Cajun Justice(86)

“Blood?” Champ answered hesitantly.

“Good. You’re batting one for one,” Cain responded. “Two: I have everything to lose.” He grabbed the napkin from Champ and headed for the exit.

“You’re welcome,” Champ shouted, and then, under his breath as he returned to his pachinko machine, “Unless they kill you tonight.”





Chapter 66



Cain left the pachinko parlor and marched toward the tattoo shop, Dragon’s Ink. He referenced Champ’s scribbled directions on the napkin. That’s convenient, he thought as he saw that he’d parked Umiko’s scooter right in front of the building before he had met with Chief Alvarez earlier that day.

Cain looked skyward. The building appeared to be only about three stories high, and it wasn’t that wide. That type of construction was common in Japan because of the limited space. He pulled on the glass door and entered the tiny lobby. A directory was on the wall. Dragon’s Ink was listed as the business on the third floor.

He ascended a narrow stairway. Each floor of the complex was occupied by only one door that led to the single business on that level.

With each step, Cain’s legs moved faster and his heart beat harder. It felt as though an invisible magnet was pulling him. He reached the third floor and saw the only door. Elaborate stickers and artwork covered its entire surface. In the center was wording in both English and Japanese. The English said DRAGON’S INK, and below that was smaller text that said GI-FRIENDLY.

“Good,” Cain muttered under his breath, “because I’m coming in.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. He used the crook of his elbow to wipe the sweat from his forehead. A popular Japanese-model doorbell, which also had a video camera and a two-way audio intercom system, was next to the doorknob.

Cain tried the door but it was locked. He rang the buzzer and could hear its alert sounding from within the studio. A few moments later, a scantily clad Japanese woman in her early twenties opened the door. She wore a black silk dress that revealed her cleavage.

“I’m here for a tattoo.”

“Do you have appointment?” she asked.

“No, but I have cash. Lots of it.”

She nodded and gestured for him to come inside and follow her. When she turned forward he saw elaborate tattoos that started at the nape of her neck and went down her back and out of view because of the dress. His confidence grew. Yep, I’m at the right place. That style of tattoo looks a lot like Hayabusa’s.

The woman escorted Cain to a nearby love seat and motioned for him to sit. He put his expeditionary bag down on the floor. She opened the clear door of a small fridge and took out a bottle of Kirin Lager. She used the ring on her finger to pop the top off the bottle in a single rehearsed move.

Cain’s eyes widened. “Didn’t see that coming,” he told her. “That was impressive.”

Gripping the bottle with one hand while resting its bottom on the palm of her other hand, she presented the beer to him.

“Arigato,” Cain said as he grabbed the chilled drink. “I’ve only had Asahi before. This’ll be my first time with Kirin Lager.”

She half smiled.

He took a sip. “Aaah. That’s refreshing. Hits the spot.” He read the label aloud: “‘The legendary Kirin is a symbol of good luck.’” He took another swig. “Good, because I can use all the luck I can get.”

The woman walked toward a rice-paper wall that divided the waiting room from the tattoo room. When she slid open the door for a few moments to leave, Cain saw a muscular customer sitting in the hydraulic chair. The black man had his shirt off, and the artist was inking a tribal pattern on his shoulder.

Cain could see the man’s other tattoos and knew he had to be a sailor: he recognized the star tattoo on the man’s chest. The North Star was a popular tattoo in the navy. It was how a sailor found his way back home.

Cain took another sip of his beer when he heard the low-pitched rumble of a car’s exhaust getting louder as it neared. That sounds just like the modified exhaust that Sabrina described. At that moment, he overheard the tattoo artist and the woman speaking in Japanese. He had no idea what they were saying, but he understood one word from their conversation: Hayabusa. He knew that the word falcon would not be spoken in casual conversation. And their conversation seemed hurried, almost panicky. The rice-paper door slid open, and the Japanese woman headed toward the mini fridge. She grabbed a bottle of beer and cracked it open. She poured it into a cold glass and placed it onto a tray.

That’s not the same treatment I got, he thought. They’re afraid of whoever is coming in.

He turned toward the artist, who had stopped inking and was now looking through the window at the ground below.

The American customer looked confused. “What’s going on? You gonna finish my tat or what? I got ship duty tonight.”

“New appointment. So sorry,” the artist replied.

Cain walked toward the window and peered outside, directing his gaze at the street below. He saw the orange Skyline parked curbside, near Umiko’s scooter. The exhaust was rumbling, and loud techno music boomed from the car speakers. Then everything went quiet. Hayabusa got out of the Skyline and walked toward the building. Cain looked at the beer in his hand. Maybe there is something to this Kirin luck.

The sailor grew impatient. “I ain’t got all day. I gotta get back to base soon.”