I wasn’t worried about getting shot at. The guys had no guns. Their suits proved it. Too tight to conceal weapons. And even if they had them, they didn’t look like they knew how to use them.
Kevin glared the guys. “Hey, you two have to pay.”
Ignoring Kevin, they continued on.
I got in their way. “What’s going on?”
They exchanged looks and then laughed.
Kevin got to my side and helped me block them. “They want to see what the women look like first, before they pay.”
I shook my head. “That’s not the rules. You pay, then enter the club.”
The tallest one looked me up and down and snorted. “Are you the owner or something?”
“Don’t worry about that.” I gestured to Kevin. “Pay him. Now.”
The short, bearded one scowled. “Or what, Chinatown?”
“I’m Japanese.” I stepped closer to him. “So, cut the Chinatown shit.”
He backed away. “Don’t matter to me what you are. You all look the same anyway.”
“Pay him.” I studied both of them.
I’d seen their kind before. A narcissistic arrogance radiated off them. They were the sort of men that always got their way. I sniffed the liquor on their breaths. With the arrogance and liquid courage they could be a problem this evening.
Neither spoke as they watched me.
And I knew what they saw in my eyes. That I wouldn’t back down, if they pushed it. That I hadn’t broken a leg or shot a gun in a while and had been hungry to do it. That I enjoyed triggering pain in douchebags like them. That I often dreamed about torturing some and smiled as I did it.
Both backed away.
The tall one reached into his jacket, took out his wallet, and gave Kevin the money. “Here, man. We’re just trying to see pussy. Not fight.”
“Too bad.” I winked. “I was hoping we would have some fun.”
Suddenly, the bearded guy wasn’t so bad. He raised his hands. “Hey, man. Like my friend said, we just want to see some pussy.”
“Enjoy.” I walked away.
Chinatown? Are you fucking kidding me?
Kevin called after to me. “Thanks, Yo-yo.”
Stop calling me that.
I shook my head and left the Titty Palace.
Kevin knew me from my old life in Chicago. We grew up together. It all started in second grade during one lunch break. On the school’s playground, he’d snuck in a Spiderman comic book. I’d stolen gum from the store that morning. We bonded over superheroes and candy.
Time passed, we grew up and remained tight. Although I hung with roughnecks and he became a nerd, we met each week with the same two things that connected us—comic books and candy.
High school came. I dropped out and worked for the mob. Kevin’s mother died. His father worked two jobs. They still remained broke. Every now and then, I gave Kevin money to help me out on small jobs. I used him a lot. By then he was a computer whiz, able to get any address or hack into anybody’s phone. Jocks used to bully him. It took one time of me coming up to his school and breaking the Wide Receiver’s leg. After that, Kevin had no more problems.
If someone wanted to find me, they could go to him.
Years later, when I had to run from the mob, I took Kevin with me. By then, he’d buried both parents. Not much of a life, he worked at a small tech company that gave him a janitor’s salary. No girlfriends or other buddies. After me, his computer served as his best friend. But most important, the mob knew how tight we were.
Allowing them to kill Kevin wasn’t an option. They had already murdered enough of the people I loved.
Kevin ran out of Chicago with me. We landed in Tenino.
After a week in town, I bought my huge property. He’d stayed in one of the many extra rooms in the massive house. Once he found the bouncer job at the Titty Palace, he saved up enough money and moved to a small apartment closer to the club.
“Thanks, Yo-yo.”
Kevin knew I hated that nickname, but he could never stop himself from letting it slip out that fat mouth.
My mother had named me Yoshiro. It was Japanese for ‘good son.’ I still didn’t know, if I’d ever earned that name. My father had been an abusive drunk. He’d been a well-respected doctor in Japan. Due to war, they’d immigrated to America. His medical license held no worth in this country. The best job he could get was selling almost rotten fish on the side of the road in Chinatown.
It turned my father into a drunken angry man. Too many times I watched from the shadows as he beat on my mother. As a kid, I didn’t do anything.
Still, the anger for him rose inside of my young soul.
I took that rage out onto the streets and within my school, constantly fighting and getting kicked out for bad behavior. My teachers expected the Asian stereotype—a nice, quiet nerd that was good in math and science. They told me to stay away from the black kids. That made me hang with them more.