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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
The third option
>> Above Kahuku
Having sent the club members away, followed shortly by the Undertaker in the disposal truck, Tets Nakajima waited anxiously for Tex to kill the Japanese beauty and the Manila street kid and high-tail it back here to headquarters and vacate the premises.
Instead he listened on his walkie-talkie as Tex was shot dead. Famous last words: "Those girls ... they got some help."
Nakajima was stunned. In the 15 years since he'd started the hunt club, they had a 100 percent kill ratio and zero problems. The club was such a brilliant idea, and had made him a multi-millionaire -- a vast improvement on where he'd have been otherwise.
Back in 1988 he'd been a lower echelon executive with an insurance company in Kyoto, his career just treading water. The company president, an avid big-game hunter, was once infamously quoted as saying he hoped God would hurry up and invent some new creatures because he'd killed just about everything there was worth shooting.
Nakajima saw potential, and one night ended up in the same bath house as the president, where both had consumed too much sake and whiskey, and the president magnanimously invited Nakajima to sit with him as he flirted with the girls. Nakajima had whispered that he'd bet there was one creature the president had never shot, and because it was the most cunning creature on earth it would make the greatest trophy.
The president frowned, blustered "What animal is this?" and Nakajima nodded to where a lovely young woman in geisha attire hurried through the door with a tray of drinks. He expected to see shock on the president's face, at which point Nakajima would blame the alcohol and make a joke, but instead he saw heat in the president's eyes. "I know of a place ..." Nakajima added, lying through his teeth. "A private club, very exclusive."
The president was hooked, and the next day Nakajima was summoned to his office, where the heads of all manner of exotic creatures were displayed. The president asked how one might join this club, adding that he knew of others who would be interested as well. Nakajima said it could be arranged, with a deposit of a quarter-million dollars. Thus was born the hunt club. They went to Cambodia that first year, Nakajima himself rounding up the kills, offering beggars and bar girls jobs that proved to be dead ends, literally. Over the years he'd added staff, members and expertise.
Now, Nakajima could see three possibilities, and wasn't crazy about any. He could flee in his rented Blazer. He could load some supplies on one of the ATVs and disappear into the hills for a while. He chose the third option, stuffed the barrel of a Sig Sauer 9mm in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com