“Don't try to throw your weight around with me, my friend. You've got people, my ass. I happen to know you've got nothing over here, Nagai. Zilch.”
“I've got plenty of men here. More than you know.”
Francione laughed in his face. “
You
don't have men.
Hamabuchi
has men. They answer to him, not you. Only Mishmosh here answers to you.”
Nagai's heart started thumping. His throat felt dry. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Oh, yes I do. We know all about you, Nagai. We know that you don't have any friends back home in Japan either because you fucked up royally over there. You're on the outs with the Fugukai because you tried to off Hamabuchi so that you could take over the family. But you blew it, right? But instead of having you whacked the way he shoulda, Hamabuchi keeps you around like a little dog on a leash. Am I right or am I right, Nagai? Coming here was your punishment, right?”
Nagai stared into Francione's eyes, wanting to take the knife from Mashiro and slit the little bastard's throat. Hamabuchi's words came ringing back out of the past:
“Now that you've gotten the treachery out of your system, you can be trusted not to try it again. Having realized your inadequacies, I believe that your loyalty to me will be that much stronger now. Atone for your error in America, Nagai. Work for me there, and I promise you, your honor will be restored.”
But when, goddamn it? When?
Francione looked at D'Urso and laughed. “He's got nothing to say. He knows I'm right.”
“Shut up, Bobby, and go stand over there.” D'Urso stepped between them. He put his hand on Nagai's shoulder and took him aside. Nagai was wary of his touch. “Don't mind Bobby. He's a hothead. He doesn't know what he's talking about.”
“He knows quite a bit for someone who doesn't know what he's talking about.”
D'Urso nodded apologetically. “Yeah, I know, well, that's my fault. Antonelli told me. I shouldn't have said anything to Bobby.”
Nagai felt hot. They knew too much. He'd said too much himself.
“Listen,” D'Urso said under his breath, “I want to talk to you about something. I can use more slaves, a lot more, as many as you can get, especially women. Can you arrange it?”
“The next shipment is due a week from Thursdayâ”
“No, no, no, those are already accounted for. I want to up the order. Get 'em over here as fast as you can. If you're willing to renegotiate the unit price, I'll put in a bulk order right now. Two thousand slaves, half women. But delivery can't be any longer than eight weeks. Can you do it?”
Nagai stared at him. “Hamabuchi and Antonelli make the deals, D'Urso. Not us.”
D'Urso wrinkled his face and smiled. “Forget about them. I'm talking about something just between you and me. I've got some plans, which I can't really talk about just yet, but I definitely want to include you, Nagai. You're a very capable guy. I recognized that about you from the start. But it seems to me that Hamabuchi is keeping you down, and that's not right the way I see it.”
“Just how do you see it?”
“Well, the way I see it, this whole slave thing is working out because of you and me. We work pretty good together, and I think we could work better if we were independent, if you know what I mean.”
Nagai laughed. “You must be kidding.”
“No, I'm not kidding. Who the hell needs these fucking bosses? We do all the work and they take all the profits. We don't get anything back from them. You know the figures, I don't have to tell you. If we go out on our own, in three years we'll have more money than the two of them put together.”
Nagai shook his head. “We'd never be able to get a shipment out of Japan by ourselves. Hamabuchi would block it.”
“So who says we have to have Japanese kids? You told me once that you had connections in the Philippines. You used to buy girls over there to work as hookers in Hamabuchi's Tokyo nightclubs. Isn't that what you told me? We could start bringing Filipino kids over here. You could arrange it, couldn't you?”
Nagai stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged as he thought about it. “In theory we could . . . but in reality we'd be dead in a week if we tried to cross them.”
D'Urso grinned and shook his head. “Not if you stick with me. I've got muscle behind me. Antonelli doesn't like to fight anymore, he's too old. He'll make noise, but he doesn't really have the numbers to go up against me now. And as long as you're here with me, we'll protect you from Hamabuchi's guys. I guarantee it. Hey, besides, you got Mashiro here to protect you. He won't abandon you for Hamabuchi, will he?”
“No, butâ”
“
Hai
. Mashiro suddenly came out of his trance, interrupting them. Nagai turned toward his man. This was important; he had to witness this. Mashiro had draped a towel over his front, and now he was bellying up to the counter and opening the newspaper again. He held the knife against the pinkie of the pet hand as if he were going to slice a carrot. He looked to Nagai for the go-ahead.
“Think about it, Nagai,” D'Urso whispered in his ear. “Just think about it.”
Nagai sighed inwardly and tried to concentrate on Mashiro. He kept thinking about what D'Urso had just said, though. It was crazy. He didn't want to live here permanently, even if he could have Hamabuchi's share of the profits. Still, with that much money, he could arrange to have his kids move here, kidnap them if he had to. And he wouldn't have to deal with their goddamn mother over here. You could do a lot with that much moneyâ
A low, growly moan came out of Mashiro, and Nagai snapped out of it, feeling guilty for not paying attention at such a crucial moment in the samurai's life. “
Hai
,” he said, trying to duplicate Mashiro's intimidating grunt. The samurai looked over his shoulder at him. A good man, Mashiro. It wasn't his fault, but still he is responsible. He met Mashiro's unwavering gaze and nodded curtly.
Without hesitation, Mashiro hunched over his hand. His shoulders heaved twice. Getting through the joint wasn't easy. Nagai knew. Blood quickly covered the newspaper and poured down the crease into the sink. Mashiro squeezed the base of the bleeding pinkie to staunch the flow. Nagai, in the meantime, took the knife and wiped it on the towel. He then pulled a Bic lighter out of his pocket and held the blade over a tall orange flame.
“Holy shit,” Francione hissed. It was nice to see the punk looking so pale. “What're you gonna do with that?” Francione nodded at the severed chunk of finger on the blood-soaked newspaper. He was barking. Like a dog on a leash.
Nagai grinned as he watched the lapping flame. “Mashiro offers it to you. A token of his regret for his mistake.”
Francione made a face. “Get that the fuck away from me.”
“You could have an earring made out of it.” Nagai laughed.
The punk touched the gold stud in his ear. “You're real funny, Nagai. Flush it down the toilet. And make sure it goes down.”
“Perhaps I'll keep it.” Nagai passed the knife to Mashiro who immediately pressed the flat of the blade to his wound, cauterizing it on the hot metal. Nagai took a gray plastic film container out of his pocket and dropped the bloody piece of finger into it. The stench of burning flesh filled the small room as Mashiro asked his boss in Japanese for the flame again so he could touch up the cauterization. Nagai noticed that Francione looked like he was going to be sick. Nagai held the flame and shook the film container to make the punk a little sicker. But the hollow rattling sound that the finger made suddenly made him sad. It reminded him of the sound that fuzzy, white mechanical bear made on his little toy drum, a gift he'd given Hatsu, his oldest daughter, so long ago.
After Mashiro had finished working on his finger, he rubbed the ceremonial knife carefully with the towel and gave it back to Nagai.
Francione was shaking his head in astonishment. “You are one tough motherfucker, Mishmosh. Now I see why those slaves are so afraid of you.” He had his hand on his earring again. “How'd this guy get so mean, Nagai? He go to sumo wrestler school or what?”
Nagai ignored the question, but Mashiro asked him in Japanese if he could answer the punk. Nagai shrugged and nodded. But why bother? He's an idiot American, he wouldn't understand.
“Once upon time,” Mashiro began in his faulty English, “I was executiveânot big boss, not small boss, middle boss. But my life make me sick. Nothing in my soul when I was executive. In company everybody worry about making better junk. I know one man he kill self because company no want his idea for clock in car. This no good. This is not Mashiro. Man must serve his spirit, not company. I am samurai. This my spirit. I must serve one lord, one lord who cares about more than clock in car. Mashiro can no be
ronin
.”
“What's that?” Francione asked.
Nagai paused, considering whether it was worth the effort to explain it to the punk. “A
ronin
is a wandering warrior, a samurai who has lost his lord.”
Mashiro nodded vehemently. “Nagai-
san
is my lord. He tell me do this, I obey. He know best.”
Nagai suddenly remembered the first time he ever saw Mashiro. It was a rainy morning, three, four years ago. He was coming out of his house and he nearly tripped over this strange man kneeling on his doorstep with his head bowed down on the concrete. With great reverence and formality, the stranger introduced himself as a descendent of the samurai Yamashita who served the great warlord Nagai of Kinki in the early days of the Tokugawa Shogunate. He thought the man was out of his mind. Mashiro kept calling him “lord,” though, insisting that this old warlord Nagai was his ancestor, and that he'd come to carry on the tradition of their forefathers. Nagai laughed at him and pointed out that Nagai was a common name, but Mashiro said he was certain of the lineage, though he never said how he knew that. Mashiro explained that he'd gone to great lengths to seek him out so that he could offer his services. Nagai just stared at him, and suddenly it occurred to him that this stranger might be part of his shifting fate. This had happened less than a week after he tried to kill Hamabuchi, the period when he was preparing to face death for his blunder. He was all alone. No one in the Fugukai would talk to him, and his wife had fled to her mother's house with the children in fear. Normally he would have told the stranger he was crazy and kicked him off his property, but he needed a friend then. Someone to keep him company while he waited for Hamabuchi's punishment. He invited Mashiro inside and made him tea. That's how it started.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Francione said, pulling him out of his memories. “Mishmosh had a straight job and he gave it up to join the yaks?”
“There's much more to it than that. You wouldn't understand.” Just go away.
“It has to do with honor, Bobby,” D'Urso said softly, looking at Nagai.
“Honor, yes,” Mashiro piped up. “More honor to be yakuza today. No honor in business. Nagai-
san
stand for something greater than junk. Nagai-
san
is
daimio
, warlord from long ago. System today is bad. Big factories make lots of junk. Old way is better. We succeed, we mock system. This is good.”
Francione turned to D'Urso. “I'm not following any of this.”
“What he means, Bobby, is that it's better to be a good yakuza than to be an ass-licker for some company. Mashiro knows bullshit when he sees it. All these big companies are all bullshit. They're just into waste and senseless consumerism. Mashiro holds higher values than that. Isn't that how it goes, Nagai?”
Nagai just stared at D'Urso. Amazing. In his own way D'Urso did understand. Amazing.
Mashiro was nodding again, smiling at D'Urso. “Yes, yes. Better to be samurai for Nagai than insect for Toyota, yes.”
Francione shrugged. “If you say so. Hey, tell me something, Mishmosh. How will your finger there affect your karate chop?”
Mashiro looked puzzled, and Nagai translated. The samurai looked at Francione and grinned cryptically. Nagai laughed at the confused look on the punk's face. Let him wonder.
“Where is my cousin?”
Nagai stopped laughing. Heads turned toward the voice coming from the doorway, the insistent question in Japanese hanging in the air.
It was one of D'Urso's slaves, a kid in an oversized, stained, white lab coat, one of those ridiculous paper caps on his head. He stood there in the doorway, glaring at them, then abruptly he bowed to all four of them and spoke to Nagai and Mashiro in Japanese. “My name is Takayuki. My cousin left to find his girlfriend days ago. He has not returned. The rumor is that you killed them. I want to know if this is so.” He stood firm, waiting for an answer.
“What the hell does he want?” D'Urso's face was a scowl.
“I want to know what has become of my cousin, Mr. D'Urso.” The kid spoke perfect English. “He's been gone since last Saturday. This isn't right, how you treat us. This is not what we expected when we signed up for this program back home.”
Takayuki . . . yes. Nagai knew who this kid was. The lovesick puppy who used to help Reiko with her English lessons after school. He remembered her saying that he spoke English just like an American. Nagai often thought he ought to be grateful to the little shit for training such an effective spy. Reiko . . . If D'Urso ever found out about her . . .