Lady Joker, Volume 1

by Kaoru Takamura

  “I glanced at it, but—” Monoi said.

  “What an useless article,” Handa finished for him.

  Ordinarily the Ogura-Chunichi Mutual Savings scandal would have had nothing to do with either Monoi or Handa, but the reason they were forced to pay attention to it had to do with Hiroyuki Hatano.

  When Hiroyuki Hatano committed suicide back in November 1990, Monoi had been called in by the police, and was suddenly questioned about his relation to Seiji Okamura—what kind of person Okamura was, when was the last time Monoi had seen him, whether he knew about the letter Okamura had written to Hinode Beer back in 1947, and so on—leaving him utterly bewildered. That was when Monoi learned that Hiroyuki Hatano had somehow acquired this old letter of Seiji Okamura’s, recorded the letter onto a tape, and sent it to Hinode. At his age, Monoi had assumed he would never again experience such a change of heart, but this document written by his elder brother Seiji Okamura, whose face at that point he could not even remember, caused a small waver in his chest, and since then, having tucked away his memory of the transcript of the letter that the police had shown him in a corner of his mind, he had often found himself sitting before the family altar in his home, at a loss for what to do.

  Then, at the Buddhist memorial service held forty-nine days after Hatano’s death, Monoi found out that Handa was handling the investigation into the letters and the tape that Hatano had sent to Hinode Beer. Handa told him that Seiji Okamura’s letter had been given to Hatano by a corporate extortionist, but when it came to the crucial points such as the circumstances of how the extortionist came to be in possession of the letter sent to Hinode Beer over forty years ago, and why he had given it to Hatano, these were not yet clear to him.

  Furthermore, Handa explained that when the extortionist had given the letter in question to Hatano—a dentist whom he had never met before—he had apparently referred to the financial difficulties of Chunichi Mutual Savings Bank and Ogura Transport. This was the point from which Monoi’s interest in the sequence of the Ogura-Chunichi Mutual Savings scandal originated.

  At the same time, it seemed that Handa had been chewed out pretty well by his superiors after Hatano had killed himself the same day they had questioned him about Hinode Beer’s complaint letter. Handa might have been driven more by his own dissatisfaction about the case rather than a particular interest in the substance of the scandal. This was probably also why he had spoken to Monoi in such detail about the investigation, which he normally would have kept entirely confidential.

  These being the circumstances, the two of them had kept an especially close eye on articles that appeared in the newspaper, but the mysterious connections between the Ogura-Chunichi Mutual Savings scandal, the dentist, the extortionist who had made contact with the dentist, Seiji Okamura, and finally Hinode Beer remained as indistinct as ever, and frankly Monoi was starting to lose interest.

  Handa was a different story, though. As he himself would say, he had always had a tenacious personality, and despite having dismissed the article as useless, now he asked, “I bet that dude from the credit union knows all about this kind of money circulating underground. Do you think he’ll be at Fuchu today?”

  “It’s the Tenno Sho. Of course he’ll be there.”

  “I’ll be there today too. The Emperor’s Cup will go to either Biwa Hayahide or to Narita Taishin, right?”

  Since Hatano’s suicide, Handa had seemed somewhat lackluster about his work. Last year, he had transferred to the Kamata Police Department, and even though he said things had picked up a little again, if he was sneaking out of work to go to Fuchu, then he must not be so busy after all.

  Then, as if he had just remembered, Handa changed the subject. “By the way, what did the private detective say?”

  “They found an old man who fits the description at a nursing home in Akigawa, but I’m sure it’s the wrong person again,” Monoi replied.

  Last year during the Obon holiday—the festival of the dead—when he went to visit his family graves in Hachinohe, Monoi had decided to seek out Seiji Okamura’s grave as well. When he’d inquired with Okamura Merchants about its location, they told him that the last contact they’d had with Seiji was a postcard sent from Tokyo around 1953. Since his long-lost brother’s family register was still listed in Hachinohe, Monoi decided he would spend some time looking for Seiji. This was how, after New Year’s, he came to hire a private detective agency, but after three months there had been no solid leads, and he no longer expected much.

  “I hope they find him,” Handa said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, see you at Fuchu.” With that, Handa hung up the phone.

  Just then, the bell in the pharmacy rang, and when Monoi stepped outside he found Yoshiya Kanemoto, in golf attire, standing by his parked Mercedes.

  “Big brother, have some of this ginseng. It’ll perk you right up,” he said and thrust a paper bag at Monoi. It was obvious he had been gambling in South Korea again.

  “I’m well enough, but thanks anyway,” Monoi said, taking the bag. Inside the Mercedes was another man going to play golf with him, and he nodded perfunctorily at Monoi. He knew the faces of a few of the yakuza whom Yoshiya ran around with; today it was the always-somber man with the mole.

  After Yoshiya went off to play golf, Monoi was finally able to have his breakfast of miso soup and fish simmered in sweet soy sauce. He then did a bit of tidying out in front of the pharmacy, which was closed for the day, and left the house before nine, slightly earlier than usual.

  That day—April 24th—marked the second day since the horseracing venue had moved from Nakayama to Fuchu. For the first time in a while, a number of Monoi’s friends turned out, and before it was even noon, the usual faces had gathered in a corner on the second-floor of the grandstand facing the track. The crowd was bigger than usual, since the Spring Tenno Sho was taking place at the Hanshin Racecourse, but most of the people were looking at the horseracing newspapers in their hands rather than at the early races happening before their eyes, and the cheers rising from the grandstand after each race that morning were still muted.

  Upon arrival, Handa, true to his word, grabbed Katsumi Koh—“the dude from the credit union”—who was already there and, thrusting the morning paper at him, said, “Explain this to me, will ya?”

  Koh glanced sidelong at the front page and replied derisively, “It means the investigation has finally hit a wall. Who would be stupid enough to leave any trace of a bribe to a politician?”

  “I want you to tell me about the ‘alchemy’ behind all that, the tricks those guys use to make the big money.”

  When Handa pressed him, Koh offered only a teaser, “First thing you need is capital,” and refused to divulge anything further. Meanwhile, Nunokawa’s Lady exclaimed, “Uuu, eer!”

  Nunokawa’s daughter was as energetic as ever, twisting her upper body, swiveling her head round and round, and issuing cries from her throat. Reaching over from her right, Nunokawa shoved a hunk of cream bun into her mouth, but the girl spat it out, along with plenty of drool, and it fell onto her lap. Breadcrumbs were littered around her feet.

  “There, she doesn’t want any more.” From the girl’s left side, Monoi grabbed the package of pastry and a towel from Nunokawa. As Monoi wiped the girl’s mouth with the towel, she shrieked, “Uuu, eer” again and happily bounced atop the bench, kicking his shin. Now sixteen, the girl had put on some weight, and despite her short stature she was too heavy for her mother to deal with during her weekend visits home from the special care facility, so the job of tending to all her personal needs now fell to her father. Thanks to this, Nunokawa—sturdy as he was—seemed to be having trouble sleeping due to back pain. Not that he complained much about it, but his virile stature did appear slightly diminished. Taking the opportunity to foist his daughter on someone else for a few minutes, Nunokawa yawned over the newspaper spread open in front of him
.

  “Uuu, eer!” The girl cheered at the top of her lungs again.

  “Hurdle? Yes, that’s right. The steeplechase is next. Who do you think will win?” When Monoi asked the girl this, she contorted her neck and jutted her forehead toward the racecourse, indicating a horse. The horse warming up before the finish line wore a saddlecloth with the number six, and when he checked the newspaper he saw that it was High Beam, the most popular horse. Amused, Monoi turned to face his three friends in the seats behind him.

  “Hey. Lady says number six will win next. Someone bet on it.”

  “Quinella on six-eleven. I’m feeling pretty good today.” This from Yo-chan, but alas, he was talking about the Tenno Sho.

  From beside Yo-chan, with his head buried in the newspaper and gripping a red pencil, Koh spoke up, “Monoi-san, quinella bet on six-eleven, bracket quinella on six-eight. You can bet all your money today, you can’t lose.”

  “The capital will come from Koh’s credit union. A loan without collateral, no less,” Handa cut in from beside him.

  Koh curled his lip a little and snickered. There was something peculiar about his snicker.

  Katsumi Koh had joined their group in early spring three years ago, shortly after the soaring stock and land prices finally began to correct. Everything was immediately colored by the economic recession, and as if even financial institutions—and their employees—were suddenly at leisure, Koh began to show up at the races every Sunday, sitting with Yo-chan at the foot of the pillar by the first-floor betting windows. The reason Koh got along with Yo-chan was simple—“The guy doesn’t talk about money,” he said.

  According to what Koh had told them, he had graduated from Keio University in accordance with his parents’ wishes; then a friend of the family had invited him to work at the credit union, where he devoted himself entirely to the loan business—for ten years he never returned home before midnight. At the beginning of 1990, when he had had the highest sales performance in his branch, he had coughed up blood from a gastric ulcer and was hospitalized. After two months of convalescence, he had returned to work, only to learn he had lost his spot. Apparently that’s the way it goes in finance. He was reassigned to deposit affairs, and now that his days consisted of collecting small monthly deposits of ten or twenty thousand yen from general, non-member customers, Koh said, his life had gotten easier. In truth, he had the face of an exceptionally ordinary company employee.

  On the other hand, Koh’s attire—which Handa liked to describe as “host club or hot-spring-spa after-dinner show”—was anything but ordinary. Today he was wearing a double-breasted Italian suit and an eye-popping lime-green necktie. This façade seemed, in part, an effort not to be made fun of as “too straight” by the employees of his family’s business, which operated a wide array of pachinko parlors and amusement arcades, or by the various organized crime underlings he came in contact with, but even so, Monoi still detected a shadow of that particular vein about him, and his first impression that he belonged to that dark underworld remained unchanged.

  Nevertheless, this did not take into account Koh’s undoubtedly complex psychology. He felt an emotional distance toward all Japanese people, yet at the same time, he himself said that when it came to other Zainichi he was “at odds with everything from their values to their speech.” Handa, the detective, and Nunokawa, the ex-army man, treated Koh as different simply because he was a Zainichi.

  “If you say so, Handa-san, I’ll loan you a million if you promise to give me back thirty percent of your winnings, ” Koh said from behind Monoi.

  “You better look for another victim,” Handa spat out. Koh snickered again. Yo-chan was still glaring at his newspaper, the headphones from a portable radio in his ears. Nunokawa, stifling one of his many yawns of the day, stole a glance at the group of young women occupying the space about three seats away from them, a single furrow appearing between his brows. In the last two or three years, it seemed that horseracing had even become wholesome entertainment for young people, as the number of teenage girls and student-types had increased considerably. Lady had been attending the races for ten years already, and she now watched gaily, rocking the bench beneath her.

  Below them, the 3,100-meter steeplechase had started on the dirt track. Each man—Monoi and his friends—raised his head slightly, watching the horses as they ran on the dirt track beneath the overcast sky. Seen from afar, the movements of the horse and jockey that leaped to the front looked awkwardly mechanical, like a crankshaft going round and round. When one of the jockeys took a spill halfway through the far turn of the first lap, Nunokawa’s daughter, who hated to see anyone falling from a horse, let out a full-throated scream.

  After sweeping past the grandstand, the pack of horses slowed the pace for the backstretch of the second lap. The horse wearing the number six, High Beam, started to inch forward about midway through the straightaway. “There he goes,” Monoi said and patted the girl’s back, and the girl whirled her neck in broad circles and tried to say something. At the final obstacle before the fourth turn, a couple more jockeys fell in succession, and with two more horses out of the race, the final surge of ten horses in the homestretch ended with High Beam breaking out to the finish line.

  “Look at that, number six won,” Monoi said to Lady, but the girl, having seen the falls right before her eyes, was lolling her head downward as she began to sob, which made Nunokawa growl, “Cut it out!”

  Behind them, persistent as ever, Handa continued to pester Koh. “How can tens of billions of yen be moved around so easily in the first place? Explain this to me.”

  Monoi strained his ears a little to listen in on them now.

  “You can’t make money without circulating it. Every time money moves, someone benefits. That’s why it goes around,” Koh said.

  “Then in the case of Chunichi Mutual Savings, who circulated the money and how, and who benefited from it?”

  “They all circulated it together, and each of them benefited. Listen. Those guys, first they looked for a flash point to take advantage of. Chunichi Mutual Savings was a triple whammy: management in trouble; an accounting fraud; infighting between management and the founding clan who were their top shareholders. Next, they created a fixed-race scenario. Then they recruited those who wanted in on it. They had their plan. All they had to do was execute it.”

  “You mean how one day out of the blue the founding clan sold their stock holdings to a third party?”

  Right, that’s what had happened. Monoi himself briefly contemplated the course of events that had been reported in the media. Using Zenzo Tamaru, a businessman with political ties, as their middleman, the founding clan of Chunichi Mutual Savings had sold off their stock holdings to a third party, and it was speculated that the management of Chunichi Mutual Savings, finding themselves cornered into this third-party takeover, had been promised support by the influential politician from the Liberal Democratic Party known only as “S.”

  In addition, there was talk that “S.” had received money in return for his aid, and that the murky twelve-billion-yen loan Chunichi Mutual Savings had made to Ogura Development for the land purchase and development costs for a golf course was used as a slush fund. The charges against the two executives of Chunichi Mutual Savings who had already been arrested were related to this loan. Incidentally, according to the newspapers, the three billion from the twelve-billion-yen loan that was suspected of being in violation of investment law had been loaned to Ogura Development through a keiretsu-affiliated nonbank. This matter had been exposed due to a lack of registered documentation when the broker loan and the revolving mortgage were established. The land Ogura had originally purchased for the golf course was a mountain forest worth only about one billion yen, and of course no golf course was ever constructed. And S. had not given any support to Chunichi Mutual Savings either.

  Ultimately, the current of money did flow to its predetermined d
estination. After a while Kihachi Takemura, the third party to whom the stock holdings were transferred from the founding clan, sold off the shares to Toei Bank, and eventually in 1991, Chunichi Mutual Savings was absorbed into Toei Bank. As Koh had said, it was clear that things had unfolded according to a plotline someone had planned out, meaning that the founding clan of Chunichi Mutual Savings; Kihachi Takemura, who received the stock transfer; Toei Bank; the businessman with political influence, Zenzo Tamaru; and the unknown politician had all worked together to circulate the money.

  “If that’s true, where did the loan to Kihachi Takemura for the funds to buy the founders’ stock holdings come from in the first place?” Handa pressed on.

  “Takemura? He’s an old ally of Zenzo Tamaru, so with one call to action from the Okada Association, a loan is no big deal. I’m sure they gave it to him without even any collateral.”

  “So the connection between the founders, Takemura, Toei, and the politicos is Zenzo Tamaru? He’s the one who plotted the scenario?”

  “A detective shouldn’t even mention the name Tamaru,” Koh retorted, but Handa was unfazed, and continued to pepper him with amateurish questions.

  “Then the corporate raiders, Takemitsu, buying out Ogura Transport’s stocks was also part of the scenario?”

  “I’m sure that was different from the main narrative, but in any case, they’re all connected somehow and they’re all floating each other at the right time. Buying out thirty-four-million yen worth of Ogura Transport stocks is no small thing, you know. If the average share price from ’88 to ’89 was twelve hundred yen, that comes out to over forty billion yen. And Toshin Finance, who loaned Takemitsu’s Kimihiro Arai this amount of money, was a subsidiary of Toei Bank.”

  “Forty billion . . .”

  “That’s the capital. First, Arai drove up the stock to its highest value of nearly nineteen hundred yen through speculation. Then, in exchange for selling the stocks he had bought up, he demanded that Ogura Transport and its main bank Chunichi Mutual Savings buy back the stocks at a relatively cheaper price. The newspapers reported it as sixty-one point two billion, so working backward, that comes out to about eighteen hundred yen per share. A return of twenty billion on forty billion capital—that’s the work of the likes of Takemitsu.”