Belka, Why Don't You Bark - By Hideo Furukawa Page 0,65

all the spiritual agonies he was suffering, the blistering pain in his stomach, the boys the organization had sacrificed…maybe none of it had anything to do with his daughter.

He clutched his stomach. Fuck, have I gotten skinny.

Losing my imposing presence.

He had a bad feeling about all this. And his instinct was right. The main branch registered its displeasure. They were scraping the bottom of the barrel, and they hadn’t yet found a taker. One of the main branch’s advisers came as a messenger. He implied, without actually saying so, that the Boss was guilty of actions at odds with the Way of the Yakuza. It was perfectly clear what the problem was. Perhaps, the Boss thought, he’d gone overboard in trying to find his bullets. The messenger told him of various other unpleasant rumors.

Then, finally, he cut to the chase. “So you mean to start a war in Russia?”

The Boss gaped. Had someone ratted on him?

You’re sending hit men over, aren’t you? the adviser shouted. The main branch will not stand for out-of-control violence of that sort! He went on bellowing. It dawned on the Boss that they must have heard about the cash flowing in from the far side of the Japan Sea. Aha, he thought. So that’s it. They noticed how well we’re doing, so they did some poking around.…We made a bit too much, I guess.

The messenger’s next statement confirmed his suspicions. “The main branch is considering your expulsion. Your territory would go right to the Chief. They’re ready to replace you. If you want to put things back in order, it’ll cost five hundred million. You’ve got the money, I’m sure. You’ve been making it hand over fist in Russia.”

“Five hundred…million?”

“That’s what the main branch wants.”

They did their homework, the Boss thought. With our fucking coffers as larded as they are, we could send ’em five hundred million in a flash. And they want us to hand it over, just like that? Pay our dues? You must be fucking kidding, the Boss thought. The man they called the Boss, who had just been threatened with the loss of that title. My boys died for that money. The first guys I sent over as bullets were my own, you know, official members of this organization! They laid their lives on the line, all for my little darling. And you’re telling me to fucking cough up that money? Cash I got at the price of my boys’ lives?

No boss would agree to that.

Not even a hell boss.

The messenger gazed coolly at the Boss. As if to say, So, what’s it going to be? You dick, the Boss thought. You think you’ve got me by the balls, and you’re laughing inside. You’re fucking chuckling. Messenger from the main branch, my ass. Think you can give me advice, do me the favor of sharing your great wisdom? Just trying to get your bit, you fuckhead. No sooner had this thought flashed into his mind than he put his hand behind his back, lifting his suit jacket. He kept a Beretta tucked into his belt for protection. He whipped it out. He fired. The gun. At the fuckhead.

Three shots.

No, four shots.

Then, without so much as a glance at the body, he grabbed his stomach and moaned.

The incident had taken place in a closed room. The Boss’s office at headquarters was totally soundproof, bulletproof, constructed so that it would be safe even if people smashed their way into the building—or, conversely, even if his boys were working some bastard over, torturing him. The Boss took three or four small bottles of medicine out of a cabinet, grabbing at them like straws, and gulped them down. Digestive tonics. He rocked his head back and forth a few times, trying to reset himself. He rubbed his hands down his front where the esophagus was, to make sure the medicine was on its way. Phew, he sighed. The gastric acid in his breath stung, but not so much he couldn’t bear it.

He dropped himself into a leather chair.

He picked up the remote control on the table. This one worked both the TV and the video deck. The TV was positioned in front of him. He turned it on. The screen flashed white for a second, then faded to black. The video player was already going. There was already a tape in the deck. He rewound it for a while, then pressed PLAY.

His daughter appeared.

My darling.

She sat in a cold-looking room with a dog, glaring into