The Ninja's Oath, page 17
Was he toying with me again?
I searched his inscrutable eyes.
The only thing I could count on were the emotional walls I had erected and the energy receptors I had reversed. If I could padlock my bedroom door to keep myself inside, I would do that as well. Although a partner in battle, this man could cause me more damage than a bullet through my heart.
“Yeah, Tran, we’re good.”
What happened before would never happen again.
Thirty-Six
Uncle slurped ramen noodles out of the spicy red broth topped with thin slices of pork and a bobbing poached egg. Tran and I opted for thick soba noodles and vegetables in rich chicken broth, mine with fried chicken katsu and his with tofu. All of our soups were garnished with curling scallions and sheets of crisp nori planted inside the rim like seaweed sails on a boat. This noodle shop had been circled in red on Tran’s map as a frequent hangout for the Kufuku-kai.
Uncle nodded toward two men hunched over their bowls. Tran shook his head and plucked a tofu cube from his soup. So far, none of the customers had set off his alarms. Instead, he watched the people passing outside. When we had finished our early supper, we joined them on the street.
I tied my black stretch jacket around my waist and pointedly avoided looking at either of the men. Although I would appreciate the added warmth in the evening, the soup and lingering sun had me sweating in my tee.
“Where to now?” I asked Tran.
“I was thinking about a bath.”
“Is that a hint?”
“No.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“It could. But this is the most popular time.”
I looked to Uncle for help.
He nodded at Tran. “Which one?”
“Let’s start with the closest, a small neighborhood joint.”
“What are you guys talking about?”
“The red circles on my map,” Tran said. “Two of them are bathhouses that admit customers with tattoos.”
“What’s the problem with tattoos?”
“They are associated with Yakuza and other criminally-inclined people.”
“Profiling much?”
“Hey, until recently, tattooed customers weren’t allowed in any.”
“Okay. What am I supposed to do while the two of you are enjoying a bath?”
“Do the same on the women’s side.”
“I thought the Yakuza only admitted men into their ranks. Wouldn’t it be more useful for me to wait outside and keep watch?”
“Yakuza blend in. You wouldn’t recognize them on the street.”
“Then what good will I do on the women’s side of the bathhouse?”
“Look for their wives and girlfriends.”
“How?”
“By the designs inked on their skin.”
As we walked, Tran described what to expect in a sento and how I should behave. Then he stopped on a corner and nodded toward a small bathhouse with vending machines outside and a white curtain hanging from a warped pole across the entry. The cloth was split into three panels that stopped halfway to the cement floor.
“Phones aren’t allowed,” he said. “So we’ll need a method for finding each other after we’re done. Return to your locker in thirty minutes to check for texts. If you don’t see a message from one of us, go through the washing process again and re-enter the bath. After thirty more minutes, meet us out front. If you see any Japanese women with tattoos, follow them out and text us where you are. We’ll do the same. If possible, one of us will follow and the other will wait outside the sento for you.”
I chuckled. This would be the cleanest stakeout I had ever done.
Uncle pointed a warning finger. “Just don’t fall asleep in the heat. If you start to get drowsy, get out and dump cold water on your head.”
“I’m fine, Uncle.”
“Ha. So you say.”
Tran let the comments pass without so much as a smirk. “Come on. We can buy shower supplies from the vending machines before we go inside.”
After removing our shoes, he and Uncle went through the blue fabric divider. I entered through the red. An elderly woman sat on a stool between the male and female areas inside where she accepted payment from Tran and handed each of us two towels, one small and one large.
Inside the women’s section, I undressed and stowed my clothes and belongings in a locker.
The knife wound on my arm from the Chongming ambush was healing nicely and hidden by protective surgical glue. The ripening bruises from the cargo ship and Hefei fights looked bad. Without the time or opportunity to rest, elevate, and ice, the bruising had spread and darkened into deep purple splotches on my arms, ribs, and legs. The lack of injury to my face made me look as if someone had intentionally beaten me in places I could hide. I had seen strategic bruising like this with some of the women at Aleisha’s Refuge back home. Although my appearance might alarm others, the hot soak would feel heavenly to me.
Naked with my hair tied in a messy bun, I walked into the bath area and hung my large towel on a hook.
The shower side of the room had six green plastic stools that came up to mid-calf with handheld showerheads mounted on a tile wall. I sat between two women and wet down my body. Neither of them glanced my way. Once I had scrubbed off the day’s grime and rinsed all the suds, I placed my purchased toiletries neatly beneath my hanging towel and walked along the shower trough’s edge to decide on a tub.
The first was too cool. The second too hot. The third fit my Goldilocks temperature just right. I stepped in carefully and sighed as the water enveloped me up to my throat.
The two women finished their showers and chose different tubs. Neither of them had any ink I could see. My eyelids grew heavy. This was my first relaxing moment since the ten minutes Uncle had allotted for us to enjoy the spectacle of lights at the Bund. Between the hot water and the comforting soup, Uncle had been wise to warn me not to fall asleep.
I shook my head to wake from a worried dream about Baba and Ma. I glanced at the wall clock. Four in the afternoon would be two in the morning for them. No sense borrowing trouble when we couldn’t even chat.
I stretched my muscles in the water. The young women left. An old woman arrived. After thirty minutes, I toweled dry and found a message on my phone from Tran.
Too quiet here. Meet us outside. We’ll check another place.
The next bathhouse was a super sento spa with a café in the lobby where rosy-clean patrons were sipping cold milk, coffee, and beer.
“This is fancy,” I said. “Do they also have a gym?”
“You get enough exercise,” Uncle said.
“How about a facial or massage?”
“Stop joking.”
“I’m serious. It’s stressful to date a gangster. I’m thinking that’s where they’d be.”
He rolled his eyes.
Tran cocked his head. “Actually, you make a good point.”
“See? Our Yakuza expert agrees.”
Tran chuckled. “As much as I would love to treat you to a full body massage, you’ll spot the women faster if you wander outside the rooms.” He leaned close to my ear when Uncle looked away. “Night will come. Patience brings surprising rewards.”
My pulse remained steady. “Really? I can’t say the same for you.” Sensei’s technique for dulling my nerve receptors had worked. Tran could shove his intent at me all day and I wouldn’t feel a thing.
Uncle waved us toward registration. “Hurry up. We’re losing the day.”
I smiled sweetly at Tran. “After you, money bags.”
“Ha. Okay, Lily. Have it your way.”
Despite needling him, Tran registered me at a VIP level so I would be able to roam where I pleased. If we hadn’t been here for Suyin, I would have happily indulged in every spa service they offered. Instead, I left my clothes and belongings in a locker and trod naked to the bathing area for my second wash within the hour.
The sit-down shower section in the spa was large enough to accommodate the pre-dinner, post-work rush. Even undressed, I could tell by the hairstyles and manicures that this was a more contemporary crowd. Several were Caucasian. Only a few washed the makeup from their faces. The ladies with long hair fastened their tresses in lovely twists and clips. This time, I also noted several discreet tattoos, none of which seemed elaborate enough for a Yakuza girlfriend or wife.
No one else appeared battered or bruised. No one other than me.
After drawing sympathetic and discomfited glances, I wrapped my body in a towel and strolled past the many baths to another section of the spa. Although most women walked around nude, I drew less notice once I hid my bruises from sight.
In addition to massages and facials, the super sento sported three tanning beds that were already in use. I waited for the women to emerge, then moved on to the sauna and additional baths in the back. I chose a sunken rectangular tub lined in bright green tiles. With my back to the mountain mural, I watched the entire section through half-lidded eyes.
I planned to soak for thirty minutes, check my messages, then return to the main bath area by the showers. Or I had, until three towel-wrapped women strolled my way.
The first two were in their mid to late twenties. They had the quiet assurance of women with money yet lacked the assertive energy usually acquired in the corporate world. The one with the more impressive diamond wedding ring wore her sleek black hair in an elegant French twist anchored by a stunning cloisonné pin. The woman with the rounder face had braided her hair in a complicated bun that turned in on itself. Both seemed surprisingly conservative for their age.
The third woman was younger, closer to eighteen. Her hair was cut in a chic layered bob dyed to a soft ashy brown. She wore no jewelry except for a platinum cuff on the outer rim of one ear. Although her nails were as beautifully manicured as the other women, she sported blue nail polish instead of a neutral shade of pink.
Aside from me, they were the only women who hadn’t arrived in the nude. Once they unveiled themselves, it became obvious why.
The towel dropped from the French twist woman’s back to reveal a spectacular dragon that began at her shoulders, snaked around her trim belly, and descended down her buttocks and the back of her thighs. The cross-bun woman’s fuller back and hips featured peonies and chrysanthemums with a Meiji Period maiden peeking from behind an intricate fan. Both designs were stunning works of art.
I closed my eyes to slits as they stepped into the steaming bath. Then I tipped back my head so I could watch the youngest woman fold her towel and lay it neatly on a bench. Every inch of skin that could be hidden by a high-neck, sleeveless, above-the-knee dress was covered in blue serpents, demons, and knives. The base of the intricate design had been shaded in blue-black ink up to her waist while her upper back and chest had yet to be filled in. This seemed particularly cruel to me since the tattoo artist had tackled the most sensitive regions first. Even unfinished, the effect was stunningly erotic yet oddly modest, as if forever covering her in conservative, formal attire. Out in public, the teenager would never be able to wear a tank top, midriff, or shorts. Not even a shorter-than-fingertip-length skirt. Her body had undoubtedly been claimed by a Yakuza man.
I closed my eyes fully and listened to the women speak in Japanese long enough to establish from their tone that the French twist woman held the most power. The teenager didn’t say anything at all. Rather than stay until they left, I rose out of the water and stepped out of the tub. With my back to the women, I wrapped myself in a towel and returned to my locker to text Uncle and Tran.
Thirty-Seven
The cold bottle of coffee milk cooled my heat as I sat in the lounge waiting for the men to arrive. Two hot soaks had relaxed my muscles and relieved the tension built up from travel, worry, and Tran. As if summoned, he strode out the men’s side of the bathhouse like a model on a runway ramp, wavy mane tied behind his neck, his wild magnetism impossible to ignore.
“Lee’s still primping,” he said as he draped his jacket on the chair beside me with a view of the lobby. He bought a fruit milk and a plain milk from the vending machines and set the fruit milk bottle in the spot where Uncle could watch the blue and red noren spa curtains after he arrived.
“Milk?” I said.
“You know what they say.” He twisted off his cap and guzzled half of his drink, somehow managing to flex every muscle from his hands to his chest, then he set it down with a satisfying “ahh.”
“Give me a break.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“Can’t I enjoy a cold bottle of milk?”
“Do you have to make it such a spectacle? I thought we were on surveillance.”
“Have you seen them yet?”
“No.”
“Then the only one who’s watching me is you.”
I brought the coffee milk bottle to my forehead, then drank a bit more.
He glanced at my long sleeves. “Are you hiding your bruises?”
“They saw me step out of the bath.”
“Must have been quite a sight.” Although he hid his smile behind another sip of milk, the crinkle around his eyes gave him away.
“You know what I meant. They’ll remember what they saw on my body and forget all about my face.”
He inclined his head. “True for them. Never for me.”
Uncle pulled out his chair and picked up the bottle as he sat. “What’s this?”
Tran grinned. “Strawberry milk.”
“Huh.” He popped the top and drank it all down. “Tell us about the women.”
“Good question,” I said, my sarcasm aimed at Tran.
He leaned forward with exaggerated interest, which I pointedly ignored.
“They’ll probably come out together, two in their mid to late twenties, one still in her teens. The woman who appeared to have the most status pinned her hair with a fancy cloisonné clip in the bath, so I imagine she’ll wear it again when she comes out. She’s tall for Japanese, angular face, no earrings, but her wedding ring has at least two karats worth of diamonds. Her contemporary had a rounder figure and face, soft rather than plump, with her hair braided in a bun. The youngest kept silent in the bath, I think in deference rather than indifference, but I couldn’t be sure. Her hair is dyed light brown and cut short against the back of her neck. She didn’t wear any jewelry except for a platinum cuff on her left ear.”
“What about the tattoos?” Tran asked.
I described what I had seen.
He nodded in agreement. “The dragon woman with the pin sounds like the wife of a highly ranked boss, which doesn’t track for an independent gang. The man smoking outside is probably her bodyguard. Important Yakuza wives are rarely left alone. I suppose the Kufuku-kai might do the same.”
Uncle hummed thoughtfully. “Unless the older women are Yakuza and mentored the younger woman from before the Kufuku-kai split off on their own.”
Tran nodded and turned to me. “You said her tattoo was still in progress?”
“Yep. She has another half to detail.”
“Okay. You stay with her. She’ll be less likely to notice another young woman than two older men. Lee and I will follow the others in case they’re attached to our gang. Even if they’re not, we might learn something that will help us locate members of the Kufuku-kai.”
Uncle glanced from the curtained entrances to me. “Is that them?”
“Mm-hmm.”
The two older women were dolled up for a night on the town. The teenager—I couldn’t think of her as a woman, not after all the prostituted teens I had helped or failed over the summer—wore a blue tunic dress that showed as much unvarnished skin as her hidden tattoos would allow. Had this girl been coerced into Japan’s darker life like the teenagers I had met on The Blade?
Tran collected our bottles and dropped them into the recycling bin. “Stay in touch with us, Lily. Keep your distance if she meets up with a man.”
“Got it.” After an hour of sitting, I looked forward to the walk.
The teen in the blue tunic plucked a phone from her purse and came alive for the first time as she made a call. She chatted animatedly as she crossed the street at a brisk yet happy pace, like a puppy unclipped from a leash. Wherever we were going, the prospect pleased her more than the bath.
She veered off the ugly main roads and chose a picturesque route past neighborhood markets, businesses, and homes. Although crowded compared to Los Angeles, the tightly packed structures were only a few stories high, nothing compared to Shanghai or Hong Kong. This made the Tsutenkaku Tower up ahead look taller than it was.
Whenever I travel, I read the tourist magazines on the flights, so I recognized Osaka’s landmark straight away. How not? Even the reconstructed version had an Eiffel Tower vibe. The original had been built in the early 1900s as part of the New World neighborhood called Shinsekai, half inspired by Paris and the other half with a Coney Island flair. According to the flight magazine, Shinsekai was a tourist attraction not to be missed. From the wall-to-wall shops, eateries, and arcades, I guessed it was a fun place to hang out for locals as well. I couldn’t wait to see the banners and murals lit up in neon tonight.
I was so busy gawking, I almost missed the squeal of delight as Blue Tunic and another young woman spotted each other and hurried in for a hug. The new arrival wore her hair long and her skirt short with sneakers and a puff-sleeve schoolgirl kind of top. I didn’t believe the act. This schoolgirl had adult resignation and wariness in her eyes. They hugged again and held on extra tight.
I wouldn’t have understood their words even if I had been close enough to hear, but their body language suggested a shared experience one had escaped that another still lived.
Had a member of the Kufuku-kai fallen in love with a lady of the night? Could that be why Blue Tunic’s body was covered in ink, to keep other men from gazing at the property he had claimed?
Members of street gangs back home added to their tattoos over the years. It seemed logical to me that Yakuza girlfriends and wives would do the same.
