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Misha Pastow liked travelling the world but this time she'd fallen into a very nasty situation. Tokyo was an expensive place to live in and the only way it seemed she could make some money was teaching music, one of the few qualifications Misha possessed. She didn't know if she'd actually get any students but advertised anyway and crossed her fingers for luck. Which turned out to be a very appropriate thing to do. Because all of her teaching time was booked out the very next day by a man with a finger missing from one of his hands. A very well built and well dressed man called Mr Oimika. One look at Mr Oimika's mode of transport, a white Rolls-Royce, and the absence of a joint of his little finger was enough to give Misha a very shrewd idea about the past and present occupation of her unexpected and very unlikely client. Whatever Oimika-San's interests in life, making beautiful music was unlikely to be one of them.

In Japan there's a word for men with a surplus of money and a deficiency in digits. They're called the Yakusa. And you very quickly learn that they are the most unabashed and up front crime syndicate anywhere on the planet. Which also means that when one of them turns up on your doorstep with a couple of bodyguards your neighbors aren't shy about telling you exactly who your visitor is. Two minutes after the Rolls-Royce glided away from her rented room Misha learnt from a very reliable source that Oimika-San was the fuku-honbucho of the Yamaguchi-gumi branch of the city's Yakusa. Which made him about the third or fourth most dangerous thug in the million and a half people living around her. That was a piece of extremely disquieting information for Misha, especially as the reliable source was an English speaking Japanese cop who'd been patrolling the street during Oimika's brief visit. A cop, Misha couldn't fail to notice, who'd saluted the fuku-honbucho's flamboyant Rolls-Royce with military style crispness as it departed.

Of course, if the cop had known the full content of the conversation between the round eyed girl and the gangster boss he might have smiled as he saluted. In fact he might even have broken out into very un-Japanese peals of laughter. Because it was Mr Oimika's son who was being sent to Ms Pastow for music lessons. And Oimika-San had been very candid about Oimika junior's lack of musical ability.

"He has trumpet for playing, but sound very bad. I think he will always sound bad."

"Then why send him to me?" Misha had asked.

Fuku-honbucho Oimika had told her. Without hesitation.

"He has done well in a examination of school. I wish to give him a present of western girl. He thinks he is coming here to blow his trumpet but instead you will blow him, Ms Pastow. You will also let him do exactly as he wishes with you. For which you will receive good payment. Is there any problem with that?"

Misha had looked into eyes which would have made a crocodile nervous. She glanced over Oimika-San's broad shoulders at his two companions. An unforgettable sight: sumo wrestlers dressed by Saville Row. There were many thoughts hurling around her head but leading all the others by a huge margin was the consideration of how valuable all her fingers were to a girl who wanted to keep on playing music.

"No . . . it's no problem."

Did I just say that?

Misha saw the hint of a smile around the gangster's lips and knew she had. She decided it had probably been a long time since anybody had not agreed to do what Oimika-San wanted. And she, a foreign female in this huge and alien city, had no ambition to find out what happened to anybody who tried. Give Oimika the finger and -- well, give Oimika the finger and that was exactly what would happen -- she'd give the thug a finger, maybe two.

Misha bit her lip to keep from breaking out into hysterical laughter. Instead she made a stupid pretence of writing down the day and time of Oimika junior's lesson -- as though she was likely to forget! Then she stood and watched the massively built car visibly sink down as its three equally massive passengers climbed in. Odd Jobs 'R Us Misha thought and prayed her facial muscles wouldn't start twitching into something that might look like a smile to a Japanese.

Each of the men seemed to take a second look at her as they entered the vehicle, partly of pleasure at an easy victory perhaps and partly, as far as the two bodyguards were concerned, of envy at Oimika junior's luck. That Oimika junior was going to be very lucky indeed with Misha was something the guards were certain of. And so was Misha. She stared at the rich man's car until it had rolled out of sight, but at least she managed not to wave goodbye and make herself look a complete fool. Then she wanted nothing more than to hide herself away in her room. Instead, she had to listen to the Japanese cop telling her how much of a privilege it was for her to be visited by such an important man as Oimika-San.

Still, at least the information from the police officer strongly confirmed her original decision not to argue with the Yakusa leader. Saying yes instead of no to Oimika seemed beyond doubt the smart thing to do and keep on doing. Something which Misha kept on saying to herself over and over again, right up to the time that Oimika junior arrived. Actually it was a red and black striped Porsche which pulled into the kerb with squealing brakes and Misha assumed that Junior was driving it. She was correct.

Her new pupil was exactly as she expected what a highly successful gangster's son would be like. A swaggering cocky little shit. Except maybe he wasn't so little. In fact Oimika-Junior was taller than she was. And his English was much better than his father's.

"You are Pastow? You are to teach me about the trumpet?"

"Yes. My first name is Misha."

Junior clearly couldn't care less.

"In Japan, we do not call servants by first name. Tell me about trumpet, Pastow."

Misha wanted to tell him to blow his trumpet out of his ass. She wanted to but didn't dare to. The sight of the gang symbols tattooed on the teenager's neck were more than enough to persuade her to make a clumsy bow like a geisha girl as she opened her door for him. Junior sniggered, amused at the sight of a westerner obviously so overawed by his presence. Misha wondered if Oimika-San had taken the time to explain to his son that his music teacher was going to be available for more than the usual range of finger placement techniques. Maybe she should just let him blow his own trumpet for a while and see what happened.

"OK, Junior, when you're ready."

"You will not call me Junior. That is not showing respect to me. You will call me Oimika-San, Patsow."

Misha gritted her teeth. It would be more fun teaching a gorilla how to retrieve sticks than having to put up with this.

"Yes, Oimika-San. I'd like you to pick a tone in the middle register and try to hit it in the center of the pitch. Start when you feel comfortable."

Junior immediately blew into the trumpet: what came out the other end made Misha squeal with physical pain. One thing was certain, If Junior had the slightest trace of musical ability anywhere inside him it must be hiding somewhere underneath a rock and pretending to be dead.

"You have problem with my playing, Patsow?" the young gangster snarled.

Misha realized instantly she must do something quickly to save Junior's face.

"No, no. But let me just show you about embouchure."

"Embouchure. What is embouchure?"

"It's the way you shape your mouth while playing an instrument. It would be easier to explain if I could demonstrate what I mean on your cock. May I do that, please, Oimika-San?"

A wide grin spread across Junior's face.

"I want you to kneel down on the floor in front of me, Patsow, and then I may let you give me a lesson."

"Yes, Oimika-San," Misha said weakly. "Thank you, Oimika-San."

She bowed to him as if she was a geisha girl, got down on her knees on the floor and unzipped his pants without looking up. She didn't need to -- she could easily sense the smile on his face.

"Are you afraid of me, Patsow?"

Misha answered truthfully: "Yes, Oimika-San."

She kept her eyes lowered as an obedient Japanese girl would have done. In any case she had suddenly realized that she was holding what might well be described as a full hand. Junior might be the worst trumpet player in the home islands but he was a lad with all the makings of an outstanding organist. Misha began to take deep breaths.

"Ha, you like big cock, Patsow?"

"Yes, Oimika-San. But also before playing the trumpet it is good to get rid of the old air in your lungs like this."

The boy giggled in amusement: "You are funny girl, Patsow. What do you do next with trumpet?"

"The next thing I have to do is to warm my lips up. It's easy when I'm getting ready to blow on a nice hot cock. All I have to is to rub it all the way around my mouth -- like this."

Junior was still laughing: "Oh, yes, warm up is good idea. And then what do you do?"

"Now I begin to practice my embouchure. Getting my mouth into the right shape to play the instrument."

Misha leaned forward on her knees.

" I keep my teeth slightly apart. I form my lips as if I'm about to say the 'M' in 'Mother'.

"You mean the 'M' in 'Mother Fucker' Oimika told her in delight.

Misha reflected briefly and bitterly that Junior would probably be in far greater danger as a comedian than he ever would be as a gangster.

"Now I blow hard enough to make my lips buzz. Now I put the trumpet mouthpiece on my lips and make the same buzz into the center of the mouthpiece. Like this."

Junior quivered in delight as the vibrations from the kneeling teachers tongue went clear through to his testicles, then sighed as she leaned back to talk to him.

"Did that seem like it was on the center of the pitch?" she asked him intently. "It's important to try to hit the bullseye straight away."

"The bullseye? Oh yes, I think it was right on the bullsye," Junior happily confirmed.

"Well, that's good. You must always breath deep down from your stomach when you're doing this with your trumpet. Did you feel my lips buzzing?"

"Yes, I think so. But do it again so I can be sure."

"All right. Only this time I'll do it with a 'T' sound. And I'm going to go down deeper for a middle tone. You don't mind that, do you?"

"No, I think I can stand that, Patsow. Only this time I want you to show me your best -- what is the word?"

"Embouchure?"

"Yes, Patsow, your embouchure. Put your mouth around my cock in the right shape to suck on it and then wait for my order."

"Yes, Oimika-San."

END OF PART ONE