Cure (2010) sam-10 Read online

  As Satoshi was about to turn around the northeast corner of the Plaza hotel and head west on 59th Street, he ventured a glance over his shoulder. What he saw caused him to suck in a deep breath. The same two men he’d seen earlier were skirting the fountain and heading in his direction while carrying on a conversation with two men creeping along in a black SUV going in the wrong direction in the roadway in front of the hotel. The two Japanese men caught sight of Satoshi having spotted them and responded by upping their speed to a jog and breaking off all conversation.

  Jogging himself, Satoshi was now convinced he was being followed and that the Yakuza types must have been waiting outside iPS USA for him to appear. He had no idea who they were and what they wanted. Ben had dealt with the Yamaguchi as far as his emigration and immigration were concerned. Yet his being followed had to have something to do with his relationship with iPS USA and his abrupt switch from Japan to the United States.

  Still clutching his athletic bag in one hand and his lapels in the other, Satoshi sprinted ahead through the press of people, unsure of what to do. Columbus Circle’s always crowded, complicated subway station with its convergence of multiple train lines was like a distant oasis that promised safety, but how to get there before being overtaken by the men following him? He was anxiously certain that Yakuza look-alikes would be appearing behind him at any moment.

  Salvation materialized in the next instant when a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged a passenger. Without a second’s hesitation, Satoshi veered off through the other pedestrians and leaped into the taxi before the disembarking passenger had even closed the door. Out of breath, Satoshi gasped, “Columbus Circle!”

  Miffed at getting such a brief fare, the driver made an illegal U-turn that caused Satoshi to slide against the door he’d just managed to get closed. With his face briefly pressed against the glass, he held on, fighting against the centrifugal force that had him momentarily immobile. Once the cab straightened out, Satoshi pushed himself upright and glanced out the back window in time to see the two Japanese round the corner of the hotel and stumble to a halt. Whether they’d seen him jump into the cab, Satoshi didn’t know, but he hoped they hadn’t.

  Satoshi made it to one of Columbus Circle’s subway station entrances without seeing the two Japanese men or the SUV behind him. Relieved to descend into the crowded, labyrinthine underworld, he quickly passed through the turnstile.

  On the opposite side of the turnstile he confronted two very large New York City policemen. Reflexively Satoshi turned his head away as he passed. As an illegal alien, he was probably as afraid of the police as he was of the shady-looking men who he believed were following him. It was an uncomfortable plight of being afraid of both extremes, and he looked forward to obtaining the green cards Ben had been promising.

  Quickly making his way to the proper track for the uptown A express, Satoshi approached the edge of the platform and stared into the maw of the tunnel to look for his train. He was eager for its arrival. Although he felt reasonably confident he had avoided a confrontation with the two Japanese men, he did not know what he would do if they suddenly appeared.

  Stepping back from the edge of the platform, Satoshi found himself staring suspiciously at the other passengers, all of whom avoided eye contact. The platform rapidly filled as he waited. Commuters read newspapers or played with their cell phones or stared blankly ahead into the middle distance. More people arrived, pressing everyone closer and closer together. Trains thundered into the station but always on other tracks.

  It was then that Satoshi saw him. It was the same man who’d eyed him across Fifth Avenue, holding the photograph. He was only five or six feet away and regarding Satoshi out of the corner of his piercingly back eyes. A chill descended Satoshi’s spine. With a renewed sense of fear, Satoshi tried to move to the side, away from the stranger, but it was difficult, as more and more passengers were arriving every few seconds.

  Having managed to move only a few yards, Satoshi looked ahead to see what was specifically impeding him. It was then that he saw the second man, who was pretending to read a paper but who was in reality watching Satoshi. He was as close to Satoshi ahead as the other man was behind, trapping Satoshi between the track and a tiled wall.

  With Satoshi’s fear now maxing out, the formidable A train made its startling entrance, roaring out of the mouth of its tunnel. There’d been only a meager premonition of its imminent appearance. One second there had been relative quiet, the next a crescendo of ferocious wind, earsplitting noise, and earth-shaking vibration. And it was during this minor maelstrom that Satoshi became aware that the two men were pushing through the waiting crowd, pressing in on him. He was prepared to scream if either touched him, but they didn’t. All he was aware of was a concussive hiss that he felt more than heard, since the noise had been completely drowned out by the arriving train. Simultaneously he’d felt a sharp, burning pain on the back of his leg where his leg and buttock joined, followed quickly by a yawning darkness and silence.

  Susumu Nomura and Yoshiaki Eto had worked together as enforcers since they’d come to America more than five years previously on direct orders from Hisayuki Ishii, the oyabun of their Yakuza family, Aizukotetsu-kai. It had been a good marriage of sorts, combining Susumu’s fearlessness with Yoshiaki’s cautious planning. When they’d gotten the order to take out Satoshi Machita, Susumu was so excited and eager to please Hideki Shimoda, the saiko-komon and boss of the NYC branch office of the Aizukotetsu-kai, he wanted to do the hit immediately. On top of that, he wanted to do the hit in broad daylight on Fifth Avenue! For Susumu it was a serendipitous opportunity to demonstrate to the boss their loyalty and daring, which were prized Yakuza personality traits.

  But Yoshiaki had been adamant, insisting that they had to take a few days to figure out a plan to fulfill the second part of the order: to make the hit look like the natural death of an unidentifiable individual. As it had been explained to them, it was important to avoid investigation of the affair by the police and possibly the FBI.

  Having followed Yoshiaki’s plan, which involved tailing the man for a few days in Manhattan as he went from work to the A train, the hit had gone down perfectly, without anyone suspecting that it was even in process. At Yoshiaki’s suggestion, Susumu had purposefully waited until the A train had swept into the station to shoot Satoshi with the air gun hidden in the shaft of the umbrella that had been provided by Hideki Shimoda. The moment the trigger had been pulled, Yoshiaki had grabbed the man to keep him upright as his legs gave out. As the impatient passengers surged ahead to board the train, no one had noticed anything unusual as Susumu quickly relieved Satoshi of his athletic bag, his wallet, and his cell phone. The only minor surprise had been the seizure, but even that did not mar the hit. Having been warned that a short seizure was a possibility, Yoshiaki had just held Satoshi upright until his body went slack. At that point, when the last passengers were rushing for the train as the doors attempted to close, Yoshiaki merely laid the flaccid body down onto the cement platform, and he and Susumu walked calmly away.

  Five minutes later the two Yakuza hit men mounted the final flight of stairs and emerged at the corner of Columbus Circle where they’d descended only a quarter-hour earlier. Both were pleased and proud that the event had gone down as well as it had. While Yoshiaki used his cell phone to call the men in the black SUV, Susumu unzipped the athletic bag and pulled out the thick licensing contract. After checking that there was nothing else of interest in the bag, he turned his attention to the document and quickly leafed through it, unsure what it was. His ability to read English was limited.

  “No lab books?” Yoshiaki questioned as he waited for his call to go through. With his forefinger, he pulled open the athletic bag Susumu was still holding and looked into its depths. He was clearly disappointed that it was empty, save for a few magazines. What he was hoping to see were a couple of lab books, as their mission was both to assassinate Satoshi and to obtain the books. Yoshiaki, in particular, had bec
ome convinced the valuable lab books would be in the athletic bag because during the days they had been following Satoshi to plan the hit, Satoshi had been faithfully carrying the bag. “Just this bunch of papers,” Susumu said, holding up the multipage contract.

  Yoshiaki put the phone in the crook of his neck and took the contract from Susumu. While he was scanning the first page his call went through. “We’re out,” he said simply in English. “We’re at the same subway entrance where you dropped us off.”

  “We’re just across the circle. We’ll be there in a moment.”

  “This is a legal contract,” Yoshiaki said, hanging up and switching back to Japanese. Even though both men had been in New York City for more than five years, their English was hardly fluent.

  “Is it important?” Susumu questioned hopefully. If they weren’t going to be able to provide the lab books, Susumu wanted to supply something in their place. He was a man eager to please.

  A black GMC Denali pulled over to the curb. Quickly Yoshiaki and Susumu piled into the rear seat, and as soon as the door was slammed, the vehicle angled out into the rush-hour traffic.

  The man in the front passenger seat turned partially around. His name was Carlo Paparo. He was a big, muscular man with a shiny bald pate, large ears, and a pug nose. He was dressed in a black turtleneck, gray silk sport jacket, and black slacks. “Where is your researcher? Did you miss him?”

  Susumu smiled. “We didn’t miss him.” Turning to Yoshiaki, he repeated his question in Japanese about the contract, but Yoshiaki shrugged his shoulders, indicating he didn’t know, as he stuffed it back into the athletic bag.

  “What happened?” Carlo questioned. “It couldn’t have been much of a shakedown, as fast as you guys were.” Carlo’s orders had not been too specific. After having been reminded how important the business relationship was between the Vaccarros and the Aizukotetsu-kai, all he had been told was to help two guys who worked for the Aizukotetsu-kai to make contact with a Japanese guy who’d recently fled Japan. The help was to drive them around the city wherever they wanted to go.

  “He had a heart attack,” Yoshiaki said, wanting to end the conversation.

  “Heart attack?” Carlo questioned with dubious surprise.

  “That would be our guess,” Yoshiaki said as he tried to restrain Susumu’s burst of laughter. Susumu got the message and brought himself quickly under control.

  Carlo glared at the two men in turn. “What the hell’s going on here? Are you guys pulling my chain or what?”

  “What is ‘pulling my chain’?” Yoshiaki asked. He’d never heard the expression.

  Carlo waved the two men off and turned back around in his seat. As he did so he shared a quick glance with his partner, Brennan Monaghan. Both Brennan and Carlo were assistants to Louie Barbera and frequently operated as a team. Louie Barbera was running the Vaccarro family operation in Queens while Paulie Cerino was still doing time at Rikers Island. Brennan was driving Carlo’s car because Carlo hated to drive in traffic. He was too impatient and always ended up in some degree of road rage to the peril of everyone, including himself.

  After having picked up the two Japanese men, Brennan had turned right onto Central Park West, heading north with the intent of getting to the East Side by cutting across the park. But it wasn’t going to be fast, because the driving was stop-and-go, and more stop than go.

  “All right, you two,” Carlo said suddenly, while turning back around. It was clear he had become frustrated with the situation even though he wasn’t driving. “Are we finished with your doings or what?”

  Yoshiaki held up his hand: “We’re trying to decide. Give us a moment!”

  “Oh, for shit’s sake!” Carlo murmured, and turned back around. He actually thought about getting the hell out of the car and walking, letting Brennan pick him up when he caught up to him. He again turned back to his two wards. “You bozos are going to have to make up your minds. Otherwise I’m just going to dump your asses here and let you find a taxi. I got things to do myself.”

  “Where is Fort Lee, New Jersey?” Susumu asked. He was holding a card. On his lap was Satoshi’s open wallet.

  “It’s across the river,” Carlo responded with some hesitation. With the traffic as bad as it was, one of the last places he wanted to go was Fort Lee, New Jersey, which required crossing the George Washington Bridge. At that time of day, what would normally take twenty minutes or so would probably take well over an hour, maybe as much as two, and only if they were lucky and there were no accidents.

  Susumu looked at his partner and said in Japanese, “Since we have the address, we should go and see if we can find the books. The saiko-komon said he wanted the lab books for sure. After we take the books we can take all identification. No one will know.”

  “We don’t know if the books will be there.”

  “We don’t know if they’ll not be there.”

  For a moment Yoshiaki stared ahead, pondering the pluses and minuses. “Okay,” he finally said in English. “We go to Fort Lee!”

  Carlo exhaled loudly and spun back around to look out the windshield. Ahead all he could see was a sea of stationary cars in both directions, even though there was a string of green lights stretched out into the distance. “I guess we go to New Jersey,” he said in a tired voice.

  As Carlo had feared, it did take two hours to get to Fort Lee, and then another twenty minutes to find the appropriate street. It was short and alley-like, with several deserted redbrick one-story commercial buildings covered with graffiti, as well as a number of tiny run-down houses clad in old-fashioned off-white asbestos shingles. The sun had nearly set, and with the cloudy sky, Brennan had to turn on his headlights. The lights in the small house that matched the address in Satoshi’s wallet were also on, in contrast to those of the immediate neighbors’, which were dark and looked deserted.

  “Here it is,” Brennan said. “What a palace! What’s the plan?” He was looking out his window at the overgrown yard filled with all manner of rubbish, including a rusting tricycle, a broken swing set, several bald tires, and a collection of empty beer cans. “What do you want us to do?”

  Susumu opened one of the rear doors, and he and Yoshiaki slid out. Yoshiaki leaned back in. “We’ll be quick. Maybe it would be best if you turn off the headlights.”

  Brennan did as he was told. The scene retreated into a misty gloom, which at least eliminated most of the trash and junk strewn about all the yards. At the same time it emphasized the dead-looking, skeletonized trees silhouetted against the pale, turbulent sky. “This place gives me the creeps,” he said.

  “Ditto,” Carlo said.

  The two hoodlums watched as the Japanese men hastily mounted the rickety steps leading up to a small covered porch. At that point they were mere dark silhouettes against the muted incandescent light emanating through the glazed front door. Pausing, both pulled out handguns from shoulder holsters.

  “Holy shit!” Brennan voiced. “What the hell are they going to do?”

  The next instant one of the intruders used the butt of his gun to smash the glass in the front door, reached in, and then opened the door. In a blink of the eye, both disappeared inside with the door left swinging silently on its hinges. Brennan turned to Carlo. “I don’t like this! This is potentially turning into something that’s a lot more than I expected. Worst case, I thought these clowns were going to beat someone up.”

  “I don’t like it either,” Carlo admitted. “I don’t like being any part of this.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes, then we’re outta here. They can find their own way back to the city.”

  Both men fidgeted, keeping their eyes on the ostensibly peaceful little house. A few minutes later there was the muted sound of a gunshot followed quickly by several others. Both men jumped at each of the reports, guessing what each meant: a person was being killed in cold blood, and they, Brennan and Carlo, were accomplices.

  During the next minute there were three more shots, for a total of six,
causing Brennan and Carlo’s fears and anxieties to skyrocket. The problem was that neither knew what they should do, meaning exactly what would their boss, Louie Barbera, want them to do. Would he want them to stay and risk getting caught and charged as accomplices, or should they get the hell away from there to avoid putting the whole Vaccarro organization in jeopardy? Since there was no way of knowing the answer to this question, they stayed frozen in place until Carlo suddenly had the idea of putting in an emergency call to Barbera.

  With the sudden movement of getting out his phone, Carlo caused Brennan to start anew. “Jesus!” Brennan complained. “Give me some warning!”

  “Sorry,” Carlo said. “I’ve got to talk to Louie. He has to know what’s going down here. This is crazy.” Intent on dialing, Carlo didn’t even feel Brennan tapping on his shoulder until Brennan increased the force to a near punch.

  “They’re coming out!” Brennan said anxiously, pointing out his side window.

  Carlo looked. Both Susumu and Yoshiaki were charging down the porch steps and running toward the idling Denali, carrying loaded pillowcases over their shoulders. Carlo flipped his phone shut just as the men reached the vehicle and piled into the backseat. Without anyone speaking, Brennan put the SUV into gear and pulled away. He waited almost a block to turn on the headlights.

  Brennan and Carlo didn’t speak for about ten minutes, whereas the two Japanese men had been carrying on a progressively animated conversation in Japanese. It was obvious they were not pleased with their accomplishments inside the house. By the time they reached the George Washington Bridge, Carlo had relaxed enough to talk.