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“I’m looking for Ms. Yamaguchi.”
He says nothing, eying me curiously for a few seconds.
“And your business with my daughter?”
Instantly, I slip into suave, courtroom-Gabriel mode. My faces changes: my teeth flash a smile and my eyes grow much kinder as I stick out my hand.
What? I’m good at this.
“Kon’nichiwa, Yamaguchi-san,” I say, firmly shaking his hand and bowing my head politely. I’m far from conversational—Japanese is hard. But I can manage a handful of pleasantries after a few business trips to Tokyo.
“Gabriel Black,” I say with another winning smile. “I’m?—”
“Her boss.” Mr. Yamaguchi smiles politely. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Black.”
The look in his eyes makes me think that what he’s heard isn’t all good.
“Please, come in.”
“Thank you.”
I follow him through the small, kinda cruddy but neat and tastefully decorated apartment into the living room. He gestures to the small couch. After I take a seat, he bows his head.
“I’ll tell her you’re here.”
He disappears down the hall, leaving me alone for a minute. My eyes pause for a moment on the mitamaya shrine to the deceased high up on the wall, with the framed portrait of a beautiful woman with with both Asian and possibly Italian features.
Then my gaze wanders over the dozen or so orange and white pill bottles on the edge of the counter between the living room area and the tiny kitchen. There’s also a couple of IV drip bags, with sealed IV lines next to them.
Fumi’s father returns and sinks with a small grimace of pain into a chair across from me.
He’s sick.
For a second, I wondered if the meds were hers. But the way he gritted his teeth as he sat gives it away. His shirt pulls tight for a second across his chest, and my brow furrows.
Shit.
That’s a port-a-cath under his shirt.
“I just started chemo again a few weeks ago.”
I lift my eyes to Fumi’s father’s face. He shrugs casually as he says it.
“You’re an observant man, Mr. Black,” he says, bringing his hand up to tap the port-a-cath injection site under his shirt.
“Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”
My gaze drops to the bandage around his other hand.
“Perils of learning DIY plumbing tips from YouTube,” Mr. Yamaguchi says with a wry smirk. “Fumi will be out in a minute. Can I get you?—”
“Le, arigato, Yamaguchi-san.”
“Your Japanese isn’t bad.”
“And you’d make a good lawyer, Mr. Yamaguchi.”
He chuckles quietly. I can tell he’s putting on a brave face. He’s clearly in discomfort, and exhausted.
