“Why would a powerful man such as Sagara-sama want to feed two worthless brains like ours?” She bowed low.
“Because I do not want you for your brains,” Sagara growled. “Come. I have curry rice. You can eat in the car on the way.”
It was generally easy to bribe a starving soul with meat, but Emiko stood her ground. Sagara reeked of evil. She could smell it even from across the tracks.
“If not for our brains, what then?” Emiko said. “I am no prostitute.”
Sagara roared with laughter, elbowing his man, Tomiyuki. “As if anyone would want to take your scrawny body.” He rubbed his eyes. “There are those in my organization who have noticed you when you fight. We believe it may be time to see if you are ready to move up to bigger things.”
Emiko had heard of such yakuza-sponsored events. They were still underground, but the money was said to be better — and sometimes they even arranged an apartment for their fighters to live in — so long as they kept winning.
She shot a wary glance at Kenichi, who shrugged. Curry rice was his favorite. He pitched the keys for his customized Honda to a boy named Tsuchiya, asking him to watch the bike while they were gone, then turned back to Emiko.
“What can it hurt to talk to them?” Kenichi said.
Two minutes later, Emiko was crammed in the back of the dark sedan, squeezed in between Kenichi and the leering Sagara. Streetlights flashed red and amber as they thumped along the main road going south, out of town. The lights grew more infrequent as they left the city, throwing the interior of the car into near darkness, illuminated only by the green glow of the dashboard and the red ember at the end of Sagara’s stinking cigar.
The inside of the Toyota Crown smelled like cheap aftershave and tobacco smoke. Kenichi, always looking for sources of protein so he could grow muscles like his hero Arnold Schwarzenegger, wolfed down all his curry and much of Emiko’s when she said she was finished. A familiar gnawing at her stomach pushed away hunger. Her father had called the feeling haragei, the art of the belly, and told her she should pay attention to it. These feelings would, he said, warn her of danger.
As they sped up on a long section of highway out of the city, the gnawing in her stomach grew so strong she almost cried out. In the front seat, Tomiyuki smoked one cigarette after the other while he drove. Even in the darkness of the sedan, Emiko could see the young lieutenant was missing the last joints on the pinky and ring fingers of his left hand — evidence of two fairly significant misdeeds he’d had to atone for. Sagara folded his stubby arms across a great belly and looked down at her with a squinty, condescending grin.
Emiko closed her eyes to escape the man and tried to go to sleep. She should never have gotten in that car.
She woke up sometime later to a slowing motion of the car. Her head was resting on Sagara’s shoulder. It took a moment for her to realize where she was, but as the smells and sounds came back to her, she gave a startled shudder and sat straight up. Sagara smiled down at her as if he’d never moved his squinting eyes. Kenichi was still asleep, a line of drool running from his mouth to his T-shirt. She nudged him with her foot. He woke up blinking wildly, just as startled as she had been at finding himself in an unfamiliar place.
The low rays of a morning sun crawled across the pavement in front of them, chasing a thick blanket of mist back into the tall pines that lined the road.
A stone wall, like the ones Emiko had seen around feudal castles, stood on either side of the road ahead of them. Tomiyuki slowed the Toyota as two massive wooden gates yawned open. The gates shut behind them as soon as they drove through, and Emiko found herself surrounded by manicured gardens, koi ponds, and squat stone lanterns. Arched Shinto torii gates straddled well-groomed gravel paths. Huge stone monoliths rose here and there at least fifteen feet into the air. She could see several buildings tucked back in the trees, but their dark wooden architecture made them blend in to become part of their natural surroundings.
Tomiyuki stopped the sedan and turned to his boss with a subservient nod.
Outside, a smiling man wearing a white judo gi under dark blue hakama—a type of loose, flowing pant worn by ancient samurai — waited on the newly mown grass with folded arms. A rich head of dark hair was conservatively short, like that of a Japanese businessman. Though he smiled at the new arrivals, the man’s dark eyes held the flint-hard air of one accustomed to being in complete control of his surroundings.
The man bowed deeply when Sagara approached, both hands flat against the sides of his hakama.
The yakuza boss returned the bow, rising quickly to motion Emiko forward with a flick of his thick wrist.
“Come, come,” he grunted, commanding her in low tones, as if she were a dog.
Tomiyuki gave her a rough shove from behind to hurry her up. She turned to glare at him and saw that he carried a wooden case like the one her father had used to transport his cutting swords. She shot a worried glance at Kenichi, who stretched his muscular arms skyward and yawned, still not comprehending exactly where he was.
Sagara gestured toward the man in the hakama with an open hand. “Like I told you,” he said, “you have been noticed as a possible fighter. Oda sensei is going to see what you are made of.”
Emiko found herself bowing before she realized what she was doing, transfixed by the man’s dark eyes. The other bosozoku would have laughed her out of the gang.
The man called Oda looked at her, seeming to gaze past her eyes to study the back of her skull. She squirmed awkwardly at the intrusion, feeling as if she was being physically touched.
“Are we to stay here?” she asked.
“Not so fast.” Sagara laughed. “Oda-san doesn’t just take on any student who comes along. You must be tested first.” He snapped his sausage-like fingers, summoning Tomiyuki up with the case. The yakuza soldier set the case on the ground and clicked the latches, folding it open to reveal two gleaming wakizashi, shorter versions of a samurai sword. Each was two feet long and finely appointed with intricate guards and stingray-skin handle wrappings.
Tomiyuki handed one of the swords to Sagara with both hands, holding it out in front of him as if it might bite.
The yakuza boss took the blade and passed it to Emiko. “What do you think?” he asked, giving her time to peruse the glinting steel.
“It is beautiful,” she said, her voice hushed. Indeed the sword looked to be hundreds of years old and still hummed with a life force that could not be denied.
“Good,” Sagara said, stepping back slightly. He nodded behind her. “Let’s see what you and your friend are made of.”
Emiko recoiled, lowering the blade. A rush of adrenaline surged through her and she saw a wan-faced Kenichi holding the other sword. He stood directly behind her, less than five feet away.
“I cannot fight Kenichi with a live blade.” Her words dripped with disdain. “One of us could be killed.” She made no mention of the fact that with the training she’d received at the hand of her father, the one killed would most certainly be Kenichi.
The man in the hakama watched silently, motionless.
“You have no choice,” Sagara said. He licked his lips, excited at the prospect of blood. “The two of you must fight and show us what you can do.”
“And what if I say no?” Brave, sweet Kenichi let his sword fall to the grass. “I will not fight my girlfriend.”
Sagara nodded to Tomoyuki, who stepped in behind Kenichi and put a pistol to the boy’s head.
“I am Sagara Hiroya, underboss of the Taniguchi yakuza family,” he growled. “People do not tell me no!”