Suicide Squeeze

34

Itchi sat in the tow truck outside of Playerz, watched for twenty minutes to make sure Samson wasn’t going anywhere, then called Toshi to report. Toshi ordered him back to their new headquarters, a suite at the Intercontinental just six blocks away.

Itchi drove there in three minutes. He abandoned the tow truck on the street, left the keys in the ignition. The doorman frowned at Itchi’s disheveled appearance but wisely said nothing. The elevator took Itchi to the top floor.

When he walked into the suite, he opened his mouth to tell Toshi everything was under control. What he saw made his eyes pop. He shut his mouth again, swallowed hard.

Ahira Kurisaka sat in an overstuffed chair like it was a throne, a dozen hard-faced men around him. Kurisaka looked distinctly cross. Kurisaka’s presence could only mean the big man was displeased or impatient or both. That he’d come half a world to see why he did not yet have his baseball card did not bode well for Itchi. Itchi sent a brief prayer skyward, prepared himself to be squashed.

Toshi cleared his throat. If he was as nervous as Itchi, it didn’t show on his face. Another awkward second of silence slipped past before Itchi realized they expected him to say something.

“Conner Samson is at a local strip club called Playerz. He’s still there as far as I know.” They knew this already, Itchi thought, but he couldn’t just stand there and not say anything.

Ahira Kurisaka said, “And the DiMaggio card. Did he have it with him?”

Itchi had no idea, but I don’t know weren’t words you said to Ahira Kurisaka. Itchi remembered the plastic bag Samson had carried. It was possible the card was in the bag. Itchi could almost convince himself the card had to be in the bag. Sure. Why else would Samson clutch it so tightly? In any event, it would please Kurisaka to tell him so.

“I believe so,” Itchi said.

“Then why did you not take it from him?” Kurisaka asked.

That was one hell of a good question, thought Itchi. He decided to take a kernel of truth and dress it up with a few strategic lies. The big black man with Samson had appeared formidable. He was big enough to be two men. Or even several men.

“Samson had his gang with him,” Itchi said. “I thought it best to follow and report back.”

“You did well,” Kurisaka said.

Whew.

Toshi snapped his cell phone shut. “I just spoke to our people. They ran down the information on the strip club. It’s a front for the local syndicate.” Toshi laid it out, Rocky Big, the warehouse, everything.

Kurisaka nodded, stared ahead at an invisible point in the distance, deep in thought.

Toshi leaned forward, spoke quietly into Kurisaka’s ear, but it was just loud enough for Itchi to hear. “In our blood we are Yakuza, are we not, Cousin? And Yakuza take what they want.”

Itchi watched Kurisaka’s face harden. The giant billionaire steepled his fat hands under his nose, narrowed his dark eyes. He stood slowly, like a massive planet dislodged from its orbit. Kurisaka lifted his hand, stretched it out, some lunatic god pronouncing judgment.

Itchi tensed, braced himself for the edict.

“Gentlemen,” Kurisaka said, “we go to war.”