Bad Blood (25 page)

Nagai took his chopsticks, picked up a slice of
fugu
, and dipped it in his saucer of tangy
ponzu
sauce. The businessmen started shouting and cheering wildly as he brought the fish to his mouth, but he resisted the impulse to turn and see if the pretty one was winning. Well, down the hatch as they say here.

He started to chew, staring up under his brows at Hamabuchi, waiting. If it didn't happen in fifteen seconds, it wouldn't happen at all. He swallowed, grinned, and bowed his head to his boss. The ceremony was completed. Satisfied now, old man?

“So,” Hamabuchi said, dipping a piece of fish for himself, “any new developments since I was last here?”

Hang on to your hat. “Yes. D'Urso is planning to have Antonelli killed.”

Hamabuchi's eyes started blinking, the
fugu
poised in front of his open mouth. Nagai had seen this reaction before. The old man wasn't happy. “When? How? Have you warned Antonelli-
san
?”

Nagai shook his head. “I just found out yesterday. I don't have any details. I considered going directly to Antonelli to warn him, but I didn't think it was my place to do that. I felt you should know first.”

“Antonelli is my brother,” the old man pronounced grimly. “He cannot be betrayed this way.” He sounded like one of those old fart warlords from the samurai movies.

Nagai nodded to reassure him. “I've sent a few men to watch D'Urso and his hot-head brother-in-law. If it looks like they're getting ready to make their move, we'll know about it right away. If you want, I can send Mashiro to kill them both.” He was still unsure about going into business with D'Urso. If D'Urso sent Antonelli to heaven and got away with it, then Nagai would commit himself. In
the meantime, he'd go through the motions to keep Hamabuchi from becoming suspicious.

“No, stay out of their way. We can't interfere in their affairs. That would ruin things between us. It would mean the end of our joint venture, despite my friendship with Carmine.”

“How would that ruin things if we save Antonelli's life?”

Hamabuchi seemed annoyed with his question. “How would we react if the Mafia started meddling in our private business? We're sailing on rough waters here. It should not be us who capsizes the boat.”

Thanks for the vivid imagery. “Will you tell Antonelli?”

Hamabuchi was frowning like a bulldog. His eyebrows twitched as he considered the question. “I don't know . . . I don't think so.”

“Why not? He's your friend.”

“Friends don't spy on each other. If I tell him, I'll have to tell him how I know. Naturally he'll think I don't trust him and never have trusted him. It will destroy our relationship . . . and a very lucrative partnership. No, I can't tell him.”

Some friend. Maybe D'Urso
will
be able to pull this off. Hmmm . . . Yes, but what if Hamabuchi goes ahead and tells Antonelli anyway? The old man was crafty; he might do anything. Nagai had to be sure. “Why don't you tell Antonelli about D'Urso and tell him
I
did the spying? Blame me.”

Hamabuchi glared at him. He looked like a mean, bug-eyed frog now. “You have been in America too long, Nagai.
I'm
responsible for anything my men do. I
am
the Fugukai.
My
honor rests on
your
deeds.”

Here we go with the Kurosawa crap again. “Then what do we do?”

“We make sure this execution doesn't happen. Make sure D'Urso does not accomplish his goal, just don't show your hand. Business must continue uninterrupted.” Hamabuchi paused to eat his
fugu
. “I'm sure you can put yourself in D'Urso's frame of mind.” He was looking down at his saucer as he swirled another piece of fish in the sauce. “Do whatever is necessary to discourage him.” He cast his eyes meaningfully at Nagai.

How subtle you are. Bastard. Sic the failed assassin on the would-be assassin. How fucking clever. Won't you be surprised when D'Urso succeeds and we take over the slave trade for ourselves? Nagai dipped another piece of
fugu
and tossed it into his mouth. This
really was very good, better than he remembered. “Don't worry. I'll handle D'Urso,” he said.

Hamabuchi nodded resolutely and looked down at his
fugu
, dipping another slice. “Be sure you do, Nagai.”

Nagai nodded as he took a slice of
fugu
.

“It used to be so much easier to keep loyal men.” Hamabuchi swirled his piece of fish around and around in the sauce. “Tradition was incentive enough at one time. But times have changed. A boss must use management techniques with his people.” He kept moving that piece of fish in the dark sauce. “By the way, Hatsu sends her love to you.”

“What's that?”

Hamabuchi looked up and raised his bushy eyebrows. “Hatsu. Your daughter. Have you forgotten her? Kenji swings a good bat now. Your boy may grow up to be the next Sadaharu Oh. And the little one—I think of her as my own granddaughter.” He chuckled gently and put the fish in his mouth.

“You've seen them recently?”

“Yes, of course. Didn't they write you? They're living at my country house now.”

“Which country house? You have several, don't you?”

Hamabuchi just smiled and swirled another slice of fish. “You will see that no harm comes to my friend Antonelli, won't you?”

Nagai's mouth was tingling from the
fugu
. The sauce was sour in his throat.

Suddenly the businessmen started cheering again. Nagai looked up just in time to see the short-haired girl shove the pretty one down right on her ass outside the circle. She hit the floor hard, her tits flopping, and she winced in defeat. She looked like she was going to cry.

“Nagai?”

He turned back to that damned little smile. He pictured the kids, tried to remember where all the old man's country houses were. It was useless. Hamabuchi could have them anywhere.

“Nagai, you haven't answered me. Will you protect Antonelli? With your life?”

Nagai set down his chopsticks and wiped his mouth with his napkin. His throat was sore. He pictured Hatsu's face, Kenji in a
baseball uniform, the baby . . . then he held his breath and bowed to his boss.
“Hai.”

The old man smiled.

Nagai watched Mashiro's profile as the samurai pulled the Cadillac up to the loading dock behind the factory. He glanced at the three kids in the backseat, tough and quiet, all narrow eyes and moody lips, the three of them. He looked like that himself once upon a time. The old man had personally recommended these three. They worked well together, he said. Toshio, Hideo, and Ikki. Moe, Larry, and Curly. Initiated into the Fugukai by working as the old man's personal house slaves for an entire year, the same way he came up. But that was a long time ago.

Mashiro turned off the engine. The inside of the car was suddenly silent. Nagai could feel the kids looking at him, waiting for his order. He still wasn't one hundred percent convinced that this was the way to handle this, but he couldn't think of any other way. He'd let D'Urso know that he knew what he was planning. Just look him in the eye and leave it at that. Keep the warning unstated. Let him do all the wondering about who else knows. Maybe that would change his mind.

He reached for the door handle and instantly the kids rushed out of the car to cover him. They moved swift and silent. Mashiro got out then, at his own pace. He wondered if Mashiro felt displaced by the presence of the kids. After all, the samurai was the only force he'd ever needed before. The kids were for show, that's all. He hoped Mashiro realized that.

The kids mounted the stairs to the loading dock and waited for him, Mashiro lagging behind to watch his back. Just then Francione pushed through the hanging plastic strips that covered the open bay. Instinctively the kids fanned out around him, just in case. They were good.

Francione made believe they weren't even there. He jerked his head to flip that stupid hair out of his eye, the cocky bastard. “You're just the man I want to see, Nagai. We've got a problem in here.” He jerked his thumb back inside. “Come fix it.”

Hideo and Ikki held the plastic drapes open as Francione led the way into that back room where Mashiro had sacrificed his finger.
Nagai caught a glimpse of Mashiro's hand. The end of the finger was still bandaged.

Two of D'Urso's lumpy greaseballs in their tight suits were holding two of the chicken slaves with their arms pinned behind them. One of the slaves looked like he was going to shit his pants, the other looked angry and indignant. He recognized the indignant one right away. It was Takayuki, the little big mouth, the one Mashiro had to set straight. Apparently one taste of Mashiro's hand wasn't enough.

D'Urso was standing off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back. Unlike his brother-in-law, he seemed unruffled by whatever the trouble was.

Nagai looked at D'Urso. “What's going on?”

D'Urso just shrugged and nodded toward the two slaves. He was going to let Francione do the talking. He seemed to be giving the punk more responsibility these days, preparing Bobby for a bigger job once he becomes boss. Fat chance now, my friend.

Francione pointed to the scared slave. “This guy has been dragging his ass all day. When I told him to get moving, he just started giving me lip. Three times I told him to shape up and he still didn't listen, so I decided to beat a little sense into him. But when we pulled him off the line, this other guy follows us in here like Mighty Mouse to save the day. These guys are getting way out of hand, Nagai. Now are
you
gonna do something about it or do
we
have to? Huh?”

Where the hell did the little punk get off talking to him this way? Nagai looked at D'Urso who seemed unconcerned. Was this what D'Urso really thought of him? Did D'Urso think he was supposed to take shit from this little asshole when they went out on their own? Fuck that.

“Discipline is my responsibility,” Nagai said to D'Urso with deliberate calm. “We'll take care of them.” He gave the kids instructions in Japanese.

But when the kids went to take the slaves from the greaseballs, Takayuki started struggling, shouting in Japanese. “No! Stop! No more beatings. No more stinking chickens. We quit.”

“What's he saying?” Francione pulled a sour face. “What's his problem?”

Nagai looked at Mashiro who nodded back. He knew what to do.

“No!” Takayuki screamed in Japanese. “Another step closer and I tell them about the federal agent Mashiro tried to kill right here
in the factory. I know about Reiko, too, how she spies for you. I've seen her here with D'Urso's wife and daughter, pretending to be one of us. I'll tell them all about her.”

God, no! “Mashiro!
Sugu Yatchimae!”

The samurai's leg became an instant blur, a peacock tail of motion, as he pivoted, extended, and hammered his heel down onto the side of Takayuki's neck. Blood spurted where the heel of his shoe ruptured flesh, splattering the other slave and the greaseball who held him. Takayuki crumpled as the greaseball reached into his jacket and pulled a gun. Instantly Ikki lunged, threw the greaseball's gunhand up, kneed him in the nuts, and cracked him over the head with his elbow. The greaseball dropped to his knees and grabbed his head for protection. Ikki took a step back and stood over him, the greaseball's gun in his hand. Hideo and Toshio were already in position in case anyone else panicked.

Mashiro looked grim, deliberately unimpressed. These kids were all right, though. Moe, Larry, and Curly. Nagai grinned at D'Urso, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, searching the man's face until he was convinced that D'Urso hadn't recognized Reiko's name in Takayuki's outburst.

Nagai glanced down at Takayuki's body, then looked at the idiot brother-in-law. “Your problem is solved.”

“The fuck it is,” Francione yelled. “I want a replacement for him.”

Nagai nodded slowly and walked past him. “Sure, whatever you want. As soon as the next shipment comes in.”

He walked over to D'Urso then and stared him in the face. “I heard a rumor that you're considering a plan for rapid career advancement. It's not a very good idea. I
strongly
suggest you rethink your plans.”

D'Urso's nostrils flared. “What're you saying?” For the first time since he'd met him, D'Urso looked angry. Very angry.

“And also,” Nagai said before D'Urso could get another word in, “I've considered your offer, but I have to say no thanks. Things are better for me as they are.” He turned his back on D'Urso and headed for the doorway with Mashiro and the kids in tow.

“Hey, hold on, Nagai!” D'Urso reached out to grab Nagai's arm, but Mashiro's hand locked onto his wrist before he touched him.

“There's nothing to discuss, D'Urso. You know where I stand.” He pushed through the plastic drapes into the cold air. The sun
sparkled off the chrome on the big black Caddy's long fins as his entourage followed him down the steps of the loading dock. He could feel D'Urso glaring at him from inside the loading dock with his fists clenched in his suit coat pockets. The man was burning up inside. The world was shattering around him. Nagai knew the feeling.