Her Gangster Nightmare

Just a Little Higher

    A shock of water, iced for consumption, was flung toward Ren.  He wasn't sure whether it was the cubes or the liquid that demanded his attention more. The chill brought the world crashing into his senses. Vivid colors were flashing all around the club, painting the walls, tables, and bodies surrounding him, varying hues to the beat of music. The repeated thud of heavy bass reverberated through his chair, shaking his bones. Had he fallen asleep? He noted how heavy his eyelids were as he stretched to adjust his muscles. A lingering yawn told him if he hadn't actually been asleep, he was certainly close to it before the rude awakening. The source of the offensive liquid sat across from him, making his jaw tighten: a fashionably dressed young woman in her early twenties. Her shirt was loose, the color obscured by the multi-colored strobes; it was Baccio Couture, or so she told one of the others. Her pants, practically painted on, were Dolce and Gabanna, and her small clutch handbag had a golden Prada logo gleaming in pride.  There was a pretentious sense of entitlement screaming from her eyes. The urge to strike her itched in his fingers as he pulled out a handkerchief and dried off his face. She was pretty enough, even with the full, glossed, lips pouted out, and eyes narrowed, her face masterfully made up with Sephora make-up.  He had seen the tell-tale compacts, earlier. The glossy black hair bleached a honey brown was something he was all too familiar with, particularly when joined with the pale skin that Asian women aimed for. When she spoke, it hit his ear softly enough, but the tone of it, the weight, high and whiny, reminded him of so many of his compatriots' companions. "Re~en!"

    Ren spent a brief moment considering why he had allowed his brothers to introduce him to this girl.  He hadn't bothered to remember her name, she was too much like other women he'd been introduced to.  Maybe the women in their circles were just walking clichés? Branded Asians with princess-complexes. He leaned over and spoke to the brother sitting next to him, Hiroki.  His white suit stuck out among the others' somber black.  He always aimed to be different, though Ren was grateful that his friend saved him the horror of wearing name brand clothes that advertised themselves as such. He had at least that much class. Ren could smell the remnants of bleach on his hair, the sacrifice for style when he wanted frosted tips.  He asked in Japanese, just quietly enough that Yuriko, the girl sitting across from him, wouldn't hear, "Why did I let you talk me into this?"

    Hiroki responded with a grin, and made a sound between mock embarrassment and teasing. His cellphone suddenly demanded his attention. Ren rose, causing a stir of protests among the group. The vibrations announcing a call could be felt in his pocket, and he found the sensation to be incomparably welcome. He walked through a small press of dancing bodies, and artificial fog in the club as he tried to find the door. Cutting through the air, his presence causing wisps to curl and move, he remembered the days when smoke would cause a haze, acrid and thick. This artifact never held quite the same appeal. Once outside, the dull thud of the bass made the walls shiver.  Not far away was the Strip, a couple blocks alone, a car passed with a drunk woman sticking out of a moonroof screaming ecstatically that she was in Vegas. 

    He took a moment to light a cigarette before returning the call missed in the club. Taking a slow drag and leaning his head back to release the smoke while he listened to the traditional ringback tone, the tension from within slipping away with it. The voice that answered was gruff, the Japanese guttural as it was spoken. His attention was drawn back to the phone, he was surprised that the man, himself, answered. "Ren, are you doing anything important, right now?"

    When Sutoshi Kanagawa asked that question, nothing the questioned was doing was important enough.  It was a lesson learned early.  Ren's breath was painted in the sky as he released the smoke, only for it to dissipate.  He tried the vapor cigarettes, but he felt like a p***y smoking them.  "Just smoking.  Need a job done, boss?"

    The voice was youthful for the sixty-eight ear-old it belonged to, but stern and layered with years of command, and perhaps a little fondness.  "Yes.  Kenji is talking...  Apparently your methods have been effective."

    A bandage on his right index finger tugged as he hung up the phone.  He'd cut it pretty badly when he was torturing the former brother who had turned on the family.  It was just a minor miscalculation of distance that caused him to cut the side, even as the knife dug into the rat.  It had been a long day, but one glance back to the door of the club had him texting his brothers inside and telling them that he was going to talk to the boss.  He had been in this group for twenty years, starting out as a simple courier and, as far as they were concerned, he was just one of them; one who had come in young and paid his dues.  Now he was one of the top lieutenants, and he was generally good at what he did, the group of brothers who had been sitting with him had amused him.  Perhaps he had been too long in this world.

    When Ren arrived at the stronghold, for there really wasn't any other word for it, he headed for Sutoshi's likely location.  It was a rather dull, if well planned building, with large walls around it. A gardener was paid rather handsomely to maintain an appearance of dedicated landscaping.  Waxy green leaves brushed Ren's sleeves as he passed them.  Every time he walked through this garden he admired the handiwork. Though he knew next to nothing about gardening, he could appreciate artistry.  Hiroki was likely following him, but he didn't need his friend.  The boss wanted to talk to him.

    Once he entered the house, he slid his feet from the glossy black dress shoes he had been wearing, and changed to a pair of provided slippers.  If there was one thing that Sutoshi wasn't a fan of, it was slovenliness.  Even his wife was pristine as she led Ren toward the room where Sutoshi was waiting for him.  Foregoing the trappings of a traditional Japanese image, she wore a skirt suit and pearls.  Ren, once he had discovered Jacqueline Kennedy, often compared them in his head.  Their anesan was a classy woman.

    The door opened, and an underling let him in. Sutoshi sat at a desk, his saiko-komon sitting in one of the other chairs.  The Oyabun simply glanced up when he entered with narrow, weathered eyes.  A shortened little finger stuck out as he lifted his hand to scratch his face.  It was an honor practice that was slowly falling out of popularity.  Ren, luckily, had yet to do anything severe enough to require he honor his Oyabun by losing a piece of a finger.  "Ren.  Come in."

    They spoke in the same Osakan dialect of Japanese they were used to, though they were in America. Sutoshi's saiko-komon, Yuji, who always struck Ren as a snake among snakes, sat aside him.  But, he was the man who handled the legal side of things.  His being a snake was likely the exact reason why Sutoshi had him in that position.  Yuji said nothing, instead watching Ren approach.  As he approached Sutoshi, Ren lowered to his knees, placing both hands on the ground before him, his forehead moving to hover over them.  He lingered only briefly and straightened, remaining on his knees before the elder man.  Sutoshi was gray haired, sixty-eight, and though he was still in his prime as far as his men were considered, Ren knew that he was very self-aware.  He had five, maybe ten more years left in his tenure, then he would willingly retire, if the law didn't get him, first.  He was the kumicho as far as the sects in America were involved.  Hawaii was often left to their own devices, but the San Francisco and New York branches answered to him.  Back in Japan, he was below another kumicho, but still respected for his position.

    Sutoshi took a long drag of his cigarette, a black paper stating its variety, Djarum Black, a kretek.  The smell of the room was sweet, a scent Ren was all too familiar with.  Ren rubbed his palms against the fine black fabric of his pants. After a smoky exhale, Sutoshi spoke, "Ren," he began, using no honorific, it was something that they had dropped in America.  "As I said, Kenji is talking.  He is the one who has been overlooking the Italians coming into our territory.  They have been paying him a cut in order to move in.  f*****g Italians."

    Ren knew that no love was lost between the two factions.  While they were, in ways, in the same business, the way the Italians did things was different from the way the Japanese did.  There was also no hidden lack of respect for them.  Ren knew that the Italians looked down on them.  It caused much friction, he heard, when they opened their first casino.  Things couldn't be done quite the same way as they were in Japan, but similar to Japan, there were local law enforcement groups that purposefully overlooked certain activities, provided they weren't glaring.  If a body happened to show up, if the right people were paid, the investigation was often locked away and never spoken of, again.  "Should I go and enforce those borders, father?"

    Father was what every one of his brothers referred to him as although there was little to no blood shared among those in the faction.  They showed him the same respect that they might a father.  Sutoshi took another long drag of his cigarette and seemed to let himself consider the possibility. Ren knew that they couldn't afford to move too quickly.  It would take manpower, and a plan.  His voice rumbled, barely heard even in the quiet of the room, "Enforce them.  Teach those stinking dogs."

    Ren's lips spread in a slow smile.  Perhaps he drew far too strong a sense of pleasure from this, but it was part of the whole reason that he had come to this place, and worked among these people.  He bowed deeply, slowly bringing himself to stand up.  He had planning to do.