by Nick Hurst
I looked at him. The crow’s feet, usually so eager to dance into smile, stood still. There was something reassuring about him and I wanted to take up his offer, but Ernesto’s voice played in my ears.
‘I appreciate it, I really do. But either my plan comes good and everything’s OK, or it doesn’t and there’ll be more trouble. Either way, I don’t see how it will help to put another person in the firing line.’
He opened his mouth to protest but I stopped him.
‘Like you said, your wild days are behind you. Leave them there and enjoy your family. Maybe I’ve got my adventures up ahead.’
I said it just to placate him. I’d come to Tokyo to get my life back on track. Showdowns in the Wild East were not in my plans.
TWELVE
‘Fuck off, you big-nosed, foreign, cock-sucking prick. Go cry to someone else about your whore bitch of a girlfriend.’
It was an aggressive response, made worse by the fact he looked like his bite was worse than his bark; a menacing hulk formed when an unstoppable force met an immoveable object. My normal reaction would have been to do exactly as he said, but recent events appeared to have unhinged a part of my brain. Unfortunately that part now took control.
‘I’m sorry,’ I replied in my most polite Japanese. ‘I’ll try again. I came here because I was hoping I could meet someone from your organisation with whom I could speak intelligently. I don’t suppose you could help me find them – perhaps someone who isn’t an utter cunt?’
A misplaced look is enough to start a yakuza swinging. The most impolite word in Japanese is enough to incite a priest. The man-mountain didn’t look like he engaged in frequent spiritual discourse, so it was unsurprising he responded with a missile of a right-hand fired straight at my head.
*
Deciding there was no time like the present, I’d headed out on foot from Tomoe’s place. I cut through Shinjuku Southern Terrace, crossed the East Deck Bridge to Takashimaya Times Square and descended the long escalators from the department store’s walkway into East Shinjuku.
The piped tones of Frank Sinatra were immediately shattered. Restaurant vendors bellowed offers, schoolgirls shrieked at friends and the din of games machines blasted from arcades. The wall of neon was no less jarring, an eye-blistering array of colour wrapped around disorderly buildings squeezed into whatever space they could get.
I wove through ant-like hordes to Shinjuku Dōri Road where massive screens mounted high up buildings projected discordant cries. From there, it was only a short block’s walk to Yasukuni Dōri but there was a rising agitation in the throng and the atmosphere began to change. I reached the road just as the lights turned and was swept over with the tide of the crowd and deposited on the opposite bank. On the border of Kabukichō.
Kabukichō. A corner of Shinjuku a few hundred metres squared with possibly the highest concentration of bars and restaurants in the world. Burrowed deep among them were the fūzoku. Massage parlours, ‘health’ clubs, hand-job joints, blow-job bars and whatever else the mind could conceive.
It had an energy all of its own, throbbing with extra power even amid Shinjuku’s high-wattage glow. And beneath its pulse an undercurrent, the spark of danger that comes from being a gangster land, Tokyo’s yakuza heart.
The gangsters were in thrall to its grey money, made on the borders of legality, where a payoff is preferable to trouble and the chance of the boundaries being unfavourably confirmed by the police. The industry that dealt in this shade of currency was referred to as the mizu shōbai – the water business – possibly another echo from the bathhouses of Tokyo’s Edo past.
Despite its mention arousing concern in many Japanese, I’d never found Kabukichō that intimidating. This could have been due to Tokyo’s general levels of safety. Or because for yakuza, dealing with gaijin was more trouble than it was worth.
It may also have been because I’d never sought them at their offices before, accusing them of kidnap and demanding the return of my girlfriend.
It was in one of the small side streets that I saw the Takata-gumi crest – an uzumaki spiral that looked like the whirlpools or wind Tomoe was so fond of in woodblock prints. It sat above a small doorway between a cramped broom cupboard of an estate agent and a moneylender’s corridor shop. As an entrance to the office of one of Japan’s biggest gangs, it seemed particularly unassuming. I presumed they thought a low-key presence was preferable even for legitimate organised crime.
I hesitated as I looked at the dingy stairway a few feet back from the door. It was enough in itself to make me want to turn around. But I’d decided before I set out I wouldn’t submit to my instincts, that I was going to go through with this whatever my fears. I took some deep breaths to build myself up, sharply exhaling on each. Finally I forced myself forward.
I was about five steps up when the gloominess darkened and I started to wish I’d stayed where I was. The light had either been blocked by the figure at the top of the stairs or repelled by his sheer menace.
It was a narrow staircase and he had to pull in his shoulders to fit. If he hadn’t he probably would have carved into the walls on either side like a glacier ripping through its rocky banks. He was a few steps down before he saw me.
‘You’re in the wrong place,’ he growled from his stone-carving of a head. ‘Fuck off.’
It seemed good advice and I was sorely tempted to take it.
‘I’m sorry,’ I stuttered. ‘I was hoping to speak to someone about my girlfriend. I think she came here a few weeks ago and there may have been a misunderstanding. I thought I might be able to talk to whoever she spoke to and iron things out.’
It was at that point he insulted Tomoe and my rational mind lost control.
He moved astonishingly fast for a man his size. Fortunately, he couldn’t match my incoordination. I’d stopped and taken half a step back when he entered the stairwell. With stairs made for smaller feet than mine, that had already put me off-balance. My flinch at his first sign of movement did the rest. I toppled backwards, staggering frantically to stay on my feet.
His punch whistled close enough to my nose for me to feel the air break before it. But it was my stumble from the stairs that saw me fly out of the doorway and land flat on my back in the street. Passers-by rippled out around me. They fanned back even further when the man-monster exploded from the door.
I tried to push myself up before he could reach me. It was that movement that took my head from the point of maximum impact and made the difference between decapitation and blinding pain.
The force of his punch was still enough to catapult me backwards. I rolled with its momentum into a crawl, desperate to put distance between him and me. But before I made any discernible progress I felt a huge paw reach under me. It grabbed me at the chest and spun me around for the knockout blow.
But the punch never landed.
As I flailed out in desperation a hand reached around his recoiled arm.
‘Not here,’ rumbled a voice so deep I wasn’t sure if I heard or felt it. ‘The boss says not out front. Bring him inside.’ It rose aggressively. ‘What are you looking at? Get on with your business. There’s nothing for you to see here.’
I can only imagine any sane passers-by did as he commanded, because by this point I was being dragged by the chest, into the building and up the stairs.
THIRTEEN
‘So what makes you think we know anything about your girlfriend? I believe we move in different worlds, do we not?’
I’d been dumped face down on the floor in the middle of a small, smoky office. There was a low coffee table just beyond my head and a compact sofa to the right. It took a moment before I realised I’d curled into a ball. I reluctantly uncoiled and lifted my head. A man sat at the other end of the table with one leg crossed over the other in a way that seemed more European than Japanese.
‘Are those fingers?’
It wasn’t the answer I’d intended to make, but an instant reaction to the contents of the jars on d
isplay behind him. A huge paw-swipe knocked me flat and set my right ear ringing.
‘Answer when the boss asks you a question,’ a voice thundered from behind me.
‘That’s OK.’ I looked up to see ‘the boss’ hold out a restraining palm. ‘Let’s hold off beating him senseless for the moment. I’d like to hear what he has to say.’
I guessed he was in his early sixties but he could have passed for younger. He was as smooth as Nat King Cole’s voice; his high cheekbones and taut skin set off by a suit so beautifully tailored it could have been an extension of him.
‘May I speak?’
I was terrified of doing anything that might be considered a transgression.
‘I wouldn’t have asked the question if I didn’t want you to answer,’ the boss said. ‘Why don’t you sit on the sofa though – the conversation feels somewhat awkward with you on the floor.’
Before I could move I was hoisted by the scruff of the neck and dumped on the sofa. I rubbed the side of my face as I tried to summon the courage to speak.
‘So, why would we know anything about your girlfriend?’ he asked again.
‘I think she came to see you a few weeks ago,’ I said in a meek voice. ‘At least it may have been you. It was a Takata-gumi office.’
His expression didn’t change.
‘Her name’s Chōshi Tomoe.’
He still didn’t react. I was too scared to say anything else.
‘You’re Chōshi Tomoe’s boyfriend?’
In the circumstances it seemed even more implausible than normal.
‘Yes.’
He deliberated a moment.
‘Come into my office – no, it’s OK,’ he turned to the others. ‘Just … ?’
‘Ray desu.’
‘Just Ray-san. I don’t think he poses a great danger, do you?’
I followed him through a door on his right into a far more luxurious room. He made his way towards a polished hardwood desk with plush leather chairs at its front and back. The shelving to the side was made of the same wood and filled with books, a decanter and cognac glasses, and a statuette that looked like an award. My feet sank into deep pile.
‘I hope you’ll excuse the squalor,’ he gestured at the exquisite room. ‘Our head office is in Ginza but I spent my formative years here. I have a soft spot for the place, hence the satellite study. Please, sit down.’
While his courtesy was preferable to his henchman’s aggression, it didn’t put me at ease. I didn’t know much about the yakuza but I couldn’t see why a local boss would refer to his own office as a satellite. And if he wasn’t a local boss that implied he was someone very senior. His air and the way he was talking made me wonder if he might even be Takata himself.
He reached for the decanter.
‘Would you care to join me? Hine Antique – it’s excellent but quite difficult to find in Japan.’
I’d have nailed a shot of paint-stripper. I nodded.
‘As for the fingers, I can only apologise. It’s another of these ridiculous traditions I’m trying to ease out. The idea we can no longer proclaim criminality and sever body parts hasn’t been easy for everyone to grasp. Of course, it’s important we retain an ability to use force, but we’re no longer just the rogues of the past. We’re bankers, art dealers, businessmen – missing digits don’t sit well with these roles.’
He was too suave to be exasperated but a hint of frustration edged through in his voice.
‘The grasp of tradition holds strong though. Yakuza all want to see themselves as chivalrous outlaws, men of honour who help the weak and bring down the strong. I appreciate one needs a business identity and on many levels ours works well, but the Robin Hood-isms and counter-productive customs can be tiresome.’
He looked over as though waiting for me to play a part. I wasn’t in a state for enlightened contribution.
‘But you’re a yakuza. Isn’t that what it’s all about?’
His face was a mixture of bemusement and disdain.
‘It’s about business. It’s about money and power.’
‘But I thought you kept crime among yourselves? That’s why you’re accepted – you help local communities and so on?’
‘You believe so? Maybe in the pre-war years, I don’t know; that was before my time. Now? We go where the money is and we make it from whomever we can. We’re accepted because we pay off or scare the people we need to. Those who don’t accept us are dealt with in other ways.’
His look became curious.
‘Do you know anything about the yakuza?’
‘Not really. They came up in my studies but it wasn’t quite the focus of my degree.’
‘Well, you’ll hear about righteous outlaws and Edo-period codes of honour, but in truth we come from gamblers and street peddlers. No great heroes, just people looking to make a living who weren’t afraid to bend a few laws.
‘Their trades and that mindset created opportunities and when they took them their interests expanded and their cash piles grew. Before long people began approaching them for loans.
‘But there were others who looked to appropriate their assets more directly. This meant they had to develop their security as well. Lo and behold, they found this was a service that could be monetised too. They continued to diversify and their small enterprises became empires.
‘Then Japan opened up in the Meiji era. But the internationalist spirit wasn’t just about letting others in – we’d seen what the Europeans, Americans and Russians had achieved by venturing overseas. Their pillage of Asia gave ideas to people here. And when their views were opposed, who do you think was unleashed? In return for silencing the doubters the yakuza shared the spoils of war.’
I couldn’t see what this had to do with Tomoe but I reasoned that any rapport I could establish would lessen my chances of being fed to the monster next door.
‘But the, er, the result of the war must have changed things?’
‘It did. The nationalists were hammered but the occupation proved hugely beneficial to us. Rationing meant anyone able to get hold of goods had the means to a fortune and the American army had a wealth of supplies. We teamed up with them and the money flowed in.
‘As time went on and the region’s politics became more complicated, the US decided they liked communists even less than those they’d deemed guilty of war crimes. So they released the latter and helped them create the LDP party which, as you know, has remained in power almost ever since.
‘So yes, the war did change things. It enriched the yakuza and put our political partners in charge.’
It didn’t seem a very healthy foundation for democracy. It was possible we thought differently on the matter so I kept my mouth shut.
‘It was a glorious time. Japan was an empty page and there were exceptional leaders to write its next chapters. But despite expanding the organisation on a massive scale, our interests for the most part remained the same. It wasn’t until later that they really evolved. Scandals in the sixties led to laws that restricted us in our traditional fields. Fresh pastures were sought in response. Finance, trade and business manipulation were added to a base of labour, moneylending and vice. The eighties bubble was like an injection of steroids – that’s when we peaked.’
He glanced over his cognac.
‘There’s no need to look so worried. These aren’t dangerous secrets – you could easily find them online.’
I was more concerned about sitting before the head of Tokyo’s yakuza. After that, I was fretting about how to get past his henchman in the next room. I made an effort to look less anxious all the same.
‘So the yakuza, the nationalists and the government – they’re actually one and the same?’
‘No, we’re not the same. We have our own specialities and we operate in different spheres. We sometimes have our difficulties too. But you could say we’re fingers of the same hand.’
‘Surely Japan isn’t that corrupt?’
My stomach knotted even as I said i
t. It wasn’t the affinity-building prompt that I’d meant.
‘As opposed to whom?’ he said sharply. ‘The Americans? Their government was a partner throughout. It put the people in place and funded them for decades.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘And you, you’re English?’
Despite the past and repeated efforts of my university teachers my pronunciation clearly wasn’t as good as I thought.
‘You think there isn’t the same complicity in your country? What about your companies, your politicians? We found HSBC an excellent place to do business, so this isn’t a criticism. But when they were caught laundering money for Mexican cartels, their chairman was made a minister in your government – he wasn’t hauled into court.
‘We’re all the same; you just have different ways. You’re the fingers on the other hand.’
He held me in his stare. I felt like a pheasant eye-to-eye with a debonair snake.
‘But I’ve strayed from the point. I was trying to explain my situation. You see, the generations before me were blessed with opportunities, chances to do things differently, ways to leave their mark. I’ve contributed to the industry but I haven’t fundamentally changed it. I’d like to redefine it for the generation to come.’
His eyes sparkled. He looked less gangster boss, more CEO working on a final master strategy prior to his succession plan.
‘You see the crackdowns in the sixties – they helped the oyabuns, the bosses; they forced them to explore and expand. But the recent laws have been far more restrictive and we’ve already reached into every corner we can. So now, we face decline – our numbers are down and revenues are going the same way. I want to turn that around. And while doing so, make sure the Takata-gumi comes out on top.’
He stopped. I let him ruminate lest he be in the middle of his big idea. I was starting to wonder at what point comfortable silence becomes awkward when he spoke again.
‘I’d like to thank you. This isn’t a conversation I can have with others in the organisation and my wife is bored of hearing the same song. You’re very easy to talk to – I’m pleased you could come around.’
