The Undertow (The Kuroda Yakuza Series Book 2) Page 8

  Those kinds of messages are often most effective when they're written in blood.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Adele

  After Kaito leaves, I explore the rest of the house. Towards the back, there's a small, paved courtyard, with a withered Japanese maple tree in the centre. It rises out of the ground between moss covered stones, the pavers cracked and dislodged around its roots. It's probably not been cared for in years.

  Its trunk is twisted and gnarled, as if it's contorted itself to reach towards the elusive sunlight above. Most of its branches appear dead, apart from a few green shoots at the tips. Despite all the odds, despite being neglected, it's surviving. I wonder how old this tree is. I wonder how much it's seen in its lifetime.

  Did the young Kaito, the troubled boy Kaito, sit outside here and wonder the very same thing? I find a half-cracked plastic bucket outside and fill it with water, pouring it around the tree's knobbly roots, before heading back inside.

  This old house intrigues me. It's a complex warren of rooms, divided by paper screen walls, and decorated with an odd assortment of furniture, from all eras. There's a wooden chest that looks as if it's over a hundred years old. There are retro looking sideboards and tables from the sixties and seventies, alongside modern sofas and more traditional Japanese furniture.

  I've opened all the windows to let sunlight and fresh air in, and I start sweeping the floors. A thin layer of dust has settled throughout the entire house, causing me to cough and sneeze as I work.

  As I make my way upstairs, broom and duster in hand, my phone rings.

  Caller ID doesn't recognize the number. But I hadn't expected it to, when it's set to roaming.

  After a moment's hesitation, I answer. "Hello?"

  "Adele Sullivan-san?" The voice on the other end is female, with a slight Japanese accent, similar to Kaito's. "My name is Megumi Kato. I'm calling from the Brightblack Gallery."

  "Oh." I pause, taken by surprise. I wasn't expecting them to call me so soon. "What can I do for you, Megumi-san?"

  "Well, first of all, I wanted to thank you for your reply to my email. You were recommended by a mutual client who spends time between Los Angeles and here. As I mentioned, we're doing an upcoming exhibition with an Americana theme, and I think your work would be a good fit for our showcase."

  Her words are music to my ears. This is the opening I've been looking for. My first exhibition in Los Angeles was an unexpected, impromptu success, inspired by my first encounter with the yakuza in America. It was eclectic and unorthodox, a series of portraits of pimps, hostesses and prostitutes, portrayed in an abstract, artificial light. Some critics seemed to think it lacked direction and cohesion. But the works were still snapped up by private collectors.

  It was different to anything going around in art circles at the time.

  Being my first showing, I didn't set prices too high, but I still made a tidy sum.

  And my most generous buyer was none other than Kaito himself. I was in a tight spot at the time, and I needed the money.

  The portrait he bought sits in his bedroom now, propped up against the wall. It's a bold depection of his sculpted body and magnificent tattoos, his face hidden in shadow. In the painting, a haunted, sorrowful spirit stands over one shoulder.

  At the time, it was a coded message to him.

  But it also reflected my feelings towards him.

  And it was the final piece in the puzzle; the thing that set our relationship in stone.

  I have no regrets for taking that step. Kaito wasn't willing to, so I made the leap for him. If I hadn't followed my instincts and my desire, he would have been lost to me forever, swept back into the murky underworld that most ordinary folk never ever see.

  I've certainly had my brush with that darkness. Being with Kaito, it was inevitable.

  But I trust him to keep me safe.

  Megumi's voice brings me out of my reverie. "Adele-san, we are particularly interested in your new portfolio. The photos are great, but I'd love to see the originals. Is it possible to arrange a time to videoconference?"

  "Actually, I'm in Tokyo right now," I reply, my excitement building. Brightblack have a reputation for being one of the more avant-garde art spaces in Tokyo. Their 'anything goes' philosophy has earned them a cult following.

  "That's great! You're here on holidays?"

  "You could say that."

  "Can you come by tomorrow?"

  "I'd love to."

  "Drop by anytime. I'll be here all day."

  "Sure thing." We exchange a few more details, with Megumi giving me some rather confusing information on which subway routes to take. Brightblack Gallery is in Harajuku, a place I've always wanted to visit. For tourists, it's the epicentre of subculture in Japan.

  As I pocket my phone, I realise I'm still standing halfway up the wooden stairs, the duster and broom in my other hand. My thoughts are racing.

  I'll have to call home, and ask my friend Dio to have the rest of my work courierd over.

  And I really should call my family and let them know I'm in Japan.

  Then there's the small issue of my overprotective lover. If he finds out where I'm going, he'll want to come. But I don't think negotiating an exhibition would go down well with Kaito standing over my shoulder.

  The man probably doesn't realise it, but he comes across as intimidating, even when he doesn't mean to be. It's just a vibe he gives off.

  I don't want Megumi to even sense that my partner is connected to the yakuza. I suspect the Japanese have a way of knowing these things.

  So do I tell Kaito about the meeting tomorrow, or do I keep it on the lowdown?

  It's something I'll have to think about, while I sweep out the rest of this damn intersting, damn old house.

  Kaito's house.

  Who knows what other secrets I might find here?

  Kaito

  I'm back in the car, but it's parked around the corner now, out of sight. Because I need to focus for this, I've locked Ryuji in the trunk again. He almost looked disappointed; maybe he thought that by co-operating, he'd get a reprieve. But I've been in this world long enough to know that all unknown elements need to be accounted for.

  And he's still very much an unknown.

  Sitting in the driver's seat, I reach for my cigarettes, only to remember I ditched the habit several months ago. Times like this are getting me all edgy, reminding me of old habits.

  But Adele insisted that I give up the smokes.

  She's the only one in the world I'd do that for; the only person I'd change for.

  It's not long before an SUV with blacked out windows pulls up outside the apartment block. I get out of my car and edge up to the corner, watching as two Japanese men enter the apartment complex.

  I don't recognise them as being Kuroda members, but the Kuroda-kai is huge, and it's impossible to keep track of all the different factions and branches.

  They're both wearing suits; one grey, one blue, with gold chains flashing at their necks. Reflective sunglasses complete the look.

  Typical Tokyo gangsters.

  And they don't look like they've been to a funeral today.

  The only reason any self-respecting Shibata-gumi member would go near the temple today would be to spit on Ishida's grave.

  I reach for the tanto, the long-bladed Japanese dagger tucked in my jacket pocket, just to feel it’s reassuring hardness. It's my weapon of choice right now. In a crowded apartment block, silence is desirable. But just in case, the Glock is holstered at my back.

  I wait until they've gone upstairs before stalking after them. As soon as they see the apartment is empty, and Ryuji is nowhere to be seen, they'll realize it's a trap.

  I plan to be waiting for them.

  I take the stairs three at a time and move swiftly down the narrow balcony, reaching the door of the apartment. Raised voices echo to me from inside.

  "It's empty," snarls one of the men. "You think that fucking Hijikata got him? Think he's messing with us
?"

  Hijikata. The surname I used to go by before I murdered a politician and went into voluntary exile, moving to America. I haven't heard that name spoken aloud for years.

  Before his colleague has a chance to answer, they're exiting the apartment. I don't waste a second.

  As the first man walks through the door, I strike, plunging the sharp blade of the tanto into his neck. The guy doesn't even have time to cry out before he dies a spluttering death. Warm, viscous blood coats my hands. I kick his limp body back, and it crashes onto other man.

  Just like that, he's dead.

  Do I feel remorse? No.

  Should I feel remorse? Probably.

  It's a massive character flaw. And I hadn't really thought about it too much until recently.

  His buddy backpedals with a muttered curse, shock plastered across his face.

  He's halfway through pulling a gun from his waistband, but I'm faster. I point my gun at his face. "Drop it," I growl. He glares at me with savage hatred in his eyes.

  His dead colleague lies at his feet, his blood splattered across the floor in a vicious spray.

  It's all over my jacket and shirt.

  Sloppy of me. I like my kills quick and clean. But it couldn't be helped. I couldn't risk facing two of them at once. These types are unpredictable.

  Slowly, the man lowers his gun to the floor, putting his hands up. He's thin and wiry, in his early forties, with a scar running from the corner of one eye to his jaw.

  A rough looking bastard. He has the look of an enforcer; an attack dog.

  "Fuckin' kill me, Kuroda dog," he spits, in a thick Kansai accent. "I ain't tellin ya shit."

  I roll my eyes. That's the second time someone's said that to me today. "There are a thousand things I can do to make you wish you were dead. But if you tell me who your boss is, maybe we can avoid all that."

  "Just get it over with. The boss is gonna fuck yer people, anyway. Kuroda's going down, boy. And me, I don't really give a shit if I live or die. Seen enough in this lifetime. So ya can't do shit to me."

  I sigh. This one is made of tougher stuff than Ryuji. He's a real salt of the earth yakuza, hardened by life on the streets. I know the look. Not much gets through to his type. "Well, this is pointless then, isn't it?" I press the gun to his forehead.

  The man looks me straight in the eye, and spits on the floor. "Do it, Hijikata. Killin' me ain't gonna make no difference. Yer a dead man now. Just like my buddy here. And the fuckin' kid."

  His outrage makes me hesitate. How does he know my name? "You're Shibata-gumi," I say softly. No doubt about it. Only a card carrying member of the Shibata yakuza family would hold so much contempt for me. I've killed too many of their people.

  The flicker of recognition across his features is enough to confirm it. The problem with these hardened street-tough types is that they lack subtlety.

  So the Shibata-gumi are on my tail, and it sounds like they want to split the Kuroda-kai apart. It seems like their leader, Osamu Genda, may have grown a pair of balls after all.

  They're looking high and low for any kind of leverage against me. They thought to use Adele against me. That thought alone fills me with rage.

  Why not just kill me?

  What the fuck is Genda plotting? And how the hell did he get away with Ishida's murder? There had to be an insider; a traitor.

  I'm not sure of anything anymore.

  "By the way, the kid's not dead, shithead." I lower the gun. "And you've got a body on your hands. Good luck explaining it to your boss. But you're right. There's no point in questioning you. You've already told me what I need to know. Sounds like I need to take this straight to Genda himself."

  If I'm to figure out the truth behind Hajime Ishida's murder, I need to look inside the Shibata-gumi. And I need to treat all Kuroda-kai members with suspicion.

  The thug stares at me with wide eyes. "Just get it over with."

  A dry laugh escapes me. "I'm not going to do you that much of a favour." I kick his gun away, and it skitters across the floor. "Get the fuck out of here. See your friend there?" I nod towards the dead body on the floor. "You tell Osamu Genda that he's next."

  He takes one look at me, glances at his dead buddy, then looks back at me and snarls. "You ain't gonna get near the boss, Hijikata. Only a matter of time 'til yer dead. Watch yer back, ya fuckin' bastard."

  Then he slinks out of there like a drenched rat.

  I shake my head. "Hijikata's not the name I go by anymore," I murmur, to no-one in particular. I wait until he's gone, then pick up the bloodied tanto, hiding it in my jacket.

  I get on the phone to Erika. "Sorry to bother you today, onee-san. But I need a clean-up."

  “Hello, Kaito-kun. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? How many bodies?" I can almost see her smirking in that fucking smug way of hers. "I'll do it as a favor. But in exchange, you need to do something for me."

  "What is it?" I ask, cold suspicion snaking its way into my gut. Favors for Erika are never simple.

  "You remember that famous actress, Madoka?"

  "Yes," I grind out, not liking where this is going.

  "Well, she's locked herself in her dressing room with a bottle of sleeping pills. Says she's going to OD on them if she doesn't get what she wants. Of course, we can't afford for that to happen. Because what she wants is to break her contract. But as you know, she's one of Lotus Entertainment's most valuable assets."

  And of course, Lotus Entertainment is owned by Kuroda.

  An uncharacteristic hint of exasperation creeps into my voice. "How is this my problem, Onee-san?"

  "She's your half-sister, isn't she? So go and sort it out."

  I sigh. Luckily, I've kept a spare change of clothes in the apartment.

  Kaito

  I head for the skyscrapers of Shibuya, having changed into a fresh suit. Ryuji sits beside me, quiet and subdued. Now that his actions have led to the death of a card-carrying Shibata-gumi member, he's got nowhere to go.

  I'm still not sure what to do with him.

  I feel a bit responsible for his situation now. Seems to me the kid didn't really know what he was getting into in the first place.

  Now, he's fucked. He's safer with me than running loose on his own in Tokyo.

  Even if he has to accompany me to talk some sense into my suicidal half-sister.

  Madoka, the famous TV actress who doesn't acknowledge my existence.

  And while I go around sorting out other people's shit, the woman I would gladly lay down my life for sits in my house, alone, waiting for the day I can cut my ties to this place and to the Kuroda-kai.

  I will do it without hesitation, for her. Only for her.

  But everyone knows you don't just leave the yakuza.

  So until I figure out a better plan, I'm in, and I'm doing everything it takes to keep her safe without pissing off the clan. If that means she sees the real me; if that means she gets scared off, it doesn't matter. As long as she's safe.

  I pull up to the kerb, just outside a monolith of glass and steel. This is the entrance of the Lotus Entertainment studios. I glance across at Ryuji, who looks sullen.

  "You wanna help me out, Ryuji?"

  "What?" He blinks in surprise. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "You've got a choice," I say softly. "I can let you out here, which means you're at the mercy of the Shibata-gumi, I can hand you over to the Kuroda-kai, who will do equally awful things to you, or you can stick with me."

  Ryuji stares at me with a disbelieving expression on his face. "You mean, like an apprentice or something?"

  "I'm not taking an apprentice," I shake my head. "Trust me, kid, you don't want to learn what I have to teach you. But if you stick with me, I might be able to vouch for you with the Kuroda-kai."

  I unlock the doors. "So what do you want to do?"

  Ryuji runs a slightly trembling hand over his slicked back hair, an expression of disbelief crossing his face. As if he's not sure this isn't all s
ome big joke. "Looks like I got no choice."

  "Fine. Then get out and come with me. Try anything stupid and you're dead."

  Ryuji grunts but says nothing, following me as I enter the huge, sleek lobby. A bored looking receptionist sits at the front desk. As we approach, she stands, giving us a suspicious look. We make quite the pair; me in my tailored black suit and Ryuji with his tracksuit, gold chain and gangster hair.

  "Can I help you, sirs?" The woman's perfectly made-up face contorts into an artificial smile that doesn't touch her cold eyes.

  "I'm here to see my sister, Madoka Hijikata." I don't waste any time, returning her stare with a glare of my own. "Erika Goto sent me."

  Her cold gaze turns curious, and she studies me for a moment. "I can see the resemblance," she says dryly. "We were expecting you. As you have probably heard, there's trouble with Madoka. You need to talk to her."

  "Where is she?"

  "Seventeenth floor, in her dressing room. I'll show you the way."

  We follow the woman up in the elevator, and Ryuji stays quiet. As we exit onto the seventeenth floor, he comes up beside me. "Madoka Hijikata is your sister?" He wears a slightly awed expression.

  Is the kid star-struck?

  "We never had much to do with each other," I grind out, the irritation already finding its way into my voice. "I don't think it would be good for her image if people knew we were related."

  The truth is, my little sister has never wanted anything to do with me. My mother sent her to live with an aunt of ours when she was a toddler. The last memory I have of her is of a stuck-up teenaged schoolgirl, too uncomfortable to stay in the same room as me.

  The last time we saw one another was at the hospital, the night our mother died.

  The cold-eyed assistant turns to us as we reach a closed door. There's a name plate on the door, bearing Madoka's name in elegant kanji. And around the door is a small crowd of people, including two security guards who look out of their depth.

  There's one old guy in particular who's knocking on the door. He's wearing a rumpled suit and his grey hair is messed up. His face is shiny with sweat. Is this the manager? "Madoka-san," he pleads. "Please, come out. Don't do this to yourself."