Carli
Speaking in Japanese has become easier and easier over the weeks. My rusty tongue finally decided to go along with the inflections somewhere around the time I stopped throwing up my measly crackers every hour. Kato still haunts me, trailing behind me like a shadow, hoping to stop me from pulling a vibrator out of my bag in public. Surprise on him, I went and bought one of those small toys you have a remote for that stays in your V all day.
Yep, this girl is happy anytime she wants to be now. And right now, I’m disturbingly in need. Why, you ask? Well it seems being the head of a Yakuza family means ‘offing’ people, deciding warfare against other clans that don’t adhere, and finding ways to get our drugs, girls, and guns through customs. Padding the pockets of officials through all sorts of channels, I would never have thought this would possibly become my new norm.
And you probably wonder, do I like it? I’m learning diplomacy through baffling. I use Kato as my advisor and leave him to the heavy stuff. That way, when there’s a head to come down on, it ain’t mine. He’s more entrenched in this anyway, and way better at the cutthroat shit. I want nothing to do with it. Does it make me weak? No. A master delegator and super awesome bitch is what I am. Have they learned I won’t be my father in all ways? Yes. But I’ve also showed them I’m not a pushover. They believed they could show me the dirtiest, darkest, most fucked up parts of their world, and that I’d crack under the pressure. But that didn’t happen.
Three weeks ago, I was taken on a ‘field trip’ to one of our sweat shops. Young girls, no older than my sisters, sewing garments that are meant to look like the real deal. Their wants and needs mean shit. If they argue any, their dead body turns up in an alley a few hours later. I can’t stop it, even though I’m the head of the family. I can try to implement changes through Kato, but, I have to do it with sneaky diplomacy. Like a thermonuclear strike hidden in a pink clutch, disguised as a tampon. No man in his right mind would expect it, and I’m doing it daily, bit by bit, second by second, until I’m wearing him down. Little bits of sweetness, giving in to his evil machinations, exhausting him with sarcasm, and not asking him to eat my American food anymore. Junk, he calls it. At least there are decent vegan stores, or I’d be eating bamboo shoots all day.
Today, we’ve been in this meeting for forty long minutes, more than I’d like. And we’ve only been here for forty-five. I’ve looked at my watch, checked texts from my sisters, Chris and Circe, and fucked around on social sites. My mental Kung Fu is strong, ignoring so well that my head nod is sufficient enough for respectful conversation.
“In the wake of Sunday’s arrest of Mato, Sho, and Takao at one of the heroine plants, the operation has to be closed temporarily,” Kou states. “NPA officer Chen Chow, that disgusting parasite can’t be bought. I’ve tried everything to pressure her. She has no family, no long-term boyfriends, no pets, and nothing of worth to scare her with.” His sweaty paunch and horrible comb-over, he’s the perfect example of why I don’t find Japanese men sexy. They let themselves go to pot when they find a wife, and concubines. But also, when the sake becomes their favorite thing instead of a gym and haircuts, I draw the line.
While I’m reading a text from Chris, that shows his latest polls, I speak out about Chen Chow. “Maybe she’s gay.”
“What would make you think that, Oya—”
Giving him a stern look, Kou stops before finishing that word I hate. I’m not the boss because I fought my way to the top, killing opponents and torturing young souls. I have this because my father trusted that I wouldn’t screw it up. Well, I’ll screw it up, just not less than he expected my sweet sisters would. But I love them. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.
With their dark chocolate eyes the size of dinner plates, thick eyelashes that I’d kill for, and perfect complexions, it’s easier to tell them apart now. Miori has short hair, and Kano has hair that rivals the best hair models. It courses the length of her back, spun up in lazy buns that make it messy and controlled. They’re the Olsen twins of Japan.
And these old bastards wanted to take them as second wives? Fuck that.
Turning my attention back to Kuo, I say, “If she’s not dating a guy, and I’ve seen photos of Chen—she’s a good-looking lady—then she’s dating her best friend. Trust me, I have expertise in this. She’s tapping Georgia.”
He looks confused. “Georgia? How do you know she’s Georgia?”
Geeze! Stuffing my phone in my pocket, looking as annoyed as I can, I turn to Kuo. “She’s dating a girl. Saying she’s tapping Georgia is like saying girl on girl.” I’m exhausted talking to these stupid criminal minds. Sure, they know how to protect their financial interests in the dark, seedy corners of the business, but they don’t have a fucking clue about the workings of new love in this age.
“Kuo, get one of the idiots you have grabbing your sake, and ask them to tail her. I bet you’ll find her going to clubs with different friends, going to coffee, dinner, the movies. She’s not specific on one girl because she’s not settled on one. You’ll have your blackmail that way.” Rising from the chair and pushing it back, I start away. “I’m bored with this. I’m going to lunch with my sisters. Don’t piss me off further today.”
“Thank you, Obayun,” Kato says. Prick knows how that pisses me off. Fine, I’ll play his game.
“Anytime, Jiji.”
Fucker.