Hakata Tonkotsu Ramens Volume 6 Chapter 2

Top of the Second Inning The young leader of the Noma Group, Kishihara, ran the drug smuggling business that was their main source of income. And as of late, he has had his hands tied dealing with problems. The other day a freelance courier of his had been arrested by the narcotics control department. The five kilograms of stimulants that was meant to be transported to Kitakyushu through the usual route had been confiscated, so the Noma Group had lost important product and their courier at the same time. They had lost roughly 300,000,000 yen at minimum.
But there was a problem that remained: how did the police find out the Noma Group's smuggling route?
There was one possibility Kishihara could think of: someone was leaking information. There was a traitor in their group who had leaked information on the trade to an investigator. It was a grave situation. If they let this go, they would only gain more losses.
“List all the people who have gotten involved in our business in the past few months. Including the dealers we are in contact with; everyone.”
Kishihara ordered his men at their base in Haruyoshi, and they nodded firmly in response.
“Um, Kishiharsan.” One of them spoke up. “About the Chinese men.”
There was another problem giving Kishihara a headache over. There was a Chinese group selling drugs in the Noma Group's territory recently. They had found a Chinese member selling drugs in Nakasu the other day and had ganged up on him, beating him up to remind them who's territory it was and to warn them to back off unless they want repercussions.
“Could those murders have been the Chinese guys' fault?”
The man was referring to the incident earlier this month when two of their men and a drug dealer had been killed.
“According to the police, the bodies were hung upside down. That isn't something a j.a.panese person would do. That awfully resembles what foreign mafias do.”
It was as his subordinate stated. Criminal organizations overseas would mutilate the bodies as an example to intimidate others. Perhaps the murders were done by the Chinese Group. Maybe they had killed their comrades in retaliation for the lynching. His subordinate considered it anyway. And Kishihara could definitely say the possibility was not zero. If the Chinese group had made a come back by killing their men, then they had to take action.
“What should we do, Kishiharsan?”
Kishihara's men were looking at him.
There was one thing to do. They first needed to confirm it.
“More of you should be on the lookout for them in Nakasu. If any of you spot the Chinese men, capture them and bring them here.”
Kishihara instructed.
Whether the culprit behind the murders was Chinese or not, either way they could not let them get any bigger than they need to be.
“Let's torture them and make them tell us.”

Kishihara received a report from his subordinates a few hours later. They found a Chinese man selling cocaine at a club in Nakasu and had kidnapped him. He was a young member of the dealing group they were looking for.
Kishihara headed to the tenant building which belonged to the Noma Group. There were music studios from the second floor to the fourth floor where band members practiced playing their instruments. One of the rooms of the fourth floor was the Noma Group's torture room.
The Chinese man was bound to a chair in the center of the room. They could torment him as much as they liked since the room was sound-proof. No one would see what was going on in there, and the man could not scream for someone to call the police.
They were going to torture this Chinese man for information, but Kishihara decided to hire a professional instead of soiling his own hands. He had heard there was someone who specialized in torture in f.u.kuoka. Kishihara was referred to him by an informant, and he contacted the man for the job.
“You're Kishiharsan from the Noma Group, right?”
The torturer arrived in the studio at the appointed time. He was a foreigner, yet he was fluent in j.a.panese. The man was huge and had dark skin and tattoos on his arms. He certainly had the looks of someone from the underground, but he was sociable.
Ishihara made his request. “I want you to make him tell us if his group were the ones who killed our men and hung them upside or not. And then get as much information as you can out of him on his group.”
“Okay.”
The torturer flipped the switch on the small recorder device and grinned.
“Alright then, let's get started.” He slowly approached the Chinese man. “Nice to meet you.”
The Chinese man looked up at him and fear clouded over his face.
Bottom of the Second Inning Alejandro Rodrigez - nickname Alex - was a young yet skilled hitman. He was a dark skinned Dominican with a large body that was nearly two meters tall. He had long, dreaded hair that was artlessly tied back. His eyes that were visible behind his tinted sungla.s.ses were sharp as though they could kill someone just by looking at them. Both his exposed arms from the black tank top he wore were burly as though they could snap someone's neck with ease. Even the gang members in the drug cartel shook seeing the man's appearance, as though he had lived to solely kill people.
Drug cartels generally were a network which produced and distributed drugs, and there were many cartels that existed throughout Mexico. Among them, the Veracruz cartel was active within the state of Veracruz, Mexico. Alex was a hitman belonging to that cartel. He was Ramiro Sanchez's right hand man and was given the name “Verdugo de Veracruz” within the gang. They said Alex was cold-blooded; he would twist someone's neck without mercy when Don Ramiro ordered, “mátalo,” regardless if the victim was a woman or child.
Alex was callous but not as the rumors made him out to be.
“...Who would have guessed you were the traitor.”
Alex remarked in a low voice. He had a Cuban cigar pressed between his thick lips.
“You disguised yourself as a narco well. I'm impressed, Richard.”
After Alex gave him a smirk, he pressed the burnt side of his cigar against Ricardo's dark skin.
Ricardo made a voiceless scream at the sheer searing pain. He sensed the sickening smell of flesh burning.
Ricardo had been captured by the organization and was brought to a hotel room they owned somewhere in Veracruz. Alex apathetically tormented Ricardo as he was laid down, bound to the bed he was on as though he was a frog being dissected. He was cut with a knife all over his body, had a cigar pressed against his skin and forced to swallow a truth serum drug, thoroughly weakening him.
“What's your name?”
Alex questioned him. Ricardo weakly replied, “Richard Louis.”
Almost immediately a fist sunk into his stomach. Ricardo went into a coughing fit from the merciless punch he received.
“I already know that. I'm asking for your real name.”
The letter S was on Alex's thick arm. All the members in the organization had the same tattoo. It represented the first initial of Sanchez's name - proof of their loyalty to Don Ramiro.
“If you don't want to lose any fingers, tell me.”
Although Ricardo was firm to keep his mouth shut in the beginning, he could not withstand Alex's torture for a long period of time. The drug began to take effect on top of the fear, and his reasoning began to easily crumble away.
“...Ricardo.”
He was going to die anyway. He had no reason to remain quiet. The moment that thought pa.s.sed his mind, he felt his tongue loosen more.
“Okay. Good boy, Rico.” Alex continued with the interrogation while stroking his beard. “What's your full name?”
“...Ricardo Seiya Ortega.”
“Seiya? You're of j.a.panese descent?”
Ricardo replied in a daze, as though overcome with a fever.
“...My mother is j.a.panese.”
“Who are your employers? The police? Or the military?”
Ricardo shook his head and whispered, “the DEA.”
It was the abbreviated name for the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration.
When Ricardo revealed his true ident.i.ty, the door to the hotel room burst open and Ramiro Sanchez came in with his men. The Veracruz drug lord wore a gaudy suit and scoffed when he saw Ricardo's bloodied skin, “that's a good look for you, Richard.”
Ricardo grimaced and glared at Ramiro Sanchez wordlessly. He did not have the will to say anything back.
“So, how did it go, Alex? Did you give it up?”
“Yes,” Alex nodded. “He's one of the DEA people.”
“Really now? A gringo?”
Ricardo was an investigator in the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration. He had gone undercover as a courier for the Veracruz Cartel. However, he had been found out. Several henchmen under the derestriction of Don Ramiro approached Ricardo when he got home late in the night and had attacked him. He was beaten up until he lost consciousness, and when he woke up he was in this state. And who awaited him, confined in the hotel room, was none other than the executioner Alex.
“...Speaking of the DEA,” Don Ramiro mentioned as though he just recalled the matter. “Do you know of the incident when the Guadamajara gang kidnapped a DEA investigator?”
Of course he would know. Anyone who had joined the DEA had heard about the incident. A talented DEA agent that was resented by a drug cartel was kidnapped, tortured, s.e.xually a.s.saulted, and then beat to death. It was a horrid event that happened in the 1980s. The agent's body was discovered a month after his abduction. He was discarded with his limbs bound and only wearing underwear.
“The guy was beaten b.l.o.o.d.y and got a rod shoved up his r.e.c.t.u.m. Richard, would you like one shoved up there? This b.a.s.t.a.r.d here is a s.a.d.i.s.tic f.a.g; he's got a knack for it.”
Ricardo felt frustration build up inside him. At the same time, however, fear seized him, and his body shook.
The dangers that come with the job in the DEA investigation agency when facing ruthless and cruel drug cartels were unfathomable. The chance of death on duty were no different than the FBI. Ricardo was fully aware how dangerous his job was. He was prepared to give up his life in the line of duty if needed.
Yet he could not help but cower in fear.
These people were not human. Don Ramiro and Alex were all heartless and inhumane diablos. They would lop off people's heads and use them as toys. They could easily do cruel deeds no normal person could imagine. And they were especially merciless towards traitors. Ricardo felt like biting his tongue just by imagining what they would do to him and what torment he would be put through.
“Alright, Alex. Make him tell you if he's got any other friends undercover. I don't care what you do with him after that. You can f.u.c.k him or kill him; whatever you like. When you kill him, cut off his tongue and head. Drop his torso off in some open patch of land. And then send his head to the DEA's headquarters.”
Alex nodded with a composed expression at Ramiro's cruel orders. “Understood.”
Afterwards, Don Ramiro and his henchmen walked out of the room, leaving Ricardo and Alex. The room fell into silence once more.
“I don't have any comrades with me...I'm the only one who went undercover.” Ricardo stated, glaring at the executioner. “And even if there were others, I wouldn't know.”
Alex nodded. “I can believe that.”
“Then just kill me.”
If he was going to be tormented more, he would rather just have a quick death.
After a moment's pause, Alex muttered, “is that so?”
He adjusted the grip on his knife and shifted.
“Then, let's do it. I don't have time to spare anyway.”
The springs on the bed loudly crunched underneath him. Alex's ma.s.sive body loomed over Ricardo.
“Adios, investigator.”
Alex swung the knife down.

And that was when Ricardo woke up.
He snapped up, trying to regulate his ragged breathing.
Ricardo was not in the Veracruz hotel; he was in his apartment in f.u.kuoka he took refuge in.
That's right, he recalled. He had returned home and laid down on the bed for a nap, but at some point he had drifted to slumber instead.
“......A dream, huh.”
He brushed a hand through his greasy black hair and sighed.
“...The usual bad dream.”
Ricardo quietly whispered.
The events back then were still fresh in his mind: the Mexico city in central America which had violence and crime run amuck, the murders and kidnappings that had become an everyday occurrence, the urban battlefield between the police and opposing organizations, and the atrocious bodies found lying across the landscape of the city. Ricardo deeply sighed, recalling the maelstrom of events back then - during the drug war which had more than 100,000 deaths in. His memories of when he went undercover in the Mexican cartel had turned into nightmares and had kept chipping away at his heart.
Ricardo took off his sweat-sticken T-shirt. His light brown skin had thirty different scars across his body. His fists were still shaking from the lingering fear. His throat was parched. Ricardo got up from the bed and headed into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator for a plastic bottle of water and let the chilled mineral water pour down his throat.
Nine years had pa.s.sed since that event. Ricardo had been working as a DEA agent to exterminate drug cartels even now. The mid and southern drug cartels have been moving their operations to Asia in recent years. Because of that, the DEA has been sending agents to Asian countries to observe their activities. Since Ricardo's face and name was discovered nine years ago, undercover work in Mexico became more difficult, so he was sent to the east instead. Being half j.a.panese worked in his favor for his a.s.signment in f.u.kuoka.
Ricardo was currently undercover as a drug dealer for a drug organization, collecting information from other dealers or people connected with the organizations starting from Yakuin. He had inquired about trade dates, where the drugs were stored at, and smuggling routes and sent that information over to investigators in f.u.kuoka.
“Apparently there's a weasel among the Noma Group.”
The weasel Yakuin was referring to was himself. The truck driver got arrested because Ricardo had leaked the information about him.
“The Noma Group is desperately trying to find the traitor. The moment they do, they'll probably kill them.”
Ricardo felt anxiety well up inside him, recalling what Yakuin had told him.
So my ident.i.ty has been found out? Will I be tormented again when the organization realizes I'm an agent, just like nine years ago? The thought kept pestering Ricardo. He began to shake with his past trauma coming to mind. He hugged himself to calm down.
“...It'll soon be the tidal hour.”
It would only be a matter of time for the Noma Group to begin suspecting him now that they know of his existence. He could not let them pursue him too far.
He should withdraw from this area for his safety. The thought came to his mind when his work cell phone went off. Ricardo pressed the b.u.t.ton to accept the call and put the device against his ear. “Yes?”
‘Rico, it's me.'
“...Gonzales.”
The person on the other line was a fellow member of the DEA in Washington - agent Gonzales. He was Hispanic like Ricardo and also worked in cleaning the Mexico cartels with him in the past.
‘How's it going? Any new activities?'
“It's the usual. I purchased 100 grams of stimulants from the Noma Group today.”
Ricardo periodically reported the developments in the case to agent Gonzales like this.
‘I see.'
“However,” Ricardo added. “Seems like the Noma Group is beginning to suspect me. I think I should withdraw soon. I decided to make some distance with them and watch their movements from here on out.”
‘Yeah, you should do that. Don't overdo anything.'
“I know.”
‘The boss plans to bring you back to headquarters anyway. You must miss America, right?'
“I guess so.”
‘You'll be going home soon. I'll volunteer to take your place. I studied abroad in j.a.pan before, so I can understand j.a.panese more or less.”
Ricardo could not wish for anything else. “That'd be a huge help...are you alright with that?”
‘At this rate I'll be sent to a remote area in China. They don't have enough agents stationed in China.'
“It's a huge country.” Ricardo laughed.
China was a large country that produced drugs. Several organizations were operating behind the scenes. Because of that, they needed many agents deployed over there.
‘I can't speak Chinese, and I don't like Chinese food. I'd rather work in j.a.pan.'
“If that's what you want, I'll gladly hand over my position to you.”
After they exchanged a few more words, Ricardo hung up.

Ricardo got into the car and headed to the Noma Group's hideout to finish the rest of his job. He parked at a coin parking lot near the office and watched the building from inside the vehicle. He was fully aware he had become more pa.s.sive toward his undercover work ever since the one incident nine years ago. Back then, he would infiltrate deep into the inner workings of organizations more boldly and recklessly, but now he could not bring himself to directly contact someone from the cartel.
There was movement after an hour pa.s.sed since he began his watch. The young leader Kishihara and several men were getting into a black car.
“They seem to be frantic...did something happen?”
Ricardo paid the parking fare and took off after them. He carefully tailed them, making sure to stay far enough away to not be noticed.
They drove on a national highway for ten minutes before parking in front of a tenant building. The men in black went into the elevator. Ricardo parked on the side of the road as well and followed after them. He watched the display of the elevator, seeing it stop at the fourth floor.
The fourth floor of this building was a music studio.
“...What do they want to do here at a studio?” Ricardo c.o.c.ked his head and pondered to himself. Perhaps they were storing drugs here.
After a few minutes the elevator began to move again. Kishihara and his men may be coming back. The elevator was coming back to the first floor. Ricardo hid in the emergency staircase and watched from there. The elevator door opened. One man was inside. He was not Kishihara or any of his men. He was a foreigner. He was a large man with a shaved head and a hard-face. He had a tattoo with a simple pattern on his thick, left arm.
Ricardo's breath caught in his throat when he saw it.
“That tattoo-!”
It was unsettling familiar to him.
“Could that man just now possibly be…?”
The foreigner exited out of the building and began walking towards Hakata. Ricardo decided to give up on Kishihara and his men to follow the other man.

Martinez got a call from his client just as he was finishing up torturing the Chinese man. The tormented man was lying listlessly in the center of the music studio. Ten minutes later, the young leader of the Noma Group - Kishihara - dropped by, accompanied by several of his henchmen. “How did it go? Did he fess up?”
“More or less.” Martinez began to give his report, reading off his notes he took on what the Chinese man confessed to. “First, they had nothing to do with that case where the three guys got murdered during the drug trade.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He said it wasn't their doing. They didn't kill anyone and even if they did they wouldn't have hung them upside down.”
Martinez continued to give his report.
“Their hideout is a mahjong club in Nakasu. There's a Chinese restaurant on its first floor. They store their drugs there. Apparently they had a foreigner buying drugs from them recently, but he hasn't heard who that was.”
“A foreigner, huh…” Kishihara muttered before pressing for more. “Anything else?”
“He went on about grudges against you. ‘Don't think you're going to get away with this. We'll retaliate. My friends are going to come kill you. They're going to hire a hitman and slaughter all of the members of the Noma Group.' He said.”
Kishihara looked down at the tortured man and smirked, “are you now? Looking forward to it.”
The foreign man shifted his focus from Kishihara to Martinez.
“...Gaomi-zhe.”
The man muttered something while glaring at Martinez.
“What was that?”
“Gaisi...heigui.”
Unfortunately, Martinez did not understand Chinese. The man probably was not saying anything important, but Martinez recorded what he said just in case.
Once he wrote down what he heard, Kishihara handed over an additional 10,000 yen bill to the 50,000 payment for his work.
“You're generous.”
“This is cheap compared to paying the cops.”
Martinez did not take it. “While I appreciate it, the 50,000 is enough.”
“You're a conscientious torturer. I like you. I'll be using your services again.”
“Until next time then.”
Martinez left the studio and got onto the elevator.

Martinez then got on the subway and headed to Hakata. He got off the train at Hakata station and walked towards the Banba Detective Office. It was on the third floor of a building a few minutes away from the Chikakushi exit at JR Hakata Station. When he got there, the door was unlocked.
“Hey, sorry to intrude.”
Martinez stated as he stepped inside the room. One man was present. He was one of Martinez's teammates in their gra.s.s-lot baseball team and a resident in this office - Xianming Lin.
“...So it's just you, Mar-san?” Lin was just watching TV. He turned towards him and stood up. “What is it? Do you need something?”
“I need your help with something.”
“From me? That's rare. Anyway, take a seat.”
Lin pressed him, and he sat down on the receptionist chair. Martinez explained the details just as Lin sat down across from him.
“I actually had a job in which I had to torture a Chinese guy, and he said something in Chinese at the end of the session. I wanted to see what he said. I'd be a huge help if you would translate for me.” He took out his notes on the p.r.o.nunciation of what the man had said and read it aloud. “Gaoh-mee-jeh, guy-see, hey-gweh...Do you understand it?”
“Yeah,” Lin seemed to comprehend it. “It must be gaomizhe, gaisi, and heigui.”
“What do those mean?”
“Gaomizhe means ‘whistleblower.' Gaisi would mean something like, ‘d.a.m.n you,' or, ‘die.' Heigui is like ‘n.i.g.g.e.r' in English. It's a discriminatory word.”
In other words, all he said were curses towards me?
“...I should've given him a few more punches.”
That d.a.m.n Chinese guy, Martinez scowled. How dare he curse at me in a language I couldn't understand.
“Thanks, Lin. You're a great help. I'll treat you for a meal as thanks.” Martinez suddenly realized. “Actually, where's Marlow? Is he out?”
“Marlow?” Lin c.o.c.ked his head, confused.
“Philip Marlowe. He's a private detective. At least read Chandler's works.”
Martinez revised his question while giving a wry smile, “where's Banba?” Lin's expression changed.
He grimaced, sullen.
“...h.e.l.l if I know.”
He spat out with a harsh tone.
“Hey, did something happen?”
“Not really.”
Lin was not making a face as though nothing happened. He was easy to see through. He must have had a fight with Banba.
“I'll treat you for some ramen, so cheer up.”
Martinez took Lin and headed to Nakasu to do so, as well as repay him for translating Chinese for him.

The room had been a mess. And so he cleaned. That was all he did. It was not just for today; it was something he habitually did. He had done that multiple times up until now.
Regardless, for some reason Banba was furious.
“How dare you do that!”
His shout boomed through the office.
“Wh?” Lin c.o.c.ked his head, uncomprehending. “What's up with you all the sudden? What the h.e.l.l are you p.i.s.sed at me for?”
I just cleaned. What's up with him?
Lin was dumbfounded, and Banba yelled at him even more, “you just did whatever you wanted without askin'!”
“Hey, hold on a sec,” Lin could not remain silent at that. He frowned and refuted. “What did I do? I just cleaned the room-”
“You threw away someone else's things! You idiot!”
Banba's yelling was relentless. He was shouting to the point he was spitting out saliva.
“Does it really matter if I threw away that dirty ball!?” Lin yelled back, unrelenting.
“No, it ain't! That ball is-”
Banba abruptly stopped.
The room fell into silence.
“...What's up with that ball?” Lin turned back to face him and glared. “Tell me.”
Banba was dead silent. He did not answer his question. He just muttered, ‘just forget it,' displeased, before turning his back towards Lin. He left the office, fuming, slammed the door shut and stomped away.
That happened last evening.

“What did he mean by ‘just forget it!?'”
Lin exclaimed and slammed down his gla.s.s.
Lin and Martinez had gone to the food stall Gen-chan in Nakasu and explained what happened the night before while having f.u.kuoka's specialty tonkotsu ramen. “Come on. Calm down,” Martinez tried to soothe him. The owner of the restaurant Genzo chided, “you don't hafta be so mad ‘bout it.”
Enokida was at the food stall as well. He had tilted his head while listening to Lin's story. “It's rare for Banbsan to be that mad.”
“Are you sure about that? Isn't he always mad about something? He was p.i.s.sy during the last match too. He always nags me every time I make an error.”
“I guess that's true.”
Banba was usually calm and gentle, but he would switch on the drop of a dime. He surprisingly had an explosive personality, especially when it came to baseball. He would continuously yell just for someone making a mistake in a game. Recalling how many times that had happened, Lin felt frustration build up inside him again. “He doesn't chew out everyone else; he always gets mad at me solely...He p.i.s.ses me off.”
“But look, you're like his ki-, I mean, like a brother to him.”
“...You almost said ‘kid' just now, didn't you?” Lin glared at Enokida. Who's the kid here? Banba is more of the brat. He internally cursed.
Martinez laughed. “Hey, don't worry about it. This is Banba we're talking about. He'll forget what he's mad about and will come home as frivolous as ever.”
“And him behaving like that is another thing that p.i.s.ses me off.”
Lin snorted.
“Hey, old man.” He turned to Genzo. “If you get any job requests, send them my way instead of him.”
I'm going to take all of Banba's jobs. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d can become unemployed for all I care.
“Alright, I gotcha.” Genzo replied, exasperated.
After a few minutes, Martinez finished his ramen and stood up. “Well, I'll be going now.”
“Ah, me too.” Enokida chimed in.
“Gen-san, I'm paying for Lin as well with this.” Martinez took out a million yen bill.
“Ah, mine too.”
“...Pay for your own food.”
Martinez ended up paying for the three of them, while glaring at Enokida for taking advantage of him.
“Thank you, Mar-san.”
Enokida gave his thanks to the large man's generosity. Martinez smiled at Lin and pat his head, “don't drink too much.”
After the two had left, Lin ordered Genzo. “Old man, give me another beer.”
“Have some water.”
“No thanks. I need to drink today.”
Lin demanded for more booze, sounding like an old man.
Genzo reluctantly refilled his drink. Lin began to mutter complaints again. “...Hey, don't you think it's strange? I just cleaned up. Isn't the normal response, ‘thank you?' So why did he call me an idiot? He wasn't grateful; he just shouted at me...Ahh, d.a.m.n. Just remembering it makes me mad.”
“How come Banba was that mad?”
“h.e.l.l if I know.”
Lin just got yelled at one sidedly without understanding the circ.u.mstances. Lin downed his beer, irritated.
“...Hey, Lin,” Genzo asked out of curiosity. “What kind of ball was it?”
“It was just some dirty ball. Here, this is it.”
Lin took out a hard ball from his pocket.
Genzo's eyes widened. “You didn't throw it away?”
“I meant to.”
Lin had thrown it towards the trash can, but he had missed and the ball did not go inside it. It rolled onto the floor and got stuck under the bed.
Lin thought he had thrown it away but actually did not. He only realized it after Banba stormed out of the office in fury. But he did not feel like going out of his way to return it.
“You should hurry up an' give that back. It's important to him.” Genzo was astounded.
“If it was that important to him, he should have just told me. But he didn't…”
Banba was about to say something in that moment. But he abruptly stopped and chose to not tell him. And that fact spurred on Lin's irritation even more.
“Banba's always been the kind of fella to not talk much ‘bout himself.”
“Ha,” Lin snorted. “You mean he's secretive?”
Lin did not know what he was hiding, but he thought it would be better for him to rethink his conceited ways so he could be trusted.
“That ain't it.” Genzo sighed. “...He's got a lot of things on his plate. And he remains silent ‘bout them lots of things so you don't get wind up in them.”
“What do you mean?” Lin questioned sullenly. “What lots of things?”
“Ask the person himself,” Genzo handed back the ball. “Take this to him and apologize.”
“Ha? Why do I have to apologize to him?”
“You gotta be an adult, Lin.”
“I am an adult. He's the one acting like a kid.”
“A man also needs the skills to forgive someone.” Genzo winked.
Lin pouted with a stern expression adorning his face when the elder kindly admonished him. “...I won't forgive him until he's apologizing to me on his hands and knees. And I won't give him his ball back either until then.”
Genzo sighed. This is useless.
“...I gotta wonder where he's wanderin' ‘round right now.”
Genzo's thoughts turned to Banba. “h.e.l.l if I care,” Lin countered back.

The 10thousand was an old nightclub in Nakasu that has been around for fifteen years now. Booming music echoed throughout the club, and young people were dancing on the floor, flooding the DJ.
Banba was gulping down a Zima bottle at the corner of the counter at the bar. It had been a while since he had last come to this club. He used to come here often in his early twenties and frequently drank until sunrise, but he had since receded from visiting completely.
The kind of guests at the club had drastically changed while he had been away. He saw an abundance of foreigners present, from Asians to black people. There were even shady-looking characters in the VIP room. There were drug dealers selling white powder to young people in the men's room.
This club was not this dangerous back then. “There's no decency left in the world,” Banba whispered to himself, tilting his Zima bottle to the side.
“Hey,” Banba was called out by a woman just as a Latino-based song began to play.
“Would you mind buying me a drink?”
That reminded him; he used to get called out to by women like this a lot back in his younger days. “Looks like I still got it goin'.” He chuckled internally.
Who is it? Banba looked over to the woman who spoke to him and widened his eyes, raising his voice, “ah.”
She was a woman he was well acquainted with.
“Sayuri-san!”
She had a tall figure, short hair, and elegant features that made her look out of place in this club. Like Banba, she was a fellow a.s.sa.s.sin. And she was also his ex-lover.
“Whatcha doin' here?”
She must have returned from overseas.
“Work. I had met with a client.” Sayuri pointed in the direction of the VIP room. “Likewise, it's a rare sight to see you here.”
“I wanted to drop by after so long.”
Sayuri ordered the same drink as him. They made a toast with her newly opened Zima before continuing on with their conversation.
“...Hey, Sayuri-san. I got a favor to ask ya.”
“What is it?”
“Can I stay at your place for today?”
Banba clasped his hands together in front of his face, pleading, but Sayuri turned him down. “No.”
“Ehhh, why not…”
“Stop playing around and go back to your own house. You're a grown man.”
Banba made a wry smile at her harsh words. “...It's just, a bit difficult to go home right ‘bout now.”
“Oh really?” Sayuri slightly smiled and peered at his face. “Did you have a fight with that boy or something?”
Banba instantly fell silent when she easily guessed the correct answer.
“And you have no place to go, so you're wasting your time here and having some drinks.”
“...Sayuri-san, you sure do see through everythin'.”
She was a sharp as always. Banba shrugged.
“So what caused the fight?” Banba explained everything from beginning to end when she asked.
Sayuri sighed, astonished, and told him, “go and apologize to him.”
“No,” Banba shook his head. “I'm not budgin' on this.”
A precious and memorable item had been thrown away. He would not give in that easily.
“You kyushu boys and your stubbornness.”
“Men are people who treasure their memories.”
“You'll lose what is most important to you when you obsess over memories indefinitely.”
Her words always struck a chord. “Yeah, maybe.” Banba muttered.
“Ah, that reminds me.”
Sayuri gulped down the rest of her Zima and told him.
“Since you seem to be on break right now, will you do a job for me?”

Enokida walked around Nakasu at night with Martinez after they had left Genzo's food stall. They pa.s.sed by a building with a club called 10thousand in it and proceeded down a narrow alleyway with little pa.s.serby.
Enokida asked Martinez as they walked. “How did the job with the Noma Group go?”
Enokida had recommended Martinez to Kishihara who had been looking for a professional torturer.
“Yeah, it was easy.”
“Tell me the details.” Enokida pressed him. Martinez was one of his important sources for information as a torturer.
Martinez began. “Apparently two men from the Noma Group and a freelance drug dealer got murdered recently. Kishihara suspected a Chinese group was behind it, but they were actually innocent.”
“...I may know who the culprit is.”
“Seriously?” Martinez exclaimed.
“Yeah. The culprit is definitely not Chinese.”
“Then who is it?”
“A killer clown.”
“Wh?”
Martinez was about to ask him to explain when a stern voice ordered from behind them, “don't move.”
Enokida and Martinez instantly came to a halt. Tension coa.r.s.ed through their whole body. They snapped around to see a man standing before them. He had a gun in hand and was pointing it at Martinez.
“Raise both of your hands.”
The man ordered.
Enokida did as the stranger asked. Martinez slowly raised his hands next to him similarly, palms facing outward.
Enokida observed the man, blinking in the dim lighting. The man was around his thirties. He wore a black leather racing jacket, khaki work pants and boots. He could not tell what type of person he was based off his clothing.
He was slimmer than Martinez, but he also had a muscular build and his inner gray T-shirt looked partially tight. He had a well arranged face and his facial features were prominent. He had black, short undercut hair. He was somewhat tan and clearly had a mix of foreign blood in him, but he looked Asian as well as hispanic. Enokida could see he was accustomed to fighting based off his physique and stance. The handgun he held was automatic.
“You're-”
Martinez's eyes widened when he saw the man's face and raised his voice in shock.
“Do you know him, Mar-san?”
“...Yeah, more or less.” Martinez nodded with a wry smile. “He and I have some history. Looks like he couldn't forget about me and chased me down. How admirable.”
Martinez was gay. It was not strange for him to have had male partners in the past, but it was unsettling for an ex-lover of his to point a gun his way. What sort of horrible break up did they have? Is this guy really one of Martinez's lovers? Enokida had multiple questions.
“Enokida, go ahead without me.” Martinez instructed. “I want to talk alone with him.”
He then turned his gaze to the man.
“This guy has nothing to do with us. Let him go. You got that?”
Martinez was trying to let Enokida escape. The man agreed and signaled with his chin, “go.” The whole time he stared at Martinez and kept his gun facing him. He looked bloodthirsty, as though he was ready to pull the trigger at any moment.
“Hey, will you be alright?”
Martinez nodded with a smile when Enokida asked. “Yeah, don't worry.”
“Be careful.”
Enokida pat Martinez's back and left.

Enokida put his earphones in as he walked down the street to the internet cafe he was staying at.
‘Who do you have history with now?'
Enokida heard the man's displeased voice. The connection was good.
Enokida had planted a listening device in his pocket when he pat Martinez's back - a redback spider listening device and transmitter. Enokida was able to listen to their conversation and track Martinez's current location.
Enokida carelessly listened to the men talk from what he could hear through his earphones.
‘I couldn't put it any other way.'
That was Martinez's voice that time.
“That man is an informant. He's br.i.m.m.i.n.g with curiosity. If I'm perfectly honest, he'd try to poke his head into this.”
“You know me so well,” Enokida smirked.

This isn't good, Martinez tutted.
The man slowly approached him, the footsteps from his work boots clicking against the ground, gun still facing him. He pressed the barrel of the gun against Martinez's heart and asked in a low voice.
“Who do you have some history with now?”
Martinez smiled, both hands still raised. “Did you forget what we did in that Veracruz hotel? I treated you so nicely on top of that bed.”
“Cutting me in thirty places and burning me with a Cuban cigar is how you show affection?”
“Your tear-stained face back then was the best.”
The moment he smirked at him a sharp pain burst up in his stomach. The man had sunk his knee into his stomach, and Martinez groaned. “That hurt, dammit.” Martinez glared at the man's face as he hugged himself. He had almost thrown up the ramen he just ate.
The other glared back. “You're sick. I wasn't your anything; you're repulsive.”
 The man took offense to his earlier statement. This time he pressed the gun to Martinez's forehead.
Martinez was really not in a good situation. He made an excuse, hoping he would lighten up. “I couldn't put it any other way. That man is an informant. He's br.i.m.m.i.n.g with curiosity. If I'm perfectly honest, he'd try to poke his head into this. ...Would you have preferred that?”
The other man fell silent.
“It wouldn't turn out well for you if he got involved, right? Richard. ...Ah, that's right; your real name was Ricardo, correct?”
Ricardo corrected him with a grim expression when Martinez used his past name. “I'm Murakami now.”
He must be undercover in some organization again if he was using another fake name. “Looks like you're still doing nothing but undercover work. No matter how many lives you have, you'll run out eventually.”
“That's my line, Alex.”
“I'm José Martinez now.” Martinez corrected him as well. He then added with a light smile. “You can call me Pepe.”
Pepe was a common pet name for José. “As if anyone would call you that,” Ricardo spat.
“Nonetheless, it's been a while, Rico. It's been what, nine years?” Martinez chatted with him in a cheerful tone. “I didn't know who you were at first. You looked like Che Guevara back then, but now you've got a nice trim.”
Ricardo had a beard at the time and had long, permed hair. He had purposefully dressed more uncouth to pose as a drug cartel dealer.
“You've sure changed your look too. I wouldn't have recognized you if it wasn't for that tattoo on your arm.” Ricardo snorted, glancing over to that spot. “You had straight hair back then. Sorry you got premature baldness.”
“This is shaved. You're rude.”
Martinez had also changed drastically. He had shaved off his hair and beard, completely changing his outlook so his old comrades could not find him and he could start a new life.
However, one of the people who knew him - Ricardo - stood before him now. He was unsure what to do.
“So? What do you want from me?” He had a guess, but he asked him anyway, barefaced.
“I have a lot of things I want to ask you about.” Ricardo answered him, glaring.
I'm not surprised, Martinez thought to himself and nodded. “I see. This could take a while, so let's change locations.”
“...Yeah, let's do that.”
Ricardo agreed keenly. Martinez antic.i.p.ated to settle this dispute with him peacefully, but he had been naive. He felt a blow to his head - Ricardo had struck Martinez.
Groaning, Martinez collapsed on the spot. His head throbbed. He must have been hit against the temple with the gun. Martinez grit his teeth, trying to grasp onto consciousness, but he could not help but fade away.
Translation Notes:  Guadamajara is not a real place but Guadalajara is. Kisaki seems to be eluding to a real famous case but has changed some of the details on purpose. The real case took place in1985, when a DEA undercover agent Kiki Camarena was kidnapped by a drug cartel and then brutally murdered.
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Translation: Kaede726
Reposts are prohibited and should be exclusive to Kaede726 on blogger.
Editor: Voissane
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