“Give Patrick my respects again, Philo, please. Make him understand. Magpie, fill Mr. Trout in.”
“We agreed on the old Malinas Chicken Farm property, inside the Kalaheo borough,” Magpie said. “An abandoned chicken ranch. This Saturday, two p.m.”
Three days. Not much time.
But it would need to be time enough, if Philo didn’t want to die out there.
27
“I have your breakfast,” called the male voice from the portico. “Step away from the door.”
The motel door opened, creaking out of the way. A fast food bag and two jumbo cups of coffee entered her room, held as a peace offering by a large Japanese man. Kaipo backed up, stood at the foot of her unmade bed in loose gym pants, gym shoes, and a form-fitting workout top over a sports bra. Stark still, her arms at her sides, she watched the Yakuza thug enter, her face bright, her smile small; she was going for Hannibal Lecter intensity. The creepiness stopped her guest momentarily, then he started forward again.
“Your cornrows are beautiful,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look at them before, when, you know, we were together.”
He was the bastard behind her in the staged porn shot. “Fuck off, asshole. Leave the food and get out.”
“Sorry, but no, I need to stay and watch you eat. Oyabun’s orders.” His snide snicker made him out to be one oh-so-clever soldier. “Besides, I like to watch.” He grabbed a desk chair and pulled it closer to the other end of the long dresser where he’d left the food. He dropped his ample ass into it, crossed his legs, and reached for his takeout coffee. His sip said it was still too hot, so he returned it to the dresser.
Kaipo was hungry. She ate the egg and muffin sandwich sitting at the other end of the dresser, then a second, then the hash browns, then gulped her OJ down. Her first sip of coffee made her grimace; still too hot. After she wiped her mouth, she eyed the oaf sitting comfortably at the other end of the dresser.
“I’ve finished my breakfast. Go.”
He didn’t, instead got chatty.
“You don’t have a chance of surviving this, miss. Zero. You will end up in pieces in a trunk, delivered to your koibito.” Her slouched admirer uncrossed his legs, then resettled his dark tie to let it dangle over his crotch area, where he rubbed it. “I would think you might rather close out your last few days with your legs spread, screaming in ecstasy. I can help with that.”
“I don’t think so, sport. Long tie, short dick, right? That’s been my experience. And Wally Lanakai’s not my lover. Leave now, before you hurt yourself.”
He glowered but he was otherwise undeterred. “And usually, after I watch”—he raised his girth from the chair, removed his suit jacket, and hung it over the chair back—“I like to participate. Let’s make this happen. Take off your clothes.”
She was out of her chair now, made no attempt to comply, instead backed up a single step and squared her feet. He undid his shirt and tie and removed his trousers, laid it all across the chair, then spoke calmly. “No reason to soil my suit. You really should take off your pants and panties, miss. Your top, too. If I have to do it, it will all end up in shreds.”
White cotton undershirt and briefs under his dark business suit. Heavily tattooed. A fleeting thought had her wondering how so boring a Yakuza-mandated uniform could cover such imaginative body ink. His first steps at her were casual, plodding.
She had little room to maneuver in the tiny space, so she did not give any ground. Once within arm’s reach he surprised her with his quickness, his hand snapping up to grab her throat. He squeezed, his other hand tugging at the waist of her gym pants, sliding one side down, past her hip, with her trying to push herself away.
The push didn’t work, but both her hands were still free, a mistake on his part. She grabbed the hot jumbo coffee from the dresser and shoved it down the front of his skivvies. He backed up, shrieking. Her other hand grabbed the second takeout coffee from the dresser, the cup still hot to the touch, and threw its contents in his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that coffee too hot?” she screamed at him. “Sue me—”
Fists pounded the front door, with two men shouting in Japanese and English to open it. Kaipo was busy, pummeling her attacker with hands and feet while he was on his knees, her final blow an upward palm thrust underneath his nose, blood from his nostrils and mouth splattering the dresser. She was ready to stomp his head in when the two men who’d pushed into the room subdued her against a wall, one with a handgun against her cheek, the other with yet another hand around her throat, and no more hot coffee within her reach.
“Calm down, miss. Calm. Down. The oyabun will deal with him—”
Motel housekeeping wouldn’t know what to do with her room, the blood, the coffee, the feces—he’d actually shit himself. She knew how it would need to be cleaned, but she wasn’t about to tell them. Maybe her host would move her to the room adjacent to his on the other side, to keep his hostage close.
Somehow, she’d figured early on, raping her was not part of the Yakuza plan. This assertion was being validated at that very moment. Still in her room, seated facing a shared wall, she listened as Yabuki scolded her attacker in Japanese and English. The dressing down was severe, addressing his insubordination, his wayward libido, and his incompetence at being bested by a woman.
Then she heard what she didn’t want to hear.
“You know the
