Sweet Seduction Sayonara (12 page)

T
he door
to the firing range at ASI bangs open loudly, and Jason finally arrives. I’ve been waiting here for close to half an hour. But that’s OK. Because I really needed to work some things out.

I left Momo this morning, the sun streaking in through a glass prism hanging in her bedroom window, painting her bare body in dazzling little lights in a multitude of colours. It was hard to pull myself away. But so much had been left unsaid, and the longer I stayed there, running my fingers down the curve of her spine, the harder it was for me to remember why those things needed to be said at all.

Momo’s scared of something. And a part of me is certain that something is not just the Triads. I want to wrap her up and keep her safe. Keep her from facing Tadashi, whom I can only assume is the unsaid she is afraid of. But I don’t know Tadashi, he’s only a name to me. A devastating point in the future I’d like to avoid. But faceless, all the same.

And when I ask Momo, pressing her to elaborate, she only evades.

I have a feeling she’s trying to protect me. But that’s not going to work at all.

So, here I am. At ASI, looking to get some experience in at the firing range with a small firearm. I’ve handled enough shotguns whilst hunting with my brothers on the farm when I was young, but a handgun is an entirely different beast.

From the second Jason’s eyes land on me, I know this session will cover more than just the basics of stripping a pistol and shooting the thing. He nods his head in greeting and walks over to a locked cabinet, pulling the keys to it out of his pocket. His fingernails are blue, I notice. There’s even a little bit at the tips of his blond hair.

Katie’s been painting, at a guess. Or maybe George. I smirk.

“What’s so funny, Drake?” Jason demands, placing two handguns down on the table before me.

“Not a hell of a lot,” I admit.

He grunts in agreement, or sympathy, it’s hard to tell. I keep staring at the paint under his nails. He notices, of course. Not much gets past Captain Cain. He looks down at them himself for a brief moment and scowls. Then shoots me a look that definitely says, “Don’t fucking say a word.”

I’m not that much in the mood for conversation anyway.

“I’ve gotta ask,” he says, “what’s your intention with learning to fire a handgun?”

“Protection,” I immediately reply.

“Just protection? You not looking to do some damage?”

“What do you mean?”

Jason sighs and stops messing with the weapons.

“Nick didn’t tell me why you need a small firearms license, but you looked pretty spooked yesterday. And then there’s the fact that Eric’s purchased shares in Bluetooth to wire up your place like Paremoremo Prison after a break-out and it just got me wondering. You care to share, my man?”

What you see is what you get with Jason. No holds barred. He’s tough as nails. Dedicated to his job and ASI. And married to a woman I wouldn’t have thought could see beneath the rough edges to what obviously lies beneath. But Katie loves him. Is devoted to him. And if Katie Anscombe, someone I have the utmost respect for, trusts this man, then maybe I should.

“I asked Nick to keep it quiet,” I say.

“Then he’ll keep it quiet,” Jason murmurs.

I look down the length of the firing range and picture one of the Triad thugs standing where the target sheet is. I don’t have an image of Tadashi in my mind, and picturing Mr Tanaka instead seems wrong somehow; he’s Momoko’s father. I can’t.

“I helped out Momoko Tanaka on Friday,” I say carefully, “when a couple of Triads tried to abduct her off High Street and throw her in a van.”

“Motherfuckers,” Jason says with venom. “Koki know?”

Of course he’d ask that. Koki is a coworker, probably a friend.

“He got rid of them after we took them out.”

“Took them out?”

I smiled. Why did everyone have such trouble with this concept?

“Car door and baseball bat to their heads, respectively,” I mutter.

He snorts. “Good for you, Finn.”

“They broke into my house,” I add. Jason stills. “Messed up my office, shat on my bed.”

“
Shat
on your bed?”
That
I can understand people getting fixated on. Who shits on people’s beds? It’s like leaving a bag of doggie doo-doos on someone’s doorstep when you’re eight years old and doing it on a dare.

Pathetic.

“Yeah,” I say. “They left a message on my desk, too.”

“More excrement?” His lips twitch. Great, he’s finding this hilarious.

“A proverb. In hanzi. ‘If you walk on snow, you cannot hide your footprints.’”

Jason stares down at the guns on the table.

“That’s pretty serious stuff,” he says quietly, fiddling with the safety on what I think is a Glock.

I watch him, surprised by his response. But hadn’t Nick had a similar reaction when I mentioned the proverb? Everyone gets their kicks with the shit, but mention the proverb and it all goes down hill afterwards.

“What do you think it means?” I ask.

“Literally? Fucked if I know. Figuratively? You’ve pissed someone off and it’s personal.”

“Why personal?” I ask. “The shit?”

“No, the proverb.” I don’t get it. “The shit denotes lack of respect. I can’t see a Triad doing it, but,” he shrugs his shoulders, “it’s a form of letting you know how beneath them you are. The proverb though…” He pauses and looks off down the firing range. “That took time. Care. Picking the right one. It means something to the person leaving this message. And, for the life of me, I can’t see a Triad pissed off with your interference on a gig, taking the time to write down a few words. Especially if they just left a pile of shit on your bed.”

“Maybe the shit came afterwards,” I suggest, trying to lighten the moment. But there’s no lightening this.

“Who else have you pissed off?” Jason says, not agreeing with me.

“The Triads. Maybe a couple of divorcee’s ex-spouses. But nothing warranting this.”

“And Momoko?” he asks. “Was she pleased with your help?”

What is he getting at?

“Of course,” I say, unsure if I’m being backed into a corner.

“How pleased?”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Her family is strict,” he says.

“You think her father did this?” I demand.

“Nah, he’s not a Triad.” He says that as if Mr Tanaka
is
something else.

“Then who? Koki?”

Jason doesn’t say anything and I feel my stomach plummet. It’s not that Koki scares me. Well, maybe if I met him in a dark alley and he was swinging nunchucks at my head. But no, ordinarily, he doesn’t scare me. He’s just an uptight prick with an overprotective streak a mile long.

But if Koki is the one instigating all of this, then what the fuck? His own sister?

“They were after Momoko,” I say.

“And Momoko Tanaka has never been one to follow rules,” Jason replies casually.

“How well do you know her?” I snap.

“How well do you?” he fires back.

I feel the corner at my back.

Neither of us say anything for several minutes, but my mind is whirring around in circles madly. It should be easy to eliminate Koki. He’s Momoko’s brother. He’s Japanese not Chinese. He works for fucking ASI.

But I can’t. I can’t stop thinking of the way he told Momo to go home on Friday. As if she’d already broken too many rules that night. I can’t stop thinking Koki Tanaka is part of Momo’s problems. That Koki might be mixed up with the Triads.

“Look,” Jason says. “I’ve known Koki for several years now.” That’s what I’m afraid of. “He’s a tough nut to crack. But he’s loyal. To a fault. He’d sacrifice himself for any one at ASI. He’d certainly do it for his sister. I can’t see him being involved in this directly.”

“And indirectly?” I press.

“He is his father’s son.”

I was thinking it was high time I met Mr Tanaka. Find out exactly what sort of tyrant this man is. A patriarch certainly. More than that? I’m beginning to wonder.

“What does that mean, Jason?” I ask.

“Old school,” he says. “Very old school Japanese.”

“Does he come down hard on Koki?” I demand, because I can’t see it. I’m certain his proclivity for dominance leans toward his daughter.

“Hell, yes,” Jason says, surprising me. “That man is more wound up than a Jack-in-the-box at play school. There’s a reason why he throws himself in front of bullets.”

“Suicidal?” I say, shocked.

Jason shakes his head. “His story to tell, my man. But what I’m trying to say is, Koki would not abandon his sister. But he
would
encourage her to do what Mr Tanaka senior thinks is right.”

“So, she’s on her own.”

“She’s got you, hasn’t she?”

I’m transparent, I realise. He’s seen through me. Maybe I wanted him to. Maybe I’m sick of hiding how I feel. Maybe I just want someone to know that I’m falling for Momoko Tanaka.

Jason offers me a smirk. “We gonna see if you can shoot this thing?” he says, holding up the Glock.

“Yeah,” I say, because damn it, I want to protect her. And the only way I know how is in a courtroom. But if I own a handgun and know how to use it, maybe, just maybe, I can do something.

So, when Jason asks me again a couple of hours later what I intend to do with my brand new small firearms license and Glock 22, I tell him.

“I’m going to shoot anyone who comes after my woman.”

He stares at me for a long moment and then turns back to the gun cabinet and pulls something out. It’s a taser, I realise. I almost hide the Glock away so he can’t take it from me.

“One suggestion, Clint Eastwood,” he says. “Try this one first.”

“I thought I qualified?” I ask, looking down at the gun.

“You are legally capable of firing that weapon. However, I’m not quite sure about your state of mind.”

“But you’re not taking it away from me?” I say, almost cradling the fucking thing to my chest.

He laughs. “With the people you’re going up against? Not fucking likely. But, Finn. Guns kill. They’re not peacetime weapons. They leave big fucking holes in the person you point them at, and inside your mind and heart if you’re the one who pulls the trigger. All I’m saying is, mean it, if you use it. Really mean it, my man. Because there’s no appeal. There’s no arguing your way out of this one. There’s alive. And there’s dead.” He reaches over and taps the gun I’m still clutching. “And this thing doesn’t know the difference.”

I nod my head, shaken, but determined. I don’t hand the gun back. I put it inside its box and carry it out to my car. Intending to leave it locked in the boot, secured but available, should I need it.

Then I get in the Lexus, feeling all kinds of discombobulated. A pistol in my boot. Next to the spare tyre and umbrella. I don’t think about where I’m going, I just drive.

And of course, I end up in the Viaduct.

It’s late afternoon and the sun is shining right down the street Momo’s florist is on. Parking is tight, and I don’t want to block any of Momo’s neighbouring businesses in. Last night there’d barely been enough room to park more than the Mini in the back alley.

I finally find a spot and then slip out of the car. I stare at the closed boot so long, I get jostled by foot traffic. I might legally be able to carry a small firearm around now, but doing so feels too foreign. I know, potentially, trouble could find us at Momo’s shop, but the sun’s still out and the street’s still busy, and somehow it feels safe right now.

I turn away from the car, the taser in my pocket, and hope I haven’t made a decision I’ll regret.

Momo is serving a customer when I enter. A bright bouquet of white roses and pink lilies, presented in a rectangular glass vase with copious amounts of ribbon. She’s beautiful to watch, even in the dimmed interior of the shop; the glass hasn’t been replaced yet and the board blocks out a lot of the late afternoon sun. But I’m mesmerised as I watch her hands fly while she creates a masterpiece.

The customer’s ecstatic and I can’t help beaming a smile full of pride. Momo smiles up at me over the gentleman’s head as he pays for his purchase, regaling her about how happy his wife is going to be when she sees this.

When he finally leaves the shop we’re alone and Momo tidies up her work station, quietly telling me about her day, while I lean against the counter. It’s peaceful. It’s comfortable. I hadn’t known it could be this easy.

“You realise those flowers were for his mistress,” a cool voice says.

I spin toward the doorway, having not heard anyone come in. A man stands there is an expensive suit. Highly polished shoes and a red silk tie complete the image. He screams money. From the gold Rolex on his wrist to the large diamond stud in his earlobe. I can smell his cologne from here and it should be overpowering, but it’s not. It’s subtle. But noticeable. Like everything about him.

I have no idea who he is, but he’s Japanese. And Momo knows him.

“Tadashi-san,” she says and my whole body turns to stone at the words.

“Momoko-san,” he replies, bowing deeply. It’s old school, and I see now why Mr Tanaka has chosen him. Rich. Suave. And well mannered.

It doesn’t help my cause that he’s Japanese.

Tadashi-san sweeps an uninterested gaze over me and then approaches Momoko. She’s as stiff as a board, but maintains her composure.

“I was wondering if we could have dinner,” he says. “The wedding is approaching and there is much to organise.”

“Everything is organised, Tadashi-san,” Momoko replies steadily.

She doesn’t look at me. Neither of them do. But for Momo, it’s because she’s protecting me. And for Tadashi, it’s because he’s making a point.

I’m not sure if he knows who I am or why I’m here. But if he doesn’t, he’s assuming I’m a customer and therefore not important. And if he does, he’s making his intentions clear.

He reaches out and grips one of Momo’s hands, lifting it to his lips and kissing the knuckles. I doubt that’s traditional Japanese courtship material. He’s stamping his claim. It’s so fucking obvious.

I force myself to lean back against the counter, as though the display is unworthy of my attention. I fiddle with an orchid in a pot beside the cash register. Noting the large dent on its left side. I stare at it a little too long, which works wonders because Tadashi is getting hot under the collar.