Zero Point by Tim Fairchild Read Free Book Online Page A

over the years. In his rage and growing madness, he vowed that one day he would seek retribution on those who had ruined him; an obsession he still held to this day.
    As it was with most Americans, he knew their memory would be short-lived and the media would find something else to focus on, thus diverting attention from the Pencor Oil scandal. Life went on, with Pencor slipping beneath the radar. He slowly drew his plans of revenge against the people and nation that tried to destroy him.
    Yes, it will be soon , he thought, smiling a grin that usually frightened anyone who gazed upon it. “The fools will pay dearly for their stupidity and short-sightedness,” he said, laughing aloud as he came to the entrance of the brightly lit Masari Club.
    Once inside, Pencor was greeted by the constant whirring sounds and clanging of the first floor’s Pachinko parlor with its endless rows of machines. He walked through the din to the back, and then to the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. He noted, with amusement, the groups of businessmen sitting at tables talking quietly while the comfort women, as they were labeled, stood about waiting for a signal to attend their respective table.
    Pencor walked briskly up the flight of stairs to the upper level, leaving the smoke filled parlor behind. He entered the swinging doors into the second floor containing a small bar and restaurant. As he walked across the floor, he could hear the soft, melodic sounds of traditional Japanese music played on the Koto; a banjo like instrument, and a wooden flute.
    Pencor sat down at an empty table and noticed a group of Japanese men wearing dark suits sitting in the back of the room, who regarded him suspiciously. He also noted the surveillance camera in the corner ceiling. One of the men stood and proceeded to walk over to the door labeled ‘office’ in Japanese, then knocked on the door. Pencor watched the man enter the room as a waiter briskly came over to him and took his order of deep fried prawns and gyoza, little dumplings of deep fried octopus, along with a glass of sake.
    Pencor’s order was delivered to him shortly afterwards, and, as he savored the tasty meal, he warily kept his eyes on the men seated at the table. He trusted no one and could plainly see that the men were armed, judging from the bulges in the sides of their dark suits.
    As he sipped the last of his sake, the man who had retreated into the rear office appeared once again from the room and approached his table. Pencor could not help but notice the missing pinky finger on the man’s left hand, and wondered what the poor fellow had done to deserve his ritual penitence.
    “Good evening, Pencor-san,” the man said with a polite bow. It never ceased to amuse Pencor how formal protocol and honor ruled the lives of the Japanese. Even the most blood-thirsty criminal held to this code and time-honored tradition.
    “Mr. Osama is ready to see you now. I do hope your meal was satisfactory,” he said politely as Pencor rose to follow him across the room to the door. As they passed the other three men, their steady gaze continued.
    “Yes, thank you, the meal was fine,” Pencor replied flatly as the man knocked on the door to the office.
    “Enter,” a voice from within boomed. The large man opened the door and motioned Pencor inside.
    “Mr. Pencor is here to see you, Oyabun.” Pencor knew the term Oyabun meant father, the formal title given to leaders of the Japanese Yakuza clan. The man then closed the door behind Pencor, and went back to his friends seated at the table.
    “Hello, Robert,” said a voice from a large high-backed swivel chair.
    With the Yakuza leader’s back still facing him, Pencor gazed about the room, taking in the elegance of the lavish office. It was impeccably furnished, adorned with bright flowers, native plants, and a myriad of paintings hanging tastefully on the wall.
    The swivel chair slowly turned around to face him, revealing a well-dressed