caleb grabbed his jacket.

The night was brisk, but dry, and the car that took them to an undisclosed location was stiflingly luxurious. Caleb stared out the window absently, pretending to ignore the rapid conversation taking place between the others. If anyone is stealing from the family, it’s probably Masaharu, but that was a thought that Caleb quickly pushed from his mind. He needed hard evidence.

Caleb was unable to read the delicate sign of the business they stop in front of, but to his surprise, it didn’t seem to be a restaurant. The street was lined with unassuming, condensed houses.

Inside, the walls were adorned with delicately carved wooden masterpieces, brightly lit from overhead. The place was clean, very clean- even by Japanese standards, and there was a slightly medicinal smell. Caleb followed Masaharu wordlessly into a backroom where they found the oyabun laid out on a white futon, unclothed from the waist up. The horishi was leaning over him, working carefully on the colorful and intricate irezumi that adorned the boss’s back.           Caleb felt a twinge in his right arm where he’d let Hiro tattoo him years ago. The spiral design was a copy of Hiro’s. He’d never considered what that meant to Hiro’s father. Was it normal for an assassin to mark his prey in such a way?

“Ah, Nijuro.”

Caleb was allowed to adopt a new name for his new life. The one he chose was decidedly simple, and the slight homage seemed to please his boss as well.

“Hai?” He still had no idea why he’d been brought there. Instead of telling him, the oyabun turned to Masaharu:

“You can leave now,” he said flatly.

Again, that look of unbridled irritation flitted across his face, but Masaharu wordlessly obeyed. Even he wouldn’t dare contradict the boss.

His absence left the three men alone in the room. Caleb still wasn’t sure why he’d been brought here, but finally the oyabun spoke:

“Show him your arm,” he said simply.

Caleb wordlessly obeyed, rolling his sleeve up to show the tattooist the spiral design that covered his inner forearm.

The man’s eyes crinkled, and he gave a slight smile.

“Waruku wa nai,” he said softly.

Caleb realized he was meeting the artist who’d drawn the original. Hiro had copied his work meticulously, and Caleb had felt proud to wear the same tattoo as his teacher despite the pain.

“Hiroshi was always drawn to the rasen,” said the oyabun. “It was an unusual choice for a horimono, but he insisted.”

Caleb rolled his sleeve back down. The oyabun rarely spoke about Hiro, and it always gave him a jolt to hear him referred to by his real name.

“He told me it meant the journey of life,” said Caleb, flexing his arm reflexively. The oyabun smirked.

“Some say it represents slowly revealing that which was once hidden,” he replied, nodding to the horishi, who quickly got back to work.

To be honest, Caleb had never given it a lot of consideration: he’d just thought it would be a cool tattoo. That was very much like Hiro though, and Caleb wasn’t necessarily surprised. He made an objective decision on the spot not to think about it too deeply.

“So, what can I do for you, Boss?” he asked, changing the subject.

From beneath the needle the oyabun turned his head.

“I wanted to introduce you to him. He’s a good artist. The best,” he said, with a slight nod toward the horishi who didn’t look up from his work.

“You want me to get a tattoo?” asked Caleb.

“You earned it. When you killed that no-good bastard.”

Caleb felt a jolt in his chest. Which one?

“You’re a brave man. Coming here, after what happened . . . Telling me about my son face to face, knowing that Hiroshi was sent to . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the sentiment wasn’t lost on Caleb, who stared blankly at the floor.

It could be a trap, a test of his loyalty to the gokudō. Caleb knew it was unwise to turn down the offer, nor did he want to.

“Arigato gazaimasu,” said Caleb, lifting his eyes.

The oyabun nodded, dismissing him. Caleb didn’t linger.

Masaharu was waiting outside the shop. His eyes were cold, and Caleb could read the malice there. This wasn’t going as either of them had expected.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said, climbing back into the car.

They rode back in silence, which Caleb was grateful for. He hated small talk, and he had a lot on his mind.

He realized he could get comfortable here. Not in this car, sitting next to Masaharu, who was likely as corrupt as the saiko-komon he’d executed had been, but here in Japan, in this life. It wasn’t what he’d come here to do, but it was a possibility.

The bottle was still sitting on his desk when he got back. Closing the door and locking it behind him, Caleb picked it up, studying it. Every few days a new bottle was hand delivered. He’d have to take more care to make sure that he intercepted the deliveries from now on. American liquor was rare here, but what the bottle really contained was even rarer. He slowly twisted the lid off, taking a small whiff of the amber liquid inside. The smell was pungent, and he quickly screwed the cap back on.

Opening a small, locked cabinet with the key he wore around his neck, he deposited it with the others: He’d collected eight so far. Quite the collection. If anyone found it, he’d likely be killed. There’d be some uncomfortable questions, to say the least. After all, what did a mere secretary actually need with eight bottles of petroleum?