"Aniki, what are you doing back here?" Jinpei asked me as he set my bottle down on the table. "Everybody else is over at the bar.""I know," I told him. "Don't broadcast where I am." I'd been hoping he wouldn't find me back here in the booths, but it was inevitable. Jun's place isn't all that big.
"Antisocial today?" The kid paid no attention to the fact that his voice was carrying over the loud music in the pub. "Or did you sneak out of the hospital again? I didn't see you hobble in."
"Will you keep it down?" I said through my teeth. "Would I be here if I sneaked out?"
"Probably not. How do you feel?" His expression went from sarcasm to concern. I looked like shit, with all the bruises and bandages and my left arm in a sling. I felt like shit too, and I hated being asked about it.
"Unfriendly." I scowled to emphasize the hint.
Concern went back to sarcasm. "You know, Utoland is full of bars where you could go and nobody'd recognize you."
"I don't have a bottle reserved at any of those bars."
The kid sighed, seeming older than he was. "You want anything else? I mean, straight scotch can't be doing your stomach any good. You want water for this? Ice? Any food?"
"You sound like somebody's mother," I growled.
Jinpei shrugged. "Well, we shouldn't have non-paying customers hogging up the tables, soÉ."
"Now you sound just like Jun. Speaking of customers, I see two impatient ones over there." I used my good hand to point at the two women in the booth across the aisle and two over.
"Oh, you're just saying that to get rid of me," he said, then saw the women glaring at us. "And it's working. Later."
I watched Jinpei wait on the women and run off in the direction of the bar. I shouldn't have snarled at the kid--he might have sneaked me something or extended my tab just a little more. It had been a bad year for racing, and my air ticket to Sicily had taken up the last of my savings. I'd bought the bottle of scotch during better days, but it wouldn't last, and it would be two long weeks of fried eggs and instant noodles before payday rolled around.
Jinpei was waiting tables instead of working behind the bar, so it must be happy hour. Although the kid's an excellent bartender and the regulars are used to him, newcomers to the Snack-Jun are floored by the sight of a ten-year-old boy mixing drinks. Shit--I'd learned how to make martinis for my father when I was six. At seven I'd learned to throw a knife, and at eight started shooting lessons. My mother hated the idea--she wanted me away from the violence. But my father thought that no matter what I did with my life, I'd need to learn fighting skills, and the sooner the better. If only he'd knownÉ.
There I go about my family again. For the past ten years I'd shut out most of the memories about my parents or my childhood, but these days I can't seem to get out of the past. It started with the nightmares, where over and over again, I heard my parents die, and pulled the gun from my father's hand to face a Devil Star assassin. After two weeks of sleepless nights, the fits started. Any bright flash of light caused a flashback, and I'd freeze up, sick to my stomach and unable to move as I felt the concussion of the assassin's bomb exploding; my clothes and skin burning from the blast, the sand grinding into my face.
To snap me out of it, Ken forced me through the worst attack of my life--made me ride through it, remember all of it, including things I didn't want to know. My father had been a high officer in Gallactor--a leader in a terrorist organization that made the Nazis look tame. The fits stopped, but were replaced by a new kind of pain that distracted me enough that I did something really stupid.
September 12th was the anniversary of my parents' assassination, and I decided to go back to BC Island--for what, I didn't know. Maybe the place would help me put together the rest of my past, before the bombing and that assassin's ugly words--make my parents more than two faceless shadows cut down by gunfire, which was how I'd remembered them for the past few years. I hadn't expected to meet anyone I knew, especially not Alan. And though the place is known as "Gallactor Island," I hadn't expected to have the entire island gunning for me. Neither had Nambu, for that matter. He's pissed that my cover was blown, and blames himself for letting me go. I still wonder what the hell tipped them off.
Two things came of the escapade: by the time the Kagaku Ninjatai took me off the island, the Gallactor hold on it had been broken at last... and Alan was dead.
I don't know what was on Ken's mind when he put himself between me and Alan and claimed to be Condor Joe. It was stupid. I was in shock, and when Alan's rifle went up, all I knew was that my brother was being threatened. I fired in pure reflex, though if I'd had my wits about me I'd have put the bullet into his shoulder instead. I will never forget the startled look on his face as he fell.
Alan, you idiot. Why did you try and teach me a lesson? You knew I wasn't like the usual black sheep you try to set on the right path. And I didn't realize it, but you knew who I really was.
Ken, you fool. If you knew the gun wasn't loaded, why didn't you step aside? Why didn't you let me face Alan alone?
No. No, it's my own fucking fault. Why is it that hindsight is always so clear?
I tossed back my first shot. The whisky stung the back of my throat and burned all the way down. I knew alcohol wouldn't dull the pain much, but hoped it might anesthetize the part of my mind that cared.
We all watched the funeral together, then claiming to be an old friend, Ken went down and attended Alan's wake. There were just enough of the "lost lambs" Alan had rescued for Ken to fit in. Some of Alan's other friends and family members were passing mementoes around, and Ken managed to pick up some stuff that he thought I might want. Most are photographs; creased, spotted and dog-eared. Alan's family hadn't owned a camera, but I'd gotten one for my eighth birthday, and used the pictures as gifts or bribes.
I pulled the photos out of my wallet and laid them out on the table.
There's a picture of me and my parents--a lucky find since before now I didn't have anything other than ISO file photos. I hadn't known why Alan had recognized me so quickly, after ten years, but to see this photo.... Take away my father's mustache and a few years worth of stress, lighten the hair, and I can easily imagine looking at the same face in the mirror. My mother is smiling, tall and self-assured; a knockout with long legs, reddish-blonde hair and large, mischievous green eyes. I'm standing next to my father and trying to mimic his expression. The housekeeper took this picture when I got the camera.
The next four pictures are of Alan and his uncles and cousins, grandparents and in-laws. There was always somebody visiting his house, and though his family didn't have any money, they always managed to take care of all the guests. I always wondered what happened to our relatives and why we didn't have family come to visit. I remember having grandparents somewhere in Sicily, but after we started moving around, I never saw them again. No doubt they think we're all dead, and it's better that way.
BC Island had been the first place my family had settled into for longer than a year. It was dull at first--the resort area where we lived was occupied by young corporate wolves on holiday and members of the Family, and none of them had kids. Not long after we arrived, I decided to sneak out of the resort and explore a nearby village. My nice clothes made me stand out like a beacon against the shabby buildings of the slums and it didn't take long for a gang of older, bigger boys to notice and close in.
Luckily I saw them first. Fights were all a part of moving into a new location, and I was ready for that. The area was full of rocks and debris, so picked up a few good pieces, then stood waiting with my back to the wall until I could see all of them. There were seven boys, about ten to fourteen years old, very confident. They didn't expect a little eight-year-old kid to make the first move, so when I brought the fight to them, I had the element of surprise on my side.
First rule of gang warfare: go after the leader first. I singled out the biggest boy and nailed him between the eyes with a sharp piece of brick. I made three more hits before I dropped the rocks and bolted. But I wasn't fast enough. One kid, with the advantage of a longer stride, caught up and grabbed me by the back of my shirt. I already had my hand in my pants pocket as he hauled back hard on the shirt, swung me around--
And found himself on the business end of a switchblade. The kid screamed as I cut him, then he let go. I hurtled away from him and skidded around a corner, hoping I could get out of sight before my luck ran out.
"Hey--hey! Hey!"
The stage whisper came somewhere off to the left, and caught me by surprise. I stopped, knife ready, to see a boy about my own age and size, with a mess of bright red hair, goggling at me from his hiding place behind a ruined wall. From the look on his face and the way he held himself, I guessed he wasn't a threat.
"What?" I said.
"You tryin' to get massacred?" the redhead exclaimed. "That's Pollino's gang!"
"So?" "They're the toughest kids in the village. You were lucky--they won't make the same mistake next time they see you. C'mon!"
"Where?"
"You don't know this area very well, do you? I'll take you to a safe place."
Something told me this kid was okay, so I followed him over walls and around crumbling, deserted buildings until we stopped at an old house on the beach with boarded windows. The red-headed kid talked all the way there. "...Usually they take our money, and if we don't have any, they knock us around. Usually not enough to get our parents mad, but bad enough, y'know? This is our hideout--that is, for me and some other guys. The gangs don't know anything about it."
"Oh yeah?" It looked pretty interesting to me.
"Yeah. You're the first kid I've ever seen fight back--it was cool! I've never seen you before. Where do you live?"
"South Beach."
He wrinkled his nose. "Snob Beach? I didn't know there were any kids over there."
"There aren't," I said. "Just me."
"What's your name?"
"Giorge Asakura."
The boy squinted at me. "That's a funny name."
"Well, it's mine." I bristled, and he backed off. "What's yours?"
"Alan DeLauria." We were best friends by the end of the day.
In the course of that year, we formed a new gang. Alan's friends were the first to join forces with the outsider "with all the cool moves," and as our group gained in strength and reputation, some of the older kids drifted in as well. In our little hideout on the beach, we practiced on an old sandbag Alan had rigged up, or plotted raids on the other gangs. Two boys who were training in boxing tried to teach the us what they knew. Kids whose families had television sets would invite us over to watch the kung-fu movies on weekends.
"We were horrible kids," Father Alan had said later. "Gang fights, robbery, arson... I'm ashamed to remember those days." It hadn't seemed so bad back then. The rumbles were for turf and glory. The robberies were mostly "five-finger discounts" in the market, though one day we stole a tourist's rentacar and left it five blocks away. The arson was an accident--Tony had tried to set fire to a rival's hideout, and the flames had spread to a dress shop. It was odd that despite the dangerous existence I led, I never got in trouble with the police, and never received more than cuts and bruises. I guess I never saw the guards.
The last photo is of me and Alan--two rumpled little boys, splattered with mud, standing on the front steps of a run-down fisherman's house, mugging wildly for the camera. This picture brought back more than the others. I stopped to take another sip of scotch, then let down the walls and turned the memories loose.
"Hold still, both of you!"Alan's mother snapped the shutter. To me she said, "Your mama and papa will love this picture. It shows what you really look like." I just grinned at her. "Go get cleaned up. It's late. And leave the cat outside." Alan let go of the old tomcat, who landed on the step and bumped his head on our shins. "Gatto" was our mascot and ratcatcher; we found Palumbo's boys trying to knock him from a tree with sticks one day. Alan--always the one to take up a cause, and with a louder mouth and less sense than the rest of the gang--stormed right up to stop them. Only the fact that I and three other guys were hiding out in the bushes with slingshots and a full load of rocks kept him from getting killed. Mrs. DeLauria had been feeding the cat ever since
We went into the bathroom where we tossed the soap around and splashed each other with cold water until Alan's mother came after us. I changed into a spare set of clothes I kept at Alan's place before I went racing down the road that led from the poor fishing district to South Beach and home.
My mother met me at the door. "Just in time," she said. "Papa's waiting." I held up my hands to show they were clean as I went toward the dining room.
My father was already sitting in his place at the end of the table, reading a newspaper. He put the paper down when he saw me. "Good evening."
"Good evening, Papa," I said. My folks insisted on formal manners at the table.
"Mr. Santi called. He wants you and your friends to stop digging in the ledge beneath his house. It's killing his rose bushes."
"Yes, Papa."
My father glanced toward the door to make sure we were still alone. "Besides," he added in a low voice, "Your treasures have been removed."
"Yessir." Papa always seemed to know what I was up to--I didn't know why, then. In a way I was relieved. Tony Catalano had found a corpse in an alleyway, and that corpse'd had a gun. And bullets. Everyone thought the weapon was great, and everyone wanted to use it. But when Tony showed us where the body was, I noticed that there were a lot of bullet holes in it. Everybody else talked about how gross the corpse looked, but nobody bothered to think about why the man was dead. We'd had a hell of an argument before we agreed to stash the weapon under the roses--my excuse was that we couldn't let the other gangs find it. Papa didn't miss the relieved look on my face, and answered with a grin of satisfaction.
Mama walked in and sat down. A moment later, the cook arrived with the first of dinner. Grace was said, and nobody talked much until I'd put away half of what was on my plate. That in itself was odd, but I didn't notice at the time.
Then my parents dropped the bomb.
"Giorge," Papa said. "I have some sudden news. We will be moving in the next few days."
I couldn't believe it. For a long moment I stared at him with my eyes wide. Then I exploded. "Papa! I don't wanna move again! I like it here! Why do we have to move all the time? I'm not going!"
"That's enough!" my father snapped. My mother watched sympathetically, sipping her wine. Papa glared at me until I looked away. "You will stay home tomorrow," he continued. "You will be going to a meeting along with your mother and me, and I expect you to be on your best behavior. There are new clothes on your bed for you to wear tomorrow."
"'Scuse me." I bolted from the table and ran outside, slamming the door behind me. I heard Mama call after me, then Papa say something, and I knew I was in trouble. But I didn't care--it just wasn't fair! We'd already lived in twelve different cities and seven different countries, and I barely had enough time to learn about my surroundings before we went somewhere else. Even with only a year here, I had put down roots and made friends. I didn't want to move again.
I wanted to talk to Alan, but by this time he would be at church with his parents. Briefly I considered running away, but that was stupid. I knew what life was like for orphans on the streets here. I sat on the sandy ledge behind the house, watching the waves roll in until it became too dark to see, then sneaked inside.
My mother opened the bedroom door just as I had gotten into my pajamas. I braced myself for the explosion, but she only sat down on the bed beside me. "You know what I say about going to bed angry," she said.
"Why do we have to move?" I demanded.
"Your father's job is very important, and sometimes he has to move from place to place to do his work. He takes us along because he wants us to be with him." She smoothed my hair with one hand. "I know you have lots of friends and you like it here. Maybe we can move back sometime soon."
She sat with me awhile, and I felt a little better. Finally I went out to tell Papa goodnight. He was sitting on a recliner in the study, reading a newspaper. He looked up sharply when I entered the room, then motioned to the spot by his chair. "Come over here."
"Am I in trouble?" I asked suspiciously.
His expression relaxed. "Maybe," he said. He put the newspaper down and hauled me onto his lap. Both my parents were pretty physical, giving hugs and kisses. When I was in private I didn't mind.
"Mama said that we could move back here later," I said.
"Maybe, but no promises." He had his arms around me in a firm grip, holding me captive. "Will you be good tomorrow?"
I considered his mood and decided to take the chance. "Maybe," I mimicked, "but no promises."
Papa chuckled. "Definitely, and you'd better promise. Promise?"
It wouldn't be so hard. Say hello, shake the stranger's hand, then stay out of the way until it was time to leave. "I promise."
"Good. Now sleep well, because we have a busy day tomorrow." I hugged my father. He held me tightly for just a moment longer before letting me go, and I padded off to bed.
Around midnight I woke and crawled out of bed for a trip to the bathroom. As I walked back to my room, I saw light under the door to my parents' room, heard voices, and sneaked over to investigate. Luiz had once told the gang about one night when he peeked in on his parents and saw them doing some really gross things. Tony said everybody's parents did them. I wanted to find out if mine did too. Peeking under the door, all I could see was an inch above the carpet and my father's feet pacing back and forth. Nope, Luiz said they had to be lying down. I smelled cigarette smoke--odd since Papa rarely smoked anymore.
"Can you tell me what this is all about?" my mother's voice said.
The pacing feet stopped for a moment. "This is very risky," Papa answered in a low voice. "We shouldn't discuss it, but yes, you should know what to expect."
"What do you mean?" "The man we meet tomorrow is offering us a position with his organization, the ISO. He guarantees very good money and asylum in America. I like his ideas."
"Asylum?" my mother gasped.
"My position is being challenged, Catarina, and no matter what I do, I'm losing. The Syndicate has changed its position in the past few months, especially in the Asian sectors. There's talk of taking over the world by force, using criminals and convicts as throwaway soldiers, and creating giant war machines. Taking over the world!" he snarled. "It sounds like a bad movie. They're children, dressing up in costumes and playing games, while all around them people die for real." He went back to pacing. "I've fought it as best I could. The European sectors are falling to this way of thinking though they know I am against it. I wish I knew who was coercing them!"
"So you're leaving?" Mama asked softly.
Papa's feet stopped, facing my mother's. I stopped looking through the crack and pressed my ear to the door so I could hear better.
"There is no leaving the Syndicate, unless it's in a box," Papa whispered. "But I have to do something before we are eliminated as obsolete." "Would they--"
"It's not me I'm worried about, but you and Giorge. I don't like it, but we have to put our lives in the hands of the man we meet tomorrow. Be prepared to leave with him immediately, if he asks."
"Dear God...."
I had no idea what they were talking about. I knew my father was a very important man in what was called The Syndicate, but I didn't really know what he did for a living. Every morning Papa left with his briefcase, and every evening he returned, just like the fathers did on all the TV shows. Once in a while he took business trips. We had a lot of money and a lot of servants, though many wore dark suits and sunglasses. Papa never seemed to be concerned about them, so I learned to ignore them too. Now Papa was talking about quitting his job and joining the ISO. And he sounded scared. I didn't know anything in the world could scare my Papa. What was wrong?
My foot had fallen asleep, and the prickling was fast becoming unbearable. I straightened my leg, and my foot hit the opposite wall with a soft thud.
Suddenly the bedroom door burst open. I saw the metallic flash of a gun as my father towered over me.
"GIORGE!" he roared. "GO BACK TO BED! NOW!"
I scrambled to my feet and dashed to my room, ignoring the pain in my foot. I dove onto the bed so hard that the springs squealed and the headboard whacked against the wall.
Behind me, my father's silhouette loomed ominously in the doorway, and there was another roar: "Get to sleep!"
"Yes sir!" My voice was muffled by my covers. I waited for the punishment that had to be coming, but the shadow retreated and the door closed.
I wanted to go back and try to hear more, but this time I didn't dare. The memory of that gun pointed at my face terrified me--it meant things were serious. Why? And what was the ISO? The light underneath my door dimmed--my parents had shut off the lights in their room.
I mulled these questions over until I couldn't stay awake any longer.
The next day I learned just how serious things were. My father's decision left me an orphan with a bloody vendetta against an organization of well over two billion--a Syndicate my father had once led, but one that had changed. Not once had I heard him use the name, "Gallactor." And the representative from the ISO saved my life, became my mentor and is giving me the skills and weapons to carry out said vendetta. And I kept my promise to return to BC Island, even if it was ten years late, and when I did....What would Papa think of me now? Children dressing up in costumes and playing games, while all around them people die for real.... Of course, people also die as a result of Mafia extortion and drug sales, and the occasional gunfight, but a lot less than get crushed, poisoned, or blown to bits by Berg Katse's latest creation. Is the Condor, in his dark feathers, just another one of those children?
My glass was empty, but I didn't want another drink. The straight scotch on an empty stomach was making me feel queasy, and my head was beginning to pound. Maybe I should leave. Awkwardly I started to stuff the photographs back into my wallet, and the pain that shot through my left arm made me stop with a grimace.
"Saa, Joe."
I looked up. A full glass was set on the table before me. Ken set his own glass down and dropped into the seat opposite, regarding me intently.
"What do you want?" I asked carefully.
"I thought you could use this. Straight orange juice. A double. Jinpei said you hadn't eaten all day."
Dammit, I thought I told that kid to keep quiet! Ah, what the hell. I lifted the glass. "Salut," I said with a wary grin, and downed the juice. It helped.
Jinpei appeared at the table a moment later with a burger and basket of big potato fries. Seeing my expression, he said quickly, "I didn't do it."
"Didn't do what?" Ken asked.
"Nothin'." The boy dashed off. Ken looked back at me, and I shook my head slowly. Ken shrugged.
"How are you feeling?'
"Like I just got out of the hospital after getting shot too many times," I said in a low voice, and we both grinned like idiots. It was a stupid question. Ken took a bite out of his burger and I swallowed, trying to look away. The smell was getting to me.
"Bet you're sick of hospital food," Ken said, and gestured toward the fries. "You want some of these?" He blinked as most of them vanished from the basket. "Uh, help yourself."
"You offered."
"So I did. Hey Jinpei!" Ken hollered. "Another round for me and the guy with the bandages!"
It didn't take long for the kid to return with more fries and another burger, and I smelled a setup. But by this time my stomach was telling me not to care. The extra salt and grease in my system improved my mood. Ken kept up an intermittent chatter about little things, and then Jun came to the table with a plate of fruit. "For the walking wounded," she smiled, and left.
"What about me?" Ken called back indignantly.
"You owe me more money than he does."
Then Ryu lumbered up to see what all the noise was about, and after a quick trip back to get the remains of his food, invited himself to sit down.
"What are those from?" he asked, pointing to the pictures on the table. I started to put them away again, then changed my mind and laid them out flat on the table. They didn't know about any of this, and maybe they should. I explained each one, and the others passed the photos around, and asked questions that led to stories. We laughed at a lot of the things that Alan had been so ashamed of. I felt something like a weight lift from me as I talked.
I noticed Jun and Jinpei coming over more often to check on us, and the kid brought a round of iced teas. For once there was no talk about who paid for what. As I looked at them all, I realized that my second family, my brothers and sister, had come to offer their support. And they had been there for a long time, just waiting for me to let them help.
Huh. Sounds like a bad TV sitcom.
Alan was right, though. Our lives had been rough. Allowed to go on like that, what would I have become? Even more surprising was now I knew why I wanted revenge. I wasn't like Ken, who saw his father as a hero. Or like Jinpei, who could use some parental guidance. I was angry because something I valued had been taken away from me; that someone had had the gall to mess with me and my own. What was important now, I realized as I looked at everyone in the booth with me, was to keep Gallactor from taking away anyone else who was important to me. And with the job we do, every day, everyone's life is at risk.
I have to hurry. The Syndicate must be destroyed; faster now than ever before.
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