14 comments/ 23010 views/ 6 favorites A Casual Exchange of Gunfire By: Five_Eight Big Mama asked me: "Are you gonna have a problem with killing a friend of yours?" "Depends on which friend." "A Yakuza gang member on the management fast track." "It's not a woman, is it? I've got enough contracts out on me without the government getting in on the act." The Government of Greater Good frowns on killing females, but men are fair game. "C'mon, Aaron, you know the only place the Yakuza has in its ranks for a woman is as a bed warmer." I smiled, "They're not as liberal as the Organizatsiya." Quite the contrary, the Russian mafia employs women the way the KBG used to carry a large roster of femme fatales. Big Mama twisted the cap off a new bottle of Dasani water. Her pronounced neck muscles worked when she tipped it back. She set it down on her desk half empty. I swallowed dryly. "Aren't you going to offer a guest any of that?" I drink all the chemical beer I want, but these days you drink all the fresh water you can scrounge. She snatched up the bottle before I could reach for it. "You're not a guest, you're an employee," she reminded me. "Part time at best," I sighed. "Which one of my friends needs to be rendered null and void?" "It's not a woman. It's a dirt bag who thinks he's a ninja." I chuckled, "You must mean Goro, the most famous ninja in Neon Town." "I know you know him, that's why you were my first call, but---" she let her statement trail off. "Put your mind at ease. Goro and I have worked together a few times, as you know, but we're not friends, just acquaintances." She drew a finger across her neck when she asked, "So bringing in his head, no problemo?" "No problemo," I echoed, "Goro may be a good man to have your back in a street fight, if he happens to be on your side that day, but tomorrow he's liable to stick a knife in that same back." Big Mama said, "Loyalty don't mean much here in Neon Town." "Well, not loyalty to a Yakuza killer like him. You can rest easy, Doris." "That's just what I wanted to hear." Doris is the Big Mama at Bosom of Joy, LLP, a girl farm. They're a smaller facility than Western Vaginal or Bitch & Broad, the Pepsi and Coke of the girl farm conglomerates. The Bosom of Joy Limited Liability Partners specialize in weaned babies, toddlers and children. Western Vadge and B & B handle teenagers and women. Despite all precautions females are inevitably stolen from these fortresses, usually in the form of a guerrilla raid. The end result is plenty of people die defending the precious females. The Government of Greater Good claims they're the hope of the new world, but that's the GGG for you, their agenda is a confusion of contradictions. In the remaining metropolitan areas every third male baby born is put to death. Half of those left are relocated to survival camps. Females are prized and often taken away from their parents and installed in 'facilities' called girl farms. Children discovered with health and mental issues are subject to euthanasia. How this is supposed to benefit mankind is beyond me, but because the GGG controls all the firepower nobody questions GGG policy. And lives long. Certainly not a freelance hired gun like me. Nor the Yakuza, Cosa Nostra, the Organizatsiya, the Tong societies or any other underworld shadow governments that flourish in Neon Town. If you want to operate here you obey the GGG rules and pay the freight. Taxes are naturally going to be high in areas that can furnish electricity and running water and a semblance of law and order, like Neon Town. I make the big bucks tracking down the vermin who abduct and plunder. Like religion, prisons are a thing of the past. Criminals are executed without last rites or a last meal. Feeding convicts is considered wasting food. In such a violent society the dregs of humanity are the lowest of common denominators. The prices for these bastards' heads are literal. Since bartering is the name of the game I can trade bloody canvas sacks containing heads for all sorts of currency: drinking water, ammunition, gasoline, cigarettes, nubile flesh or good old-fashioned credit. Money isn't worth the paper it's printed on since it can be stolen. Neon Town is on the credit system. The way it works is people turn over assets to banks in the private sector in exchange for a plastic credit card with their thumbprint encrypted on it. If a card is stolen, it's worthless; lost cards are replaced. The system gives back to the community via interest paid on the card; it keeps crime down and keeps government out. Gold and silver is still viable, of course. Diamonds remain a girl's best friend, dazzling trinkets to pamper the pretty ladies. These are constants in a world of change. If I can fulfill a couple of contracts each month I can afford my luxury apartment uptown, eat steaks and drink wine, dally with beautiful women and bathe on a regular basis. I'm twenty-four and entertain no illusions of a thirtieth birthday, but while I'm still quick, it'll be someone else who's dead. My short life expectancy is due to occupational hazards. Exterminating the worst elements of modern society is a hands-on gig, not suitable work for just anybody. "This place is buzzing like a madhouse, Doris. Security was freaking out about my sword. What's the deal?" "A one man strike, he stole a baby girl. It went down less than an hour ago, three of my guards butchered, a fourth sliced to ribbons, he'll be lucky if he lives till midnight. He says the intruder wore black pajamas and a mask and cut everybody up with a Samurai sword. The Partners figure that's ninja modus operandi. In ancient times ninja hid their identities. Goro advertises ninjutsu as his gimmick. You think he did it?" "Dunno, anybody can put on black jammies, but not just anybody can waltz in and out of a girl farm either. Goro's an A-1 candidate. What's the job pay?" "The LLP authorized a thousand credits. And you'll get to double dip, the GGG price on Goro's head will pay your taxes for the next two years." "Is there a bonus in the contract rider if I bring the baby back alive?" When Big Mama's laughter subsided she pressed a button on the intercom on her desk. "Have Orsolya come to my office, Shirley." Then she said to me, "Sorry to laugh, Aaron, but you know kidnap victims are almost never found. Or survive." While we waited I began negotiating a better deal. "A thousand credits is a lot, Doris, but Goro is one bad dude. I want something under the table." "Like what, you chiseler?" "Don't 'like what' me, you bitch," I said affectionately. "I want a week of steak dinners, with vegetables." "Okay, but that's it!" "That's not it, you can take that out of Bosom of Joy petty cash. The LLP will never miss it." Doris blew a raspberry. "What else do you want?" "A case of Dasani bottled water and a hundred 9mm rounds." A GGG-funded girl farm has access to that kind of government surplus. My request was well within the bounds of reason. "I could always bring Blake in for this caper," threatened Doris. I stood up to leave. "You know good and well Blake couldn't even find Goro, let alone take him." "Alright, dammit, but chicken dinners, not steak!" I agreed and sat back down. A knock on the door interrupted our negotiations. Orsolya. Big Mama told her to enter. A breathtaking girl with thick blonde braids, long legs and knockout tits that her uniform failed to hide strutted into the office. She and I appraised one another like young members of the opposite sex will do. "Whaddya think, Orsolya?" the Big Mama asked. "He cute." "So is your Russian accent," I said, admiring her ass. "Zip your lip, Aaron," Big Mama said. Then she and Orsolya had a quick conversation in Russian. Orsolya nodded several times with a wide grin on her face. She knelt in front of me, giggling as she unzipped my pants. "Hmmm," she commented to Big Mama when she bared my erection. That should have embarrassed me under the circumstances but it's a strange time in which we live. Nobody quotes Dickens' best of times, worst of times much anymore although I wasn't having too bad of a time just then. Orsolya's head bobbed over my lap for a few minutes like an efficient machine. The blonde sucked hard enough to cause a dent in my forehead. In record time I came, with a gasp. The girl efficiently disposed of any telltale evidence of what she'd done with a swallow and stood up with a bounce, smiling. Big Mama jerked her head toward the door and Orsolya left. "Cheeseballs," Big Mama leered at me. "Where did you get HER?" "I'm in the girl farm racket, remember? Don't forget to thank me for the freebie." I did and added, "I'm impressed." "I knew you would be, but don't count your chicks just yet. Do I think you can bring in Goro's head? You wouldn't be here if I thought otherwise. Do I think you can bring the baby back? Well, let's just say the chances are infinitesimal." I hated to admit she was right but Orsolya brought a powerful inducement to the table. "But if I do?" "If you do, my cocky friend, Orsolya gets a weekend pass. You and she can work on improving Soviet-American relations. Deal?" "Throw in a bottle of Dasani and a 17-round clip, up front," I told her, "and we have a deal." She pitched a bitch: "You just had a courtesy blowjob!" "Which I appreciate, but now that you've taken care of my dick I'm going to have to watch out for my neck." She knew Goro had a tough guy rep in a town full of tough guys, knew she'd have to pay top dollar for a pro up to the challenge. I'm a pro, time would tell about the challenge. Big Mama grumbled some more about labor costs but finally we shook on it. She rummaged through a desk drawer and gave me a 9mm clip. I thumbed three cartridges onto her desk blotter for inspection. The brass was dull. "These are reloads!" I complained. "Take 'em or leave 'em, Aaron." "What about the water?" She rotated in her protesting swivel chair and opened a compact refrigerator behind her desk. She pitched me a blue plastic bottle. I caught it in one hand. The seal on the screw-on cap had been broken. "Do you have one that isn't a refill?" "The case of water will have unbroken seals. Take that one or leave it." I took it. It fit in a pouch on my belt. Our pact made, Doris called Orsolya back in the room and instructed her to escort me out of the building. We navigated through the maze of secure corridors and frequent checkpoints. Like food farms and fresh water reservoirs, girl farms are locked down the way prisons used to be. If Goro penetrated the security here he would not be an easy score. Nothing I didn't already know. Once outside the walls Orsolya asked, "You have cigarette?" In the pouch on my belt I had a pack of Marlboros. "Sure, baby," I grinned at her. She grinned back, "No try to sweet talk. Big Mama tell me you must work before you get some of this." I gave her a cigarette and set off on foot for the Ginza district. Orsolya said to my back, "Be careful. I see you later I hope." Me, too. Taxis have been expensive throughout time, and still are. Horse drawn carriages and rickshaws are the cheapest way to the Ginza but, as usual, I operate on a tight budget and leave those modes of transportation to senior citizens and expectant mothers. For obvious reasons bicycles are popular except they have an alarming tendency to disappear, even in the best of neighborhoods. So I'd left mine locked up in my living quarters. Along the way I opened the Dasani and had a swig of water. Not too bad, it barely tasted of purification chemicals. It was the same purified water they brewed beer with now. I stowed the bottle back in my pouch on the belt next to a stiletto. I'd arrived at Bosom of Joy already dressed for action. My own Samurai sword hung on the left side of my belt. A 9mm pistol rode in a shoulder holster under my left armpit. I wore motorcycle pants because the leather reduces the sting of a whipsword. Sewn outside each of my boots is a sheath, tonight these contained two of my favorite Bowie knives. Except for my arsenal my most important piece of gear is my flak jacket. Essentially it's gray plastic plate armor, articulated like the scales of a reptile. The plastic is a polymer that will stop a bullet under .45 calibers, unless it takes a point blank hit. The mobsters in the Organizatsiya like those big bore guns. The plastic armor also affords protection against bladed weapons. Some of the Yakuza had Samurai ancestors who'd handed down ancient swords. These can behead an elephant with a proper stroke. The armor plates of my jacket are not impervious to a true Samurai blade and is nicked and cut in many places. It's only a matter of time before the statistics side against me. A man in my profession can't dwell on odds or he'll lose his edge, or his head, before his time. A helmet with a faceplate and a canvas-and-plastic piece that fastens between my legs to protect my loins came with the jacket. Both are uncomfortable and I seldom wear them unless I know I'm likely to be in a gang fight or going up against the ax handles of a bunch of strikebreakers. My first two stops in the Ginza proved fruitless. No one had seen Goro, or admitted it to me at any rate. The search continued. On a deserted side street I found an alleyway I could use as a shortcut to where I wanted to go. That's when things started happening. A rat the size of a tomcat screeched at me from the mouth of the alley. Viscera stained the formidable set of sharp uneven teeth and dripped from its jaws. "God knows what it is you're eating," I said softly, watching its red eyes blazing in the darkness, "but I have no wish to steal your supper." Rodents haven't learned to speak any human languages yet but the damned things have evolved into very large creatures. At the turn of the century a rat would've fit in the palm of my hand. Not anymore. I've seen them as large as young pit bulls. Fortunately pit bulls can't grow as big as ponies. Yet. Rat or no rat, I wanted to cut through the alley, so I took a step toward it. The rabid monster screeched another warning, which failed to stop my approach. When I took another step it launched itself at my face. In a heartbeat I moved aside and slammed its body away from me with the back of a forearm. The blow sent the thing spinning through the night to thump against a wall. I heard its claws skittering on the littered concrete. It would take more than a polite smack like that to deter the beast. I had options: vivisect it with my Samurai sword or draw my pistol and fire a prohibitively expensive 9mm bullet. I hoard my ammunition for larger prey. The big rat squealed once when I slashed it in two, the halves shuddering violently in death. Behind me someone said, "You're pretty fast with that thing." I whirled to face three youths with spiky hair, naked to the waist. Each wore baggy shorts and Nike shoes. Tattoos decorated their lean mean bodies. Each carried a ludicrously long sword strapped diagonally across his back. One of them, with a pierced eyebrow, asserted himself by stepping forward and striking a menacing pose. I asked, "Am I supposed to be scared because you're making a face at me?" "Keep a civil tongue in your head when you address a Ginza Sword, gaijin." "Ginza Sword, huh? I thought the sword gangs in Neon Town ran in bigger packs. You boys lose a few members?" One of them laughed a bitter laugh: "He thinks we're boys!" The spokesman sneered, "I can handle you all by myself. Now just hand over that sword nice and peaceful-like and we won't hurt you too bad." "I got dibs on his coat," the second one announced. "You can have it, I want his boots," said the third one. I yawned with exaggerated unconcern. Teenagers these days! Give them a sword and a few running buddies and they get delusions of invincibility. Just the same I felt relieved I'd bumped in to only three of them. A small group like this, in their late teens, raving on amphetamines, can still be pretty fierce. "I hear mama-san calling. You boys are up past your bedtime." "He disrespects us," the spokesman said over his shoulder. One of them said, "Teach him some manners, Jimmie." He took a courageous if foolish step forward. No use wasting any more time talking to these jerks, I had work to do. Before Jimmie got his steel unsheathed I leapt to meet his advance and broke his nose with a downward smash of my left fist. An instantaneous gush of scarlet flowed down his face. He spat curses and blood. I shoved him off his feet and faced the other two. Simultaneously their blades sprang from their scabbards, long enough to be ridiculous. They're called whipswords because the steel is narrow and thin enough to be flexible. They're as popular as switchblade knives and are not toys to be trifled with. They have an edge and in the right hands can lop a man's head off. Despite my bravado I have a healthy respect for the gangs in Neon Town. I'll kill a rat but I don't kill teenagers, dangerous as they might be. Maybe an asskicking would do them some good. The one who coveted my jacket made a desperate slash at my neck. I got inside his swing, struck his blade above the handguard with unnecessary force. It snapped just like I hoped it would. The inertia of his stroke threatened to send him toppling to the ground. I grabbed his wrist, wound it brutally up between his shoulders, danced him around like a puppet. He made an effective shield between the third swordsman and me. He urged his friend to be careful not to cut him, begged me not to break his arm. I wanted to finish this before Jimmie regained the presence of mind to rejoin the fight. "Drop the sword and make yourself scarce," I warned the last one, "or I'll break laughing boy's arm off and spank you with it." "Do it, man, do it! Drop your sword," wailed the one with the soon-to-be broken arm. I maneuvered him over close to Jimmie, all the while keeping him between me and the guy with the sword; who let his blade drop an inch looking back and forth at his two friends. I used his uncertainty as an opportunity to deliver an unsportsman-like kick to Jimmie's ribs. Scratch one opponent. The swordsman moved in then and I surrendered to the inevitable. The bone in my captive's arm made a sickening pop. I rammed his body into the one charging at me. With a frantic side step I dodged the whipsword. It struck flat, bounced off my sleeve. We traded a few sword strokes then before he tripped backward over Jimmie. I had him then, touched my point to his throat. "Do you still want my boots?" I asked him. He shook his head quickly, eyes agog with fear. "If I were you I'd drop that goddamned whipsword, pal." His hand opened immediately. The sword clanked on the street. I picked it up, went over to Jimmie's moaning prostrate form and collected his too. The thin steel snapped easily under my heel as I broke both blades. No need leaving weapons lying around, someone might get a little bit hurt. My attention returned to the alley. I stepped over the remains of the rat's last meal. Not looking down at the grisly feast I placed my steps with care through all manner of detritus. The trash collectors in Neon Town are lax in their duties, making their rounds less than once a fortnight. Murder-for-hire, giant rats, sword gangs, half-assed trash pickup: all typical in a world gone bad. Neon Town is the new Los Angeles, now located in what used to be the southeast corner of Colorado. Sixty years ago an enormous earthquake on the West Coast reduced California to a few islands above sea level. Utah and Nevada ceased to be, now hundreds of feet underwater; not much of Oregon, Wyoming or Arizona is left either. Not surprisingly no one builds within miles of coastlines anymore, not major cities anyway. Stretching west from Neon Town to the new Pacific shoreline are outposts and villages, but they're as lawless as the old Wild West, not that the new City of Fallen Angels is exactly tame. A Casual Exchange of Gunfire After dark here it's every man for himself. That doesn't mean that the thriving young metropolis shuts down for the night. The meek and the feeble barricade themselves behind high fences and razor wire. They sleep in shifts, if they're smart, with someone constantly peering through the thin vertical slits that constitute the new fashion in windows. Should home invaders get past vicious family dogs prowling property lines they are met with bludgeons or sawed-off shotguns, often wielded by nervous great grandmothers or six-year-old sharpshooters. The alley stank and had no lights. Through the gloom I saw the lighted street on the other side. Sounds of a big city rose and fell around me: a casual exchange of gunfire, a bark of laughter, a siren, a lone expletive. I exited onto a block alive with nightlife and neon, especially neon, that's how our fair city got its nickname. I'd had enough back streets and alleys to suit me for a while. Up ahead I saw a dilapidated two-story building. Under a tattered awning a yellowed plastic sign with red Japanese characters glowed above a dented metal door. There was no knob. The Ginza district of the city is rife with Yakuza heavies, most of them James Dean or Scarface wannabes. Before tsunamis drowned the Hawaiian Islands and Japan, thousands of families immigrated to the broken landmass that used to be the continental U.S. With them came the Yakuza, whose zoot suits and Elvis pompadours are almost as comical as the affectations of the sword gangs. The Yakuza are as dangerous as the Organizatsiya, the Russian mafia. Those dudes will shoot you just to see if their gun's loaded. Thousands of them had also immigrated before the first black female President of the United States, weary of decades of Jihad, nuked the Middle East into radioactive glass, leaving half of the Eastern hemisphere uninhabitable. The remnants of America seem extremely attractive to millions of hapless refugees the world over, even after Washington D.C. and New York City got blown off the map by Muslim extremists. President Oprah IV is fond of saying as the effects of nuclear winter continue to level off the world will enjoy twelve hours a day of sunshine again instead of the seven or eight we're accustomed to. Her detractors and nay-sayers are legion though (and not just in the media.) Nightfall happens about four in the afternoon. I'd met with Big Mama at five PM and arrived on foot in the Ginza around six-thirty. That had been almost two hours ago. I knocked on the door without a knob. Stairs creaked behind the door. A line of light appeared when the door opened a few inches. An elderly Japanese with a white braided beard wearing a gold kimono with blue dragons eyed me warily through the crack. Three chains kept the door from opening any further, heavy chain that would resist any force less than a battering ram. A faint whiff of opium reached my nostrils. He must have been a new doorman because I'd never seen him before. He didn't recognize me either and hissed a few syllables in his native tongue at me. "Speak English," I demanded. He knew that I knew English is the universal language and that he had had to pass an English test for a resident's permit in Neon Town. He tried to shut the door but I leaned against it with my full body weight. I knew from experience not to wedge the toe of my boot in the opening. "Club full. You go 'way!" "Don't hand me that crap, papa-san!" I smiled when I said it. "Is full, you beat feet!" "Are you as parched as you look?" I removed the water from my pouch. His tongue touched his dry lips, I saw wheels turning in his eyes. I splashed the contents around in the bottle. "I believe the code word for this evening is Dasani." His grasp of the language suddenly improved a hundredfold. "Indeed it is, distinguished sir. If I am not mistaken it seems as if one of our most honorable patrons has just vacated the premises." "Which makes room for a poor gaijin like me." I added, "And his bottled water." "Indubitably. Allow me to close the door please so I can undo the chains." Thirty seconds later I was inside and tossed him the blue bottle. "A token of my esteem, papa-san." He bowed. "Domo arigato." "You're welcome," I said, bowing more than he. He bowed even deeper and I bowed again. That little ritual went on for a moment or two before the Dasani refill disappeared into a kimono sleeve. I followed him up the stairs. The smell of opium became more pronounced. The landing at the top had a counter at which papa-san could sit, behind that stood a large gong. A triple sectioned paper Japanese screen concealed the true entrance. "Welcome to the Lotus Blossom Bar," papa-san intoned. He gave my attire a pointed look. "Would you care to don a mask before you enter?" In a roundabout way he was asking if I cared to disguise my obvious western features. Members of the Yakuza aren't always fond of Westerners but, for some oddball reason, masking one's face infers respect. Russian mafia bars are similar except the neo-Muscovites don't have a thing about masks over in Little Red Square. Westerners are free to socialize anywhere they choose in Neon Town. If they dared. "I have nothing to hide," I told him. "And apparently nothing to fear as well," he said. "That certainly is a handsome blade you carry." "The salesman at the chop shop told me it was forged over three hundred years ago," I lied. A small grin wrinkled papa-san's face and he bowed again with respect. The old man knew damn well I was lying. A Westerner is unlikely to possess a Samurai sword like mine since they simply are not for sale. Since no warrior ever lets his weapon out of his sight, you can't steal one; you have to kill him for it. Papa-san and I were done talking. He pushed the door open for me with a gnarled hand. For a Japanese bar the Lotus Blossom is surprisingly western. I heard the last chorus of Hey Jude fade as I stepped inside, then the cowbell intro to Honky Tonk Women began. Rap had died and gone to the same hell as disco many decades ago. No one has ever improved on twentieth century rock and roll. I mouthed the words "I met a gin soaked barroom queen in Memphis" when I walked in. Two shirtless men passed an opium pipe between them at the bar. Except for their heads and their hands every visible inch of their bodies were tattooed. No doubt about it, the Lotus Blossom Bar was a Yakuza establishment, but I knew that beforehand. No friendly faces turned my way. A table full of wise guys in sharkskin suits glowered at me. Their long blue-black hair shined with goose grease. One of them wore a purple suit and a cowboy string tie. Not everyone in the place was Japanese. I noticed several bar stools occupied by Westerners but they were underworld types, not tourists. Like me, they bore arms. A few of them wore masks. If I entertained any thoughts of acting like John Wayne against all the heat in here I'd soon be in a grave, an unmarked one. These guys are stone killers, not impetuous teenagers fired up on speed. I scanned the room for Goro. He wasn't at the bar or at any of the tables. He favored the alcoves along the back wall, hidden behind beaded curtains. I sighed in disgust. Poking your nose into a booth uninvited is just asking for a bullet. I bided my time. Was I barking up the wrong tree? If Goro nabbed a weaned baby this afternoon I figured he'd be sitting in some opium den brokering a deal for the child. Or maybe he had a buyer before he even took the kid. Too bad I had no other leads except the dives he frequented. If he maintained a residence, I didn't know about it. A creep like Goro would move often and leave no paper trail. Slowly I circled the smoke-filled room. Nobody looked at me except Yakuza heavies wanting an excuse to start a fight. A Beach Boys song started blasting on the jukebox. I located a vacant seat at the bar and sat down to make myself less conspicuous. It took a while before the bartender condescended to notice me. He swabbed the bar top in front of me with a dirty rag. "Before I can serve you I must know how you wish to pay?" I produced the pack of Marlboros. "Do you like to smoke?" My currency was good. "What'll it be, friend?" "Budweiser longneck. And don't pop the top, I'll open it myself." "Whatever floats your boat. You want a nice sticky ball of black tar heroin with that?" "Never touch the stuff." He shrugged, shuffled over to the cooler. Before he got back with my beer I saw someone I knew: a little weasel named Hiroshi. He must have been in the benjo when I'd walked around the room. His eyes got opaque when he saw me. He ducked through a bead curtain into a booth. I pushed away from the bar, smiling. Hiroshi presented no real risk so I decided to take a chance. In the alcove he had just settled into a cross-legged position on a cushion when I parted the beaded curtain. Across a low enameled table from him knelt a Geisha girl whose acquaintance I'd made previously. She poured green tea delicately into a saucer. "Forgive my interruption, Hiroshi-san," I said respectfully. He appeared calm except for the mustache of sweat glistening on his upper lip. "Good to see you, old friend," he said with a slight inclination in my direction. "Not as good as it is to see you." "I'd ask you to join us but Trembling Flower and I are about to depart." The Geisha pretended I was invisible. "Your offer is considerate, but I'm in a hurry myself. I seek our mutual friend, Goro-san, with a lucrative offer to make him about some, uh, business." He shot a glance at the Geisha who froze with her teapot. "No, oh no, I've not seen honorable Goro-san in two three weeks." "He's not entertaining a Geisha in another alcove, is he?" He raised the palms of his hands and shook his head. "Sorry to say I do not know where he is." "Aren't you one of his employees?" Except for the sweat Hiroshi played it real cool. He even smiled when he said: "Like you I am a freelancer. How do you say? Living off the soft white underbelly of the city." I recalled when I'd said that to him. Nonchalantly I asked, "It's important I get in touch with him. Where's he staying these days?" "No clue. But you know how secretive a ninja is. I will certainly mention it next time I see him." "Domo. What about Trembly Poo over there?" I'd spent a wild evening with her a couple alcoves down a couple months ago. "Howabout you, sugar, seen Goro lately?" I sat down on a nearby cushion and dragged her into my lap. She yipped about the teapot but didn't spill anything. Hiroshi disappeared out the beaded curtain without a sayonara. "The courteous Hiroshi-san must want us to speak in private," I said in her ear. She hesitated, "I know nothing of Goro." "You know him as well as Hiroshi and I know him. When's the last time you saw him in here?" She dropped the Geisha act with Hiroshi out of the picture. "When's the last time YOU were in here, mister?" "Sorry it's been so long and quit trying to change the subject." "I'll tell you what I know, Aaron, if you hurry up and fuck me before he comes back. His cock makes my pinkie look big." Trembly Poo got out of my lap, hiked up her robes and bent palms down on the low table, slippered feet wide apart on the floor. The crinkled nubbin of her asshole and the perfect vertical crease of her kootch danced before my eyes. What the hell, I thought, I had no other worthwhile leads at the moment to follow up. Knowing Trembly like I did made me think she'd be more apt to tell the truth with a dick in her than not. Why take the chance? I undid my fly and stepped accommodatingly behind her. When I embedded my tumescence where she wanted it all the air gushed out of her in a grateful exhalation. Fortunately Orsolya had wrung me dry over three hours ago and I was up for it, if you'll pardon the expression. She got very excited very fast, ultra wet, breathing hard, moaning. "I need this please. I'm going to come all over that big American dick of yours." I plunged stoutly into her for emphasis. "Tell me about Goro before you're not in any state to talk." "I can't help it, I love American dicks." Instead of suggesting she move out of the Ginza I reminded her of the topic. I'd better get some answers out of her soon or my mind would wander off the subject too, she employed her vaginal muscles almost like a hand. I thought about Big Mama's remark about cheeseballs and slowed my pace. "Goro?" I repeated. "He was in here three nights ago. Come on, baby, get with it! Harder." "Did you speak to him?" "Noooo," she gasped at my newfound enthusiasm. "Did he converse with anybody?" "Just some Yakuza people, no one out of the ordinary. Oh, that's good just like that, don't stop!" So much for that lead, a Geisha girl doesn't butt in on a warrior's conversations. I concentrated on rewarding Trembly Poo for her information until my blood began to boil. Shoving deeper and faster into her trim bottom I had to grit my teeth to avoid groaning aloud. Trembly had a fist partially inside her mouth in case of audibility problems. What had we been talking about? Once my heart rate got back to normal and she had her robes readjusted she asked if I intended to stay. I told her I had work to do. "Well, don't be a stranger, Aaron. Why don't you come around more often?" Because I'm not fond of getting killed, I thought, but didn't tell her that. "I'll be around," I said and pushed through the beads, senses still tingling. The Yakuza wise guy in the purple suit watched me every step of the way back to my bar stool. Hiroshi sat with him, his back to the booth I exited, head hunched between his shoulders. My Budweiser waited on a napkin, still capped. I opened the bottle with my teeth, spat the top on the floor. The bartender reappeared, smiling, saying nothing. I tossed him the cigarette pack. "They're all yours." He counted the cigarettes. "You are very generous, sir," he said. "For sixteen cigarettes I'll throw in a ball of black tar." Down the line I could've traded the heroin to some lowlife for something I really needed. "Keep the ball for yourself," I told the barman. Perhaps you can do me a favor. I'm looking for a friend of mine, I wonder if he's in one of the alcoves. Goro-san?" "Haven't seen the ninja tonight," he said earnestly. "He's not hidden away in a booth in the back?" The barman shook his head. He'd been compensated enough to tell the truth, even to a Westerner. Over his shoulder I saw Hiroshi get up from the table of the Yakuza man in the purple sharkskin suit, studiously not looking my way. The Yakuza heavy said something to the man next to him. That man fished one of those cheap disposable phones out of his pocket and made a call. When he closed the phone he spoke briefly to his boss. Seconds later the four men at the table stood up. Leading the way, the man in purple with the cowboy string tie came over to where I sat. The edges of tattoos showed at his collar and cuffs. His goons took up positions behind him like a football squad playing defense. He waited silently to take my measure, testing my mettle. Would I cower, or be bold? I took the game to him. "I've already played this scene once tonight. No doubt some Ginza doctor is setting broken bones right about now." The man bowed his head imperceptibly. "We are aware of your reputation, it proceeds you. You are a tough customer, Aaron, if I may call you that." I lifted the beer to my lips. It wasn't really Budweiser, just some micro-brewery garbage. They rebottle it in longnecks because it's fun to pretend. The last place to get a Bud is in the Ginza. If I wanted the real thing I'd be paying a hundred credits per bottle uptown. Panama, the old Van Halen song, started playing. I set down my beer. "So I guess you came over to ask me to dance?" He smiled with great effort at my truculence. His bullies moved in closer but he held up a hand to stop them. "Allow me introduce myself, I am called Mr. Lavender." "And here I thought you were Elton John." "You have a keen sense of humor, Aaron." "In survival camp I was Number 274. Before I took a name I was more known for my sharp knife than my sharp wit." "I have no desire to shed blood. I have a request to make." "Request away." "I have a car downstairs, take a short ride with us." "Oh yeah, where to?" "To a ninja house." "Is that right?" "You sound interested. Are you in?" "I'm in." Downstairs Mr. Lavender and I piled into the backseat of a long black Cadillac. Cads and Lincolns are Yakuza favorites, the longer the better. His crew of three got in the front seat. Nobody said anything about the seating arrangement, it happened without any instructions from Mr. Lavender. Had it not happened that way I would have insisted upon it. The man with the phone drove. The car passed a few blocks of pachinko parlors, teahouses, Geisha bars and opium dens before entering a neighborhood. "What if I had declined your offer to go for a ride?" I asked to break the silence. He answered my question with a question. "You wanted to find Goro-san, did you not?" Smiling, I contrived to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder, but missed on purpose, brushed something solid under his left arm. That verified he wore a shoulder holster beneath his coat. Guns are more rare than Samurai swords, unless you're a GGG cop. The driver came to a stop in front of a house surrounded by a tall brick wall with jagged glass protruding from the top. He punched a number into his phone. After he got an answer he said, "We're parked out front." Mr. Lavender slithered out of the backseat. He crossed the sidewalk to stand by a gate made of oak beams in the wall. I went and stood beside him. "So this is the house of Goro?" Mr. Lavender shrugged. "Let us just say this is where we are meeting him." "Your boys going to wait in the car with the engine running?" He brushed at some imaginary lint on his purple label. "Sure. I told you this was all friendly. You're not going to get scared this late in the game, are you, Aaron?" Before I could answer a small panel at eye level slid to one side. A pair of eyes regarded us through the peephole. The panel clicked shut and the heavy gate opened silently. "After you," I motioned to Mr. Lavender. He smirked at my distrust but entered ahead of me. After securing the gate a man of indeterminate age in a kimono, not Goro, conducted us through a garden to the house. At the door he removed his slippers and set them neatly next to several other pairs of shoes. Mr. Lavender leaned down to untie his two-tone Ferragamos. I hated leaving my boots with the knives in them outside on the porch but customs are customs; I still had a gun, a knife and a sword. A vestibule opened onto a living room. A young couple sat on a couch, the woman cradled a baby in her arms. They glanced at us and turned their attention back to the infant. Our guide melted through a doorway. Almost immediately Goro entered the room, a short squat man corded with muscle, jet-black hair slicked back on his skull. For trousers he wore only a traditional divided skirt that left a myriad of Yakuza tattoos on display. A Samurai sword depended from his belt. He bowed to Mr. Lavender and me. "So good of you to pay me a visit, gentlemen. Have you met my daughter and son? Can you believe I'm a grandfather?" Once he introduced everybody the couple bowed themselves out of the room. Goro asked, "Would you care for tea? No. Suntory or sake?" We declined and he inquired into the nature of our visit. I bowed slightly and said, "Forgive the intrusion, Goro-san, but I've searched the Ginza for you to no avail. I have a matter most important to discuss. When Mr. Lavender learned of my dilemma he kindly escorted me here. I promise to be terse." A Casual Exchange of Gunfire Goro grunted and spilled some whiskey into a tumbler. "I am, in the western parlance, all ears." "Earlier a baby was stolen from a girl farm. This act allegedly was perpetrated by a ninja. You are a celebrated ninja in Neon Town. The Big Mama knows this. She also knows I am acquainted with you." "She suspects me?" I nodded. "She has hired you to assassinate me." It was not a question. "She tried to. Since you and I are comrades I had to decline, but I am duty bound to warn an old friend, lest you be taken unaware." Both Goro and Mr. Lavender smiled widely. Everyone understood each other. Goro asked me, "In your heart of hearts do you think I am guilty of kidnapping this child?" With a bit of western inscrutability I replied, "The fact that your wonderful granddaughter is present here this evening must surely be coincidental." Goro's forehead ridge with lines, as if momentarily puzzled. He downed his Suntory neat and his eyes became hard, unreadable. He placed the tumbler with great care on the sideboard. His eyes lost the hard black obsidian gleam and saddened. "It is no coincidence." I smiled expansively. "Then surely your exploit will loom large in song and legend." "Do you not think it is an odd justice? Of course I took the child. Can I allow my daughter's honor to be besmirched? The GGG takes away my only grandchild, dishonoring my family and what am I to do?" He paused before his voice grew in volume, "Am I to sit on my ass and do nothing?" I said evenly, "I cannot assign blame, Goro-san." I neglected to mention the guards he butchered carrying out the raid. "Then did you truly seek me out to warn me of impending peril?" "What do you think, Goro-san?" "What do I think?" He allowed himself a chuckle, "You enter into this house dressed for combat. You misrepresent the breadth of our friendship. You say you have come here to warn me of the schemes of Westerners. I think you have come here for the child." "No," I answered, "let the baby remain with her mother." Too bad, Orsolya. For a man with few scruples I deplore the concept of girl farms, of regulating lives, especially of putting innocent and helpless children to sleep like animals. The old man who had left the room earlier re-entered with two shirtless Yakuza men. Domino masks covered the tops of their faces but I recognized them. They'd been smoking opium at the bar in the Lotus Blossom an hour ago. Each held a whipsword. Mr. Lavender inched away from me, out of harm's way. Goro's face reddened, the fingers of his hands stretched wide and trembled with rage. His scream reverberated around the room, "You lie!" "I tell the truth," I stated calmly in the face of his anger. "About the baby anyway." "Why then are you here, if not for the infant?" I almost rolled my eyes. "If I turn down a single contract, the Big Mama will never again hire me. Word will spread, my reputation will suffer. No, I haven't come for the baby; I'm here for your head." Mr. Lavender thrust a hand into his jacket. He definitely had a firearm so I took him out first with a single shot. The two men with whipswords charged, howling. I busted a 9mm cap in the nearest one's forehead. His body hurtled backward into his partner. The man who let us into the house crawled along the floor in terror. A throwing star thunked into my chest, right above my heart. I never even saw Goro throw it. The flak jacket saved my life; not for the first time. I hurled myself to one side, splintering some priceless Japanese furniture in the process. As I rolled across the floor I emptied the clip. Throwing stars whirred past me like angry hornets. One of them bit into my left thigh. I ignored the dull wet pain. The roar of my gun ended abruptly as the slide snapped back on the empty nine. I flung the pistol in front of me with all my strength, hoping to do one of my foes an injury. My ears rang in the sudden silence. I got my feet under me, grasping for the haft of my sword. By the time I got it drawn I could see Mr. Lavender and the Yakuza swordsman I'd hit in the head lying motionless on the floor. Blood still pumped from the latter's wound. The other Yakuza man writhed in a spreading pool of scarlet, alive but beyond caring about me. About anything. No sign of the man in the kimono, he'd probably scuttled out of the room to safety on his hands and knees. Goro dove out of nowhere however and crashed into me feet first, catching me in the chest, driving me to the ground. All the breath rushed out of me in a nanosecond. He kicked my sword from my hand. The next thing I knew Goro crouched above me, squatting on my chest with his knees by my ears. I struggled in vain to unseat him. He may have been a counterfeit ninja but he was a true martial artist. Too close to spit me on his sword yet unwilling to part with it, he struck at my face repeatedly with his free hand. When his fury passed he would surely crush my skull with the butt end of his sword. My advantage was my head presented a small target. I thrashed violently to avoid taking a single blow. My forearms maintained freedom of movement so I pounded my fists into Goro's kidneys from behind. He growled in agony but continued to keep me pinned. I felt like I was drowning and hammered his kidneys some more. Almost too late I remembered the stiletto on my belt. I slid it from its sheath with tremendous effort and stabbed it into the small of his back once, twice. Hot oily blood made my hand slippery but I kept jabbing him. Goro's strength ebbed, deserted him like air from a balloon. Finally I succeeded in knocking him to one side. I ripped the sword from his fingers and threw it from me. We rolled around on the floor for what seemed like an eternity, punching, gouging. He rained blows at my ribs but the plastic plate armor took the brunt of the punishment. He was bleeding to death and I was exhausted. I kicked away from him, dragging air into my lungs. A fallen whipsword swam in my vision. My fingertips brushed the pommel and somehow I clasped the hilt firmly in hand. By the time I gained my feet I saw Goro clawing at Mr. Lavender's clothing, attempting to draw his pistol. He yanked it free and took unsteady aim at me. An instant of insane irony flashed through my mind: a Westerner with a sword opposing a ninja with a gun. I swung the sword with an animal ferocity. The very end of the long blade bit through the flesh of Goro's neck. His severed head sailed upward in a red mist. It smacked the carpet with a hollow thump, bounced once and rolled crookedly to a stop against one of Mr. Lavender's purple pants legs. Weaving on my feet I stumbled to the sideboard dragging the bloodied end of the whipsword across the floor. My head spun, sweat and blood dripped from my face. I gasped for air like I'd never get enough. I grabbed the neck of the Suntory bottle and tilted it over my mouth. I swallowed the whiskey like water. The baby wailed from the back of the house but no one showed their face in the living room. I took another mighty drink and threw up. The whipsword slid from my fingers. I let it lie. Blood coursed down my leg inside my pantsleg; the throwing star still lodged in my thigh. I have no recollection of yanking it free, no memory of cramming my nine back into the shoulder holster or sheathing my Samurai sword. The eyes in Goro's disembodied head stared into nothingness. I manhandled the sharkskin coat off the corpse of Mr. Lavender to wrap the head up in. I tied the sleeves together into a knot making a convenient handle to carry the terrible wet parcel. At one point I got a glimpse of my face in a mirror on the wall, thought I looked relatively unscathed for a man who'd endured such a savage beating. The baby cried uncontrollably. I set the head down on the couch and with drawn sword went through every room of the house to secure the scene. Other than myself the only survivors were the young couple and their baby. Goro's daughter hugged the naked child to her, apparently in the middle of a diaper change when the violence erupted. Her husband jumped in front of her, unarmed, ready to sacrifice himself in defense of wife and child. I felt ashamed and rammed my sword back into its scabbard. My lips went tight in disgust at myself. Never in my life have I bowed so deeply. I left them there without a word. As I passed the couch on my way out I picked up the makeshift container with the head. "You clever bastard," I said to it, "you put one over on me. Not that it matters now." Limping now I went outside, sat down on the porch, put my boots back on. From far away a police siren pierced the night. Maybe they sped here to investigate another casual exchange of gunfire, maybe not. When I opened the gate to the street the Cadillac was gone. Time to put some distance between the charnel house and me. I began walking. The bloody package kept bumping my thigh and I kept cursing it as if Goro was still alive. "You fooled me, but you lost your head doing it, you sly son of a bitch." I wondered who'd taken the baby from Bosom of Joy. Not Goro. His grandchild was a boy.