My suit was Armani. Black like my vest and shot up with thin white lines. My fedora bore a similar pinstripe pattern. My shirt, also black was made of silk and absent a tie, the top button of my shirt open in order to avoid the geek look. My black and white hair seemed to match the suit well.
Fuck… I’ve just realized that I’m vain. But maybe vanity isn’t such a bad thing when you have an image to maintain. Plus it never hurts to dress like a king when you’re meeting with the yakuza, those guys are impressive. Tattoos, missing fingers, stacks of yen and automatic weapons lying around everywhere.
Where is my posse, willing to cut off their phalanges in obedience to me? Where are my stacks of yen? Where are my highly illegal tools of death and destruction?
But I have a suit. And bravado. And bullshit. Lots of bullshit.
I stepped into my ankle high boots, zipping the sides. It was time to go. Walking to the door that led out of my apartment I flipped off the switch, closing and locking the door behind me. A short walk down a flight of stairs and to a waiting taxi. I opened the door and dropped to my seat inside. Handing the driver an address written on a slip of paper I gave him one command: ”drive.”
Jan 10, 2008.
10:44 a.m.
Business district - Tokyo, Japan.
The cab driver knew who I was, which meant he either loved me or hated me. Given my status in Japan it’s more likely that he hated me but he got me to my destination fast. Maybe he just wanted me out of his car. Even if that’s the case he still earned himself a handsome tip.
As I exited the cab I took a long hard look at the building in front of me. It was an ice cream shop. The building itself was painted white, a swirled pink cone looming over the entryway, the shutters made of oversized popsicle sticks. I had never met the Yakuza in the same place twice, always at one of their business fronts. I thought meeting them in a facsimile barber shop was weird, but this took the cake.
Opening the pink and white door to the ice cream shop I planted a boot firmly on the white tile of the floor stepping inside to see… an ice cream shop. Inside were booths and tables and glass counters displaying an ice cream dream. The shop was just as typical as it had been on the outside
A graying Japanese man wearing a white apron didn’t bother to look up at me as he continued mopping. ”We don’t open for another few minutes.” He said.
”I’m meeting someone here.”
It was then he looked up at me. ”Moody-san, my apologies. Please follow me.”
I didn’t know him but he seemed to know me. Maybe it was from wrestling, maybe it was from the yakuza. Then again maybe he had just been expecting me. He looked to be very low level yakuza. No tattoos were visible and a quick glance at his hands confirmed that he had all ten of his fingers.
I assumed that he probably ran the business part time in order to appear legitimate and allow the Yakuza to launder their money. He was just making a little scratch by selling ice cream to kids during the hot hours of the day and banking on Yakuza money laundering at night. Smooth.
I followed him into a back room which led to a stairway descending into a basement. Trailing the ice cream man down the stairs we reached a heavy metal door at the end of our descent. He rapped quickly on the door with his knuckles and a steel grate in the middle of the door slid away, revealing a window. A pair of eyes peered into the hallway, confirming that we were who we were supposed to be. Then the steel grate slid shut and the door opened wide. The ice cream man stepped inside and I followed, the door closing behind us.
The basement appeared to be significantly larger than the upstairs of the small ice cream shop. In the basement was a long table, eight chairs on each side and one on each end. On the other side of the room was a well stocked bar, a pool table and the largest safe that I’ve ever laid eyes on.
There was also another table, this one more central to the room, smaller and circular, surrounded by four chairs. Three men sat at the table, each one focused on me. These men were the bosses. Behind the bar a man missing a pinkie was mixing drinks, four other men lounged by the bar. They wore identical black suits… these were the henchmen.
”Gentlemen.” I bowed slightly, joining them at the table, taking my spot in the vacant chair.
”Moody-san, how good to see you.” Cooed a senior member of the yakuza, his hair and beard white, his eyes dim but wise. His name was Aoi Aya and he held a lot of pull in the yakuza. ”We apologize for meeting you under these humble conditions, but alas, one simply cannot be too careful these days.”
I nodded. ”No, I understand.”
”Allow me to introduce my business partners.” Aya motioned towards the other two men at the table. ”This is Ricky Shaw, importer.”
I couldn’t help but notice that Shaw had an American name and an Italian suit as he stood up to shake my hand. He looked to be in his early thirties, lean and in good shape. He looked Japanese but acted American, my guess is that he was born into a Japanese family and had been raised in the States. Aya had referred to him as an importer… meaning he obtained and delivered drugs for distribution by the Yakuza.
”And this is Lee Yono, he’s in charge of travel.” Aya motioned toward the other man at the table, he also appeared to be Japanese, his eyes shaded behind round sunglasses and a patchy beard spreading across his face. My best guess put him in his late forties. He didn’t look to be in as good of shape as Shaw but the bulge of a gun underneath his well cut suit suggested that he was just as capable of taking care of himself.
”Nice to meet you both.” I said, extending my hand to Lee Yono. ”And Aya-san… it’s always a pleasure.”
”I trust that all went well with the acquisition Moody-san?” Aoi Aya asked.
”Sure did. This handsome devil now holds the majority of Pure Japan International stock.”
”Excellent.” Aya grinned. ”Then it’s time we get down to business.”
Something didn’t sound right when Aya said those words. It seemed as if the cold hard reality of the “business” was starting to sink in. Yakuza business is never pretty.
”Over the past few months we’ve helped you to acquire PJI and we’ve allowed you to use it for your own purposes. You may own two-thirds of the company but you owe that success to the yakuza.” Aya said.
I didn’t take kindly to having my hard work overlooked.
”Now hold on Aoi-san, I set up everything. Sure, I’ve needed the yakuza for my dirty work, but I’ve been the one pulling the strings all along. My ideas, your hired guns.”
Aya nodded. ”Yes, you’ve shown brilliant leadership and your ideas have proven successful, but just like you pointed out… your ideas, our guns. I will grant that you have wisely commanded my men but they are only ‘on loan’ to you. They were loaned to you as a favor, and I’m asking now that you return that favor.”
Now we were down to brass tax. I had to repay a favor to the Yakuza.
”Go on…” I coaxed.
Aya spoke slowly. ”We would like for you to officially become part of our organization, rather than just an outside associate. We would like to offer you a position in… imports.”
Drugs. The Yakuza wanted me to smuggle drugs into the country? And here I thought they were going to ask me to do something that wouldn’t be any fun. I had been fired from Global for my drug use and had only accelerated my drug use when I moved to Japan. Cocaine was more expensive there, but if you knew the right people you could get the best stuff… and the yakuza were the right people.
”Jesus Aya-san, imports? I have a career.”
”Yes, but you also have an obligation.” Aoi Aya said.
”Cocaine.” Shaw said, breaking his silence.
I blinked. ”Excuse me?”
Reaching into his pocket he pulled out what looked like a pen. ”Pure Colombian bam-bam, uncut.”
Twisting the cap off of the ‘pen’ he turned it upside down allowing an avalanche of white powder happiness to fall to the table. Reaching into his pocket he extracted a key and dipped it into the powder.
”Cheers”, said Shaw as he snorted the powder off of the key.
I grinned broadly, feeling a little better about the situation. ”Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”
Shaw handed me the key. I dipped it into the cocaine allowing the crevice in the key to fill with coke and piling blow on top of the key with my other hand. I nodded my gratitude to Shaw, plugged my right nostril and snorted the key clean. The cocaine shot up my nose, my heart racing in anticipation of the high that was soon to come.
I quickly turned the subject back to business. ”Cocaine, how much are we talking?”
Shaw grinned, taking another key hit. ”A lot.”
I looked down at what was roughly four or five grams of cocaine sprinkled on the table. ”A lot?” I asked, as Shaw handed me the key.
”Some poor fools would say this is a lot.”
”Our first delivery should be one hundred kilos.” Said Aoi Aya.
”One hundred kilos?!” I gasped in shock at the figure as I loaded up the key. Snorting another pile of blow off of the key I repeated my words. ”One hundred kilos…” Suddenly that didn’t sound like such a bad number, the problem was finding it and I said that.
”Where am I going to score a hundred kilos of blow? I mean I can a get a kilo or two here or there but… goddamn man, even I don’t have those kind of drug hookups.”
Lee Yono broke his silence. ”Venezuela.”
I didn’t follow. ”What?”
”It comes across the border from Colombia. Venezuela’s president doesn’t trust the DEA due to an attempt by the U.S. government to overthrow the Chavez presidency in two thousand and two. With George Bush and Hugo Chavez busy waving their cocks at one another and the DEA barred form operating within Venezuela, this gives us the perfect opportunity.” Yono explained.
”Holy shit… you can learn some amazing things from that internet.” I cracked wryly.
”You’ll start in Caracas, the capital of Venezuela. We’ll try to find you a contact before your flight leaves, otherwise… you’re on your own.” Warned Aoi Aya.
”On my own? You mean sent to Venezuela with a shitload of cash and no contacts?”
”Shaw will be working in Bolivia to ensure that our coca farmers are being properly protected from paramilitary groups. If you run into any trouble he will be your contact. We’ll do our best to locate a contact before you arrived in Caracas, but we don’t have much time.” Yono chimed in.
Maybe the coke was starting to take effect but I was just a little bit confused. ”Much time..?”
Yono slid an envelope across the table to me. Inside were two tickets; one to Caracas, Venezuela and the other a return ticket to Tokyo, Japan. I glanced down at the ticket to Caracas, my name was printed on it, as was the flight time.
I had to defend the PJI World Title in 24 hours. In 48 hours I had a meeting with one of the more prominent Japanese TV stations regarding a PJI television contract. And in 72 hours I would leave for Caracas, Venezuela.