Chapter Text
Whenever he daydreamed about going to America, Majima had always assumed he’d go to New York City. He often daydreamed about sightseeing there- going to the Statue of Liberty up close, like in the movies, seeing the view from the top of the Empire State Building, getting in one of those iconic yellow cabs and telling the driver to ‘step on it’ as he was pursued by police, freaking out random strangers in Central Park covered in blood that wasn’t his, yada yada. He’d often imagined that one day, maybe when Shimano’s bucket had finally been kicked, he’d go out there with some guys from the family for a week or two. Maybe get a train down to Disneyland while they were there, too, treat his boys to a good time harassing families and stuffing overpriced novelty food down their throats.
Regardless, when he told Nishida that Shimano was shipping him off to the great United States, he’d received some concern. Concern that obviously was responded to with an ass-kicking, sure, but he did know why Nishida was worried. After all, he’d seen his purchasing history on bad American Mafia movies. And Nishida was right, he also wanted to meet a real New York mobster. They probably weren’t too fundamentally different to the yakuza, but they spoke in a different accent and made different types of food which basically made them a whole other species. They felt different. Like going into a chain store that wasn’t your local one and having it feel like a totally new experience, even if they sold the same old shit. Hell, Majima thought he’d make a great American mobster himself. He could probably learn to swear in Italian and shout about where he was walking.
He didn’t get the freedom of choosing where in the States he went, though. That was Shimano’s call.
So instead, he’d found himself stuck on the West Coast rather than the East one, over in LA instead of NYC. He was bored as shit the whole flight there and didn’t even get to meet an American mobster when he got there, just some dull ex-yakuza. Plus, he’d been ordered to not draw attention to himself, meaning he had to wear that black suit that’d been gaining dust in the back of his wardrobe since 1989, which unfortunately hadn’t been eaten by moths yet. Hottest place he’d ever been to and he didn’t even get to go around shirtless? The world was so cruel.
And somehow it got worse- he didn’t even get to kill this guy he was going over to see, ‘cuz the son of a bitch had done his duties and left a pinky back at home before fleeing off to the States like the coward he probably was. He was even still on good terms with Shimano. So no, no violence, instead he had to get some info from the bugger about some big drug deal he was part of before he quit to confirm something or other. His first trip to America, first trip out of the country in years, and this was all it was? What a disappointment. He was this close to killing Shimano himself. Hey, maybe that’d be a fun first evening back after he got home!
The whole ordeal could’ve been done over a phone call if the big boss man hadn’t gone all senile and paranoid after all the family phones got a little bugged a few months ago. The info it lost them couldn’t have been worth more than… what, 100 million yen? And nobody even died! Well, one guy got ambushed and eventually succumbed to the bullet wounds, but that didn’t count. It was a stupid precaution to make him go all the way over to America in person. Plus, something so simple and requiring such little skill would be better suited to one of Majima’s underlings, but apparently Shimano needed somebody who he totally absolutely 100% trusted to do this stupid fucking confirmation on who gave who what and the only option he had was a guy who had his own bloody family to run. Bastard.
At least this was only going to be a 3 day thing, tops. He’d already spent the first day getting there, so Thursday would be for meeting the guy at his office and that’d be that. He could be on the plane by the end of the day tomorrow and be guzzling down champagne in a cabaret club by Friday.
Climbing out of his boring, not NYC-yellow cab, and entering the glitzy hotel he’d gotten Nishida to book him, Majima grunted in response to some small talk from the receptionist (he remembered English from school, but it didn’t mean he wanted to speak it) and headed over to the elevators. At least he got a good place to stay. Shame there wasn’t anything to do in LA, and he couldn’t even go out clubbing since for some godforsaken reason he had to get up at 9 AM for the taxi he’d been set up with, even though the meeting wasn’t until 6 in the afternoon. 9 fucking AM. Seriously, what did Shimano think he was, a mailman? Whatever. The elevator clacked open on his floor and he walked to his room, too jet lagged and frustrated to take in anything, and flopped on the bed. Before he could even try taking off anything he was wearing, his eyelid got too heavy to stay open and he slipped into unconsciousness.