prime their guns and Frankenstein opens my door. ‘Would you prefer to stay in the nice safe car with a scoobied-up sex nymphet tart?’ Before I work out what to say Lizard swipes at my baseball cap. ‘Pity. Yer can’t.’ We get out and walk towards the door of the poodle warehouse. An insect-o-cutor bristles every few seconds. From inside the warehouse I can hear a roaring, swelling and sinking. Two bouncers appear from the shadows of the entrance and approach the horn players. ‘Evening, gentlemen. First, I gotta ask for any weapons. House rules – I lock ’em up safe. Second, we don’t have your motors on the list. Who are you with?’
The horn players part and Morino walks through. ‘Me.’
The bouncers blench.
Morino stares. ‘I heard a rumour about a dog show tonight.’
The more colossal bouncer pulls himself together first. ‘Mr Morino—’
‘The old Mr Morino ended the day Mr Tsuru did. My name is Father now.’
‘Yes, uh, Father.’ The bouncer flips open his mobile phone. ‘Just you give me a moment and I’ll make sure the best, uh, ringside seat is cleared for you and your party—’ Morino nods at Frankenstein, who knifes him about where his heart is. Right down to the hilt. A horn player jerks his head back and probably breaks his neck. It all happens too fast to register, and too fast for the victim to make a sound. The other two horn players fell the second bouncer. Lizard volleys the gun out of his hand and kisses the tumbled man. No he doesn’t. He bites the bouncer’s nose – and spits out specks of dark. At this point I look away. Thuds, grunts, blacken and bruise. ‘Dump the fuckrats behind those crates,’ orders Morino. The kicked-away mobile phone rings. Frankenstein crunches its shell with a single stomp. ‘Taiwanese fucking tat. Nothing is made in Japan any more.’ Lizard opens the warehouse door. Inside is mulchy and meaty. Row after dim row of pallets stacked with tins of dogfood. This place is enormous. Cheers and yells slosh from the distance. The horn players lead the way. I falter, and get a whack from Frankenstein in my coccyx. ‘No stalling, Miyake. You’re one of us until the clock strikes midnight.’ I obey. I have to. All I can do to calm my survival instinct is to lower my baseball cap. Nobody in the shouting, hundred-plus crowd notices our approach. The horn players plough through the outer walls – Yakuza shirts and tattoos to a man. People whirl around angrily, catch sight of Morino, gape, and fall away. We reach the edge of a spotlit pit. A grey mastiff and a black Doberman are straining at their leashes, globs of saliva flying off their fangs. On the far side of the pit a man stands on a crate. He scribbles down the bets the crowd shout at him. Hairy fat diamonds bulge through his string vest. I am sandwiched between Frankenstein behind and Morino in front – as safe as it gets – so I have a decent view as Morino pulls a gun from his jacket and shoots the mastiff through the head.
Silence.
A stain eats up the pit floor around the dead dog’s head. The Doberman whimpers behind its trainer. The horn players already have their weapons trained on the crowd. They fall back. I should not be here. The mastiff trainer regains his power of speech. ‘You shot Mr Nagasaki’s best dog!’
Morino acts confused. ‘Whose best dog?’
‘Jun Nagasaki, you, you, you—’
‘Oh, him.’
The trainer is apoplectic. ‘Jun Nagasaki! Jun Nagasaki!’
‘I heard that name too much today. Don’t mention it again.’
‘Jun Nagasaki’ll peel your skin off, you, you, you—’
Morino points his gunBang! The trainer buckles over and lands on his mastiff. Their blood pools. Morino turns to Frankenstein. ‘I warned him. Uncle? I warned him, yeah?’ Frankenstein nods. ‘Nobody can say you never gave a fair warning, Father.’ The crowd is still anchored to the concrete floor. Morino hoicks, aims, and spits on the trainer. ‘Guns, and fairy godmothers. They make your wildest wish come true. Every last pigfucking one of you will leave. Except Yamada here.’ He levels the gun at the bookie on the crate. ‘I want a word in your ear, Yamada. The rest of you – scram!
Go!’ The horn players fire off a round each. The crowd drain away down the aisles and rows, ushered by the pistol-toting horn players – vampires before dawn don’t melt away so fast. The bookie keeps his