My Yakuza by A.J. Llewellyn (books for 6 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📕

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Kono Takumi tried hard not to be pissed about being stuck in the one hundred and first precinct. Not only did it have the dubious honour of topping the list of the most violent precincts in the state, but the irony was that he’d been assigned here to keep him out of Manhattan, away from danger. Being stuck all the way out at Far Rockaway was supposed to give him some measure of obscurity now that he had been subpoenaed to give testimony in the big Yakuza trial.

He listened to his lieutenant lecturing the morning crew.

“Our neighbourhood is saturated with firearms,” Lt. Orpheus Jerrell said, looking over his men who sprawled in their seats, arms folded across their chests.

They all knew how tough the area was. They dealt with it all day long. Not only that, some bastard had walked in off the street and stolen the department coffee pot, so everyone was grumpy.

“The kids have nothing to do and it’s a dangerous combination.”

No shit.

Kono shifted in his seat. He’d had a choice, complete submersion into the witness protection programme or brave it out in Queens. He was a queen. Well, he was gay, anyway. He’d never backed down from a fight and he’d be damned if he gave up more of his life to the damned Yaks. Being Kono Takumi had become more important than ever now that he no longer had his fake persona to protect.

A whole year I worked undercover. I still can’t shake the little bastards.

It had interfered with his whole life. It had prevented him from getting close to another guy…not that he hadn’t had plenty of opportunities. Until the trial was over he couldn’t worry about getting somebody he loved hurt, or worse. Still, something felt off. It had felt that way for days. He had the peculiar sensation of being watched. He’d tried numerous times to convince himself he was paranoid. Paranoia was good in a cop. It was when you let your guard down that you got caught…or got your cover blown.

He tuned back into Jerrell, who said, “Felony assaults are up, burglaries, grand larceny.” He pointed to a graph that materialised on an illuminated section of the wall. “Most of the crimes are against properties. Crimes of poverty.”

Jerrell nodded and his assistant clicked to the next image.

“We don’t want a repeat of this.”

Everyone in the room groaned at the photo of the man on the screen.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jerrell barked.

He was a Jamaican-American man, slim, diminutive, and deadly. He’d given up a career as a bantamweight boxer to take up law enforcement but he still boxed some. He coached silver and golden glove amateurs and when he stepped in the ring to show somebody how it was done, he could make his opponent piss blood for a week.

Jerrell sometimes scared Kono more than the Yaks. He was a mean mother and had single-handedly started community projects that kept local teens off the streets.

The Lieutenant, whom we all called the Loo pointed to the photo of a convicted rapist who’d been the biggest embarrassment to Far Rockaway’s one hundred and first precinct in its entire history.

“I know we have a few new officers here today, so let me educate you,” the Loo said.

Man, he was still pissed. Frankly, so was Kono. He hadn’t been part of the unit when the catastrophe had occurred but he dealt constantly with the continuing fall-out.

“Eric McCoy. Posed as a police officer. Tried to abduct a fifteen-year-old girl. She got away from him and approached a patrol unit. She told the two officers inside the vehicle that McCoy had attempted to rape her. McCoy assured them otherwise.”

Jerrell slammed his hand down on the desk in front of him.

“Two officers from this goddamned precinct listened to him. They didn’t listen to this child. They didn’t bother to check his name…didn’t run a goddamn thing. He abducted another girl six hours later and raped her. I fired those two officers and I will do the same to anybody here who doesn’t uphold the law and protect our citizens.”

Fair enough, chief. Any word on the new coffee pot?

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Jerrell barked. A young uniformed officer pushed it open, poking his head around it.

“Is Detective Takumi here?”

Jerrell’s gaze swiveled to Kono, who sat up straighter in his seat.

“Here,” Kono said aloud.

“We got a call for you. Officers on duty at Marine Park Bridge are requesting you.”

“Me?” He asked, mystified. “Why?”

“We got a jumper.”

A few of the guys laughed until Jerrell silenced them with a glare.

“Hop to it, Takumi,” the Loo said. “And this time, don’t pull her hair off.”

Kono felt himself getting hot under the collar. It wasn’t his fault he happened to be driving home and saw a chick trying to jump from the bridge. After seven hours of discussion about TV shows from the fifties and Sudoku, he’d convinced her, or so he’d thought, not to jump. As he was leading her back over the safety rail, she took a leap and he caught her. News crews caught the action. In his anxiety to haul her back over the wall he’d held her head and her, or as it soon transpired, his hair came away in Kono’s hands.

The jumper was alive and apparently hadn’t tried any high jumps since, but the wig would forever haunt Kono. He found his city-issue windbreaker in his locker and headed out to the bridge. Since he’d rescued the guy, Kono had become king of the jumpers. All part of the new Rockaway plan for policing in action.

Kono drove out to the bridge, which overlooked one of the biggest beaches in the US. It also overlooked Riis Park, one of the best-kept secrets of Far Rockaway. During the day, it was a family paradise. At night, it was a haven for boozy brawls.

He didn’t mind the remoteness of the place, or the