“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Yabuki. Now that we’re all on record as being armed, we can all put our weapons away. Does that work for you, Lanakai-san?”
Wally nodded.
“I will count us down. Men, re-holster your weapons in three, two, one… Thank you, everyone. Please, Lanakai-san, do not be emboldened by my decision to bring less than the number of men we agreed on. My other men are close by but are otherwise engaged.” He nodded at a person to his left. “I trust you know Shiko-san.”
Philo saw a rather curvy Japanese woman in crotch-hugging gym pants, a top too small for her, and heels, with a martini glass in her hand.
“Hello, Shiko,” Wally said. “From the looks of things, Yabuki, someone’s getting laid tonight. Enjoy yourself. She’s fun.”
Shiko gave Wally a single finger salute.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Yabuki said, “I wonder if you and I might chat a moment.” Yabuki stepped forward, alone, toward the center of the boxing ring.
Lanakai took a step before a concerned Magpie grabbed his arm. He shook loose to meet Yabuki halfway and spoke loud enough for all to hear.
“Let Kaipo Mawpaw go, Yabuki, or this will not end well. Let’s make this between you and me, and not involve an innocent woman.”
Yabuki’s measured look at Lanakai was quizzical. “A perfect segue. I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to what I have to tell you…”
Philo remained interested in their exchange but stayed busy scrutinizing Yabuki’s men, looking for one person: his opponent. He’d seen Jerry Mifumo before, a tall, light heavyweight who was visible as a boxer for exactly those reasons, as the only Japanese fighter to ever compete successfully in the heavier weight divisions. Mifumo wasn’t among Yabuki’s posse at the moment.
“First, she’s alive and in good condition,” Yabuki said. “Second, I’m afraid you, Lanakai-san, are only partly consequential to these recent… events. You left Hawaii, I took your turf, and I’m not giving it back, case closed. Third, every organ donor during this recent spree is from Miakamii. They are making you rich.”
“Donor? You mean every victim,” Wally Lanakai said while he began to circle Yabuki. “You need to stop that shit. Keep your stolen organs to yourself.”
Yabuki reciprocated, followed Lanakai’s footsteps, their circle tight. “Do you know how we know who these people are, and why we’re able to find them?”
Around and around and around they went…
“Tell me.”
“Because we developed a hitlist from hacked census records and genealogy services. Names, addresses. Complete as of the last census.”
“Almost ten years old, then.”
… and around…
“Yes, but it’s one hell of a start, wouldn’t you say? And it keeps you in body parts. Win-win.”
“Not seeing it, Yabuki. A hell of a start at what? How is this a win for you?”
Yabuki stopped walking, turned to ready himself for the inevitable, an in-your-face close-up. “Because I get to exterminate an entire island population, and you get framed for it.”
Philo felt the heat index in the room increase ten-fold.
“Kaipo Mawpaw is Miakamiian…” Lanakai said, his eyes narrowing.
“She is at that. Relax, she’s still alive. That tells you she’ll stay that way until we handle this little contest of ours. And by the way, your boy is a six-point underdog at the Yakuza betting parlors.”
Lanakai snapped his hands up, grabbed Yabuki by his lapels, pulled him into his face, screamed at him. “I pay people for their donations! Why are you killing them for their organs?”
Fifteen, maybe twenty guns reappeared from inside the suits of every observer, Philo and Patrick excluded. Lanakai and Yabuki stayed nose to nose, weaponizing their scowls, until Yabuki pried Lanakai’s fingers from his lapel, Lanakai still seething.
Yabuki spoke, remaining calm. “You are being rude.” Then, speaking in a remorseful tone, “He would have come back a living hero,” he said, his comment sincere.
“What?”
“My ojiisan. Grandfather. My jiji. A proud Samurai. Your spear-chucking Hawaiian rodents killed him when his plane crashed on Miakamii. Not killed in battle; murdered him when he tried to leave. Twenty-two years old. He left one child behind: my father. This month we celebrate my jiji’s hundredth birthday. I choose to honor him,” Yabuki said proudly, “by avenging his death. Mark my words, Lanakai”—he gritted his teeth, then scowled while he spat out his intentions—“I plan to eliminate every fucking Miakamiian descendant I can get my hands on. That includes Ms. Mawpaw, because I do not expect my man to lose this match. We’re not sure how many Miakamii rodents are left on the island itself, but whatever the number is, it’s too many.”
Lanakai pushed his forehead into Yabuki’s, drilling a stare. “Your jiji deserved it, you cold-blooded asshole.”
The blades came out, Yabuki’s tantō, Lanakai’s small machete, each man backing up to take measure of the other. Their hands went in motion, feinting, sweeping, jabbing. On the outside of the boxing ring, raised hands with guns jerked side to side, repositioning themselves, selecting their targets across the room from each other.
From behind Yabuki’s posse came a single shout from a booming voice: “Oyabun-san!” It sliced through the tension, forcing everyone to listen.
The crowd parted, and a large Japanese man emerged, stepping across the spray-painted line on the cement, halting the knife play. He presented himself to Yabuki in the center of the ring with a bow. “I am at your service, Oyabun-san,” he said.
“Mifumo,” Philo whispered to Patrick.
“Yeah,” Patrick said, “sure is, sir.”
Ass- and leg-hugging black spandex, a second-skin short-sleeve stretch tee in a burgundy red that revealed massive biceps, toned pecs, and mountainous trapezii. First impression, a superhero in costume; second impression, steroids gone wild. His height, the same as Philo’s, far as he could tell. Mifumo followed his bow to Yabuki with a bow to Lanakai.
“Yoshio Mifumo, Lanakai-san,” he said, introducing himself. “I am known as Jerry Mifumo in the United States. My pleasure to entertain you.”
Lanakai’s heaving chest deflated. He lowered his weapon; Yabuki mirrored him. The blades returned to their sheaths, the guns returned to their holsters. Yabuki
