AlliterAsian by Allan Cho Page B

at Eaton’s downtown. The girlfriends did each other’s hair, copied from movie fan magazines, because Viola’s Little Beauty Salon on East Hastings just couldn’t cut it. Good for their mothers but not them.
    Whenever there was an occasion, say the Valentine’s Dance thrown by the Bussei, [a.k.a. Young Buddhists] in the Peter Pan Ballroom of the Ambassador Club, Romeo and his date really were a sight to behold. Of course, the music was hip: Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, even Duke Ellington. The lights were low, and a glitter ball revolved, casting stars all over the floor. Romeo’s girl always had that dreamy look in her eyes as he led her around the dance floor. They looked exactly like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
    That was why none of his gang could understand his falling for Julia Sato. She was pretty enough, but in that “good girl” and plain kind of way. Her dresses were strictly bargain-basement, and she wore flats. Her hair was always in a ponytail. She never wore makeup. Most knew she could afford more. Her mother had died in a car accident, but her father was Shigeki Sato, the top judo sensei in British Columbia. His club, the Hinomaru Dojo, attracted everyone and anyone interested in the Japanese martial art from as far away as Hope, BC. He also had alleged ties to organized crime; people believing that his dojo supplied the muscle for Etsuji Morii and his Black Dragon Society. Whenever the oyabun , or crime boss, wanted something done, for whatever reason, he’d call on Sato and his students for help. For a high price, of course.
    Murakami’s Confectionery and Soda Parlour was an excellent example. The quaint shop stood at the corner of Main and EastHastings, serving “the best handmade ice cream in Vancouver,” as the sign boasted. It did a brisk business in the summer, on hot days, when a cold, tall vanilla cone was just the ticket. It got by in rainy weather with pies and coffee and sodas for the kids. It was in a prime location in any case.
    One spring day, when Murakami-san himself was behind the register, Morii, a small man in a dark oversized suit and bowler hat, walked in with three judo thugs behind him. He strode to the counter, while the judo boys took up strategic positions in the place, and called over the aging owner.
    â€œMurakami-san,” he started. “You’ve accumulated quite a debt to me.”
    â€œYes, oyabun,” he answered with his head lowered in shame.
    â€œYou know you shouldn’t gamble.”
    He nodded, eyes averted.
    â€œMakes it hard for your family,” he observed. “Well, at least you do it at my place and not Chinatown. Well, well, well, I’m here to help you with your debt. I’m not unfeeling after all.”
    â€œThank you, oyabun. Thank you.”
    â€œFirst of all, you are no longer welcome in the Showa Club. You come in, we’ll throw you out. Second, my men will be watching you, so you don’t go to the Nanking gambling dens. If you go there, I’ll know about it, and you don’t want me to have that kind of knowledge, do you?”
    â€œYes, oyabun. I mean, no, oyabun,” he said nervously.
    â€œGood, good. Now, as to the matter of your debt to me, you will sign over this little place of yours to me.”
    â€œBut … but, no, oyabun, I couldn’t.”
    â€œWhat?” Two of his boys moved. One knocked over a large jar of candy, the brightly coloured confections spraying across the floorlike cherries on a pool table after a break shot. The few customers enjoying their sundaes ran for the door, leaving their dishes behind.
    The third thug stood at the ready with fists clenched.
    Murakami-san reached out as if to prevent the deliberate mishap. “I mean … I mean I can’t until the bank manager comes back from holiday. I’ll see him next Monday and get the papers to hand over to you.”
    No one understood what Morii wanted with the