Chapter 7 - Wedding

16 Years Ago

He was living the good life. One he had a handle on the language, he managed to get a job in a translation firm. He had a white shirt and slacks and a monthly pass for the subway. He stuck out only with his American features and long hair – and a beard that was getting more and more out of control with the passing months. He had an apartment in the city, closer to work but close enough to his mother to satisfy her. It even had a balcony, which faced the side of another apartment complex with a giant billboard advertising a local new program. He had everything going for him, considering he had walked into the country six months earlier without a dollar or a name to attach it to.

And he hated it all.

His wounds had healed, but there were scars. They weren't his first, but they were rather – extensive. Sometimes he would stare at them in the mirror, picking away the peeling skin. It was normally all hidden beneath his clothing, a façade over a secret.

He told himself he should let it stay that way. He was fitting in here. His mother was happy, and it seemed like she had suffered enough in her life. He went with her to the temple, where she lit incense for his grandparents, who had died in the war, and her father, who had been shot on the same street where he had been born. There was a sense of continuity here, even so far away from his familiar haunts.

He was used to an urban environment, but something dragged him out in the countryside. A mere bus ride away, on empty green hills, he was not expected to be Jigen-san the translator, the American immigrant, the office worker. He could lie back and just stare at the mountains he had scene in so many rice paper drawings.

So he lay there, on his free afternoons, smoking a solid pack of cigarettes. He knew he was ruining his lungs, but he didn't care. His life seemed to be mattering less and less. Just as insignificant as everyone else in the cubicles next to him, unnoticeable but for the alien features.

Maybe he had died in Chicago, and this was purgatory. He remembered something about it from Sunday school, before he made Communion. Where you went to work off your sins so you could go to heaven. All he had to do was sit down, shut up, and get all the filing done and he'd be in Angel City.

So why was it taking so Goddamn long?

"Are you a happy worker, Jigen-san?"

What the hell kind of question was that? Most of his previous conversations with bosses had been along the lines of 'Go do this and don't fuck up, or I'll have your balls in a juicer.' To the point. Appropriate. Not this shit from the man across the desk.

Maybe he was didn't like Mr. Tanaka, or maybe he was just mad in general. Frustrated at his own ability to grok their vibe here. And nobody here even knew what 'grok' meant, so it wasn't worth explaining. A pasty little man in a suit that made him feel larger than his employees, who did not wear blazers. Dress codes, like Catholic school. He suddenly wanted to be in a suit – a better one than Mr. Tanaka's, that was for sure.

Somewhere between his teeth-grinding and his itching for a cigarette, he realized he had to answer, "I guess so, sir."

"You don't seem like it."

Something in him snapped. He wondered if it was audible. "Sir, I get here on time, I do my work, and I don't cause trouble. What do you friggin' want from me?" He had told Tanaka early on that 'friggin' was a term of endearment.

Tanaka shuffled the file around; it was probably on him. "Jigen-san, have you given thought to how your attitude affects productivity?"

Jigen blinked; it was quite honestly one of the stupidest questions he had ever been asked. And this after he had spent months carefully honing in his attitude into the polite, respectful, patient Japanese worker he was supposed to me. Christ, he needed a cigarette. "Actually, I hadn't given it any thought. And now that you mention it, I still won't."

His boss was managerial, having been placed there by the corporation to manage this branch. His English was not nearly as good as his employees', so it took him a minute. "I am beginning to think you are not taking this conversation very seriously," he said in Japanese.

"That's because this conversation isn't serious; it's stupid," he spat back. "If I keep turning in my work, can we not have these conversations?"

"If the company really means so little to you – "

"You know what? It doesn't. I'm only here for the paycheck," he admitted angrily. "Oh, I know what you're going to say. You're going to say 'insolent American' in Japanese because you're too stupid to remember I know the language. Well, maybe I am. Or there's someone else that'll pay me without having me answer questions about friggin' productivity." He kicked his legs out from under him and stood up. "I quit. Daijoubu?"

If Tanaka had anything else to say, he didn't hear it. He was out the door and across the street. By the end of the street, he was cursing himself.

He had screwed up. He was fitting into the system and he had blown up, all because he was in a shitty mood when he had been called into the corner office. Had he missed a lesson on how to be a compliant little fucker? Had it been that part of the language class he was out sick with the flu for? Was this where he was supposed to commit ritual suicide?

No – that would be stupid. It was just a job; a job that he had hated, and now he would never have to go again. He logically should be thrilled, and yet he felt alone and out of place, and it was making him miserable.

He consoled himself in his normal fashion – buying a bottle of liquor and drinking himself into near-extinction. There was no bar on his street that he felt comfortable in today, not with their hot sake and girls with white faces. He bought some imported scotch and passed out in his empty bathtub instead, staring at the dull white ceiling.

What would happen if he died in purgatory? Would that even happen? Was it just a pass straight to hell, or would he miraculously survive a bullet in his brain?

Drunk and playing with a gun – that summed up his life at the moment, which only served to make him more depressed. Still, come to think of it, it felt good to have his Smith and Wesson back in his hands, instead of buried in the dresser. He opened his blurry eyes and peered into the barrel. Still loaded, six bullets meant to protect Silvia from harm. At least Chris had had the decency not to kill him with his own gun.

But he was still alive. Having his little shrew back in his hands reminded him of that. Six bullets, just asking to be shot. Well, he was drunk and he was depressed, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't that mad at Mr. Tanaka and he wasn't that mad at himself. He just needed to fire the damn gun.

'I'm gonna get myself in so much shit,' he grumbled to himself, but ignored his own warnings as he stepped out onto the tiny balcony. 'I don't even have a real passport. Do I want to get arrested here?' But nonetheless he raised the gun and aimed it at that stupid fucking billboard with that stupid fucking face. No, Mr. Yamado, he was not going to watch the show. He was going to shoot his eye out.

The first bullet did fairly well, but not well enough. He covered his eyes halfway with his arm awkwardly, shielding himself from visual distractions, and he did better. The bullets wouldn't go far into the cement from this distance, so he wasn't overwhelmingly worried about Newscaster Yamado getting holes in his eyes and teeth.

He didn't even pull his arm back until the gun clicked empty. The spell broken, he retreated into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. Six bullets from his old life, and they were gone- and yet, he felt terrific. He wasn't pissed anymore; he wasn't lonely anymore. He had his gun and that was all he needed.

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"This had better be worth missing the Marcello wedding," agent Carlson said immediately as his men kicked in the double doors of the mansion. Their actions would be, on a normal day, illegal – but if they were responding to a breaking and entering, they had the jurisdiction to enter the house, barring the owner's objections. And since Tony Marcello and his goons were at the cathedral, there were none.

Technically, the FBI was not responding to a breaking and entering – yet. Lupin had yet to show, but as there were still ten minutes left on his deadline, Zenigata wasn't putting much stock into worrying about him not showing. He strode in confidently, watching the lesser agents in combat gear and local cops swarm in alongside him, his jutte at the ready.

"You're sure about this guy, Inspector?"

"Lupin'll show. I'd stake my entire career on it." He stepped into what looked like the living room, running his hand along the expensive leather couch. "Where's the safe?"

"From what we gathered from the phone conversations, it's in the basement somewhere."

He looked at this watch – five minutes. For Lupin, that was plenty of time. He casually opened the fridge, and finding nothing of interest, followed the SWAT team members down into the basement. It couldn't be this easy – or Fujiko would have robbed the place blind weeks ago.

But it wasn't. "Sir." One of the men gestured with his assault rifle to door with a coded security lock. "Sir, should we bust it?"

Bust it – what did that mean? All right, his English needed some work. "What?"

"Go ahead." Carlson came up behind him. "Don't worry, Zenigaba. We're on it."

There are advantages to having the resources of the FBI behind you. A geared-up agent appeared from nowhere and unscrewed the casing of the keypad, then plugged his laptop into the wiring. The red digital display lit up, and began flipping through number combinations until it found the right one, and the door clicked open.

Two minutes. The agents went in ahead of him and turned on the lights. The room was empty but for a safe, which the techie agent just as easily cracked. Inside was a velvet box and several full manila envelopes. Carlson pushed Zenigata aside and plucked out the envelopes, going through them with furious intensity. "I think we may have a case against this guy. And the evidence will be admissible if seized during a response to a robbery. Which hasn't happened yet. Is your guy going to come through?"

"You say it like you want it to happen." Not that he didn't have a vested interest in Lupin appearing. "It looks like – HEY!"

The velvet box was gone. So, he noticed, was the techie. "LUPIN! He raced back up the stares, ignoring the confused look of his colleages. A window was open, and he could see the back of the cop running off.

His only suitable response, of course, was to follow. "LUPIN! GET BACK HERE!" He leapt out the window – and right into the backyard pool. The agents that followed – wisely, through the doors – watched dumbly as he paddled to the edge of the pool. "Don't just stand there! Get me a car!"

"That was Lupin?" Carlson asked, documents in hand.

"Of course it was Lupin!" he said angrily. "And I know where he's going – so get your men and get in the car!"

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In her experience, Fujiko had found weddings to be rather long and boring affairs – and she'd bee to several, including one of Lupin's. This one, however, with all of its grand majesty, was really moving along too quickly for her tastes. Lupin had promised to show, but they were nearly up to the vows and he was nowhere to be seen. She smiled at Tony. She wasn't going to have to marry this guy, was she?

The priest looked up from his book. "And now, the co – "

"Hold it! I know we're still ahead of that speak-now part, but some things are too cliché – even for me!"

They looked up in the rafters, where Lupin was hanging, dressed in tuxedo as if he were an invited guest. In his free hand was a small box.

"What the hell?" Tony said, squinting to see if he recognized him. He gestured to his men, who otherwise had been off to the side.

Lupin leapt down onto the altar, landing between Fujiko and her fiancé. "Is there still time for a competing offer? Before the fuzz arrives, that is." He opened the box to Fujiko, revealing one of the largest diamonds she had ever seen. "Or I get shot up by the mob. Either one. What'll it be, Fujiko-chan?"

"Aren't you – screw it!" Tony lifted his hand, and the men advanced, but the priest stepped between them, raising his cane and drawing a blade from within it.

"Another step, and you'll be one with your ancestors," he announced, his accent now unfamiliar and definitely not American. But before the men or the now very confused audience had a chance to react, the huge cathedral doors flew open in the back.

"LUPIN!" Zenigata shouted in half-triumph, followed by a horde of agents in riot gear. "Stay right where you are! You're under arrest!"

"Marcello!" said a man in a suit who held up an FBI badge. "You're under arrest!"

Lupin got off his knees and wrapped his arm around Fujiko, "That's our cue, Fujicakes." He handed her with the box and raised a special gun, which fired a grappling hook up back up into the rafters. As it retracted, it carried them up and away from Zenigata, who missed them by seconds.

"Lupin! I'll get you!" He turned and looked for Goemon, who had already disappeared.

The audience, meanwhile, was being run over by the police, and many of them arrested. Chris Magnelli and his wife decided it was best to make their exit. They slipped into the side chapel, Chris shutting the door behind them.

But they were not alone. Silvia turned to leave through the back exit, and found a gun pointed at her head.

"Well, well. What a friggin' surprise."