Chapter 4: Tenuchi's Story
by Miguel Ramos
Hideo’s voice rumbled from his chest with the soothing tones of a large diesel engine, a sound George had always found pleasant. It reminded him of his childhood home behind the train yards, listening to the giant engines warm up every morning before heading out with the day’s coal runs.
George took another drink of bourbon and tightened his stitches, listening to Hideo’s story, letting the warmth of the liquor relax his muscles.
“Tenuchi’s parents lived in the floating world, which exists as a shadow over this world. Tenuchi’s mother was named Akemi. She was a singer in a club owned by my oyabun, my boss, Takayama. The club’s name was – is – the Lucky Monkey.
Anyone who wanted to buy heroin in our territory came to the Lucky Monkey. But many came to hear Akemi sing…”
The downpour had finally stopped, but the dripping from the many eaves filled the streets with the sounds of raindrops. The ghost of rain. It was beginning to darken, and it was cold. Shijo turned his collar up against the chill and drew on his cigarette. The attaché case was heavy with heroin and yens. He carried a loaded .10mm pistol under his left arm, but he wasn’t worried about using it. Not in the Minato district. Takayama’s grip was iron hard here.
Shijo could smell the sea not far away, but it was faint, overpowered by the smells of rotten vegetables and human sweat. He ran a hand through his wet hair and cursed the weather, fantasizing for the twelfth time that day of retiring early to some warm island, Tahiti or maybe Fiji.
He stepped in a puddle, the cold water immediately drenching his left foot. Swearing out loud this time he pulled his foot out and shook it, then walked around the puddle. He could see the Lucky Monkey just ahead. Already the leather of his shoe was squeaking from the soaking.
As he neared the ornate, black wooden doors he could hear the thumping beat of the break box inside, the rhythm entwined around some sampled jazz trumpet wailing. He paused and listened. The breathy quality of the loop sounded like Miles. He smiled for the first time in hours. Akemi must be on stage.
Shijo paused to light another cigarette before stepping into the club. The sound enveloped him like a warm, wet blanket, heavy beats and Mingus chords chasing Miles’ trumpet from one side of the long, rectangular room to the other. Akemi, wearing a long silver dress, leaned into her mic, rapping her poetry and anger into the air. Kids with short, dayglo colored hair bounced on the floor around the stage.
Shijo walked to the bar and grabbed a beer before heading to the back of the club.
Hideo’s voice rumbled from his chest with the soothing tones of a large diesel engine, a sound George had always found pleasant. It reminded him of his childhood home behind the train yards, listening to the giant engines warm up every morning before heading out with the day’s coal runs.
George took another drink of bourbon and tightened his stitches, listening to Hideo’s story, letting the warmth of the liquor relax his muscles.
“Tenuchi’s parents lived in the floating world, which exists as a shadow over this world. Tenuchi’s mother was named Akemi. She was a singer in a club owned by my oyabun, my boss, Takayama. The club’s name was – is – the Lucky Monkey.
Anyone who wanted to buy heroin in our territory came to the Lucky Monkey. But many came to hear Akemi sing…”
The downpour had finally stopped, but the dripping from the many eaves filled the streets with the sounds of raindrops. The ghost of rain. It was beginning to darken, and it was cold. Shijo turned his collar up against the chill and drew on his cigarette. The attaché case was heavy with heroin and yens. He carried a loaded .10mm pistol under his left arm, but he wasn’t worried about using it. Not in the Minato district. Takayama’s grip was iron hard here.
Shijo could smell the sea not far away, but it was faint, overpowered by the smells of rotten vegetables and human sweat. He ran a hand through his wet hair and cursed the weather, fantasizing for the twelfth time that day of retiring early to some warm island, Tahiti or maybe Fiji.
He stepped in a puddle, the cold water immediately drenching his left foot. Swearing out loud this time he pulled his foot out and shook it, then walked around the puddle. He could see the Lucky Monkey just ahead. Already the leather of his shoe was squeaking from the soaking.
As he neared the ornate, black wooden doors he could hear the thumping beat of the break box inside, the rhythm entwined around some sampled jazz trumpet wailing. He paused and listened. The breathy quality of the loop sounded like Miles. He smiled for the first time in hours. Akemi must be on stage.
Shijo paused to light another cigarette before stepping into the club. The sound enveloped him like a warm, wet blanket, heavy beats and Mingus chords chasing Miles’ trumpet from one side of the long, rectangular room to the other. Akemi, wearing a long silver dress, leaned into her mic, rapping her poetry and anger into the air. Kids with short, dayglo colored hair bounced on the floor around the stage.
Shijo walked to the bar and grabbed a beer before heading to the back of the club.
posted by Miguel at 11:37 PM
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