The Dusk Parlor

By S.A. Stovall

Former soldier Hugh Harris is a hāfu—half-Japanese, half-American—and, after his father’s death, he returns to Kobe, Japan, in order to connect with his mother and her family. Confused and feeling out of place, Hugh finds work as a waiter at an upscale nightclub. The other employees, an odd and eclectic bunch, quickly make him feel at home, especially the bartender, Ren, and the club host, Kaito. 

But the tranquility doesn’t last forever. As Hugh gets deeper into his relationships with both men, he finds they may have dubious connections with the yakuza in town… and when the local street leaders send their enforcers to the Dusk Parlor, Hugh, Ren, and Kaito may be in for a storm of trouble.

World of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the globe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635333978

S.A. Stovall

S.A. Stovall grew up in California’s central valley with a single mother and little brother. Despite no one in her family having a degree higher than a GED, she put herself through college (earning a BA in History), and then continued on to law school where she obtained her Juris Doctorate. As a child, Stovall’s favorite novel was Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell. The adventure on a deserted island opened her mind to ideas and realities she had never given thought before—and it was the moment Stovall realized that storytelling (specifically fiction) became her passion. Anything that told a story, be it a movie, book, video game, or comic, she had to experience. Now as a professor and author, Stovall wants to add her voice to the myriad of stories in the world, and she hopes you enjoy. You can contact her at the following addresses: Twitter: @GameOverStation Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

The Dusk Parlor

By S.A. Stovall

Former soldier Hugh Harris is a hāfu—half-Japanese, half-American—and, after his father’s death, he returns to Kobe, Japan, in order to connect with his mother and her family. Confused and feeling out of place, Hugh finds work as a waiter at an upscale nightclub. The other employees, an odd and eclectic bunch, quickly make him feel at home, especially the bartender, Ren, and the club host, Kaito.

But the tranquility doesn’t last forever. As Hugh gets deeper into his relationships with both men, he finds they may have dubious connections with the yakuza in town… and when the local street leaders send their enforcers to the Dusk Parlor, Hugh, Ren, and Kaito may be in for a storm of trouble.

World of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the globe.

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Chapter 1: Kobe, Japan

Chapter 2: Interview

Chapter 3: Rules of the Workplace

Chapter 4: Coworkers

Chapter 5: Language Lessons

Chapter 6: The Yakuza

Chapter 7: Protection

Chapter 8: The Favor

Chapter 9: The Plan

Chapter 10: Epilogue

About the Author

By S.A. Stovall

Visit Dreamspinner Press

Copyright

To Geoff, John, and Ann—thanks for helping me through this one.

Chapter 1: Kobe, Japan

WHAT’S THE word for misery?

I can’t remember, so I glare down at the wordless menu with my lips pressed together in a tight line. The waiter bows and shuffles off to the next table. He assumes—because of my golden brown hair, paler skin, and wider eyes—that I don’t understand Japanese. The picture menu is for foreigners… so that they can point to what they want instead of ordering like a normal person.

The food looks appetizing, but I toss the menu aside and decide to leave.

The hot night air of Kobe greets me with open arms. I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans and walk along the narrow sidewalk to the next street over. All I want is a distraction, but all I get is a reminder that I’ve made a terrible choice.

The streets bustle with life. People crowd every inch, and bicycles line the storefronts. Lights of all colors shine down on me, but I don’t bother looking up. They’re advertisements and street signs. I’m not in the mood.

Women mutter things about me openly—they too assume I can’t understand Japanese—and some, the brazen ones, point.

Look, a foreigner.

He’s so tall!

"Is he hāfu?"

I cringe upon hearing the word.

Hāfu.

It’s the word for anyone half-Japanese. They don’t say it in a tone of disgust, but they say it often enough to make me feel alienated. Everywhere I go they make assumptions and treat me like one treats a strange child. I’m a grown man, a foot taller than everyone around me, but somehow I’m the infant in the crowd.

With a sigh, I turn down a small street and head for an area of the city I know is famous for its bars. I need a drink. I’m dwelling too much on my circumstances, and I need something to dull my thoughts.

The bars are popular and lines commonplace. Unlike California, where the buildings are single-story and separate storefronts, most businesses in Japan are stacked on top of one another in tall, multistory buildings. There are nightclubs on every level, and some lines start at the third floor and stretch out to the sidewalk below.

I walk up to the building, intending to pick a bar that sounds halfway interesting, but the bouncer on the street blocks my path.

In broken English he says, Tourist row down the street. Go there.

I exhale, biting back my frustrations. Here too? I could argue with the man in Japanese, but I decide against it and turn away. He probably thinks he’s helping me out. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Hey! You lookin’ for a place to get smashed?

Shocked to hear perfect English, I turn and glance around. A wiry man steps through the lines and approaches me. He’s got a smile the Cheshire Cat would be proud of—perfect white teeth with striking canines—but that’s not the first detail I notice. He’s wearing a bright pink T-shirt with one sleeve missing and the other long… his black spiked hair with frosted tips and gray skinny jeans are dull compared to everything else.

You new around here? he asks, again in his fluent English. I’d remember a big guy like you. Trust me. He laughs and holds out a hand for a shake—very American.

I hold out my hand and catch sight of the silver bracelets that adorn his wrists. He’s got enough metal to weld himself a sword.

Yeah, I’m new here, I reply in English. But I’m no tourist. I live in town.

Oh? He shakes my hand with a firm grip. He’s got some solid muscle on him. "I live here too. Look how much we have in common. It’s uncanny. You should definitely come with me to my bar." He slams his shoulder up to mine and wraps his arm around behind my back, keeping me close.

It’s odd. Most Japanese people would never invade my personal space. I stare down at his touch, and he punches me in my gut with his free hand.

You don’t mind a little contact, right? he asks, shaking out his hand. Wow. You’re solid. You a military guy? You look military.

I nod. I was in the US military, yeah.

Of course you were.

He steers me back toward the building and juts his chin out to the bouncer. The man at the door rolls his eyes and allows us both through. I get the impression my new friend has done this before. I give the bouncer a curt nod as I stroll by, pleased that I somehow get to undermine his authority. It’s a petty thought, but it invigorates me after a miserable evening.

The ten-story building has a list of businesses mounted on the wall. I don’t even get to glance at them before I’m shoved toward the elevator. If I wanted, I could stop this guy dead in his tracks, but his playful mannerisms don’t bother me. He has an energetic spirit that gets me smiling despite my mood. I like it.

He steps into the elevator with me and hits the button for the fifth story. It’s actually the fourth story—Japanese elevators skip listing the fourth floor for superstitious reasons, much like Americans skip the thirteenth floor—and I wonder where he’s taking me.

My name is Ren, he says. Ren Yoshida.

I nod. I’m Hugh Harris.

Last name Harris, huh? Let me guess. Your father’s American military through and through, and your mother’s a gentle Japanese woman.

I give him the once-over. He’s definitely Japanese. Honeyed skin, black hair, almond-shaped eyes—I don’t see a hint of mix like I have. What’s your excuse? I ask. You’re not hāfu, but your English is impeccable.

You work around here? he asks, ignoring my question.

No. I haven’t found anything yet.

Ah, I see. I assume you’re dating someone, then? Or maybe married?

No. Not yet. And what’s with the questions? What about you?

The elevator hits our destination floor, and Ren jumps to the door. Oh, I’m nothing interesting. C’mon. We’re almost there.

I’m nothing interesting, says the guy in the brightest T-shirt this side of the Pacific Ocean. Heh. I hold back the comment. It doesn’t matter how he knows English, and if he wants to keep it a secret, I won’t pry it out of him.

He saunters out into the hall and points to a door marked with a metal plaque that reads: THE DUSK PARLOR. I eye the solid wood door with a hint of suspicion. I’ve never heard of the place, and there isn’t a line to get in. I thought we were getting smashed?

Ren opens the door and ushers me in with a wave of his arm, his smile set wide. If it weren’t for the fact I can handle myself in a fight, I might be worried—I don’t know anything about my new friend, and this place seems shady enough to mug someone in. With one last hesitant sigh, I cross the threshold and enter the Dusk Parlor.

There’s a short hallway—black enough I almost feel blind—with a single bouncer. The man tries to stop me, but Ren steps between us and pats my shoulder.