Yamada hated indecision. He found himself growing increasingly agitated as he prowled his walk-in wardrobe, seeking the perfect item to complete his ensemble for the evening. He knew the aesthetics for that night's appointment would be just so: everything from the décor to the food would be complementary. His vanity insisted that he not detract from that carefully cultivated ambience.
At last, he found it: a long, hand stitched cashmere coat, tailored for him in Hong Kong, when reliable craftsmen still operated out of small shops near the harbour. The charcoal of the fabric was conservative, the fit immaculate. Yes, it would do nicely.
He moved through into the reception room, his eyes scanning the rich spread of food and drink set out on a low table. He had made careful choices there, too. Something for every palette. Yamada turned to his control console and set about preparing the rest of the room. The picture windows morphed into forced-perspective renderings of Ueno Park. The panorama was a night view, set during the optimal period for hanami, or cherry-blossom viewing.
There was a hyper-realism to the depiction, each tree perfectly illuminated, the delicate pink and white sakura blossoms almost neon-like in their reflected intensity, contrasting with the inky night sky. Yamada paused, added a hint of Shinobazu Pond beyond the trees, the Benten temple in the middle. The small red lanterns hanging from tree branches over the pathways came last.
Of course, this Ueno Park was devoid of people, its pleasures reserved exclusively for Yamada and his guest. For anyone else, this ghost-town surrealism would have been unsettling. Hanami festivals were crowded, social affairs. Yamada however, found pleasure in the idea that this place was his and his alone, an expression of his power.
A 'beep' from the intercom broke Yamada's immersion in his virtual world.
“Your guest has arrived, Yamada-sama,” came the anxious voice of Ito. “The maiko, sir,” he continued. As if such clarification were necessary.
Yamada tutted softly before responding, “excellent. Please escort her to my suite.” He had tried to sound eager, but not too eager. Friendly too. A generous, benevolent boss. Not at all like the Yakuza oyabun suggested by so many vicious rumours.
Moments later, the doors to his penthouse sanctuary opened slowly, admitting his guest. As she took her first tentative steps into the room, Yamada felt a surge of exhilaration. The maiko seemed to have stepped straight out of his vision of Ueno, her fragile beauty enhanced by his painstaking creation. He made a mental note to commend the house-mother on her choice and stepped forward to receive his visitor.
The plush carpeted hallways of the Ebisu seemed as if they belonged to a different building now; fewer guards could be seen patrolling, all evidence of her previous assault wiped away like some inconvenient spill. Domino moved slowly, following demurely behind one of the pseudo-ninjas. His gait was awkward as he was forced to adjust to her minimalist figure-of-eight footsteps, the clip-clop of her tall geta sandals almost conducting his pace. Under other circumstances, she might have found their unlikely procession funny.
They arrived at the foot of the stairs, the only spot which hadn't been completely restored yet. Deep gouges in the plaster-work and nearby door frame remained as mute testament to the ferocity of the blast she had engineered to throw her from the Ebisu. Domino wondered briefly if she would encounter the sumo here again. She hoped not.
Her escort paused, indicated the damage and gave a nervous bow.
“Please excuse the damage. Faulty gas pipe. Repaired now,” he assured her.
She returned his bow with perfect form, smiling her acceptance.
“This way, please. You must climb the stairs. Apologies,” he said, offering two more dips of his head for good measure. “Please,” he said, gesturing for her to continue alone. He then stood to one side, looking for all the world like some bizarre hotel concierge. Domino offered a final polite bow to the man before daintily ascending the indicated steps.
The imposing façade of hand carved oak doors awaited her at the top of the dimly lit stairway. She knew from her review of the blueprints Angel had obtained that the doors would, in fact, stop anything short of anti-tank weaponry. They also provided complete soundproofing, which may yet prove useful.
The doors opened automatically on her approach, revealing hundreds of vivid cherry blossom trees against a perfect night sky. Red festival lanterns swung gently in an imaginary breeze. Walking towards her, among all that beauty, was the man she had come to kill.
His face bore the lines of the intervening years since Domino had seen him last and his hair was now more salt than pepper but it was most definitely, unmistakably him. Kentaro Yamada. Yakuza oyabun, respected businessman, supplier of weaponry, destroyer of innocence.
Domino felt unbridled fury and anguish welling from deep within her as she confronted this spectre of her past. She fought urgently to sublimate it, hide it away. He couldn't see. Couldn't know. Not yet.
The rage won out. She was trembling all over and the cranes on her kimono began to take flight.
Oh, but this is just delightful! Yamada thought to himself as the maiko stood before him, her nerves all too evident as she flushed and trembled like a leaf in an autumn breeze.
She was truly magnificent, the epitome of Japanese beauty. Her appeal was enhanced by a faint sense of familiarity, almost as if she reminded him of a high-school sweetheart. He watched with ill-concealed amusement as the smart-silk kimono reacted to her anxiety, the brush-stroke cranes fluttering briefly into the air as if disturbed by a predator.
Her face was a mask, impassive in spite of her nerves. That impressed Yamada. He decided to make her life a little easier.
“My name is Kentaro Yamada. Welcome to my home. Won't you please come in? Let us enjoy a perfect night.”
His greeting seemed to relax her and she bowed deeply before taking her first steps closer to him. Her perfume reached him then, subtle floral tones tantalising him, carrying with them a hint of a promise. She reached slowly into the elegant drawstring purse at her wrist, her eyes still not meeting his.
Copyright © A. Flood 2010
Copyright © A. Flood 2010
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