“Typically, yes, but you know who this is, right? Of course you do. Hell, if I’m going to risk my ass, at least I have to know the reason.”
“Isn’t the small fortune we’re offering you enough?”
“Nope, not this time. You know the caliber of this guy, and if you’re asking me, then I smell problems all over.”
“How so?”
“Usually, you guys take care of business on your own, and every time yououtsource, things go bad. I’m not an idiot, and don’t even try to say, ‘he pissed’some people off.” I do air quotes.
“All right, fair enough. Thisguyinterfered with our businesses and cost us a lot of money. That’s all I’m allowed to say.” He pauses. “So, once again, are you in or out?”
Normally I would just pass any job I don’t like, but this guy, this fucking guy is Yakuza, and you don’t pass on their jobs.
I tap on the table twice. “Yep, what’s the timeline?”
“Wonderful, there is none, but the sooner the better. He made a lot of people impatient.” Daremo snaps his fingers as the guy who’s been standing by the bar approaches our booth carrying a briefcase. Behind him a red neon sign reads. “Bucket of Blood” – the go-to place to get someone to do sketchy shit for you.
Bucket of Blood is a legend, believe it or not, for all the worst reasons, of course. Some heavy motherfuckers gotclappedafter doing business here, that’s why there’s a single rule now.You spill blood on this lot, you get a bounty on your headand become fair game to anyone, anywhere. The place is dark and dirty, the music loud and deafening, and that is because no one should listen to what we are saying.
“Half now and the other half when the job is done.” The man leaves the briefcase right next to my leg and goes back to the bar to sip his drink.
“Not so fast, Matt,” I say, and Daremo looks at me with wide eyes. I love that kind of look.
“My name is Daremo.”
“Nah, that’s yourstreetname. Come on, do you really think I’d come here without digging a little?” He’s getting mad. “Matt Nakamura, real estate guy, doing pretty well for yourself. I mean I would too if I were laundering money for the Yakuzas,” I scoff.
“How do you know all this?”
“For the same reason you contacted me. You want to find someone; anyone can do what you ask. But you want someone who can really hide, so you called me.” I know how to do my fucking job.
“You know, information is power, but knowing too much might get you killed,” he warns.
“Okay, Matt, I get the threat, but you ain’t impressing nor scaring me. You are a realtor laundering money. If I had to guess, you want to stop taking orders and start shouting them, so this is your ticket in. How am I doing so far?” I wink at him and sip my beer.
“Just get this done.” He slams both his fists on the table.
I whistle. “You are getting pretty worked up in there, buddy, and if this goes your way, you need to keep your head clear. Lots of stress go with that newposition.”
He pulls a burner phone from his suit pocket, throws it on the table and says, “There’s only one number in there. Send a text when you have found him.” Then he rises and exits the booth.
“Woah! You got somewhere to be? This job is hard as fuck. No way I’m doing it for scraps. Double or nothing. I know you got the mon–”
He snaps his fingers again. The guy from the bar approaches with another briefcase, leaves it next to me but this time he exits the bar immediately.
“I expect this to go fucking perfect,” Matt says, and I just nod.
He leaves the bar, and I finish my beer.
I load the briefcases on my bike and ride off. I need to think and get back to the office.
The air hits my face, giving me the clarity on some stuff. Why now? Fuck! This is some bad timing. I could’ve said no to Matt because he’s not a real Yakuza, but the guy handing out briefcases is the real deal. I’m stuck in a shitty situation, but hey, sometimes life loves to fuck you without even inviting you for a drink first. And I meanreallyfuck you, in the ass, without lube. I don’t appreciate that, so I fuck back.
I park my bike in the MC’s parking lot. As usual, this place is pretty quiet considering the sun is out, but get here after dusk, and it’s packed with people partying all night long.
The prospect by the main door nods me through, and once I’m in, Viking greets me. Turns out he isn’t the idiot I painted him to be. Little by little, visit after visit, he has grown on me. Who knows? Maybe I like it here. Too soon to say so, though.
“If you’re here to see the Prez, and I know you are, a word of caution. He ain’t in good spirits,” a concerned Viking warns.
