Mendokusai . A fucking pain in the ass.
“Can you meet me in an hour? I’ll text you an address. I’ll be on the top floor.”
“I’ll be there.” When the family calls, you show up. There’s no other option.
The address lights up on my phone. I recognize it. A driving range in Koreatown. Also owned by Kuroda. I do the accounts for that place as well. I raise an eyebrow. Masa’s into golf now, is he?
I pull into the parking lot of a drugstore, and find myself a pack of aspirin and a large, black coffee from a nearby donut shop. I feel a sudden stab of sympathy for hostesses around the world who have to drink to make a living.
Hangovers are no joke. I’m never drinking two thousand dollar sake again.
As I drive across town, the coffee does it’s magic, and I start to feel normal again. A strange feeling works its way into my gut, almost like I’m nervous.
Hell, I am fucking nervous. That’s not like me at all.
For the last three years, I’ve been a nobody, living a life that’s almost normal. I’ve escaped to this strange country where anything goes and everything is larger than life. I’ve had no trouble blending in. I don’t stand out here.
Now, there seems to be a request for my services.
My thoughts drift to Adele, the feeling of her silken skin under my rough, unworthy hands. Her curves, the warmth of her body. Her subtle vanilla scent, driving me crazy. I shouldn’t have gone back to her apartment. Should have kept my dick in my pants. But with that woman, my self control goes out the window.
There’s never been a woman who’s had a such a hold on me.
I realize I haven’t even given her my number. That’s probably for the best. Her lanky otaku friend back there is probably telling her all about our little run in. He’s probably made some assumptions of his own, and he’s probably right.
I run a hand through my hair and don a pair of shades as I pull into the parking lot of the Green Avenue driving range. The rearview mirror tells me I look presentable. The last thing I want to do is look like I’ve had a rough night.
The driving range is a curved building three stories high. It’s surrounded by tall nets. I make my way to the top floor. Masa’s standing in the centre slot, accompanied by four guys in suits. He’s wearing shorts and a polo shirt. He looks casual, relaxed. I stand at the back for a while, watching. His back is to me. They don’t notice me at first.
Masa takes a swing, and the ball flies out, landing at the two hundred and fifty yard mark.
I take a moment to observe.
I’m fascinated at how he’s changed. He grew up like me, the son of a prostitute. We had half a childhood between us. As a young man, he had a brittle temper. He was impulsive, unsure of himself, with a bit of a cruel streak.
I don’t blame him. Those of us who grew up in that place are all unstable, in our own little ways. A house full of prostitutes wasn’t a place for kids to grow up.
On the rare occasions that our mothers would spend time with us, nurture us, act normal, we’d soak it up like desert plants in a summer storm. We were staved of affection. The hard men, the pimps and pushers who passed through would sometimes find a smile, acting like friendly uncles. They’d slip us thousand yen notes and tell us to go buy candy. They could pat us on the head with an affectionate grin then go out into the street and stab a man in cold blood without thinking twice.
As I got older, I saw through the facade, as the background noise of drugs, fucking and violence became harder and harder to ignore. It’s the undertow we’ve been fighting against our entire lives.
The undertow almost sucked Masa in and didn’t give him back.
I remember finding him one night, in the deep of winter, passed out on a bench in Ikebukuro West Gate Park. He was spaced out, his pupils tiny black pinpricks under the streetlights.
I cursed and took him home, locking him in a
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