Sanosuke

"I'll buy you a ticket, but in exchange you'll have to do me a little favor." That was what the woman had said, red lips curving, her hat obscuring her features. She had laughed at the word 'favor' with this sort of throaty 'hohoho' sounding laugh. Like she was making fun of him, but of herself as well.

She annoyed him. It wasn't that Sanosuke had disliked her attitude. It wasn't that he disliked her personally. No. Maybe 'annoyed' was the wrong word. He was confused. He didn't like things he couldn't understand and he was aware of it. But it annoyed him that he was confused. About her, about her actions. Why would some rich lady be at a speakeasy like that? She wore a fur coat made of real fur, so she must have been rich.

Well, there was that and there was the fact that she had just bought him a first-class ticket for a train trip across the country. Sanosuke scratched his head. A little favor? Probably not something legal. Whatever. As long as I get to New York in time.

Sanosuke chewed on a toothpick, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets and taking big, slow steps down the sidewalk, thinking hard. It was already evening and all the lights in the city were beginning to get lit. He spit out the toothpick. A man in a trench coat with his collar turned up walked hurriedly by, looking around himself anxiously. There was the sound of a dog barking. Someone yelling. Jazz music. A single scream. A gunshot. Some more gunshots, further away. Raucous laughter. Glass breaking. Opera music on a really scratched up record.

It began to drizzle, deepening the colors of the gray and brown city. There was the smell of rain. Gutters and sewers. Cooking food. Something deep-fried. Something Chinese. A car drove by, splashing the edge of the sidewalk with rainwater and God-knows-what else. Chinese food again, stronger this time. Damn I'm hungry. And cold. I left my coat in the room and I haven't paid my rent. Crazy Italian landlady'll probably threaten me with her mob connections. Like they'll give a shit.

He absentmindedly kicked a can that lay on the street. It bounced away with a hollow clattering sound. But what the hell was that kind of a woman doing at a speakeasy like that? He wondered again. She was too well dressed, too fancy talkin'. She woulda gotten eaten alive there. Unless… Maybe she's some mob boss's woman. If she was though… Couldn't she just hire someone to do whatever the hell she wants me to do? This is confusing. I need another fight to get my head straight.

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Earlier that day Sanosuke had gotten a telegram. 'Captain Sagara alive. Come quickly – New York. Train leaves 19 Nov. The NYC/Chicago Express – Katsu.'

Katsu was a poor artist with the pseudonym of 'Tsukioka Tsunan'. He drew portraits, nature, editorial cartoons and caricatures – and porn – when he really needed money. He and Sanosuke had grown up together in New York City when a man called Sagara Souzo took them in from the streets. He was an ex-military officer who became a gang boss after his wife had left him. The title of 'Captain' had stuck – become a nickname, a term of respect.

Captain Sagara had been like a father to Sanosuke. Since Sanosuke did not even know his own last name – much less his parentage – he called himself Sagara Sanosuke from the day he was taken off the streets.

When, ten years ago, there had been a major gang war, the Sekihoutai – Captain Sagara's gang – had been annihilated by the mob working with the cops that they had paid off. Captain Sagara was presumed dead and Katsu and Sanosuke had been separated. But they found each other again in Chicago, seven years later. When Katsu got a job in New York, Sanosuke wanted to go with him but didn't have the means. So they parted again but wrote letters.

And that brought him to where he was today, gambling and street fighting for money, living each day like he was going to die the next. When he had gotten the letter, he decided that he would fight every man in the city and get all the money he could so he could snag at least a third-class ticket onto the train. Hell, he'd ride in the baggage compartment if he had to. So he went to speakeasies and fought. 'Bet on me!' he would yell. He went to backstreets and fought. 'I'm Sagara Sanosuke and I came to win this fight!' He fought in every place it was imaginable to fight – and he won. Because he was going to see Captain Sagara again.

It was at a speakeasy that he had met the woman. He had just gotten a bit of money fighting two guys at once, leaving a little the worse for wear. There were no more people to fight – and he was tired – so he sat down at the counter. The bar was smoky, crowded. It seemed to Sanosuke as if nobody had bothered to clean the place since it was built – and Sanosuke wasn't too picky about cleanliness himself. It reeked of alcohol and sweaty men.

"You're bleeding, you know." He turned around to face a woman sitting next to him, wearing a gray fur coat and a wide-brimmed hat that hid her eyes. She was smoking a cigarette in a black cigarette holder and her lips were painted red. The kind of red that reminded him of the red paper lanterns outside the Chinese bakery outside his apartment building.

He brought a hand up to his face. "Where?"

"Your lip." She said, gesturing in that direction with her cigarette holder.

He dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his mouth. "Aw. I see. Thanks."

They sat in silence, then she asked him a question. "What do you need the money for so badly?"

"A ticket to New York." He figured he wouldn't lose anything by telling her the truth.

The woman crossed her legs and leaned forward. "And what will you do there, in New York?"

"See a man who I thought was dead for the past ten years." Sanosuke eyed the string of pearls around her neck and her shiny red pumps. Is she a rich lady, or what. If those are real pearls… Damn! She's pretty hot too – and I can't even see her eyes… But I'm sure they'd be- Wait. Think about that crap later, focus on something else.

She blew out a thin, long string of smoke from between her scarlet lips. Her black-gloved hand played with a strand of her long hair. "You know…" she said after a while. "I'll buy you a ticket, but in exchange you'll have to do me a little favor."

Sanosuke's eyes widened and he wiggled his little finger around in his ear. "Huh?" He grinned hopefully. "Seriously?" his eyes narrowed. "If this is some sorta elaborate prank, it ain't funny."

The woman smirked. "If you do me a little favor. But yes, it's a promise." She leaned in for a moment, her breath warm against his ear and her hair falling forward over her shoulders. "I'm just as desperate as you are." She whispered. Then she stood up, heels clacking on the floor. "Meet me at the train station in front of the New York City/Chicago Express train on November nineteenth if you've made the decision. Ten in the morning." Her voice sounded just as sarcastic and confident as before.

Then she turned and walked away. "I'll meet ya there, lady!" he yelled at her retreating back. "Count on it!" She didn't turn around, just lifting a hand in acknowledgement. If this lady didn't flake out on him, this might just work.