I get a hard day's night in the back room. The cot feels like heaven, now that I'm lucid enough to enjoy it. Thankfully, I don't dream.
The next morning I rise early, and do the best job of washing up I can in the restroom before heading out into the restaurant. I pick out a booth to relax in, maybe snag some breakfast when the staff gets there. I pick a corner booth. In an old cowboy movie I learned to always sit in a corner with a view of the door when you're out in the open: nobody can sneak up behind you, and you know exactly who's coming and going. Who'd have thought a cowboy movie would save my skin?
Henry was off at school, but had told his mother the night before that I'd need some food so, experienced host that she was, had risen before me to start some breakfast. Momma-san brought me a cup of tea to start with, and we talked a bit. She was a sweet old lady, short but strong. One of those tough birds who'd seen enough bad times that they were chiseled hard to the world, but still had the heart to look for hope in people. I liked her. I wouldn't get the chance to know her better.
I'm halfway through my tea when the Yakuza comes back to mind. I'm thinking, maybe there's just something about this tea that conjures the subject of ruthless gangsters. Or maybe it's the pack of war dogs coming through the front door.
They're a five-man dead cow brigade, all dressed in black leather coats, secret service shades and attitudes that say "back off" without an uttered syllable. I'd seen their kind before, mostly bloody and dead on the pavement in front of me. I wasn't scared of them. Neither was Momma-san.
"Hey! HEY! You go! No more from you! Already this month! Go!" Despite the dire threat in the atmosphere, I had to give Momma-san an inward grin. The hoods hesitated at her commands, but only long enough for their tempers to flare. Before I could blink two of the goons had taken spots on either side of the front doors, one was watching the kitchen entrance, and another was watching me. The fifth, the biggest one, middle-weight Sumo man, glided to Momma-san with more grace than I would have imagined someone of his bulk could pull off.
If I had a gun, I would do something, but the bulges in the Brigade's coats spoke of more heat than I had oven mitts to handle. I could only watch as Sumo grabbed Momma-san by the apron and gave her a slap across the face that sounded like a thunderclap. She was dazed. He was calm. I was boiling.
"You listen here, little mother. Prices are going up, and we need payment today. You'll have to sell a few more noodles is all. Now, scurry off to the safe and bring us what we want." Momma-san regained herself, scowled, and spat right into the goon's face.
Like I said, chiseled hard.
Sumo-man flinched, and it was all the excuse he needed. He dropped Momma-san to the floor, and in a move too smooth to betray any sense of mercy, pulled out his 9mm and delivered to Momma-san something that can't ever be taken back.
I wanted to just grit my teeth, bear to out and live to get back at these animals, but this is me we're talking about.
The goon watching me must not have expected such rash action from his partner because at the gunshot he turns fast, hand inside coat for his own cannon. I push the sorrow and rage away from my mind hard and use the distraction, grabbing a table knife and whirling to my feet, giving dragon-man an eyeful through his sunglasses and stealing his gun in the process.
I drop and roll as the Brigade see what's happening and fire in reply. I make it into a nearby booth and kick the table on its side to shield me from the hail of lead. I see Sumo out of the corner of my eye finally show some semblance of having been born a mammal and go to his injured associate, trying to pry the flatware from his bleeding skull while he writhes on the floor. I take the opportunity to send a bullet into the fat man's ankle.
I jump up and dive to the side. Adrenaline, fear, whatever it was starts pumping through my body like an old instinct, and time seems to pause in mid-air while I aim and pull the trigger. Packets of lead streak through the air, coppery hornets stinging into two of the Brigade's necks, while another bores itself into the middle of the third's face. Like a sportscast instant replay, Sumo turns and bolts towards the kitchen, knocking tables over as he goes, a culinary linebacker.
By the time I regain my feet and grab an extra weapon, Sumo has hobbled his way out the kitchen and into the breaking daylight. I know it's useless to run outside if I don't know where I'm going. I make sure the door is bolted tight and turn back to the restaurant.
I stare down at Momma-san, a look of firm determination now etched forever on her ashen face. She died well, standing up against the forces of evil. I take a rumpled tablecloth from the floor and lay it over her, saying a silent word of respect. Then the fire comes back to my eyes, and I turn their heat towards Mr. Butterknife.
He's still groaning on the floor, flat on his back, hands shaking near the knife handle, probably not sure which would be worse: leaving the blunt piece of metal in, or ripping it out of his own eye socket.
I crouch over the mook, tapping the muzzle of my purloined 9mm against the unbroken sunglass lense. "You've seen the movies, right? This is the part where you tell me where the rest of your mob are, or I pluck out that other eye of yours. Comprende?"
Butter spits out what he thinks is the "honorable" thing to me: "N-never! Never...betray my...my brothers...."
"Y'know," I muse with more humor than I actually feel, "I remember in this one TV show, the hero hated guns, and whenever he found one he'd always use it for something other than shooting people. He'd toss it like a boomerang, or use the gunpowder from a bullet to burn a wound clean; y'know, brainy stuff. Me, I'm too dumb for that." I flip the 9mm in my hand, gripping the barrel tight and letting the fury belt out from my throat in seductive tones of menace. "Me, I just see it like...oh, like a hammer. And damned if that knife in your eye don't look a helluva lot like a nail to me." I hover the butt of the pistol grip over the end of the knife, letting it come in contact ever so slightly.
Butter screams and gets the idea quick as a nerve impulse. He spills the info quick as lightning. Then I stand up and shoot him, quick as dead.
I've got an address, two guns, four clips of ammo, and a kid soon to come home to a murdered mother. I also have a new enemy, The Yakuza.
Time to go start an international incident.