Chapter 7

Asami smoked his cigarette very slowly, savoring the flavor as he viewed the Tokyo skyline in the distance. He'd been living at the safe house, which wasn't that bad, if you could ignore the noise, the annoying neighbors, the décor and the building itself. Ok, it was bad, as bad as it could get and still be useful. Why he felt the need to be here instead of the penthouse, he wasn't sure of yet. Maybe the penthouse held too many memories for him. But that would be silly, because he was after all, not that kind of man.

All he desired, well, one of many desires, was to keep as low of a profile as possible, which was difficult, since he seemed to attract unwanted attention wherever he went. It was the curse of being so…well, noticeable among the throngs of average looking people of average height in their average looking suits, living their average lives.

Being average was not for him.

So instead, he kept to himself, in his safe house, living a life where a thin line was drawn between monotony and madness, of boredom and cabin fever. And there was no cure, save a good blood feud or the promise of a turf takeover. What had he done for entertainment before? What had he done to amuse himself in the past? Only one thought came to mind, and that was of Akihito.

And before Akihito? He couldn't even remember, like he couldn't remember what he had for breakfast that morning, because it was one of those things you did automatically, like breathing or dreaming.

That morning, he'd been dreaming and been startled awake, with a large morning wood, by the thought of Akihito, riding his pole like a horse on a carousel, chanting his name in invocation and in such worshipfulness, he thought himself a god. And when he woke from his erotic dream, drenched in his own sticky mess, he was hoping it would be Akihito's face that he saw beside him. Instead, he was staring at an empty pillow, its fluffy nature mocking him with its freshly washed and never been used countenance.

Damn pillow. I hate you pillow.

Akihito had been gone from his life for five months, and yet he still dreamed of him. But sometimes, sometimes...when he had those dark thoughts which invaded his subconscience, those dreams became nightmares.

So, he continued to stare in deep contemplation at the Tokyo skyline from his office window and smoked, and thought some more, and smoked some more, and thought some more, until there were no more thoughts to think anymore, or so he thought.

"Asami-sama." Kirishima came in, startled by Asami's lack of movement in the past hour. He had left him earlier where he was standing, and here he was, standing in the exact same spot, as if Medusa had descended and turned Asami to stone.

"Kirishima," Asami said, coughing a little as he took a slow drag on his coffin nailer. "Is there something bothering you?" He had noticed Kirishima's constant death glares, which burned like a laser through him anytime he coughed or pulled out a cigarette from his pocket. A bullet in the leg wasn't as bad as Kirishima's ire, once something crawled up his bum and died.

"You will go to the doctor, Asami-sama, this is not a request." He commanded.

"I just have a little cold." Asami said, sounding like a child who had been scolded. "And you sound like my mother."

"Your mother said to go to the doctor too. What do I have to do, threaten to quit? I will quit, Asami-sama. You know I will." Kirishima threatened.

"You're an extortionist, you know that. It's what I like about you." He said, smiling slightly.

"You can't manipulate me with flowery words, it won't work."

"Fine, make the arrangements. But when the doctor tells me I have a cough due to cold, you will be kissing my feet." He said, and there was that characteristic smirk.

"You're lucky you keep your feet snugly inside those Tanino Crisci shoes of yours, Asami-sama, or else everyone would see how nasty they really are." He teased, as only he could and live to tell the tale.

And so, Kirishima had won that battle and off to the doctors he went.

After a lengthy and very drawn out physical, in which the doctor announced he was healthy as a horse, a prize race horse to be exact, except…he had the beginnings of emphysema and if he didn't quit smoking, he would develop cancer. This news, from a doctor, who in fact announced his diagnosis with his own cancer stick hanging out of his mouth like he was Humphrey Bogart.

And Asami had laughed. Laughed in the face of uncertainty, because really, cancer was one of those things so small, so unnoticeable, and yet so very dangerous when overlooked. He did not fear death, obviously, his choice of professions made that clear, but the thought of losing his hair made him queasy. If he was to die, he wanted to leave a beautiful corpse. So no, cancer was not an option, and neither was failure.

He had been dared to quit. Double dog dared. And Asami, not being one to back down from a dare, rose to the challenge, going so far as to throw out all his lighters, filters and remaining cartons of cigarettes he had stashed everywhere, and they really were everywhere. Kirishima found cartons in his desk, under his bed, in the bathroom and under the couch, like he was hording them. It was like spring cleaning, a rather fucked up version of spring cleaning, as he piled boxes into the now overflowing dumpster. He was sure the local high school students will have cleared that treasure trove of trouble by morning's light. And Kirishima had been right, as usual.

Asami was going to miss smoking, though. It always put the fear in people he was interrogating, like they were worried about dying of second hand smoke, as if they would live that long after he was done with them.

The doctor had given him some medication to deal with the withdrawals, which he said he didn't need because he was, after all, Tough Guy-sama. But after a few days and a really bad case of the sweats, he caved and stuck on the ridiculous patches that looked like band-aids. For his oral fixation, and boy did he have a wicked oral fixation, he started chewing on flavored toothpicks. Cinnamon was his favorite. It reminded him of Akihito, who often sucked on cinnamon breath mints. It was like one of his kisses, spicy and sweet. Asami was getting sappy in his old age, reminiscing about kisses when there were people to push and paperwork to kill, or vice versa.

So after about 30 days of medication and a strict de-cleansing regiment consisting of Green Tea smoothies from the local juice bar, Asami considered himself an ex-smoker. But right at that moment, he had more pressing matters to deal with and he had no time to relish in his victory.

Trouble was brewing.

"Hakatora Chikaza was fished out of Tokyo Bay yesterday, Asami-sama." Kirishima said, with a worried look. There was always a list of the "catch-of-the-day" in the paper and today's big catch was Hakatora.

Kirishima handed him the paper with the headline Hakatora Murdered, Fear Rocks Diet. When didn't fear rock the Diet? They were so afraid of the Yakuza now, since the passing of the Anti-Yakuza law, they jumped at their own shadows. When a law passes, someone must have the balls to enforce it. And quite a few Diet members were missing their balls, as well as other parts of their anatomy these days.

"Who ordered the hit?" He asked, scanning the article quickly. It was too early for the article to have much, but the words Yakuza and retaliation stuck out. The newspaper was already jumping to conclusions that Hakatora Chikaza's Anti-Yakuza law lead to the man's untimely death. The paper was probably right. He put it aside so he could do the crossword puzzle and read Dear Abby later.

"You did, according to rumors." Kirishima stated. "The police are going to be looking for you Asami-sama. We need to move again. Perhaps a trip abroad would be apropos? Paris is nice this time of year."

"We're not moving, and I'm not running. It will look like I'm guilty!" yelled Asami. "Why would I order a hit? He's nothing, although he did piss me off." Maybe he could dig up the body and kill him again, just to vent his frustration.

Kirishima nodded. He knew his boss wouldn't go anywhere, but he had to make the suggestion nonetheless. "I understand, Asami-sama."

"Akihito's photos of the bribe, we still have them?" He asked his right-hand man.

"Yes, I kept them. I thought they might be valuable someday." He explained. He didn't tell Asami that he had a rather large scrapbook of Akihito's photos. The shots of Asami sleeping with stuffed animals were particularly….fetching, and good blackmail material should the need arise. He did his best imitation of an evil grin at the thought.

"Good thinking. If I'm arrested, make sure to get them to my lawyer. It could be very useful in my defense." He stated.

"Additional orders?" asked Kirishima.

Asami flicked his badly chewed toothpick into the trash. "I want to know who took out Hakatora, and I want to know yesterday." He commanded with a fire in his eyes that Kirishima hadn't seen in a while.

He poured himself a drink. "You're still keeping tabs on Akihito." It was a statement not a question.

"Yes, Asami-sama." He replied. He was always keeping tabs on someone, whatever tabs entailed.

"Continue to do so." He downed his drink in one swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then went to pour himself another. "I almost wish….."

"Wish? Asami-sama?" He asked in confusion. Asami-sama had never wished for anything. There was no Godmother in their world ready to grant favors with a poof of her wand. There was only a fucked-up sadistic Godfather, and his name was Asami. So if a wish was to be granted, he would have to take care of it himself.

"Never mind." He said as he downed the drink in one gulp.