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

him. There were no underpants. He put everything on, feeling the pain in his chest and in his heart. What had they done to Siono? Had she suffered long?

When he turned, the man with the mask was gone. The door was open, however. Probably the guy had others to tend, other nipples to realign.

Nobuo-san was waiting for him in the same room. There was a fresh needle tray on the sideboard. Shiro almost wept at the sight of them, but Nobuo-san was sitting at the table, his shirt open.

“Sit down.”

Shiro bowed and took a seat on the other cushion. He stared in shock at Nobuo-san’s garishly tattooed torso, which he could see now. Nobuo-san leant forward and poured him some sake. Shiro stared at the Noh mask tattooed on his boss’s chest. He had read something about Yakuza exposing their bodies…Shiro struggled to remember what it was that he’d seen.

“Now, we drink some sake, we make a bond.”

“What kind of bond?” Shiro’s gaze flickered over to the needle tray.

“Come now, Shiro. You were honest with me. Finally. A drink.” Nobuo-san held up his cup and Shiro lifted his. “And now, we bond. You make me a promise, or I can stick needles into you until I make your heart stop. The choice is yours.”

Oh, fuck. “Okay,” Shiro said.

They sipped. The sake was good. He drank one cup, then another. The pain that swamped him became muted. He almost didn’t care about anything in that moment.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked.

“Are you my friend?” Nobuo-san asked.

“I’m…loyal to you, Nobuo-san.”

“Very good. Then it should be no hardship for you to kill an enemy for me.”

* * * *

“Did you hear me, boy?”

Shiro came out of what must have been a long silence. He felt sick. Surely he’d imagined what had just transpired.

“You say Siono is your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, I assume you want to help fulfil her obligation to me.”

“Where is she?” Shiro asked.

Nobuo-san smiled. “All in good time.”

He held up a hand. Shiro’s thoughts still whirled around his obayun’s smile. It was a smile peculiar to the Yakuza. It hid a multitude of sinful thoughts. Shiro’s chest throbbed…thoughts, and deeds. When Nobuo-san leaned across the table and slapped Shiro’s right nipple, Shiro wasn’t surprised, just further wounded. Blood seeped through his bandage and shirt. He refused to cry.

“When did you last hear from her?”

“Five weeks ago.”

“I believe you. That’s why you have four piercings. One for every week you worked for me and lied.”

“I didn’t lie to you, Nobuo-san. I just didn’t tell you the truth. You never asked about my mother.”

Nobuo-san’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s go for a drive.”

“Please, tell me. Is she alive?”

Nobuo-san ignored him, getting to his feet. Shiro rose and for the first time, realised the mirror on the wall was probably hiding a window on the other side. He wondered if his mother’s lover was watching.

“Was the story you told me about your father true?” Nobuo-san asked.

“That he left when I was a child? Yes.”

Nobuo-san pressed a button. The masked man in the suit returned.

“Clean him up,” Nobuo-san said. To Shiro, he said, “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

Shiro sat, feeling dispirited. He felt his T-shirt coming up and over his arms and head, more ointment on his nipple and a fresh dressing with an extra layer of gauze.

The other man said nothing.

“Is she worth it?” he whispered when Shiro dressed in a different T-shirt and left the room.

It was a question he’d been asking himself since he’d arrived in Japan. In spite of everything, he loved Siono. He knew she loved him. She’d provided for him the way she knew how. With her body. She’d hated being married and thought of it as being a cheap whore. Getting paid cash to screw meant more to her, or so she’d said. He often thought that his mom’s idea of sex was all wrong. And yet, the one time she fell in love with her Yakuza, he saw her joy, her contagious excitement. She was young again. He’d wanted to believe her man Shun’ichi was everything she’d hoped. Even Grandma, the eternal pessimist, had hoped and prayed.

He took the elevator back to the street level. He’d yearned for adventure. Now he wanted to go home. He didn’t like the big city. He suddenly remembered the time, when he was five, and his mom shampooed his hair with coconut oil. He’d been stung by bees as they’d walked through Ala Moana park in Honolulu. Siono had screamed as the bees attacked him. It took a total stranger to liberate the insects from his scalp as he lay on the grass writhing and screaming in pain. He wondered who’d liberate him now.

Nobuo-san was waiting for him. He ended a call on his cell phone as Shiro climbed into the car. Shiro felt empty and useless. He had no money on him. His cell phone had been taken from him and God knew where his passport was.

“I’m sending you on an assignment to New York,” Nobuo-san said.

That surprised Shiro. He’d never been to New York. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about this enemy he was supposed to kill. In his heart, he hoped he’d be able to disappear once he got to New York.

The car stopped outside a restaurant that had a sign claiming, The Freshest Sushi in Japan. That was some boast. Shiro didn’t feel like eating, but he followed his boss inside. Great tanks stretched from the entrance all the way to the back, right down the middle of the room. Filled with live fish, the bubbling tanks dominated the enormous restaurant, its tables and open-plan kitchen clustered around them. Shiro felt sorry for the cramped fish, virtually immobile. A kimono-clad waitress led them to a table. Nobuo-san ordered more sake.

“What will you have? Do you like sakana no ikizukuri?” Nobuo-san asked.

Shiro shrugged. “I don’t know what that is. Is it sushi?”

Nobuo-san smiled that odd, predatory smile of his. “Sashimi, actually.”

“I’m not very