These “soldiers” kept getting more flashy all the time, putting more bang into their work. One guy had gone into a nightclub the police ran jointly with the Russian mafia and shot the hell out of the place with a submachine gun. Miraculously the attacker managed to get out of the club alive, not that it mattered—they found his body in Nakhodka Port. Others had taken aim at two successive chiefs of police, both times bringing about a change in personnel. They slaughtered executives in a bank the mafia controlled. After the organization started using yakuza from outside, though, the bullets’ survival rate sank below ten percent. Soon, no doubt, it’d be grazing zero. Still, this little hustle had already brought in more than six hundred million yen in pure profit. How the hell could this be? the Boss wondered. What was going on? he asked himself. He didn’t know the answer. And he had no choice, he had to keep sending these fucking stormtroopers in. How could he refuse? They had his daughter.
The client had his daughter.
It doesn’t fucking make sense, the Boss moaned. How many months had his stomach been hurting like this? Sure, I expect to be threatened, used. But why are the fuck are they paying us these fees? He knew the Russian market. You could hire a hit man, some guy with no fear of death, for a lot less; you could take a zero or two off the figure they were paying him, even if the target was a policeman or a kingpin type. And you could do it domestically. What the hell was this client thinking? The Boss had lost twenty pounds over the past few months. He’d grown thin. Skinny, even. He couldn’t make sense of the situation. He had no idea what effect these dramatic attacks were having on the local population. No idea how a certain paper—a dissident tabloid specializing in yellow journalism—was fanning the flames. He didn’t even know where all this cash was coming from. Who was behind the client, funding him?
Someone, he was sure, was behind the client.
Shooting pain in his stomach. Blood in his urine.
His daughter had been taken hostage.
The Boss sent over three more bullets. The client kept making demands. ELIMINATE THE TARGET. I mean, what the hell? The Boss clutched his stomach with both hands. What’s the plan here, what the fuck are you trying to do? The information the client sent regarding the targets’ location, routine, and protection was always precise, detailed, and up-to-date. It’s better than a damned spy flick, for fuck’s sake! And the second we pop the target, the money comes through, wired into one of the organization’s underground bank accounts. What are we, businessmen? the Boss asks. Speaking to himself, of course, since there was no one else to ask. It’s just another kind of business. How many fucking ulcers have I got in my stomach now? Already the supply of yakuza-on-the-run was drying up; he was having to rely on non-yakuza. Fuckheads who had been drummed out of the criminal world forever by their own groups. And he had to hire these guys as bullets. Totally fucking against the rules. I’m no underworld daddy, not anymore. Forget underworld, this is just plain old hell. But who the fuck cares. I can’t fucking let it bother me. After all, the Boss thinks, becoming defiant, this is the best hustle ever!
Until then, what little income the organization brought in had consisted of protection money from bars and restaurants, betting on baseball, underground casinos, black-market lending, various degrees of blackmail, ranging in size from tall to venti. They didn’t deal much in speed. The key, fuckers, is how much money you can launder, the Boss was always saying. Use your heads and fucking rake the shit in. The twenty-first century is right around the corner, and then it’ll all be business! Business! That’s what we’re aiming for with this Russo-Japanese joint venture!
Only… was this the kind of business they’d wanted? No, no. The Boss had chosen defiance—that was the way to go. Just think how much his men had suffered trying to gather the fees they had to send to the main branch. How much fucking pointless suffering they had been through. This business was his reward for all that, as their underworld daddy.
Or rather, their hell daddy.
Shit. Hell… hell. Whatever.
He tried to reason his way out of the dilemma. His stomach twitched. It hurt like fuck. He had diarrhea too. The client was using him, it was clear. That was one way of looking at it. He was just a piece in someone else’s game, a pawn, the king of the pawns. You could look at it that way. ELIMINATE THE TARGET. ELIMINATE. ELIMINATE. The three bullets he’d just sent over brought in more than a hundred million yen. Again. Business. What am I supposed to do, my daughter’s been taken hostage! My fucking hands are tied.
I just have to keep sending over more bullets.
He would send another.
Recruiting even non-yakuza wasn’t easy anymore. Still he demanded that arrangements be made. Arrangements couldn’t not be made. They had his daughter. Though he realized, in some shadowy corner of his heart, that maybe this was just an excuse. Maybe all the spiritual agonies he was suffering, the blistering pain in his stomach, the boys the organization had sacrificed… maybe none of it had anything to do with his daughter.
He clutched his stomach. Fuck, have I gotten skinny.
Losing my imposing presence.
He had a bad feeling about all this. And his instinct was right. The main branch registered its displeasure. They were scraping the bottom of the barrel, and they hadn’t yet found a taker. One of the main branch’s advisers came as a messenger. He implied, without actually saying so, that the Boss was guilty of actions at odds with the Way of the Yakuza. It was perfectly clear what the problem was. Perhaps, the Boss thought, he’d gone overboard in trying to find his bullets. The messenger told him of various other unpleasant rumors.
Then, finally, he cut to the chase. “So you mean to start a war in Russia?”
The Boss gaped. Had someone ratted on him?
You’re sending hit men over, aren’t you? the adviser shouted. The main branch will not stand for out-of-control violence of that sort! He went on bellowing. It dawned on the Boss that they must have heard about the cash flowing in from the far side of the Japan Sea. Aha, he thought. So that’s it. They noticed how well we’re doing, so they did some poking around…. We made a bit too much, I guess.
The messenger’s next statement confirmed his suspicions. “The main branch is considering your expulsion. Your territory would go right to the Chief. They’re ready to replace you. If you want to put things back in order, it’ll cost five hundred million. You’ve got the money, I’m sure. You’ve been making it hand over fist in Russia.”
“Five hundred… million?”
“That’s what the main branch wants.”
They did their homework, the Boss thought. With our fucking coffers as larded as they are, we could send ’em five hundred million in a flash. And they want us to hand it over, just like that? Pay our dues? You must be fucking kidding, the Boss thought. The man they called the Boss, who had just been threatened with the loss of that title. My boys died for that money. The first guys I sent over as bullets were my own, you know, official members of this organization! They laid their lives on the line, all for my little darling. And you’re telling me to fucking cough up that money? Cash I got at the price of my boys’ lives?