Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller

by GP Hutchinson

  “What about deciding whether she’s here willingly or under duress?”

  Kobayashi nodded. “That too, naturally.”

  They waited, listening to more conversation. All men so far.

  The rise and fall of cicada song filled the warming air. A crow cawed from a nearby plum tree. Tatsuyama normally found both sounds soothing by virtue of their familiarity. But every sound had him on edge in the yakuza’s backyard.

  A new voice finally lilted from inside the house—a woman’s voice.

  With eyebrows raised, Kobayashi peered over his shoulder at Tatsuyama.

  Tatsuyama shook his head. It wasn’t Naoko.

  Moments later, a fifty-something woman wearing a pale-green kimono carried a large tray into the open back room. She knelt beside the lone, low table and off-loaded bowls, chopsticks, and condiments. Her face remained expressionless. After adjusting a small vase with a deep-purple iris, she retreated into the main part of the house.

  Tatsuyama didn’t know whether the count was important, but the woman had laid out six place settings. He glanced around the garden. “Seems like we may get some action here soon. Is this the best vantage point, or do we want to situate ourselves elsewhere?”

  “Right here is fine,” Kobayashi said.

  The laughter and raucous joking inside rose to a crescendo as four men paraded into the open back room. First there was a distinguished gentleman in an obviously expensive, finely tailored business suit. He seemed to be mildly amused, chuckling as he entered.

  Tatsuyama frowned as the second one entered. “That’s Yamashita,” he whispered.

  Kobayashi nodded.

  The ex-sumotori, Yamashita, released the bawdiest of guffaws. His chortles were punctuated by the endless, groveling repetition of “That was funny, boss; that was funny.”

  A grinning fellow, younger than the others, wearing a sport coat with the sleeves bunched up to the elbows over a T-shirt, followed Yamashita. He looked pleasant enough.

  The last of the four wore a dark business suit. He was shorter and had a deeply wrinkled face.

  Tatsuyama flinched. Ota! he almost vocalized.

  Kobayashi turned to him questioningly.

  But Tatsuyama gave no answer. Instead his breath caught in his chest. A beautiful young woman with a subdued smile had slipped in right after the men. She wore a fashionable thigh-length sweater dress in a feathery blue.

  “Naoko…” he murmured.

  “So her phone led us home,” the detective whispered.

  “What now? Odds aren’t so great for a rescue.”

  Kobayashi motioned subtly. “Give it a minute.”

  They wouldn’t get a minute.

  Just as Naoko reached the table, an arrow sang through the small gap between Kobayashi and Tatsuyama. It thwacked into the dark wooden doorframe just to the left of the party inside.

  Everyone—Tatsuyama and Kobayashi, as well as the five inside—whipped around to see who had launched the arrow. Not twenty yards behind the detective and the yokozuna stood a man in his sixties, his head bald except for a closely cropped ring of silvering hair. He was dressed in kyudo attire, the special combination of kimono and hakama trousers with wide, pleated legs, worn for Japanese archery.

  Staring back at Tatsuyama and Kobayashi, the archer already had another lethal arrow notched on the long bowstring. With a deadly expression, he said, “You’ll both step inside, please.”

  13

  The archer made his way slowly and deliberately toward Tatsuyama and the detective, his straw-sandaled feet softly crunching the gravel of the garden pathway. He gestured for the two trespassers to walk toward the open doorway at the back of the house.

  For a moment, Tatsuyama didn’t even breathe. The blood pulsed in his ears.

  Hearing the bowstring tighten, he slowly stood and faced the party inside. Kobayashi followed suit.

  Tatsuyama looked straight into Naoko’s astonished eyes. Her chin quivered. Was it indeed she who laughed along with the men earlier? He hadn’t thought so, but was his mind playing tricks on him? From the grim expression on her face now, he didn’t know what to think.

  Without pivoting to face the archer, Kobayashi reached slowly for the black leather case clipped to the back of his belt. It contained his badge and police ID. He said firmly, “Sir, I’m with the Tokyo Metro Police Department. You need to put down that bow. A few questions need to be answered here.”

  “We all know what you are, keikan,” the bald man with the bow said. “And if your hand keeps moving, you’ll soon find it pinned to your hip. Do you understand?”

  Kobayashi acknowledged.

  The archer’s hakama trousers rustled faintly as he glided closer.

  Tatsuyama said nothing. His gaze flicked from Naoko to Yamashita.

  “Yamada-san,” Kobayashi called to the well-dressed gentleman inside, “since you, too, already know what I am, may I ask you a few questions without your…bodyguard aiming that arrow at me, please?”

  The distinguished-looking man straightened his shirt cuffs, looked up, and shot a wry smile at the detective and Tatsuyama. “I’m not Yamada-san,” he said, apparently very amused. “I only serve Yamada-san.”

  At that, all four men in the back room erupted in laughter. Tatsuyama and Kobayashi looked slowly over their shoulders at the man with the bow. He was now only about eight feet away from them.

  Kobayashi cleared his throat. “Yamada-san?” he asked with hesitation.

  Before the bowman could answer, Naoko blurted out, “I’m not a Kusunoki. I’m a Yamada!”

  Tatsuyama heard her. But he had already begun to slip into a different state of mind. Control your breathing. Slow that racing heartbeat. Each second seemed to divide into fractions of seconds.

  It’s too far from me to Naoko. An arrow in my back won’t help.

  Fragments of seconds slowed even further in his mind. He recalled his last glance at the archer—his expression, his stance, the distance.

  His muscles shifted almost imperceptibly.

  A crow cawed. He drew a breath.

  The great black bird took to the air with a noisy flutter. Tatsuyama flew into action.

  Spinning, he launched his massive weight toward the archer.

  Everything moved systematically, filling two seconds that seemed like twenty to him.

  In the blink of an eye, he gripped Kobayashi’s forearm with one hand. With his other hand flattened, he hurled himself into the bowman. His open hand struck the bow once, then drove into the archer’s chest twice. Bull’s-eye. The force applied would have sent a hefty sumotori reeling. The effect on the slender bowman was nearly crushing.

  Gravel sprayed Tatsuyama’s shins as the archer’s waraji sandals lost contact with the garden path. The notched arrow sailed over the roof of the old house. The archer slammed to the ground, stunned. His head just missed a large, protruding tree root.

  No time to lose. His feet gripped the earth as though it were dohyo clay. He dashed for the gate, Kobayashi in tow. The men indoors…

  Yamashita, in sock feet, cut an angle across the garden to intercept him. Tatsuyama was already pushing Detective Kobayashi through the wooden gate and toward the Honda up the street. He couldn’t see whether anyone else followed.

  At the end of the block, he glanced back. Several younger men emerged from the walled garden, each of them brandishing a handgun. Yamashita was still giving chase. Tatsuyama raced on, adrenaline still driving him. As he forced his substantial frame into the passenger seat, Kobayashi was already revving the engine. With Tatsuyama barely inside, the car screeched backward a half block, adding distance from Yamashita. Kobayashi spun the car 180 degrees and raced away.

  A large silver Toyota limousine rolled out of a gate beyond the Yamada house, paused to pick up a handful of the younger men, and gunned its engine in pursuit.

  “The chase isn’t over,” Tatsuyama said, looking over his shoulder, catching his breath.

  The detective glanced at the
rearview mirror. “Didn’t think it would be.”

  “That wasn’t good back there.”

  “We found out what we came to find out,” Kobayashi snapped back. “That girl played you like a cheap shamisen, Tatsuyama.”

  “Hey, shamisen aren’t cheap—at least not the ones Kaki-Shinju were playing.”

  “Hang on.” Tatsuyama’s knuckles turned white on the dashboard as Kobayashi yanked hard on the wheel, lining up his CR-Z with a tight alley running behind an open-air fish and vegetable market.

  “Besides,” Tatsuyama said, “how do you know she played me?”

  “She was smiling with the guys until she saw us.”

  The car flew down the alleyway, scraping and toppling heaps of Styrofoam and plastic crates that lined the backside of the market. Kobayashi wheeled the car left, zipped one block over, and yanked it hard right again.

  As they sped down a narrow street between apartment buildings and a parking garage, Tatsuyama said, “At least we know she’s alive.”

  “Alive, hai! Alive and working for her father, Yamada Hideyoshi. I’ll bet that thrills you. She’s spent the past four months setting you up to sit out the May Grand Sumo Tournament.”

  The detective slowed his car almost to a stop. He peered into the darkness of a garage entrance. “Maybe we can hide out in there until Yamada’s goons give up the chase.”

  “Not an option.” Tatsuyama pointed.

  Yamada’s silver limo appeared dead ahead. It crept past, its passengers glaring down the narrow street where Kobayashi’s car sat idling. The limo lurched to a stop and reversed gears.

  The detective threw his Honda into reverse and gave it all he had. Kobayashi reached a driveway, slid hard right, and hit the gas again. “Let’s get out of these alleyways and onto streets where we can maneuver,” he yelled.

  Tatsuyama twisted in his seat, his hand like a vise on the seatback. He had to keep his eyes on Yamada’s goons. The limousine slowed considerably to get its length onto the driveway in pursuit.

  Now on a secondary two-way street with a center turn lane down its whole length, the investigator wove left and right around cars and buses. He ran a red light at a busy intersection, leaving a fender bender in his wake.

  Tatsuyama strained to see around the vehicles behind them. “Still behind us—about two blocks.”

  “Hold on,” Kobayashi said.

  The next street was a major four-lane avenue. Pedestrians stood at the street corner to the left, waiting for the crosswalk light.

  As he slid in behind the one car waiting to turn left, Kobayashi noted two bicyclists and a helmeted girl on a moped along the curb, also waiting to cross.

  Glancing right and seeing no other cars approaching before the light changed, he revved his engine again, edged up to the back of the lone car in front of him, and let off the clutch.

  With the tires of both cars smoking, Kobayashi pushed the Nissan in front of him into the intersection. He swerved left and blared away, burning more rubber. Tatsuyama looked back at a thoroughly congested intersection with the Nissan’s driver out of her car and dozens of pedestrians lingering. The confusion at the intersection must have been just enough to keep the silver limousine from getting through for a full cycle of the traffic light—more than enough time for Kobayashi and Tatsuyama to zigzag through a few blocks of side streets and enter a bigger, more crowded parking garage.

  With a jolt over a speed bump, they disappeared into the concrete cavern.

  14

  Kobayashi eased off the gas pedal. He climbed and spiraled around rows of parked cars until he found what he was looking for—an empty space in a dim corner of the garage. Once he had backed in, he let down the windows and shut off the engine.

  There on the fourth level of the garage, the two sat quietly for several minutes, waiting for their hearts to quit racing. Tatsuyama listened to traffic sounds on the streets below. He could hear no telltale sign of aggressive pursuers.

  At last, in the cool darkness of the garage, Tatsuyama murmured, “If she hadn’t yelled, ‘I’m a Yamada,’ I would still be hoping…”

  “You wouldn’t be hoping anything. You’d be convinced she’s being held there against her will and that we need to go back and rescue her, right?”

  Tatsuyama eyed the detective. “You don’t have to be so kind to me, Kobayashi. I’m not injured or dying.”

  The car engine ticked as it cooled. “Sorry,” Kobayashi said, “I have been harsh.”

  Tatsuyama waved a hand dismissively.

  “And I owe you thanks,” the detective added, “for what you did back there. Sincerely. I wasn’t sure we were going to get away—unharmed, at least.”

  “It’s OK.” Tatsuyama stared across the rows of cars and shook his head. “So you were right—she really is Yamada’s daughter. She didn’t even pretend to be Kusunoki Naoko, being held hostage against her will. She was actually smiling when she walked into the back room…What’s that mean?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What’s that mean?’”

  Tatsuyama pulled off his driving cap, letting his hair—free from its customary topknot—fall to his shoulders. “I mean she was smiling. Does she know what her father is up to? Does she agree with him?”

  Kobayashi looked at Tatsuyama. “I don’t think she totally agrees with him.”

  “Coming from you, that’s good to hear. What’re you thinking?”

  “The fact that she yelled, ‘I’m a Yamada.’ All of Yamada’s people already knew that, which means she yelled it for our benefit. Or more correctly, probably for your benefit.”

  “It was a benefit all right. It gave me a half second to catch the archer off guard.”

  Kobayashi nodded.

  “But she could have yelled anything,” Tatsuyama said. “Why’d she yell, ‘I’m a Yamada’?”

  “I’d say it was a confession.”

  “A confession, or an apology?”

  Kobayashi motioned for quiet and leaned toward his window to listen. Tires screeched on the ramp below. He put a hand on the ignition.

  A white Nissan Cube driven by somebody’s grandmother looped in front of Kobayashi’s car and continued up toward the fifth level.

  The detective dropped his hand to his knee and relaxed. “What were we saying?”

  “When Naoko said, ‘I’m a Yamada,’ it was a confession…to us. She didn’t want us hurt.”

  “I’ll grant you that. But a confession is a confession. It’s an admission of guilt. She knows she set you up.”

  Tatsuyama thought back to his arrest. Naoko had cried. “She didn’t like it when I was arrested,” he said. “Put that together with what she yelled today. I don’t think she likes being part of her father’s conspiracies.”

  “You’re perceptive, yokozuna.”

  “Obviously not perceptive enough. She’s duped me since January. It never occurred to me that she wasn’t being honest.”

  “With a father like Yamada, she’s probably been acting all her life.”

  Tatsuyama recalled the look on her face just before she yelled. “She’s afraid, too, Kobayashi.”

  “She has reason to be.”

  “I saw it in her eyes. Wonder what Chichi will do to her for yelling like that.”

  “Whatever punishment her father dishes out, we can’t mount a rescue mission just yet,” the detective said. “Not unless she sends out a distress call.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is her father. And he’s not just any father. He’s yakuza. They have a lot of practice turning any criminal charges against them on their ear.”

  Tatsuyama nodded.

  “Anything else about Naoko?” Kobayashi asked.

  “There’ll always be more about Naoko.”

  “I understand. But you have other matters to consider—like your career.”

  Tatsuyama met Kobayashi’s gaze. “I know,” he said. “When I get back to the stable, I’m sure that part will hit me like one of those hammers they use to open sake kegs
. The May Grand Sumo Tournament starts tomorrow. Everybody in the stable will be getting ready. First time in over a decade I won’t take the dohyo in the Kokugikan arena.”

  “Can’t do much now to change tomorrow. We can work to clear you for the following tournament, though.”

  “I hope I’m cleared long before that.”

  “Tatsuyama, who was that last man at the samurai house, the one who entered the room just before Naoko?”

  “Ota. I met him at a private dinner. I thought he wanted to sponsor me, or the stable.”

  “Who does he represent?” Kobayashi took out his smart phone and opened a note application.

  “He said Hanshin Heavy Industries—shipbuilders.”

  “I’ll check it out. Did you recognize the young guy?”

  Tatsuyama shook his head. “But, of course, I pointed out Yamashita Kenzo, the ex-sumotori.”

  “Akiko’s biggest fan,” Kobayashi said.

  “As brilliant as he is charming. Pile of…”

  Kobayashi grinned. “You like Yamashita that much, huh?”

  Tatsuyama pictured the whole gang in the back room of the samurai house. “I’ve got a question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “The guy with the expensive suit—he denied being Yamada, but everybody laughed. Then you addressed the archer as Yamada. Is it just me, or did those two look almost identical?”

  “They’re not identical. They do look an awful lot alike, though. At headquarters we’ve got all kinds of photos of the two together. Sometimes we have trouble telling which is which in photos.”

  “Twins?”

  “No, one is the big boss, Yamada Hideyoshi. The other is his right-hand man. People sometimes call him ‘boss.’ His name is Haruta. Haruta Shin’ichi.”

  “Like dictators who have body doubles.”

  “Hai, same idea here, I think. But we believe these two are close. Haruta seems to be more than a bullet catcher for Yamada.”

  “Tell me something else, Kobayashi—when you looked through Yamada family photos, did you find a photo of Naoko?”

  “No, we know Yamada had a daughter, but nothing in our records indicates Yamada ever involved her in criminal activity. It wasn’t until the incident at the Shibuya 109 concert that Yamada Naoko ever became a person of interest in our investigation.”