CHAPTER XXV

/play Baby Huey & the Babysitters - Hard Times

…

There will always be people who make things difficult for others. The business was successful. Our guys were collecting money on nearly every establishment in the districts, and we were starting to expand. The shylocks were getting paid accordingly. The bookmakers weren't being mugged. And we were keeping the bad guys off the streets. Crime, at least the type we didn't commit, dramatically dropped. But there were still a few thorns in our side.

In the neighborhood lived a tough, strapped man named Jirou. Everyone knew he was a Yakuza, judging from the ornate tattoos covering the entire length of his arm, and a delicate image of a twisted dragon reaching to his neck. He wore sharply cut black pinstriped suits and donned a purple tie, just like a cardboard mafioso. Jirou was one of the veteran soldiers of the Japanese mafia, supposedly an Inagawa-kai extortionist. When I first took up the side-job of bookmaking, Manny warned me to stay away from men like Jirou, and people who were associated with the Yakuza. A gangster is one thing, but a Yakuza is far more serious, and should not be crossed.

I remembered the story Hanzo told me, which happened three years ago. One day, three young men had set Jirou up. Maybe they didn't know he was Yakuza, or they were stupid. They ambushed the man and had done him in pretty well. One of the boys had managed to hit the side of Jirou's face with an aluminum bat, splitting open his right brow and sending him running. Hanzo described how Jirou fled, cupping his hands below his chin to catch the dripping scarlet blood, as if he did not want to tarnish his expensive suit. The three boys could've killed him, but they only wanted to send a message. But this was a blessing in disguise for Jirou. The boys weren't murderers, but Jirou would prove to be one.

A few days later, the body of the boy who had bloodied the Yakuza man's face was found floating down the canal near Sakaecho district. The boy had two stab wounds in his stomach and his throat was torn open. It was obvious that Jirou had murdered him. Everyone knew it. It was common sense. But the police couldn't indict Jirou of murder, as there was no evidence of him actually committing the crime. Nobody was willing to testify, and there really weren't any witnesses. It was just bad luck. In any case, the family of the other two boys agreed to pay an indemnity to Jirou, as compensation for their sons' offense towards him, and to placate any further vengeance that may come from Jirou. Since then, people respected him out of fear. People paid their debts. Shop owners handed him shobadai. Jirou was even made a gambling partner of Xiao Bo, and he took a cut from the pot in the games. As for me, it wasn't any of my affairs. I quickly forgot about it, but I remembered to be wary of people like Jirou.

That Saturday evening I was with Hanzo and Kenji. We had just come out of the izakaya across the street, and parted ways for the day. The two were going downtown to enjoy their newly earned cash, after we collected from the stores and picked up the loans from a nearby residency. It was nearly the end of November, and this was the week of shobadai collection. I was walking up Sakaemachiazuma street towards the nightclub when I ran into Jirou. The man was taller than me, and any person would've stepped aside, intimidated by the towering stature of the bold man in a black suit. Clearly, he was standing in my way with no intention of letting me pass. It was typical for Jirou to extort money from known racketeers in the district, and that included me. He must think my pockets are heavy with cash, and it was. I had eighty grand on me right now.

"Good evening there, young man," Jirou greeted in a deep voice. "Where are you going?"

I told him. After a moment, it was clear he wanted something out of me. I just looked at him silently. He says, "I saw you come out of that joint earlier. The pay must be good this month, eh? People tell me you're rich now, you and your cousins. But don't you think you've treated me a bit too unkindly? After all, this is my neighborhood, and you should be courteous to me."

As was my habit, I kept quiet and did not answer. I understood his implication immediately. I waited for a demand.

Jirou smiled, showing gold teeth and furrowing his eyebrows, making the pale scar on his right brow stretch. He pulled his shirt as if to air himself out, but really to show the six-inch stiletto blade he carried, tucked in the waistband of his long trousers. He had learned from his encounter three years ago. Then he sighed and said, "give me seventy thousand yen and I'll forget the insult. After all, young people these days do not know the respect due to men of power like myself."

I smiled back at him. There was something so chilling in my smile that I didn't know, and that Jirou noticed, that he hesitated a moment before going on. "Otherwise, the police will come to see you, and you'll be left shamed and destitute. Of course, if my information as to your gains is incorrect, I'll take just a little. But no less than thirty thousand yen. And don't try to deceive me."

Finally, I spoke; in a reasonable voice, and with no anger. I showed courtesy, as befitting of a young man speaking to an older man of Jirou's eminence. I softly said to him, "my two friends have my share of the money, I'll have to speak to them."

Jirou was reassured. "You can tell your two friends that I expect them to show courtesy towards me in the same manner. Don't be afraid to tell them," he added reassuringly. "Kenji and I know each other well, he understands these things. Let yourself be guided by him. He has more experience in these matters."

I shrugged. I tried to look a little embarrassed. "Of course," I said. "You understand this is all new to me. Thank you for speaking to me as a senpai."

Jirou was impressed. "You're a good fellow," he said. He took one of my hands and shook it in both of his callused ones. "You have respect," he said. "A fine thing in young people. Next time, speak to me first, eh? Perhaps I can help you in your plans."

Later on, I would understand that what had made me act in such a perfect, tactical way with Jirou was the newfound solidarity brought by the awareness of my own mortality, which was thanks to my idiopathic terminal disease. But at that moment all I felt was an icy rage towards that man. Jirou planned to rob me of the money I had risked my life and freedom to earn. I wasn't afraid. Indeed I thought, at that moment, that Jirou was a crazy fool. From what I had seen of Kenji, he would sooner give up his life than a penny of his yen. After all, Kenji was willing to kill a manager merely to obtain his shobadai. And Hanzo had the deadly air of a viper.

But later that night, in the barroom at The Grandeur, I received another lesson in the education I had just begun. Kenji cursed. Hanzo scowled. They both started talking about whether Jirou would be satisfied with twenty thousand yen. Hanzo thought he might.

Kenji was indignant. "No, that scarface bastard must've found out what we made from the new joints in Fujimi. Jirou-san won't take a bill less than thirty thousand yen. We'll have to pay."

I was astonished, but I hid my surprise. "Why do we have to pay him? What can he do to the three of us? We're stronger than him. We even have guns. Why do we have to hand over the money we earned?"

Kenji explained patiently. "Jirou-san has friends, real brutes. He has connections with the police. He'd like us to tell him our plans because he could set us up for the cops and earn their gratitude. Then they would owe him a favor. That's how he operates. And he has a license from Mr. Bo himself to work in this neighborhood." Xiao Bo was one of our allies, but even he conceded to leave Jirou alone, to avoid any possible altercations with the Yakuza.

After wiping down the marble countertop, I lit a cigarette and took a long drag, before sitting with my companions and drinking scotch. I had perhaps never used my intelligence before as I was using it now. I was surprised at how clearly I could think. I recalled everything I knew about Jirou. I remembered the day the man had his face bludgeoned and had run down the street holding his hands under his chin to catch the dripping blood. I remembered the murder of the boy who had wielded the aluminum bat and the other two who had their sentences removed by paying an indemnity. And suddenly, I was sure that Jirou had no great connections, he couldn't possibly have. Not a man who informed the police. Not a man who allowed his vengeance to be bought off. A real Yakuza chief would have had the other two boys killed also. No; Jirou got lucky and killed one boy but knew he could not kill the other two after they'd been alerted. And so he had allowed himself to be paid. It was the personal brute force of the man that allowed him to levy tribute on the shopkeepers, and the gambling games that ran in the alley pubs. But I knew several games which did not pay tribute to Jirou, and nothing had ever happened to the people running it.

And so it was Jirou alone. Or Jirou with some strongarms hired for special jobs on a strictly cash basis. That left me with another decision. The course the remainder of my life must take.

It was from this experience that came my oft-repeated belief that every man has but one destiny. On that night, I could've paid Jirou the tribute and become again a part-time bartender, with perhaps a nine-to-five office job after I graduated from college, and for the next few years live in monotone normalcy until my disease killed me. But destiny had decided that I was to become a mobster of the Chiba Outfit and thus had brought Jirou to me, to set me on my destined path.

When we finished with our alcohol and I had dropped my cigarette into the ashtray, I said cautiously to Hanzo and Kenji, "if you like, why not give twenty thousand yen each, to pay to Jirou-san? Then leave everything in my hands. I'll settle this problem to your satisfaction."

At once, Kenji's eyes gleaned with suspicion. I said to him coldly, "I never lie to people who I have accepted as my friends. Speak to Jirou-san tomorrow. Let him ask you for the money. But don't pay him. And don't in any way quarrel with him. Tell him you have to get the money and will give it to me to give him. Let him understand that you are willing to pay what he asks. Don't bargain. I'll quarrel over the price with him. There's no point making him angry with us if he's as dangerous a man as you say he is."

They left it at that. The next day, Kenji Isshiki spoke with Jirou to make sure I was not making up the story. Then Kenji came to my apartment and once we were in his car, gave me twenty thousand yen. He glanced at me and said, "Jirou-san told me nothing below thirty thousand yen. How will you make him take less?"

I said to him quietly, "surely that is no concern of yours. Just remember that I have done you a service."

Hanzo joined us later. Hanzo was more reserved than Kenji, sharper, more clever but with slightly less force. He sensed something amiss, something not quite right. He was a little worried. He said to me, "watch yourself with that bastard of a Yakuza, he's as tricky as a swindler. Do you want me to be here when you hand him the money, as a witness?"

I shook my head. I didn't even bother to answer. I merely replied to Hanzo, "tell Jirou I'll pay him the money in the izakaya up Humming street at nine o' clock tonight. I'll have to drink with him and talk, make a deal with him to take the lesser sum."

Hanzo shook his head. "You won't have much luck. Jirou-san never backs down."

"I'll deal with him," I say. Little did I know, that was to become a famous phrase of mine in the years to come. It was to become a final warning before a deadly strike. When I eventually became a full-fledged underboss in the Chiba Outfit, and asked my opponents to sit down and make a deal with me, they would come to understand that it was the last chance to resolve an affair without bloodshed and murder.

I politely refused to join the Ieyoris at dinner, and instead excused myself to Mama Imoguiri. She immediately sensed that something was afoot. I told her I had some private business with Jirou, and could not be interrupted. I saw the look of suspicion on her face and I was irritated. "Don't worry about me, mama. I'm not a fool, I won't get myself in trouble." She didn't answer, but merely raised a finger at me in warning. I remembered the important lesson she had taught me. Mama Imoguiri was concerned, not because of Jirou, but because of me. She could see through me; I was changing before her eyes, hour by hour, into a man who radiated a subtle, certain dangerous force. I had always been quiet, spoke little, but always gentle, always reasonable, which was noteworthy in a budding young man of my age. What she was seeing was the shedding of my protective mask of a harmless nobody, now that I was ready to start on my destiny. People do not really change. It is the mask that falls off. I had started late; I was twenty-one years old, and possibly only had ten more good years left in my life, but I was going to start my rapid ascension in the world of organized crime.

I have decided to murder Jirou. By doing so, I would have an extra seventy thousand yen in my bankroll. The thirty thousand that I would've had to pay to the Yakuza extortionist, the twenty thousand from Kenji, and the twenty thousand from Hanzo also. If I did not kill Jirou, I would have to pay him seventy thousand yen cold cash. That son-of-a-bitch alive was not worth seventy thousand yen to me. I would not pay seventy thousand to keep Jirou alive. If Jirou needed seventy thousand for an operation to save his life, I would sooner buy myself a new suit to wear at his funeral than pay for his operation. I owed him no personal debt of gratitude, we were not blood relatives, and I do not love him. Why, then, should I give Jirou seventy thousand yen?

And it followed inevitably, that since Jirou wished to take seventy thousand yen from me by force, why shouldn't I kill Jirou? What else could I do? Go to the police? Not likely. Call a hit on him? This was my private affair, and I did not have enough contacts yet to order someone else to do my dirty bidding. And surely, the world could do without such a person.

There were of course some practical reasons as to why I shouldn't solve this problem with such a brutal solution. Jirou might indeed have powerful friends in the Yakuza who would seek vengeance. Jirou himself was a dangerous man, not so easily killed. There were the police, the charges for murder, illegal use of firearms, and a plethora of reasons why this was a terribly bad notion. But ever since I was diagnosed with an incurable and terminal disease, I had lived under a sentence of death. What is one more curse to add to my doomed-from-the-cradle-up existence?

Years of seclusion and self-reflection and silent observation from the sidelines convinced me that I had more intelligence and cunning than other people, though I had scarcely had the opportunity to use that intelligence and cunning.

And yet I hesitated in taking my first step to the point of no return and towards my destiny. I even packed the seventy thousand bills in a single fold of bills and put the money in a convenient side pocket of my trousers. In my left-hand pocket, I put the gun Kenji had given to me to use in the hit on the Ichihara-kai boss. I had kept the old .38 wrapped in a towel and hidden under the counter at the bar, hoping that I would never have to use it at all. But now, I would be taking it one more time.

Jirou came promptly at nine in the evening. I had met him inside the izakaya several blocks up from the nightclub.

Jirou put his sunglasses on the table beside his bottle of beer, and I took off the cap I was wearing. He loosened his broad indigo tie, which was fancily patterned. The cold December weather was just beginning to come around, and it was quite cozy inside the pub. It was very quiet. Behind my calm visage I was murderous. But to show my good faith I handed over the roll of bills and watched carefully as Jirou, after counting it, took out a wallet and stuffed the money inside. He sipped on his bottle of beer and said, "you still owe me thirty thousand." His square-cut face was expressionless.

I said to him in my cool, composed voice, "I'm a little short, I've paid off my debts and bills. Let me owe you the money for a few weeks."

This was a permissible gambit. Jirou had the bulk of the money and could wait. He might even be persuaded to take nothing more or to wait a little longer. He chuckled over his beer and said, "ah, you're a sharp young fellow. How is it that I've never noticed you before? You're too quiet for your own interest. I could find some work for you that would be very profitable."

I showed my slight interest with a polite nod, and sipped on my beer. Jirou thought better of what he was going to say and rose from his chair and shook my hand. "Good night, young man," he said. "No hard feelings, eh? If I can ever do you a service, let me know. You've done a good job for yourself tonight."

I let him go through the doorway and out of the izakaya. I watched from the window. Jirou walked further up the street before turning a corner, and I knew he was headed towards his apartment in Yuko district, perhaps to put away his spoils before coming out on the streets again. I left the building and briskly went after him. There weren't many people outside at this hour.

The blocks of living tenements in the neighboring district stretched along the wide canal until it was split by the passing Sobu line, at which point it continued on to the other bank. Yuko district had been the site of construction projects lately, and the smaller houses were being cleared to make way for new buildings. The streets were even more sparse, so I found it easy to remain inconspicuous. The only noise that I could hear other than the indistinct chattering of neighbors and the barking of dogs was the din of machinery at the sites.

I trailed Jirou into the next district and watched him disappear into his apartment. His flat was just across the street. I'd already checked the snubnose; five bullets. That was more than enough. I remembered the hit in Ichihara. I felt the same hesitation just now. My left hand slithered for the gun in my pocket as I started walking up the stairs of the building. The tenement corridor was dark and deserted. I drew my gun out to fire. I was only two paces beside the door, peering through the window and blinds. Jirou was about to walk out. When the door swung open, I immediately stepped in front of the man and fired.

The sound escaped into the streets, but was dampened by the noise from the construction site, and the rest of the gun's explosion shook the building. Jirou staggered backwards, trying to hold himself erect as he clawed for his stiletto knife. The force of his struggle had torn off a button from his jacket, and made it swing loose. I spotted a spidery vein of red bloom on the white shirt front of his stomach. Very carefully, accompanied with a deadly sense of deliberacy, I fired my second bullet above the red stains.

Jirou fell to his knees, leaving the door open. He let out a groan, the groan of a man in great physical distress, which was almost comical. He kept giving these groans. I remembered hearing him three times, before I pressed the gun to his sweaty temple and fired. The impact punched through his brain and blew off his fedora hat, as he slumped on the living room floor.

Very carefully, I took the wallet from the dead man's jacket pocket and put it inside my shirt. Then I quietly walked out of the flat and came out behind the apartment building. If there were people asleep who were woken up by the sound of a gun, I wouldn't know. I observed the streets. Jirou's body was still lying before his door, but there was no sign of any other person. Two windows lit up in the tenements, and I spotted dark silhouettes. But since I did not see their features, they couldn't have seen mine. And such people would not give information to the police. People around here kept to their own business. This was none of theirs. Jirou might lie there until sunrise or until a security guard making rounds stumbled on his body. No person in that building would deliberately expose themselves to police suspicion or questioning. They would lock their doors and pretend they'd heard nothing.

I could take my time. I adjusted my cap, and navigated back to the nightclub, staying inside the shadows and away from the bright open. While walking, I rifled through the dead man's wallet. Besides the forty thousand yen I had given Jirou, there were only some bills and an ID card. Tucked inside a flap was a gold piece, probably a lucky charm. I knew I had to get rid of the gun and the wallet, and I even knew enough that I must leave the gold piece inside. If Jirou was a rich gangster, he certainly didn't flaunt his wealth with him, and that confirmed some of my suspicions. I turned a corner into an alley and slipped the wallet inside a garbage bag, making sure to separate the ID. Then I emptied the bullets into a nearby drain, and started smashing the gun against the wall. It wouldn't break. Eventually, with a brick I managed to break the gun apart and throw away the barrel, the two halves of the butt and the cylinder into separate garbage bins. In the morning, more garbage would be deposited into the bins and, with luck, cover everything.

I returned to the nightclub. My hands were trembling violently now, but everything else was absolutely under control. I changed my clothes inside the back room and, fearful that some of the blood might've splattered on it, threw it in a tub. I took some detergent and soaked the clothes, then scrubbed it by hand. Then I scoured the tub and the sink. I found a row of freshly washed towels hanging in a corner in the room, and hung my clothes with these. Then I went back to the bar. In the pocket of my coat, which I left hanging on a wall, was my medication for the tremors. I took out a prepared syringe and injected the needle into my clenched knuckles. That solved the problem, and I heaved a sigh of relief. When I calmed down I packed up and walked out of the place.

All those precautions proved unnecessary. The police, after discovering the dead body at dawn, never questioned me. I was astonished that they never learned of my meeting with Jirou in the izakaya the night he was shot to death. I counted on that alibi, Jirou leaving the pub alive. I later learned that the police were delighted with the murder of Jirou, and was not too anxious on pursuing his killers. They wanted to get rid of the man for a long time, everyone did, but could not find an easy way to do so. I inadvertently did them a favor. They simply assumed it was another gang execution, and questioned the local hoodlums with records in the rackets and a history of strong-arm. Dan the Killer was taken in again, much to his chagrin.

But if I had outwitted the police, my friends were another matter. Hanzo Ieyori and Kenji Isshiki avoided me for several days. So did Fukushi and Matsudo, who surely had heard of the rumors. Then they invited me one evening to the bar, to discuss the elephant in the room. It was obvious that they had a degree of respect towards me. I greeted them with impassive courtesy, as I sat down at the table.

Hanzo spoke first. He said softly, "nobody is collecting from the store owners in Yuko district. Nobody is collecting from the crap games and gambling in the neighborhood."

I gazed at them steadily, but did not reply. Kenji says, "we could take over Jirou's customers. They would pay us."

I shrugged. "Why come to me? I have no interest in such things. I'm already running rackets down in Ichihara."

Kenji laughed. He said to me, "how about that gun I gave you for the hit? Since you won't need it anymore, you can give it back to me."

Very slowly, I took out a wad of bills from my pocket and peeled off five 2000 yen bills. "Here, I'll pay you. I threw the gun away after the hit." I smiled at them, even laughing softly.

At that time, I did not know the effect of my smile. It was chilling because it attempted no menace. I smiled as if it was just some private joke only I myself could appreciate. But since I smiled in that fashion only in affairs that were lethal, and since the joke wasn't really private, and since they saw that my eyes did not smile, and since my outward character was usually sullen and tight-lipped, the sudden unmasking of my new self was frightening.

Kenji shook his head. "I don't want the money," he said. I pocketed the bills and waited.

They all understood each other. They knew that I had killed Jirou. And though they never spoke about it to anyone the whole neighborhood, within a few weeks, also knew. Thus, the proverb holds true: to be respected out there, you've got to put the dead bodies on the table. From that point onwards, I was treated as a "wiseguy" by everyone in the crew. But I didn't make any attempts to take over Jirou's rackets and tributes. That was none of my business.

What followed was the inevitable. I became a "man of respect" in the neighborhood. There were even rumours that I was a member of the Yakuza. It couldn't be further from the truth. But one day, a man who ran games in the neighboring Dojokita district came to me and voluntarily paid me ten thousand yen each week for my "friendship." I only had to visit the house once or twice a week to let the players understand that they were under my protection. Hanzo and Kenji took over Yuko district and began kicking up a portion of the money to me, but without being asked. I was recognized as the right-hand man of Manuel Ieyori, who began to trust in my capabilities in the business. Manny entrusted to me several bayside smuggling operations, and I carried out his orders through methods to my satisfaction. And in Ichihara, the crews of Donato and Narita answered only to me.

The feat of calculated violence that I had carried out would prove to be a stroke of genius which finally solidified the different factions in the city into one large mob; the Chiba Outfit. After showing my cards, allies and rivals alike of the Ieyori family got the message that we have the capability to exercise our power even against the Yakuza. By killing a Yakuza, we had shown that Chiba is ours. The murder of Jirou, who ran cockeyed to our interests, echoed far. The word of the mouth did the rest. All the racket chiefs came together under the Chiba Outfit. Soon, it wouldn't be just the city that we controlled, but the entire prefecture. At that moment, I shrugged off the implications of murdering one of the Yakuza. All I knew was that there was little stopping us now from reaching to the top.

This wasn't the life I intended to live, but eventually I accepted it. It was time to accept the fact that life is short. I wouldn't want to spend my remaining years as a normal, insignificant nobody. I'd rather hustle, gamble and scheme every day of my remaining life than become an office drone. I'm going to live life full-throttle, without safety nets. I'm going to do what I want. Because the idea of normalcy and living as a house-husband wasn't exactly hot on all burners for me anymore.

Because when I die, maybe I wouldn't regret going out as a wiseguy.

…

End of Part 1

…

…

A.N. okay, that's pretty much the end of the painstaking buildup to the story that is Part 1. (by the way, this chapter is a literal reference to the Godfather)

Chaotic and convoluted? Of course, but we can't just jump into the middle of the story without context, could we? Well Part 1 is at the moment a smoking mess of a story, and I'm still trying to fix it - the readers might as well first start reading Part 2 before Part 1. That order works just as well. If you're one of those people who immediately check the last chapter of every story, then you might want to start on P2 first, that works just fine.

It has always been in my plan for Hachiman to "die". We all know how stubborn and care-free 8man is, and making him change his attitude - and turn him into a mob boss no less - is going to take a hell of a long journey. But if there's one thing that can and will change people, it's death. Ladies and gentlemen, we've crossed the point of no return. (There's another popular story using the premise of life and death, and that was a prime example of how death changes people) Given that 8man now has a terminal disease, it'll sort of kick-start and get the whole story rolling so we can get to the really interesting parts.

To give a quick summary of the things that need to happen: an adequate mix of crime and slice-of-life scenes.. Hachiman's character changes.. give depth to the other characters..

This is just the beginning. I know the story has been slow and bland for the most part, but Part 2 is where it's all coming together. There's going to be conflicts involving Hachiman's family, the Ieyori family, Miura family and Haruno and her family.. also Hachiman's relations with his friends (Kawasaki, Yui, Isshiki…) And while all of this is happening, he's deeply involved in organized crime as the boss of the Yakuza's worst enemy: the Chiba Outfit. Hachiman is still in his 3rd year of college, mind you. When 4th year college comes, that's when it all goes out.

You might've noticed that some characters from other anime series make an appearance. That's also the idea - this is kind of a big crossover story, but that all happens a bit later. There will be crossovers, especially with the Classroom of the Elite. You can just imagine what else can happen.

That said, I'd like to thank you, the readers and the reviewers who helped me greatly in making this story and my writing better :)