In a third-story office decorated in the spare, minimalist style of Japanese upper class, a middle-aged Japanese man dressed in formal Western business garb with tie loosened, gazed down across what little could be seen of Mott Park, the major greenspace of Little Tokyo in Chinatown. {So, no photos?} Morita Yoshio of the Miyamiji-kai Yakuza clan asked in flawless Japanese without turning around.
The gurentai standing in the office, the clothes he’d worn at the fiasco in LeMastre Park badly stained with the reddish-brown of dried blood, shook his head. Then, remembering that his superior couldn’t see him, he said, {No, Morita-sama, not of the type you requested — Davenport-san’s date got away. However, I did get several shots of the two busybodies that interfered, though too late to prevent Davenport-san’s execution. That was our primary task — taking photos of the date’s corpse was secondary.}
Morita stiffened. {Kazuki-san, are you making an excuse for this night’s disaster?} he asked calmly.
Tsurimi Kazuki fought off an urge to cringe. Taking a moment to steady his voice, he replied, {No, sir, simply repeating the orders you gave us personally before we set out.}
For a long moment Morita continued to stare out the window as Tsurimi broke out in a cold sweat, then turned around. {True enough, those were the orders I gave,} he said almost whimsically. {Still, five men ending up in police custody and another dead in the process of executing the traitor weren’t included in those orders, nor exactly the optimal outcome.} He quirked an eyebrow at his subordinate.
{No, sir, they were not,}Tsurimi instantly replied.
{I’m glad you agree,} Morita said. Another long moment passed in silence, then a faint approving smile crossed the Yakuza boss’s face. {Very good, you have courage,} he murmured. {You can relax, your duty was taking the requested photos, not carrying out the executions — the responsibility for this fiasco is not yours, you will not be the one giving up a finger, at minimum.}
Morita’s smile broadened when Tsurimi carefully didn’t slump in relief. {By now, the police will be swarming all over LeMatre Park. Make copies of the photos you have of the two that interfered, then give them to Itou-san and have him distribute them, and tell him I wish to know whatever the police learn about those two. Then get cleaned up.}
Tsurimi bowed deeply to his superior, and turned and left the office.
Police Sergeant George Amado stepped out of his apartment building’s stairwell onto the roof. Walking to the edge, he gazed out across the city lights toward the unseen LeMastre Park. He lit up a cigarette, and waited.
Two more cigarettes later, a young, female voice came from behind him. “I got your message, what’s up?”
Turning, the dusky-skinned sergeant smiled at the familiar caped, blond woman with the golden halo on her dark bodysuit. “DarkAngel, good to see you again, even if in these circumstances.”
“It’s always ‘these circumstances’, George,” DarkAngel replied, a wan smile briefly flashing into view underneath the mask covering her upper face. “So, what’s up this time?”
“Have you been following the Stanson sisters case?” he asked.
“Yes, like everyone else in Hudson City that’s turned on the news in the last few days I know that the owners of the modeling agency the two used have been arrested on kidnapping charges.”
“Yeah, well, the case was assigned to an up and coming assistant prosecutor by the name of Jason Davenport. Tonight he was murdered by gurentai working for the Miyamiji-kai in LeMatre Park.”
DarkAngel stiffened. “Them, again!” she hissed.
“Yup. Have you run into them since you helped capture those sokaiya?”
“No, I haven’t,” DarkAngel said, frowning thoughtfully. “I have to say I’m surprised — the yakuza are as violent as any, but they’re usually smart enough to not go directly after the police or prosecutors. Enough of that, and cops stop worrying about due process, it makes more sense to cut your losses.”
Amado shrugged. “Normally I’d agree with you, but this yakuza clan seems to be getting full of itself —who else would have murdered the two sisters while they were taking a walk around the US embassy grounds? Seriously embarrassing for the Japanese government, they’d have to know they were kicking a hornet’s nest.
“Still, in this case they might have thought they were going after a traitor rather than an assistant prosecutor,” he added. “Turns out the Vice had suspicions Davenport was in somebody’s pocket, and if it was the Miyamiji-kai it must have seemed like mana from heaven when he was assigned to the Stanson case.”
DarkAngel nodded. “But maybe he found himself choking on blowing off a murder case, either by hitting his moral limits or because of the impact it would have on his career,” she mused.
“Yeah, that’s what I think. Still, early days, I could be wrong,”
Reaching into a pocket, Amado pulled out a flash drive and tossed it to her. “Here’s what we have so far,” he said. “Oh, by the way, tonight’s execution was interrupted by a couple of bystanders, apparently Japanese illegals — only reason Davenport’s date is still alive. One of the two ended up dead after killing one of the gurentai, method unknown, the other’s missing — a black-haired pigtailed boy, is how the date described him. You might want to keep an eye out for him.”
“I will,” DarkAngel assured him.
The sergeant nodded, then turned and headed for the stairwell. “Well, it’s been a long day and longer night, I’m off to bed. Good luck,” he said over his shoulder just before closing the stairwell door.
DarkAngel gazed at the closed door for a long moment, then smiled wryly. All these years, and I still don’t know if he knows I’m Stacy. It would be nice if he did, but — not so good for his career if his superiors officially found out he knew. I guess we’ll just have to continue our little dance. With a sigh, she stepped to the edge of the roof, fired off a grapple, and swung off into the night.
{I wish that you would be free of the foul sorcerer’s malign influence and take as much delight in my presence as I do in yours!} Kuno Tatewaki’s words, spoken in the precise, flowery Japanese the kendoist used to distinguish himself from the mob, seemed to echo in Ranma’s mind as the world shook, and she found herself filled with pure need as she stepped toward the tall, handsome, brave, intelligent, honorable young man she loved more than life itself.
Suddenly, Akane was there, the youngest Tendo stepping in front of her. {Ranma, stop, what are you doing?!} the girl shouted as she grabbed at Ranma’s arm. Ranma reached out, grabbed, twisted, and ignored the crack of breaking bone as she dropped the body with the head now facing backwards and turned back toward the center of her world.
Kuno turned away from the portly balding man desperately trying to staunch the blood spurting from his neck even as more blood splashed from the stump of an arm. Tossing away his bloody bokken, the tall upperclassman stepped toward the redheaded girl of his dreams.
Ranma reached up, grasped the neckline of her dress, and with a desperate yank ripped it open to expose her chest. Stepping forward, she grasped the older boy’s hands to guide them toward her breasts and ...
... and Ranma shot upright in his borrowed bed with a strangled shout, dripping with sweat and his heart hammering in his chest. Bracing his elbows on his blanket-covered knees, he rubbed at his face. Oh, kami, that was a bad one, he thought as his breathing slowed and the sound of his heartbeat beating in his ears seemed to fade away. With a sigh, he looked up at the clock on the wall. Well after midnight, I hope I didn’t wake up Stacy-san.
Working his way out of the tangled sheets, Ranma walked out into the hall, paused for a moment, then when he didn’t hear any movement through the closed door to the apartment’s other bedroom headed out into the family room. Looking around, he found the telephone and, taking a deep breath, quickly dialed the long string of numbers needed for an international phone call.
A few rings later, and Tendo Kasumi’s serene voice came over the phone. {Moshi moshi.}
{Hey, Kasumi, it’s Ranma.}
{Ranma! It’s so wonderful to hear from you, we’ve all been so worried!} Kasumi responded, as excited as he’d ever heard her. {I hope everything’s going well?}
{I ... no ... no, it isn’t. Kasumi, I have some bad news ...}
“Tadaima!” Nabiki called out as she stepped inside the front door of the Tendo home and slipped out of her school shoes and into a pair of house slippers. An abnormally Akane followed her example, and the middle Tendo shot her younger sister a look of carefully concealed worry. We’d better get word from Ranma soon. I could care less about that walking disaster area, but I don’t know what Akane will do if we don’t, she thought as the pair finished slipping on their slippers and walked into the house.
Then Nabiki’s eyes widened as a spike of fear shot through her at the sight of their older sister standing by the telephone in the hall, staring at the wall and ignoring the dial tone coming from the handset in her hand. “Kasumi, what’s wrong?” the middle Tendo asked, stopping beside her older sister and taking the handset away from her to place it in its cradle. “Did ... did something happen to Ranma?”
“No, Ranma’s fine, he’s found the old student his father was looking for,” Kasumi said in a dazed tone. “But ... but Uncle Genma’s dead!”
Suddenly Akane was there, more alive than she’d been in weeks, almost shaking her mother figure. “Kasumi, where is he?!” she shouted.
“I don’t know, he wouldn’t say ... just to tell Father the bad news and that he’ll call back later with more details. Oh, and Akane, he said he hoped you’re doing all right, not getting in trouble without him around to bail you out,” Kasumi added with a mischievous if weak smile.
Akane turned away with a huff, while He’s thinking of me! looped in her mind. Trying to disguise her relief and joy at being remembered with outrage, she grumped, “He could at least have said what continent he’s on — you’d think he doesn’t trust us.”
Nabiki chuckled. “He may not trust us, but he doesn’t know as much as he could about modern technology.” She pulled a pen and pad of paper out of her school bag, then reached over and hit a button on the telephone and quickly wrote down the number that flashed onto a tiny screen. “Like caller ID.”
Ranma hung up the phone with a sigh of relief, then walked over to look out unseeing through the apartment’s large window at the few lighted windows on the building across the street, and at the occasional car passing below. Memories of his father flitted through his mind: the outrageous lies he’d tell when pulling another con; the crazy training methods he occasionally came up with that actually seemed to work more often than not; the occasional warmth in his eyes as he’d watch Ranma flow through kata after kata; the look of lonely longing he would sometimes let show when he thought Ranma couldn’t see; the joy he seemed to radiate when around his old friend.
Finally, the pigtailed boy turned and walked into the kitchen. Turning on the water in the sink, he stuck his hand under the cold water streaming from the faucet. The now redheaded girl turned off the water, walked back into the family room, curled up on the couch with her arms wrapped around her knees, and broke down into gut-wrenching sobs.
Stacy quietly opened the front door to her apartment, then stiffened when light from the family room washed over her. Silently, she slipped inside and gently closed the door, then looked around only to relax at the sight of the redheaded girl curled up on her side on the couch. Walking over she stood for a time gazing down at the sleeping, tear-stained face. Finally, she walked back to the guest room, then returned to drape a blanket over the teenager. “Happy dreams,” she murmured, then turned off the light and made her way to bed.
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(Posted Mon, 15 Feb 2010 05:06)
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らんま1/2 © Rumiko Takahashi
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