Page 1 of Cunning Lies
CHAPTER1
KENZO
“A damn shame,”I mutter, flipping through the vinyl records. “No appreciation for the classics.”
Orchestral music plays on the speakers, each note vibrating through my veins. It’stechnicallyclassical music, and although it’s not my genre, it pairs nicely with the idiot bound and gagged on the floor. There’s a cut on his cheek, exposing those red stained teeth, and his gag is soaked. It drips onto the hardwood floor, leaving a pink puddle that glimmers in the sunlight.
I turn up the volume, letting that textured sound of the record player wash over me. I want it to compensate for what’s lacking in this murder, but it doesn’t.
“No Eagles?” I ask. “No Styx? Tell me you have Aerosmith.”
He moans through the cloth, but I can’t hear a thing over the music. Mild excitement bubbles in my veins as I adjust the camera on the tripod, then crouch down. Usually, I’m more creative than this—I like having fun, pushing these corporate big shots to their limits, seeing how far they can go before they beg for mercy—but the record player is distracting. I want music and murder, not humiliation and work.
The strings crescendo, and I drum my fingers above him, using my switchblade to conduct the imaginary orchestra—but it’s still notright.I lean down, putting our ears closer to each other. Better to hear over the music.
“How old are you, Mr. CEO?” I ask.
“Sss-sees-dee-woor—”
“Sixty-two,” I whistle. This CEO has thirty-two years on me, and yetI’mthe one who can appreciate music fromhisyouth? He should be killed for that alone. I run my thumb across my switchblade. The metal gleams, and the poor bastard winces.
I’m not supposed to kill him; I’m supposed to humiliate him. Teach him a lesson.Motivatehim to do what we ask. It’s not much: sell your assets and give the money to us, or we’ll tell your humble stockholders what you actually do on the weekends. They won’t appreciate their CEO spending their company’s charity money on Shabu Eight and strippers.
“Sixty-two-years-old,” I continue, “and you still don’t know how to keep your bad habits a secret.”
He sobs into his gag. My ears throb, adrenaline buzzing in my fingertips. Blood on the floor. Music in my chest. My mind racing. Does it amuse me, or bore me?
I’m not supposed to kill him, but it’s not off the table. I grip that option in my pocket like a life preserver.
“At least you have vinyl,” I say, thumbing through his records again. But it’s all classical music, and that irritates me. I squat down again, my white suit jacket falling over my knees.
“You know,” I run the blade over the side of his neck, his loose skin bunching up under the tip, “we were only trying to help you. The Endo-kai wants nothing more than to see you succeed.”
“Ya-caa—” he tries to scream. “Yo-ya-coo—”
He’s right. Iamfrom the yakuza.
A tear runs down the side of his cheek, burning through that peek-a-boo cut I gave him, and I chuckle, increasing the pressure on the blade, letting it break his neck skin. Blood sprays me, marking my suit, which is why I wear white. Everything is bland, but with red on white, it’s like a sunset in paradise, a blank canvas made into art again.
But the stains are monotone today. I’ve done this exact kind of kill. I want something different, somethingmore.I’m on a journey to his grave, but I want a little satisfaction this time.
Shambala.
I smack my side with my free hand. The song pops into my head and I can’t think of anything else. It’s the best way to make this more entertaining. Blood seeps down from his narrow cut, trailing down his neck. I leave him there like that.
“Wait here!” I shout.
I grab the Three Dog Night album from the trunk of my car. I’m quick, waving to one of the grocery runners a few houses down, and he doesn’t blink at my red-splattered suit.
Back inside, there’s a trail of blood leading away like little flakes of bread, but the Mr. CEO is gone—must have wormed his way somewhere. I groan, but at that moment, music is my priority. Mr. CEO will get what’s coming to him, but Ineedmy song.
I place the record in the player, then adjust the needle to the right track. Three Dog Night’s “Shambala” blasts through the speakers, the guitar strumming me awake. I increase the volume until the notes thump in my chest.
“Yes!” I shout. The boredom evaporates. I rip the camera from the tripod and follow that Hansel and Gretel trail of blood. It grows thinner the deeper we get into the house. It’s a nice home—four thousand square feet, smack dab in the heart of Henderson. He’s even got one of those nice, green turfs out back. Nothing beats a plastic lawn in the desert.
Too bad Mr. CEO won’t be able to enjoy it.
Finally, I see him. He’s all the way inside of the master bedroom with his phone lit up next to him. He smashes his nose into the screen, but nothing happens, and those tears crash against his cheeks, mixing with blood. I can hear myoyabun—my boss—saying it now:Damn, Kenzo. Why do you always make such big messes?
