Yakuza, thought Hassan. He recognized the dress of the dozen or so Japanese gangsters as they sat on the hoods of their cars and smoked, the tiny cherry red of their cigarettes bright in the deepening darkness. As the trio approached, the doctor could see the mix of ages and ranks, a few older men with close-cropped greying hair and expensive dark woolen coats and slacks, young men with bouffants and long, thick sideburns wearing shiny grey suits. All had tattoos peeking out from beneath their folded white collars and the cuffs of their tailored shirts.
Clearing his throat, Jonah waved at the assembled men to get their attention. None so much as looked up. Hassan realized they had all craned their ears towards a loud car radio, over which played a tinny, rapid-fire news broadcast.
“Why are they ignoring us?” whispered Jonah. “I don’t want to sit here getting my balls irradiated any longer than absolutely necessary.”
Hassan always found the American male’s fascination with his testes quite tiring. Still, he had to admit a preoccupation with his own, given the cold temperature and the frighteningly high levels of background radiation. His concern was only increased when the passenger door of the nearest car opened, and a figure in a bulky, white radiation suit awkwardly emerged from within the vehicle before turning to face the trio.
“Marissa?” demanded Hassan in complete disbelief. He thought they’d left the young woman behind in the Puget Sound after repairs to the Scorpion were complete — and yet here she was, standing before them.
“They’re not ignoring you — they’re listening to a news broadcast,” answered the shipping heiress, crossing her arms as she stared from Jonah to Hassan and Dalmar, before looking back to her ex again. Her voice was slightly muffled by the clear plastic face of the blocky hood over her head. “It’s about the Japanese whaling fleet in the Antarctic Ocean. The steering mechanisms of one of their harpoon ships failed. It struck the factory ship and sank them both. No survivors have been located as of yet; the search is ongoing. Also, sorry for the surprise — it’s not like I can just Skype you guys ahead of time.”
Without warning, the mob boss slammed his fist onto the hood of his late model Cadillac sedan and began shouting in rapid-fire Japanese, punctuated by what Hassan assumed were expletives. The short man’s muscles had long turned to fat, but he still stood as uncontested master of the gangsters surrounding him. Hassan cleared his throat quietly and tried not to remind himself he was the only one that jumped at the sudden sound — Jonah, Dalmar, and the tattooed yakuza never so much as blinked.
“Don’t get me wrong — I’m happy to see you and everything,” said Jonah, narrowing his eyes, “but should I be concerned about your friend’s mood right now?”
“He blames the environmentalists for the loss of the whaling ships,” answered Marissa. “Says it has to be sabotage. Been talking about it all night. Calls the activists rich, spoiled children of Western countries. He says Japan used to be strong. He’s asking where the Japanese youth are, and why they’re not fighting for their traditional way of life. Oh great… now he’s saying he’d like to have all of the environmentalists killed.”
“Is he quite serious?” asked Hassan, folding his arms as he dropped the question with the drollest tone he could muster.
“Yes and no.” Marissa shook her head. “Livid is kind of his default mood. Tomorrow it’ll be something else ruining Japan, or someone else that needs killing.”
“Help me out here,” Jonah said. “What are you doing with these guys? Didn’t we leave you behind before we sailed for Japan?”
“Unlike you,” said Marissa, sounding out the words as though speaking with a particularly dim child, “I can fly commercial. I’ve been in Tokyo for almost a week. Turns out our friends here did a little asking around about you. Some of their associates lost serious money when Anconia Island went under, and they were seriously considering shooting you on sight if I didn’t show face and make a personal introduction. They gave me the heads-up out of respect for our past business dealings—legitimate dealings, Jonah. Don’t even give me that look. And, you can thank me later, by the way.”
“Pretty remote location for such a flashy crew,” observed Jonah, apparently satisfied by her answer. But Hassan was more than a little concerned with the flippant threat to their lives. “Anything I should know?”
“They have style,” said Dalmar, his eyes widening as he smiled. “I think style is very important for a gangster.”
“It was probably a test,” admitted Marissa. “They wanted to see if you had the cajones to come to the radioactive exclusion zone.”
Jonah just squinted and nodded, waiting for the boss to turn his attention to them. He didn’t have to wait long— the boss reached in through the open window and flipped the radio off. All fell silent, except for the crunching footsteps as he sauntered up to Jonah.
“American cowboy Jonah Blackwell!” said the gangster, speaking broken English through a gregarious, sinister grin. Up close, the man’s sunken eyes and twin scars across his left cheek made for uncomfortable viewing. Even in the darkness, his nicotine-stained fingertips, and a missing pinky on the left hand were obvious.
“I would seriously consider bowing,” hissed Marissa. Jonah snuck a glance at her before giving the boss an obligatory half-bow, just enough to acknowledge his approach. The doctor suspected the sloppy form would have been interpreted as deeply disrespectful if not coming from an outsider.
“Yeah,” said Jonah as he rose from the shallow bow. “I’m your American cowboy.”
“Marissa say many things about you,” said the gangster, tapping Jonah directly in the center of his chest with an outstretched finger. “Some of what she say… not so good.”
“We’re getting into business, not into bed,” said Jonah, ignoring Marissa’s annoyed sigh. “So, if she told you anything outside of my abilities as a captain, let’s put those aside here and now.”
The boss frowned at his personal translator, a young man in a slim black suit and thick glasses who went back and forth with him for a moment until he tilted back his head and issued a long, guffawing laugh.
“She say you are asshole,” said the boss. “Say we get along very well.”
Jonah smirked in reply.
“And who this kokujin?” asked the gangster, pointing at Dalmar. Behind him, his dozen men had formed a half-circle around Jonah, and the other three, leaning against their cars with their arms crossed, shifted uneasily from foot to foot as they stood.
Dalmar started to speak, but Jonah interrupted him before the Somali could launch into his usual dread-pirate, world-famous-terrorist self-introduction. It’d be best for all involved if the hulking man stayed dead for the time being, at least on paper.
“Oh, he’s our shipboard events coordinator,” said Jonah, pointing at Dalmar. “Shuffleboard, pool parties, bingo, that kind of thing.”
“I make an excellent raspberry daiquiri,” said Dalmar through gritted teeth, only halfway playing along as his eyes shot daggers at Jonah.
The mob boss just nodded and pointed at Hassan.