Fair Warning - The interlude is of a more serious vein than most of the
story so far; more in the tone of the prologue.
Comments, as always, are appriciated.
---------
Ranma closed the book. "I wish I knew how much of this
to believe."
"Would he really lie to you? Like this?" Akane shook her
head. "I think he's being honest with you for once."
"I want to believe that."
"So why don't you?"
He shook his head. "Because parts of it are obviously
false. I remember Kuonji-san. He was a big, barrel-chested
guy with a beard like an Ainu, and he was gruff and easygoing
and kind of rustic. Not like the person Pop describes at all. Do
you expect me to believe that he went hick, grew facial hair,
and changed his build and attitude?"
Akane seemed to think for a moment.
"Stay there," she said, and left.
She returned after a few minutes with some yellowing
pieces of notebook paper. "These were in Dad's papers," she
said quietly. "He doesn't know I know about them. I was
looking for things of Mother's a few years ago, and I forgot
about the names in here until the book jogged my memory. But
it always made me wonder..."
Ranma took them, and read.
-------------------------------
Pastpresent, Interlude One - Verlorenseele
Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem:
And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot
To mark the full-fraught man and best indu'd
With some suspicion. I will weep for thee
For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like
Another Fall of Man.
- Henry V, Act 2, Scene 2
I don't believe in God and I don't believe in man
I believe I'll have another just because I can
And if the morning finds me feeling queasy and in doubt
I'll drink one to the Devil and then punch the bastard out
- New South Wales Traditional
-------------------------------
I knew I'd moved into a bad neighborhood when they
nearly beat a kid to death on my front porch.
Surprised the hell out of me, let me tell you. I'd spent
the last two days getting my new place in order - an old
bombed-out machine shop that was very shortly going to
become a garage. It had been Kuonji's, but I'd bought him out
cheap, which was only to be expected; it wasn't legally his,
just in turf controlled by his people. Since I counted as 'his
people,' I wasn't really sure why I bothered to shell out for it.
Maybe I wanted something of my own for once, sort of. I think
some Ainu in Hokkaido owns it under the law. If he ever asks
me for rent, I guess I'll pay it.
But he's gonna hafta compensate me for all the sweat I
put into fixing up the dump, first. I truly busted my ass
turning the place from a broken-down, dirty, squalid hovel
into a well-running, clean, squalid hovel. I didn't enjoy it. It
felt too much like real work, which is for the Noble Poor like
Genma.
Anyway, I'd worn myself out playing interior decorator
and furnishing my castle in delicate industrial modern decor,
and after getting rid of a good deal of something red and
alcoholic I had passed out on my desk. I know that's where I
passed out because that's where I was when the pounding
woke me up.
At first I thought it was just my head, which was
throbbing in a way that is better imagined than described, and
better forgotten than imagined. I am very familiar with this
feeling, which isn't the same as being used to it. So I lay there
and waited to die, or, failing that, to feel better.
Neither happened, and I slowly became aware that some
of the pounding was coming from outside my cranium.
This made me happy, because it meant that I could make
it go away.
It also really pissed me off, which fit my mood anyway,
so that was okay.
Stretching, I peeled myself off the fake wood top of my
big impressive desk, replaced the carved cherrywood plaque
with my name on it - Genma had made it for me as a
housewarming gift - and slowly made my way towards the
door. I realized I had nothing on above the waist before I
opened it, which probably would have embarrassed me had I
realized it a few seconds later, and so I threw on my leather
jacket and zipped it up. Then I took a second to figure out how
the doorknob worked, and opened it.
There were three punks, all somewhere in that psycho
territory between 15 and 19, and they were banging some kid
into my porch like it was a bongo drum. Tha-bum, laugh, moan,
tha-bum, repeat. They'd broken a tooth or cut his lip or
something, and he was drooling red blood on my white porch.
I have very definite views. I like Sinatra, and I worship
Dean-sama, and whoever invented the combustion engine has
my heartfelt admiration. I don't like people beating other
people up on my porch without my permission, especially after
I'd just painted the thing.
"Quit," I told them. Talking hurt my head, and I didn't feel
like doing more of it than I had to.
They looked at me, and were less than impressed. I've
seen me in the mirror after drinking, and I suppose I would
have been less than impressed too.
"Fuck you," one of them explained in the poetic way of
the street.
"Yeah," the other two concurred. Then they resumed their
drumming.
That suited me just fine, because by this point I really
wanted to hurt them.
I walked over, which got their attention. One of them
opened his mouth, and I hit him in the side of his jaw hard
enough to both break and dislocate it. He shrieked, which hurt
like hell (for both of us), and that made him howl even louder.
Not very bright. I shoved him off the porch with one hand as
the other two pulled steel and started moving for me.
I really don't like people who pull on me. I've been
stabbed a few times, and each time it's scared me to death.
I'm tougher than the average joe, but having something stuck
in you, and watching the crimson well up, and feeling that
weak draining feeling... maybe Genma could handle it. I can't.
These two were holding their knives like they were
hammers, which meant they had no idea how to use them. Fine
by me.
I grabbed the arm of the first one as he tried to stab me,
and _wrenched_. There was a really good-sounding popping
noise, and then the other guy tried to stick his knife in my
stomach. I swung like a square-dancer, and he buried the blade
in his buddy's shoulder instead. Buddy didn't make any noise;
musta fainted when I dislocated his arm.
I dropped the guy... he bled on my porch, I noticed, which
meant I was going to have to repaint it for sure... and turned to
face the last punk. He had a bloody knife and a real scared look
on his face, which was the first sign of intelligence he'd
shown since he'd brightened my life with his existence.
"Bitch," he said, as if to make up for his momentary
lapse of stupidity.
"Yeah," I told him, and broke a rail off the porch with my
left hand. My right hand threw his friend's knife at him.
He yelped and ducked, which was what I had expected
he'd do. It's hard to reliably hurt someone with a thrown knife;
half the time the hilt or the flat bit just bounces off of them.
On the other hand, no sane person likes having razor sharp
objects thrown in their face. So he dove, and I swung, and his
head made a nice meaty cracking noise as the rail hit it.
He dropped the knife, which was good, and made a
gurgling noise. Hard head. I thought about saying something
cool and cold, then decided that it would hurt too much, and
kicked him in the stomach instead. A mistake. All sorts of
interesting stuff went from his mouth to my porch.
And that was that, really. All of them were probably
going to need a doctor, which meant they wouldn't be paying
me any more social calls, which was good. I tossed them off
my porch and then noticed the kid.
He was probably ten or twelve. Maybe older or younger.
He was drooling blood down his chin, and he had some real
colorful bruises on his face to set off the cuts and scrapes,
and he was staring at me.
At this point, Genma would have very seriously looked at
the kid and asked, "Are you all right?" Which shows that
Genma is very nice but not too bright, because any moron could
tell that no, he wasn't all right, he'd just had the crap kicked
out of him. That doesn't feel good. It hurts, both in the body
and in the soul.
"You want those cuts cleaned?" I asked.
He looked at me with one of those damn unreadable looks
that some people like to call soulful.
I didn't feel like guessing what he meant by it. "You want
them cleaned or not?" I repeated, letting a bit of irritation
creep through.
He thought it over for a few seconds. "Yeah."
"Okay. C'mon in."
He started to get up, stumbled, winced. I walked over
and pulled him up real careful; one of his legs was limping a
bit. "Here, lean on me."
"Okay."
We lurched across the porch for three steps before I got
tired of it and simply picked him up in a fireman's carry. He
was a light little sucker, and I could feel the shape of his
bones through his cheap white clothing. White and red, now,
with a grey corona from the dust that one naturally picks up
when one is used as a battering ram. I took him inside, walked
through the office, hesitated, and took the turn that led to my
rooms instead of the garage. The last thing the little sucker
needed was to have his wounds bathed in engine grease.
I laid him down on the elderly futon that was serving me
for bedding - I really wanted to get a western style bed, but
hadn't found one yet - and went into my bathroom to fill a
basin with water. When I came back, he was looking at my
bookcase with a mixture of confusion, puzzlement, and
interest. I was resigned to the first two, and pleasantly
surprised by the last.
"You have a lot of books," he gravely told me.
I had maybe thirty or so. Sadly, for most of the
neighborhood, that was a lot. "Sure do," I said, dipped my
washcloth in the basin, and began to add some soap.
"They have important names."
I snorted a bit at that. "They were written by self-
important people."
That seemed to satisfy him. I took the washcloth and
began to scrub the grime out of the cuts. He winced, which
meant I was going a good job. Good medicine always hurts.
"Are you a teacher?"
I started to howl with laughter, then trailed off in a
moan as my head reminded me why loud noises were to be
avoided. "Sweet stinking kami, no. What on earth gave you that
idea, kid?"
He pointed at the bowl, and then at the bookcase. "You
have a lot of real books, and you're taking care of me."
Had to chuckle at the logic of that, let me tell you. "Nah,
kid, I ain't no teacher. I'm..." and I hesitated here, because my
occupation was one of those wandering things that is both
hard and awkward to pin down, "...a mechanic." Which was true,
and which would also not get me hauled before a cop if the kid
blabbed to someone who'd be inclined to listen.
"Aren't they all men?"
"Just most." Sharp kid. That very fact had been bothering
me. I'd been tossing the idea of a mythical male boss around
for a while, and this was just another piece of evidence in its
favor. I finished the cuts on his legs, and started inspecting
the shiner on his face.
"Do you work on cars?"
"Yeah, and cycles. Anything with an engine, really,
though there ain't a lot of boats and planes around here,
y'know?"
"You don't look so good."
"You ain't no great prize yourself, kid." Which was true.
His face had collected every shade of purple human skin could
acquire.
"Did you stay up too late?"
"No, kid. I got real drunk."
"You shouldn't get drunk."
"My head's been telling me that every since I got up."
"I guess you can't be a teacher, then," he concluded.
"What, teachers don't get plastered?" I asked, amused.
Ah, the innocence of youth. Well, younger youth.
"No, they just don't admit it."
That got a grin and a chuckle from me. "You aren't all
stupid, kid."
"I'm not any stupid," he said, sounding wounded.
"So how'd you wind up as one half of a percussion
instrument out there, then?"
He stuck his tongue out. "They were layin' for me in an
alley."
Uh-huh. "And why were they laying for you?"
"Because they don't like my sister."
"That's a problem, then." It was, for him. It's hard enough
trying not to piss off the wrong people yourself without
making sure your family doesn't either.
"Yeah." His eyes brightened. "You really kicked their ass
good."
"I did, didn't I? I don't like punks." It's always nice to
have someone appreciate your ass-kicking abilities.
"I wish I could've beat them like that." He winced as I
felt the knee he'd been dragging. "I hate getting beat up."
"Don't blame you." It didn't look swollen; odds were that
he'd only banged it up. "Say ah."
He did, and I spotted the source of the blood right away.
Cut lip; sort that bleeds quick and heals quicker. None of his
teeth looked chipped, and his eyes didn't have the look of a
concussion victim. "How's your stomach feel, kid?"
"Okay. A little empty. I haven't had lunch yet."
That pretty much ruled out a concussion. "Good news,
kid. You'll live," I told him, poking his knee once more. He
winced again, and I decided that a little bit of ice might be
called for. "Be right back."
I emptied a bit of ice from the cooler into a plastic bag,
took it to him, and showed him where to place it. Didn't know
how much good it would do, but it certainly wouldn't hurt.
"It's cold."
"It's ice, kid. You were expecting warmth?"
He scowled at me. "Do I have to keep this on my knee?"
Punk. I scowled back, and outdid his. "No. You can take it
off and let it puff up like a balloon. It ain't my knee."
That caused him to consider. He didn't tell me what
conclusion he reached, but he didn't take the icepack off
either. I made a sound of satisfaction, and looked at the clock.
He should probably leave it on for...
Oh, shit. Almost time for work.
"I gotta go, kid," I told him, quickly grabbing my heavy
boots. "I'll be back later. If your leg feels good enough to walk
on before I get back, feel free to take off. Lock the door behind
you. If I come back and find stuff missing, I'll find you and
break your arms."
"How?" he said curiously, watching as I pulled my boots
on.
"Easy. I find out who those punks were, and then I ask
them or their friends who you are." Damn. I was going to be
late. Grabbing an undershirt and a grey longsleeved blouse, I
pulled off the jacket and started to get dressed... well, more
dressed. "Believe me, I can find anyone given enough time, and
stop staring at me if you don't want your nose busted."
"Sorry."
He didn't sound very sorry. Maybe he was more towards
twelve than ten. Not that I really cared; I grew up in a big,
crowded orphanage, and little kids rank somewhere around
dogs in my modesty's opinion out of past necessity. The jacket
went back on, a comb went thrice through my hair, and I
started to head out.
"What's your name?"
"Biki Kiritsubo," I said, not bothering to stop or turn.
"I'm Ryoji."
"Good for you," I said, and started for the garage.
****
I broke the speed limit getting to the office. Does that
surprise you? Didn't think so. I wasn't quite late, though I
wasn't as early as I'd have liked.
One of the things I liked about Inji's place was that I
didn't have to worry about having my bike stolen. Part of that
was because anyone stupid enough to steal from that
particular parking lot would shortly discover that the police
are amateurs at investigation when it comes to this sort of
thing. And the police can't use lead pipes.
The other part was that Inji kept his digs in a rather
nice neighborhood by the university, where he's frequently
employed in one fashion or another. The building was a typical
single-unit office structure, with a vague sign out front
advertising a sociological archeology consultation firm. Yeah,
whole lot of demand for that. We didn't have many walk-ins.
I parked my bike in the spot reserved for me, noted with
interest the three unfamiliar long-handled choppers in the
guest spots, and strolled on in.
The reception area had three sofas, a chair, a television,
a reception desk, a receptionist, two thugs, one thief, and a
brewer of illicit pharmaceuticals. I bid them all a very
pleasant day.
"You're late," Thug Number Two, Goroto by name,
informed me sadly.
"I ain't. Check your watch."
"He means you're not in when you usually are," Docco the
brewer said. He was a nice guy who collected butterflies and
had won our side the annual baseball game last year with a
wicked line drive in the ninth. And he was honest about the
production costs for the heroin; never tried to burn me or the
boss. I liked him. "So you're late in our minds."
"Sorry to break your routine."
"We'll get over it."
"I bet." I glanced meaningfully at the closed door that led
to the interior hallway. "What's with the bikes outside?"
"The boss is talking to some representatives," Hito said.
He partnered with Goroto or me on the rough jobs; while I hate
to admit it, he was probably as much a professional about it
as me. He had these little shuriken, which he could actually
use effectively, and had taught me how to throw them in
exchange for some barehanded instruction. I don't really think
either of us got much use out of the trade; he liked keeping a
distance between himself and the customer, and I don't like
carrying anything on me that's obviously a weapon. If the cops
decide to see what it has in its pocketses, and they find a
wrench or a tire iron on a mechanic, there's not a whole lot
they can say. If they find a knife or a pocketful of shuriken, on
the other hand...
"And who are they representing?" I asked. "The Girl
Scouts?"
"Close," Hito lazily replied. One of the shuriken appeared,
flipped up, fell into his palm, vanished again. Show-off.
"They're here from the gentlemen who administer a section of
the city directly to the east."
"Wonderful," I said. That sort of conversation usually
means bad news for someone. "Any guesses as to the topic?"
"Boss didn't tell us," Goroto said sadly. He said just
about everything sadly, including 'I'm going to mess you up
now.'
"I think the border's going to be redrawn," Docco said.
"The boss had me up production last week."
Hito frowned. "Yeah? Kiri, we seen much gain in
distribution?"
"In our area? I wish." I took a notepad out of my jacket
and consulted a row of numbers labeled 'Tires.' "We saw an
initial jump in sales following the big drug laws the diet
passed at the beginning of the year, followed by a decline in
some areas and growth in others." The notepad went back in
my jacket. "I don't know how the others are doing. I hear
Wasoda has been having problems with a neighborhood
program."
"That's what I've heard as well," Hito said. "But Docco
here's making more product. Sounds like the boss is expecting
more sales area."
I thought about this, and wasn't sure that I liked it.
Expansion means problems, especially when you're expanding
into someone else's turf. We'd had growth troubles in the past,
and once they had involved someone driving a butterfly knife
into my thigh up to the grip. The second knife would have gone
into my chest if Inji hadn't explained in very final and non-
verbal terms why he disapproved of people stabbing his
friends and employees.
"Joy," I said.
Hito nodded. "I think we're going to be working together
more than usual, Kiri."
"Yeah." I took another glance at the closed hall door. It
didn't tell me jack. "You get a look at these three? They look
like tough guys?"
"Yeah," Goroto said, sounding as though this fact was
cause for mourning. It was. "But only two."
"The other was a wimp, huh?" Probably two muscles and
an accountant.
"Nah, there was only two representatives," Docco said.
I thought about this, thought about the three bikes,
decided that I didn't like it, and pushed into the hall at a run.
Why? Gut feeling. Instinct. I mean, one of them could
have been waiting down at the local ramen joint for the others
to finish business and come back, and Inji was quite capable
of handling a whole army of hired help by himself. I just didn't
like it, and, as I've said, I have very definite feelings and
reactions to things I don't like.
I knocked at Inji's office door and went in without
waiting for a reply. There were two very unpleasant-looking
gentlemen in black leather cycling coats standing across from
the boss's desk. Inji was sitting, a teacup in one hand, a
slightly curious expression on his sharp features.
He looks young, have you noticed? Well, youthful, like he
ain't able to grow a real beard yet. There's a reason, though I
didn't know it at the time. Anyway, he was sitting there under
the shelves of books and ancient crap that he keeps around
just about everywhere. I know it's hard to believe, but I really
think that he's a scholar before a criminal. That's where the
money goes, into his expeditions and collection.
He adjusted his fedora brim and looked at me. "Is there
something you need, Kiri-kun?"
I glared at the two heavies. "Yeah. I wanna ask their
friend something."
They looked at me, looked at each other, and then two
big-ass knives or short-ass swords came whipping out, and
they yelled, and charged at the desk.
Inji was on his feet before they closed half the distance,
and that double-tined knife of his was in his hand even
quicker. He looked annoyed. For a second I almost felt sorry
for the two morons.
Then representative number three stepped out of the
bathroom behind Inji and quietly leveled a gun at his back.
I'm not normally stupid, at least in Genma-like ways. I
was this time. I don't know; I just remember thinking that no
punk was going to wax my friend and employer if I had
anything to say about it, and I jumped at Inji.
He looked very surprised and dodged to the side, which
was a good thing because it meant that he got out of the way,
and I landed on the floor, and the stream of bullets that went
through where we had been a second before hit no-one except
one of the charging fools.
The man with the gun started to swing it around, bullets
pouring from it like water from a hose, but changed his mind
when Inji threw his knife into the gentleman's throat. He
toppled over backwards, and I scrambled to my feet just in
time to see the last fool raise his wakizashi for a swing at
me.
Oh, damn, I thought, and raised my arms to try a block.
Not that I was likely to have much luck, but maybe I'd only get
my wrist severed instead of my head.
Three shuriken and a funky black throwing wedge
suddenly converged on my attacker. He never made the swing.
I gingerly picked the shuriken out and handed them to
Hito. "Here. Thanks for getting the hint."
He shrugged, and I wondered when he'd come in. "You go
running off, and then there's shooting. Not hard to make a
guess."
Inji plucked his wedge free; he'd already collected his
knife. "Thank you, Kiri. That might have been..." and he looked
annoyed, "...most unpleasant."
"It damn well _was_ most unpleasant," I said, feeling a
little weak in the knees. I'd come a lot closer to death than I'd
planned on. "A gun. Christian Jesu. Where did they get a fucking
machine gu-"
I stopped at that point because something red and sticky
was dribbling down my arm.
"I've been shot?" I asked, not quite believing it.
Inji quickly swept the papers off his desk and gently but
firmly laid me down on top of it. I didn't protest; the whole
idea of being shot had sorta stunned me.
He pulled off my jacket and overshirt, examined the
area, and sighed. "I'm afraid you've been grazed, Kiri-kun. Hito,
gauze, now please."
"Sure, boss."
"Grazed, that's good, right?" I asked hopefully. I didn't
feel like I'd been shot...
"Inasmuch as being shot is good, yes. It looks like it took
some skin off. I'm afraid you have a hole in your jacket."
"Well, shit," I said. It still hadn't quite sunk in. "I'm
gonna hurt..."
That thought trailed off as I looked at the three dead
fools bleeding on Inji's tatami mats. No, I wasn't going to hurt
them. Not so's they'd be able to notice.
"A gun?" I finally repeated.
He nodded, a look of uncharacteristic irritation on his
face. "It would seem Mr. Hayasho has decided not to be
reasonable."
That made me wince; Inji uses western titles on people
who he's taken a liking to. He also uses them on people he's
decided to kill. I didn't need to ask which category the
unfortunate Mr. Hayasho was in. "I don't think he likes you,
Inji-kun."
"Ah, Kiritsubo, what would I do without your subtle
insight into social dynamics?" Inji chuckled. "Yes. I feel
flattered. He cared enough to send the very best. I wonder how
much trouble he had to go to for the gun?"
"A lot?" Hoods don't even carry pistols in Japan. It just
ain't done. I couldn't get myself a pistol without pulling every
string I have and calling in a lot of favors, and I doubt I'd ever
have a chance of getting an automatic sucker like the thing
Dead and Dumb Number Three had just unloaded. "Always nice
to be popular, I guess."
"I can live without it." He smiled thinly. "You know, I
think they would have killed me if you hadn't jumped at me.
Thank you."
"No problem. Don't expect me to do anything that stupid
again." It must have been from hanging around with Soun and
Genma. Maybe idiocy is contagious.
"I owe you."
"Whatever," I said. Hito returned with the gauze, the
boss wrapped up my arm - which wasn't bad at all, I've cut
myself worse working on my bike - and then the day's
business began.
It was a pretty typical list. Hito got to go deliver a
warning to someone causing Wasoda problems. Goroto was
sent to find two other people who did work for us, and to take
them down into the soon-to-be late Mr. Hayasho's turf to do
some scouting. Docco handed over a briefcase, and got a wad
of bills in return.
And me?
Well, Inji handed me Docco's briefcase.
I opened it. The thing was stuffed with exactly what I'd
expected; row upon row of little glass heroin and opium vials.
Inji didn't tell me what to do with it. He didn't need to.
****
I met with my crew after I left the office. They each got
their supply, and I jotted down who had taken how much of
what. I guess you could equate my role to that of a manager in
a fast food chain; I oversaw my local hired help, and then took
the profits to the big boss. The big boss then gave me my pay,
and I gave the help their pay. Pretty easy, huh?
Well, not always. When they had problems, or
competition, or thought they could burn us - well, then I got to
deal with it.
Today we had a new guy. He was a likely young lad of
fifteen who wanted to make money. So it was my job to show
him how.
I gave him the usual handshake-and-scowl, told him my
name, and then took a walk with him. Does telling him my
name sound reckless to you? It wasn't. If he was a police
plant, I was busted anyway. But he wasn't; we'd checked him
out, and this sort of thing is what Inji bribes cops for.
We got to the area that he'd be selling in, and I showed
him the street corner he was to hang out at. It was right next
to a convenient alley.
"You do your transactions in there," I told him.
"Do I, yunno, do I flag people down and..."
This sort of thing is why I took them out myself the
first time. "No, no, no. You ain't handing out flyers for the
damn Buddhist sects, you're breaking the law. You do not 'flag
down' perfectly ordinary, law-abiding citizens and say 'Hey,
wanna buy some drugs?'. One of them will not only say no, he'll
go call the cops, and then you'll have trouble paying me back
for the merchandise."
"Oh. So how do I..."
"You stand there. People who want your stuff will come
up and make broad hints. You will take them into the alley,
take their money, and give them the product."
"How will they... oh. Because I'm standing there, right?"
"Bingo." I steered him over to the corner and strolled a
short distance away, just to give him a bit of room. "We'll do a
practice run, and then I'll take off."
We waited a few minutes, and before long two kids came
up. One of them had big hollow 16-year-old-addict eyes, and
the other looked like a normal, kinda scared, kinda curious
fourteen-year-old. They made a not-very subtle hint to my
bright young lad, and he took them into the alley.
Addict boy bought heroin. The other kid just kinda stared
at the merchandise, like he was on the high diving board at the
pool and was trying to decide whether or not he wanted to
jump.
Sometimes you have to shove them in. I strolled over,
picked out a vial, and tossed it to him. "Here. On me."
He looked at it. His friend looked at it, saw that it was
lighter than his chosen poison, and lost interest.
The kid put it in his pocket. They left.
"One free sample," I explained to my new employee, "will
get you a customer for life."
"How do I tell?"
"Give some of the cheap stuff to the ones who don't know
if they want it. The ones who do want it, charge 'em for the
privilege. We aren't a charity."
"Okay."
"And don't force it on them. Offer. If they say no, let it
go."
"Okay."
"You think you can handle it?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Keep track of your product."
I left. There was someone watching him from the
building across the street, one of my veterans, but I didn't tell
him that. The first day of a new job's stressful enough, right?
****
I went home. The punks were gone, Ryoji was gone, and
Genma was there.
He was sitting in my office chair, feet on my desk,
reading a manga and eating an apple. Feh. Made me want to
smack him, so I did, a good cuff upside the head.
He dropped the manga, pulling back and looking at me
with a vaguely offended expression. "Hey Kiri. I like your
place."
"So you said. Get your feet off my desk."
He didn't. "And the furnishing... the concrete and grease
and oil is so... so you! And was that a bloodstain on the porch?"
"Yeah. The neighbors dropped by and beat someone. I
showed my disapproval."
His brow furrowed. "Beat someone?"
"Yeah, some kid. Was he here when you arrived?" The
door had been unlocked, but Genma has his own key, so that
didn't mean anything.
"Nope. Was he badly hurt?"
He'd never met the kid, but there was concern in his
voice. I shrugged. "Not really. He was beat up, but that happens
to kids all the time. Nothing that'll stay with him. I cleaned
him up and gave him some ice."
"Maternal instincts coming out?"
I shuddered. "Don't even joke about that, Genma."
Genma just smirked and shifted his feet on my desk. I
could hear his damn shoes squeaking on it. "I touch a nerve,
cycle thug?"
"Don't make me hurt you, Kasigi. I've had enough violence
for today."
He looked at me, and the feet left the desk. "Hey, what
happened to your arm?"
It's creepy how he does that. Just looks at how you're
moving, and is able to tell if and where you've been injured...
"Business," I told him.
Now if it had been any other answer, he'd have demanded
to know exactly what had happened. But he doesn't.. well,
didn't... want to know what 'business' might be. That was fine
with me. I didn't really want him to know either.
"You okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned. Heh.
"I'm fine. Just a scratch. You should see the other guy."
He nodded, decided that it wasn't serious, and moved to
drop the subject. "Soun's after me again."
Oh, I won't tell you what my response to that was.
"Well, yeah, but he's still a top-flight martial artist,"
Genma replied, sounding somewhat offended. So he does give
credit where credit is due, 'kay? Just not where his target
might overhear it.
"Yeah, but he's even more of a goof than you are, and that
takes real talent." Sorry, but it's true. I still have trouble
remembering that two goofs can level entire city blocks if
they feel like it. Scary.
Genma made his verbal riposte, we did a little Soun-
bashing, and a pack of cards came out at some point as we
talked about music and movies and martial arts and mechanics
and even a few things that didn't begin with an M. I had the
rest of the red and alcoholic, and Genma had some sake, and
that was how most of the evening passed. Eventually he had to
get back to his mother - oh, he's always real thrilled about
that - and I drank a bit more. I guess I went to sleep
eventually; I really couldn't tell you.
****
Ryoji didn't come by the next day, but he might as well
have. The day he did, I woke up to a knocking on the door that
matched the one in my head.
Nah, I didn't drink myself into a stupor every night. Just
on most of the more eventful ones.
I got up out of bed - and it was a real bed now; I'd found
a nice one in Ant Town - got dressed, and went to see who it
was.
"Hey kid."
"Hi, Kiritsubo-san."
"Whatcha want?" His bruises seemed to be fading. Good.
"Do you have a motorcycle?"
"Yeah."
"Can I see it?"
I looked at him real hard.
"I like engines and cycles and stuff," he said, a hint of
apology in his voice.
Ah, hell. "Don't touch anything."
"Okay."
****
He did touch things, but only because I let him. I
instructed him to, actually, since it's nice to have someone
pass you tools when you're slung under a cycle with oil in your
face and a heap of parts on your chest.
"Number four spanner, Ryoji."
And so on.
He kept asking me questions about things, and so I kept
up a running commentary on what I was doing. It was kinda
nice, actually. I love my garage work, and showing off and
talking about one's passion in life is a vice I think just about
everyone has.
A good kid, really. Not polite - uppity little snot,
actually - but he knew his place, and if I told him not to do or
touch something, well, he didn't do or touch it.
I went through... damn, I think it was two cars and a bike
that day. I let him take apart and put back together a wheel
assembly, and he didn't have to redo it. Not bad.
I finished by six, and sent him home, and then I ate.
Takeout, which is my idea of a feast. It had been a good,
productive day, and I had a cup of tea and went to bed.
****
I remember the next week very well.
For one thing, the war was gearing up. Inji was not
happy. He had decided that the soon-to-be-late Mr. Hayasho
was going to be dealt with, and that he was going to do the
dealing personally. This was partly because he was very angry
- that is, outwardly irritated - and partly because he was the
best suited to do the deed.
You people just don't know how damn surprised I am that
Nodoka's lived this long.
Anyway, Mr. Hayasho was going to be breathing-impaired
real soon, and that meant that we were going to be able to do
a land-grab in the chaos that would follow among his
lieutenants. So we scouted the area, made a few payments to
certain people in anticipation, and generally geared up for
expansion.
Ryoji dropped by every day, and I let him have the vast
and solemn privilege of handing me tools. Well, yeah, and I let
him do some of the simpler jobs, with supervision. It's a fact
that mechanics are created solely because older mechanics
want to show off.
It was good for my nerves. I was hoping that the war
wouldn't be messy, but... I mean, a machine gun, good God,
what's with that? I was concerned, and so was Goroto and Hito
and the other enforcers and distributors and pimps and fences.
We might get a boost in income, but we might also get
something sharp and metal stuck somewhere inconveniencing.
I dunno. I remember that week real well.
****
Mondays are usually ugly, and this one was no exception.
I waved to Hito and Goroto as I went into the reception
area; the two were arguing about a soap opera. They waved
back, and Hito tossed me a film magazine I'd asked him to pick
up for me at a downtown newsstand he frequents. I grinned,
shot him a thumbs-up, and went down the hall to Inji's office.
He was holding an ugly statue of something with a lot of
tentacles and eyes when I came in, but set it down to talk to
me. "Good morning, Kiri-kun. Bright eyed and bushy-tailed?"
"Yeah, sure, Inji-kun. Whatcha got for me?"
He chuckled. "You've heard that Wasoda's been having
problems?"
"Yeah. Some sort of program?"
"Not really. Some woman's been harassing our salesmen,
screaming at them, bothering the poor, overworked police on
their behalf. Very inconsiderate, really."
I winced. That sort of thing is hot death on sales. "Have
we warned her?"
"I sent Hito to convey our displeasure, and to make it
clear that Docco-san's fine product must be distributed."
"No dice?"
"She hasn't got the proper capitalist spirit, Kiri-kun.
Possibly a communist."
"Huh." An awful stupid communist. Hito can be fairly
intimidating when he wants to be.
"I want you to hamper her mobility."
Right. "Both legs?"
"Yes, please. I actually think she'd just get a crutch and
continue bothering our people if you just broke one."
Great, a persistent fool. "Upper or lower leg?"
"I feel kind. Lower." He tossed me a nice thick package of
money, which I pocketed. "She'll probably call the police
afterwards. I've arranged for one of our, ah, employed officers
to take the call. You won't have any problem there."
He was still letting me know, though, because he always
liked to be aboveboard with his employees. "Great. I'll be back
tomorrow and let you know how things went."
He smiled. "Fair enough. Want a scone?"
"Hey, yeah. Thanks." He pushed the basket across the
desk, and I took one with real hunger. Those are good scones.
"Is the land-grab gonna throw off the baseball game?"
"Not on your life. Docco needs to lead your side to
victory again, the bastard." He sighed. "Just wait, Kiritsubo.
For once my side is going to win."
"Keep dreaming, Inji-kun." His side hadn't won once.
We tossed around a bit more baseball banter, and I got
the address, and then Hito came in to get his assignment. And I
went to earn my daily bread. Scone. Whatever.
****
It was a real piece of shit, that building, but most of the
places in our sales areas are. Come to think of it, my place
was no great prize either.
This one was a tenement. It stank of urine and stale
wine, and I wrinkled my nose slightly as I went up the stairs.
Some places are too decrepit for self-respecting gangsters.
The apartment was on the ninth floor, with rusty
numbers on the door. There were a few kids playing outside,
and they looked at me with the lidded stare that prey gives to
possible predators.
"Get busy somewhere," I told them. They did, quickly.
Good.
The door opened after a few knocks, and a kinda worn-
looking thin chick in a cheap dress answered. She looked a bit
wary, but relaxed a bit when she saw that I was female and
younger than her. "Hello?"
"Hi," I said brightly. "Tomoeka Anako?"
"Yes?"
Wrong answer. I shoved her, hard, and she tumbled back
into the apartment with a shriek. I followed her in, carefully
shut and bolted the door, and turned to face her. "You were
warned about interfering in the local economy."
She started to pick herself up, recognition dawning in
her eyes. "You're from the pushers."
"Sellers. Nothing personal, but you're too active for your
own good. This'll hurt a lot less if you don't put up a fight."
She threw a lamp at me, which I casually knocked aside
with one arm. "C'mon, Anako, I'm not gonna kill you, just break
some bones. Make this easy."
Her eyes were already as big as saucers, and she started
to open her mouth to scream. Ah-ah, I thought, and wrapped my
arm around her throat before she could do more than yelp. I got
out a roll of duct tape with my free hand; these things are
easier when the customer's mouth and arms are secure.
She kicked and bucked and tried to scream, but hell, I
could probably restrain ten of her. She was a scrawny little
weak twig. I measured out the amount of tape for her mouth.
A small shadow appeared on the wall, and I started to
turn.
"Are you going to hurt my sister?" Ryoji asked, and his
voice trembled. It hadn't done that after those punks had
beaten him up.
Yes, I instructed my mouth to say, yes, I am. Because,
you know, I was about to break her legs, and if I said no and
then broke her legs I'd look pretty damn stupid.
So that was the plan; say yes, break legs, and go home.
And Ryoji, well, I didn't think he'd show up any more, and
I didn't think he'd ever work on any more wheel assemblies
after that.
But, you know, that was too damn bad, because she'd
committed the sin of trying to look out for my prize pupil
here, trying to keep me and my crew from turning him and his
friends into slack-eyed addict zombies, instead of bright,
curious, eager to learn kids.
And there's no way that I, in her position, would think of
doing something as stupid as that, as pointless, because I was
fully in favor on letting someone I liked and who wanted to
take and share my passion and joy and light of life and learn
it, and do something with it, yes, I was fully in favor of
slowly poisoning them, destroying their mind and their fire,
and crushing anything within them that wanted to make things
hum and move and growl.
So I had to say yes, because that was my job, that was
what I did, and that was what I had chosen to do.
"No," I said. "I'm not."
I let her go, and sat on their couch for a bit as they
stared at me.
"You're going to have to leave," I finally said. "I can give
you some money. Go to Osaka or somewhere."
"No," Anako said.
I felt very tired. "I was sent here to break both your legs
beneath the knee. I'm not going to. When the person who sent
me finds this out, you're probably going to have something
even worse happen to you, and the one they send won't do what
I'm doing."
"I will not be forced out of my home," she said quietly.
I almost laughed in her face, but I didn't feel like
laughing. Home? This shithole? Yeah, the inside had been done
over as well as they could - minus a lamp - but home, well, it
didn't look like a home worth Inji's extreme displeasure.
"I can call in a favor and have them leave you and him
alone," I finally said. "You're going to have to stop messing
with the sellers, but I'll make sure they don't sell to him."
"No."
"Damnit, you're not making this easy."
"The other children are just as much children as my
brother."
They were, yeah, and... hell, it could have been any kid
being beaten up, and maybe they'd have come back to see me
work too. Like the fourteen-year-old I'd given the poisoned
bait to.
I'd known this, I'd have to be a fool not to know it.
"Get out of the city," I said. "Please. I can give you a lot
of money."
"I don't want your money. I know where it's been."
If anyone, anyone had used that tone of sheer contempt
with me I'd have broken their nose.
I left.
****
I thought about a lot of things that night.
What was I gonna do, for starters? Inji was going to
want to know why Anako was still walking. I could come up
with a good excuse, but then he'd just send someone else to go
bash her. And maybe Ryoji, as well, if the kid got in the way.
And yeah, he was the type of kid who would get in the way of
someone breaking his sister's legs.
The answer didn't come.
I started to reach for the bottle around eight, changed
my mind, and called Genma instead.
"*Hello?"
"It's Kiri. Look, can we go grab some food? On me?"
"*Huh? Yeah, sure. What's up?"
"Nothing. Long day at work, and I need to unwind."
"*Okay."
"I'll be by in a few. Seeya."
My cycle was in the garage. I tried not to look at the
machine in the corner that I'd been working on with Ryoji,
then got a little mad at myself when I realized I was avoiding
it. If something was bothering me, it was stupid and wrong to
ignore the fact.
Still, I was glad when I finally sped out of the bay.
Speed. Velocity. It's wonderful. Flashing lights streaking
by, the kick of the engine under you, the wind whipping by
with shades of oil and rain... I cut through the city like a knife,
that night. Like always. I love it.
I pulled up in front of Genma's place, helped him on, and
off we went.
I don't know if he likes the speed. I don't think he does. I
can understand that; he's not in control. I am. He's betting life
and limb on my nerve, my reflexes, my choices. I wouldn't
trust me with all that, that's for damn sure.
We went to some restaurant, and some flick with
samurai or cowboys in it (the girl got the hero) and we had a
few hands of poker back at my place. I don't know. It was
relaxing, in a way.
"Hey, Genma?"
"Yeah?"
"If you had to pick the most important thing in the world
to you, what would it be?"
"I don't know. That's a hard question."
"Yeah."
"The Art, perhaps. Or my friends. Probably both."
I drove him back around 12, and then headed home.
The truck pulled out of the alley. It didn't have its lights
on. I knew, I knew in this sort of blinding flash that I wasn't
going to be able to stop in time, but I did. I don't know how.
It screamed by an inch away from me. Damn thing would
have killed me deader than dead.
So I sat there for a bit in this sort of adrenaline haze,
because my body had wanted me to die alert, and it crossed my
mind that I'd almost managed to solve my problem.
No. To duck responsibility.
I was alive.
To prove it, I drove home even faster than normal.
The rush of it! I was not-dead, a state that we all are in
but seldom fully realize, and I drove, cutting down the narrow
streets in a flash of wind and darkness and engine. I drove
fast and stupid and gloried in it.
Funny how almost dying can make you feel invincible.
I pulled into the garage, parked my steed, and went
inside. The bottle was on the table, but I ignored it. No haze
for this. No veils for the mind.
I needed to figure out... what?
How to keep Ryoji and his sister alive... well... in good
shape... I could have them forcibly moved...
Why? I didn't give a shit about the scrawny chick. Really,
I didn't. I mean, I didn't dislike her or nothing, but who was
she to me? She could get run over by a truck tomorrow and I
wouldn't really care.
Ryoji, now, I didn't want him hurt...
So I should have busted her legs. Then he'd be out of
harm's way.
There was still time. I could go back, snap her little
twig bones like...
No. I knew I wasn't going to.
Why?
Because of Ryoji? But this would be for his good.
Maybe...
Maybe it would be because of what he'd think of me.
Anger. Since when did I care what people thought of me?
I'm my own person. If other people don't like who I am, fuck
'em. I'm not here to please them.
But the thought hurt.
Why?
Was it shame? Could I be ashamed of what I had done,
what I was going to do?
No. No, I wasn't. I'm sorry, but that was the long and
short of it. I didn't feel an ounce of regret.
For poisoning children and hurting people.
I didn't feel bad about it.
I didn't feel.
I didn't feel.
Maybe that was what was bothering me.
I looked into the red mirror of the bottle, and a drug
dealer and thug and almost killer looked back.
Yeah, it was me. I was comfortable with it.
But now I didn't want to be.
Inji was going to hurt Anako and Ryoji, but that didn't
matter. They were just the tip of the iceberg. Inji was good.
He had the area sewed up, organized, run. If he weren't there,
someone else would be, but not nearly so efficient.
I realized then that Inji had to go. I couldn't help
everyone. I didn't want to help everyone. I just wanted to drag
my soul out of the filth it had been sinking into, and Ryoji and
his sister were part of that. I didn't want the kid hurt.
So Inji...
No, no, no. My boss. My friend. I'd saved his life the other
day.
That was a mistake.
Mistakes could be corrected. No. I didn't want to. Yes.
Friends or Art? I would betray both.
I went to sleep, still trying to come to grips with my
decision.
The very next day I bought a lot of explosives on the
black market, and some electronics.
****
Two days later I was in the top floor of a half-
constructed building across from Inji's office, crying.
I can cry, you know.
I watched Inji come out of the office door, say
something to Docco, and walk down towards his tiny little car.
Everything in my soul wanted to scream down to him, to warn
him, to throw myself out of the window and bear him to the
ground, to safety.
Instead I watched my friend walk down to the car, open
the door, and get inside.
I closed my eyes, still crying, and waited.
I heard the sound of a car starting.
Then I heard the sound of a car idling.
No explosion.
The door behind me opened, and Hito and Goroto and
several other fellow employees walked in. They had baseball
bats and pipes and bricks, but no knives.
I actually felt relieved, you know, because I'd done my
best and Inji was still alive.
"Come with us, Kiri," Hito said. "No fighting, please."
"Yeah," Goroto said. Sadly.
"Why?" I asked, hopping down from the window and
turning to face them.
"Because the boss wants you in one piece, and because I
know you'll hurt some of us before you go down."
I chuckled.
He was right. I did hurt some of them before I went
down.
****
I woke up in the office, and opened my eyes.
"Hello, Miss Subeta," Inji said.
I closed them again. "How'd you know?"
"The guy who sold you the nitro accidentally shorted you.
He realized the mistake after you left, and called me to make
sure I knew it was a mistake." He laughed mirthlessly. "I was
very curious as to what you wanted it for. You can imagine my
surprise when I found out."
"I can imagine," I said.
His face was suddenly very close to mine. "No, I don't
think you can. I'd not have dreamed that foreign hire could
extract from you the slightest spark of evil to annoy my finger,
let alone... that."
"You aren't King Henry," I told him. "But color me Grey if
you like."
His fist slammed into his desk with a noise like a
gunshot. "Was it Hayasho? How much were you paid?"
"No, and fuck you."
I passed out then, for some reason. Maybe a drug, maybe
a blow to the head. I think there was a sedative of some sort
involved, because I fell through an uneasy twilight of ghosts
and voices for what must have been days. When I came to
again, I was in the room in Ant Town that we use for the tough
cases. I guess I was a tough case.
There was a locked door, and an old dentist's chair with
added arm and leg restraints, and Inji, and me.
I slowly got to my feet, and waited for my head to clear.
"I did some checking since we last talked," Inji said
calmly. "I never figured you for a bleeding heart."
"Neither did I."
He shook his head. "I can't just let this go, you know. Not
that I want to let it go."
"Yeah."
"I'm not going to kill you."
I just looked at him. He sighed, and I saw what might
have been sorrow on his face.
"I owe you, Kiri. Or I did. Now you owe me."
"I don't want to be in your debt."
"I know. That's why I'm going to collect, right now. Take
off your shirt and pants."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to burn them after I start work,
and I don't think you want them ripped. I know you like that
blue shirt."
"I don't know if that's a good enough reason."
"Take them off, and get in the chair. If you do, this will
last for exactly one hour. If you don't, it will last for three
hours."
I thought about that, then stripped to my undergarments
and got in the chair.
No, it never occurred to me to fight back. I knew how
useless it would be.
He tightened the straps, picked up a leather case, and
opened it. There was a small bunsen and a lot of shiny metal.
"This," he said, picking up a needle, "is going to hurt me
as much as it hurts you."
"Really?" I said. My voice hardly shook.
"Well. Only metaphorically."
****
I don't care to discuss the next hour. It seemed much
longer than that. I screamed and howled a lot.
Do you know, it's funny, but I don't remember Inji? I
remember begging for the pain to stop, and pleading, and
promising obscene and hollow promises if it would just stop,
but I don't remember him actually being there. Just shiny steel
and blue flame, like a machine, like some honed and precise
engine, working over and over.
****
When it did stop, he unstrapped me, waited for me to
come back to myself, and then tossed me my clothing.
"I was careful," he said, "to leave no permanent marks.
And nothing should be impaired or disabled."
I almost said thank you.
"Do you wish to resume your work for me?"
"No," I croaked.
He handed me a glass of water, which I gulped. "I wasn't
really expecting you to. Very well. You may run your garage, if
you like. I won't steer you anyone, but I won't have you
blacklisted either. As far as I'm concerned, you and your
business don't exist."
I nodded. That was far more than I'd expected.
Inji looked at me, the hard, sharp lines of his face
falling into definition under the light, and we stared at each
other for a while.
"The slate is clean," he finally said, voice as calm and
refined as ever I'd known it to be. "Cross me again and I shall
kill you."
"Likewise," I said.
He thought about that for a moment.
"No," he finally said. "Not likewise at all."
He walked towards the door. I started to get dressed.
"Oh. Miss Anako had an accident. Fell out the window on
her head."
I didn't say anything.
"I felt very bad, once I heard. Her younger brother will be
going to a very nice home in Hokkaido that takes poor children
and grooms them for college. He now has a scholarship. I had
this back pay for you, and it seemed a shame to waste it."
I put my pants back on.
"Goodbye, Kiri-kun."
He left.
I do cry, you know. Just not often.
****
Genma was hanging around when I got home, and he knew
something was wrong. He didn't ask me what. I'm forever
thankful to him for that. I'll also never forgive him for that.
He took me inside, sat me on my couch, and sat with me
until I stopped shaking. Then he sat with me until I'd drank
myself to sleep, and hung around with me for the next day or
two as I did things and fixed my bike and myself.
I opened Joe's the next week. It was hard getting
business going without an organization behind me, but I
managed.
I dealt in stolen machines, hot cars, gang bikes... things
of life and energy, things that would be used by some alive and
unruly young punk who really didn't give a shit about law and
society. Things that were bright and sharp, not dull and glazed
and poisoned. And I'll keep on doing it, at least until I get tired
of it.
I could say something sappy about not hating myself
now, but I didn't hate myself then, either. Okay? I just chose a
side, a different side, one that suited me better. But the other
side suits me too. Don't think it doesn't. And God but I've
almost gone back so many times...
I just needed to tell you this before tomorrow, because
what we two will do, if you still will after this, requires
trust. And after Laos - before Laos too, but especially after -
this has been in your mind. I could tell.
So here. Here I am. I'm baring myself like this because I
can cry, and need people, and love, and that last, Soun, is why I
---
There was a page missing, and as hard as Akane looked,
she couldn't find it.
She returned, and Ranma opened the book again, and they
resumed reading.
- Susan Doenime
Brisbane, U of Q
"I hit the streets / They watched me in the monitor..."