MANA: Yakuza Kenzan

Name: Yakuza Kenzan
Barn Name: "Zah"
Gender: Filly
Age: 2
Height: 15.3 hh
Color: Bay
Genotype: Ee/Aa/nBc (birdcatcher spots)
Markings: One white stocking on left rear
Breed: Thoroughbred
Bloodlines: Mr. Tseng (JP) x Oh No!
Discipline: Flat racing
Leg: unknown
Temperament: A clever, clever girl but always on her toes and easily spooked with a powerful hatred of anything yellow.
Breeder: Mana Farms

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It is highly recommended that you read earlier segments

Maggie smoothed down her dress and took a deep breath as the long black car pulled up to the curb. She had run into her house breathlessly only moments before, looking for something appropriate and not having any real idea what that may be. Randy Harada had only said “Dinner.” In fact, it was just that one word…dinner. Oh, he had had plenty to say about horses and winning the Derby and Ramon’s skill, but when it came to her, when it came to tonight, all he had said was “dinner.” Two syllables and Maggie had no idea how to interpret those two syllables. So she put on her safest dress, it was simple, but clean, and clean was important as most of Maggie’s clothes were in piles on the floor. Her hair had posed an equally distressing dilemma. Up or down. Usually her hair was only up or down. She’d never learned to do anything fancy and her braids usually had little pieces of hair sticking out in between the loops. But she couldn’t imagine going out to dinner with Randy Harada in a ponytail. So she left it down, brushed it furiously, and nearly cried at her own reflection. Then she had fidgeted and paced until the car pulled up. When it did, she gasped.

Maggie had seen only a few armoured vehicles before, and this was an armoured vehicle. If you hadn’t been around the wealthy before you probably wouldn’t know it from another vehicle, but Maggie had been around owners of race horses and many owners, like Randy Harada, warranted these unassuming tanks. A man in a suit got out and opened the door for her. She walked quietly to the backseat and stopped when she saw another man there. He was clearly Japanese, also in a clean suit with a well pressed white shirt and though it was dark outside she was quite certain she could see colorfully inked skin through that pressed white shirt. This was not Randy.

“Mr. Harada has sent us to escort you, “the man in the backseat explained. He gave her a soft smile, probably meant to be comforting and he patted the seat next to him. “We are his guard. I apologize if he did not warn you in advance of our presence. He likely assumed that you would expect him to travel with company. Since you have worked so many years together already.”

“Oh,” was all she managed. She looked over her shoulder at the man standing at the door, through the front seats at the driver, and back again at the man who had spoken to her. All of them were clearly armed, but none of them had a threatening posture.

“Please,” the man pressed again, “We are already late.”

Maggie was partly convinced the man speaking to her, and for all she knew, every single one of these men were Triads, or mafia, or Yakuza or whatever criminals who wore business suits were called, but even so she found herself acquiescing right into the vehicle, just as Ramon and Martin had predicted she would. But Randy Harada was an owner, and even Ramon had assured her he wouldn’t hurt her.

The car itself was not oppressive at all; in fact, it was roomy, bright, and smelled like men. Not hot, sweaty, men covered in grass and salts like she was used to in the stables, but clean, washed, pressed men in designer colognes who drank signature wines and chewed on the mint leaves in their bourbons in between appointments. She had honestly expected the car to smell like women. Like all the women, Randy was supposed to cart around like slinky dollar bills in a wallet. But there was not a trace of perfume anywhere except her own.

She glanced at each of the three men in turn, and all but one kept their eyes elsewhere, all but the man in the back seat with her. He stared at her the entire way, and she kept her eyes to the window and her knees pressed tightly together and pointing as far away from him as she could manage. He was leaning casually against the corner of his seat, terribly relaxed for a self-styled bodyguard.

When they pulled up to the hotel, Randy Harada, stepped in so quickly she hardly had time to realize the vehicle had stopped. Randy took one look at her face, read it, and then spoke to both her and his guard, “Are you alright? God, Shinobu, have you been terrifying my trainer this entire time?”

Maggie blinked a few times at him, he seemed…younger. Shinobu shrugged and accepted Randy’s wave of his hand as a dismissal as he exited the vehicle and joined a group inside the hotel. The car began moving again. Randy exhaled and looked at Maggie.

“I’m sorry,” Randy said. It was soft and sincere, or at least it seemed that way

“Is there a reason you’ve asked to meet me?”

Randy looked a little surprised at the hostility, “Well yes, I’m…I…”

She waited, her eyebrows raised.

He stopped. Recalculated and then smiled again, “Dinner.”

“You’ve said that. And I get the feeling you’re lying to me.”

“That’s because I am.”

Maggie straightened up and made to open her mouth, but

Randy laughed, “I mean, it’s not really dinner. It’s dessert. I want to…introduce you to…. very good pie.”

“Excuse me?”

He pointed out the window to the neighborhood Village Inn and her mouth hung open. The vehicle pulled into the parking lot and stopped.

“A Village Inn? You’re serious?”

He nodded and then said very quickly, “Just be…yourself. Custom would dictate that you crawl on your hands and feet when you meet him…”

“What?!” She looked behind him out his window and saw a group of six tall bronze men standing outside of a car. “Those are Tongans!” she gasped, “He’s here! The King?! You’re bringing me to meet the King?! At a Village Inn?!”

“He likes pie,” Randy replied, stepping out of the car. He bent down and continued his conversation through the open door while extending her a hand, “Don’t look into his eyes. When he offers you his hand, take it, but don’t shake it. If no one is looking, kiss it. Speak when spoken to. Answer whatever question he poses. Islanders who respect you will speak with as much blunt force as a fist, but will insult you with subtle poetry. If he starts waxing poetically to you and you don’t understand a word he says, you’re being insulted which means you’ve offended him and you need to quickly change directions.”

She took his hand, and with a deft motion he threaded her arm through his and pulled her out of the car. He walked and she followed, her heart beating two hundred times a minute. He continued to give her pointers, a long list he had probably compiled from years of training and experience. She thought her head was going to explode under all the pressure when right before they reached the steps to the restaurant she remembered.

“Randy, don’t fire Cornelius.”

Randy came to a dead stop in the middle of the parking lot, just before the door. He turned around, let go of her hand, and looked straight at her.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because…you’re going to…you’re going to leave the Paniolos.”

He looked genuinely bewildered at that, “Why?”

“There’s rumors. A new owner, a new jockey, the new horse, the new direction…just…I know we’ve made mistakes…”

“Miss Abney.”

“…but please don’t fire Cornelius …”

“Miss Abney,” he walked up to her and stopped just short. He let out a long exhale, “I’m not firing Cornelius. Why would I? What purpose would I have for firing a very smart, very talented, occasionally obedient trainer?”

She was quiet.

“I like you,” he said bluntly. “And I have a job for you. And if you would kindly cease arguing with me, I’d be happy, with his Majesty’s help, to inform you about it.”

…….

The King was sitting there looking as ordinary as he could being nearly seven feet tall, three hundred pounds, his warm bronze skin glowing under the cheap light of the Village Inn, his fork half buried in a banana cream pie. He wore business casual pants, a white shirt, and a well loved leather jacket. When she took his hand, she noticed that it was huge and swallowed hers right up. He had a deep booming voice that gave her chills when he said, “Ahhhh, Miss Makaleta Abanehi!” and his eyes were a deep warm brown that reminded her of a horse’s eye.

She sat down and listened as Harada and the King slowly revealed what they had been planning for so many years. Randy was splitting the barn.

“So you…Miss Abanehi, will go to California with my horse and the filly, and Cornelius will stay on the East Coast. This will be very very good, I think,” the King explained.

Maggie didn’t know what to say. Randy Harada, the Paniolos, were taking her away. They were taking her away from Cornelius and Ramon and Martin and Pinkie. Away from Subversive and Yakety Sax. The roster was now large enough that she could be given a whole string of the best to run on her own out in California, while Cornelius handled the East Coast. In only a few years she had gone from exercising and grooming horses for Cornelius to being “friendly” competition. It was how trainers became trainers, but she still couldn’t believe it was happening to her. Still couldn’t believe she was sitting at a table eating pie with a monarch and a millionaire promoting her.

The interview was brief, she barely said a few words, registered even less, and when they found themselves back in the car together, Randy breathed out a quiet little cheer and turned and smiled at her. His smile disappeared when he saw her face.

“Miss Abney, you don’t look pleased at all.”

No, she wasn’t. She was confused. “You’re not firing us.”

“Maggie,” he lowered his voice so that it was soft and reassuring, like he was the groom now, and she was the horse, “I never waste a good thing. Actually, I have to admit to being hurt that you think I’m extravagant enough to abuse my workers that way. I may be a capitalist, but that hardly makes me demonic.”

Maggie found herself giggling at that, an image of Randy Harada with horns coming out of his head. The way Ramon and Martin and Cornelius always made him sound. She had to admit that here, sitting with him, he sounded very…normal…like he really was just a thirty-three year old guy from Hawaii.

“Not extravagant, huh?” she teased, “So you never mix business with pleasure?”

Randy’s expression shifted rapidly, from hurt to delight, “My dear, all business eventually comes down to pleasure.”

This made Maggie think for a moment. She paused. Took a breath and then asked, “What exactly is it you do, Mr. Harada?”

“Randy. I’m an arbitrator. Or I was for several years. We local Hawaiians know a thing or two about flexibility. About belonging to every nation and to none. I have a unique, but trained, ability to stand between two nations and get them to quit pissing on each other and have an actual conversation.”

Maggie pressed, “You were?”

“Well, yes, I was, but then I realized I had another advantage. Being able to negotiate between nations meant I could create opportunities where none existed before.”

Maggie’s mind flashed back to the man in the seat next to her while driving over, the colorful inked skin just below the white shirt. Her face darkened.

“And it appears you have a question for me?”

“Are you…” she leaned forward and whispered, “Yakuza?”

Randy’s eyes widened and then he laughed out loud. He laughed so hard and for so long, Maggie blushed. He suddenly reached forward, took her hand and kissed it, “You very very sweet girl, please don’t blush, I am so sorry to have laughed like that, but really…what you must think of me?! Me? Yakuza? And you…how very brave you must be to ask a man you thought was if he was. You have once again, Miss Abney, cornered me between being impressed by you and hurt by you.”

Maggie looked down and felt the car slowly roll to a stop in front of her home.

“Miss Abney, I am an investor. That’s all you need know.”

“An investor who influences his own investments. Isn’t that illegal?”

Randy smiled and leaned forward, “It’s called lobbying.”



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