There were only four drinks the Yakuza allowed to be consumed during business. Upon finding out that the bar indeed stocked ashai Kiyohito had no need to order his second choice. Whiskey always got him drunk, and he preferred to keep his wits for a while at least.
He sat patiently for about twenty minutes before a waitress returned. A single bottle occupied her tray, which she placed before him with a clunk of glass on the table. She was short with yellow hair that curled around her ears. She wore a black dress cut so low that her bosom seemed about to fall out.
“Do you want anything to eat?” she asked.
Kiyohito shook his head. “No, but I do want you to answer a question,” he said.
She leaned closer, hand on her chin.
Kiyohito knew she was flirting with him. On another day he might have gone for it, but he was focused on business. Maybe if she was still around when the bar closed…
“Do you get many Japanese in here?”
“Japanese? Or ya-ku-za?” she smiled.
Her flippant use of the word, within earshot of the nearest tables, left him speechless.
She went on. “Yes, they come in from time to time.” Her gaze flicked to the bar where a reserved Japanese woman was putting away additional bottles of Ashai. Women could be yakuza, although historically they were rare. He doubted that was who the waitress was referencing.
Kiyohito pulled out his wallet and showed her a picture of Haruto. “Do you ever see this man with them?”
She folded her arms, which made it seem like her breasts were about to be pushed out from her dress. “That sounds like an unfriendly question,” her teasing continued.
Kiyo hated this kind of back and forth. He was never any good at it. Haruto was always the talker. Kiyo was much better at getting information the old-fashioned way. Usually just staring at people got them to talk.
The waitress left him alone. Meanwhile, Kiyo took a drink straight from the bottle and began to search the internet for the next possible bar. Between drinks, he kept tabs on the Japanese woman.
After about an hour, Kiyohito paid the tab and left the bar proper. There was indeed a parking lot outside and he had to wonder about the story of the bloody brawl. There were a few posts casting pools of light, but the exterior was otherwise dark. A locked gate separated the service entrance from the street, but Kiyohito scaled the fence easily by way of a dumpster. He landed on the other side with a soft thud, but took the time to straighten his jacket as he prowled the back.
A kitchen door was open. From within wafted western music and the scent of food fried in old oil. From the shadow of a trashcan, the orange light of a vape illuminated his face briefly while he waited to see who would come out first.
He sat patiently for about twenty minutes before a waitress returned. A single bottle occupied her tray, which she placed before him with a clunk of glass on the table. She was short with yellow hair that curled around her ears. She wore a black dress cut so low that her bosom seemed about to fall out.
“Do you want anything to eat?” she asked.
Kiyohito shook his head. “No, but I do want you to answer a question,” he said.
She leaned closer, hand on her chin.
Kiyohito knew she was flirting with him. On another day he might have gone for it, but he was focused on business. Maybe if she was still around when the bar closed…
“Do you get many Japanese in here?”
“Japanese? Or ya-ku-za?” she smiled.
Her flippant use of the word, within earshot of the nearest tables, left him speechless.
She went on. “Yes, they come in from time to time.” Her gaze flicked to the bar where a reserved Japanese woman was putting away additional bottles of Ashai. Women could be yakuza, although historically they were rare. He doubted that was who the waitress was referencing.
Kiyohito pulled out his wallet and showed her a picture of Haruto. “Do you ever see this man with them?”
She folded her arms, which made it seem like her breasts were about to be pushed out from her dress. “That sounds like an unfriendly question,” her teasing continued.
Kiyo hated this kind of back and forth. He was never any good at it. Haruto was always the talker. Kiyo was much better at getting information the old-fashioned way. Usually just staring at people got them to talk.
The waitress left him alone. Meanwhile, Kiyo took a drink straight from the bottle and began to search the internet for the next possible bar. Between drinks, he kept tabs on the Japanese woman.
After about an hour, Kiyohito paid the tab and left the bar proper. There was indeed a parking lot outside and he had to wonder about the story of the bloody brawl. There were a few posts casting pools of light, but the exterior was otherwise dark. A locked gate separated the service entrance from the street, but Kiyohito scaled the fence easily by way of a dumpster. He landed on the other side with a soft thud, but took the time to straighten his jacket as he prowled the back.
A kitchen door was open. From within wafted western music and the scent of food fried in old oil. From the shadow of a trashcan, the orange light of a vape illuminated his face briefly while he waited to see who would come out first.