Tokyo Noir: The Complete First Season

by J. Scott Matthews

  Watanabe smiled wanly, then drained the last half of his glass.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think at some point I also wanted to do good. But who can remember?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  There must be more flowers than people here, Vasili thought as he glanced around the funeral parlor. Not that it surprised him; most of his people thought Arekusuandaa was a traitor. But that didn’t excuse them from their obligation to pay their condolences. Or their condolence money.

  Condolence money was a common custom in Japan that helped the family defray the funeral and cremation costs. It usually involved small amounts of money paid as a sign of respect for the dead and the surviving family. In criminal organizations like the Kaisha, however, it took on a much more important role over and above its symbolic meaning.

  In many of the criminal syndicates, condolence money was another way to keep the machine well-oiled and functioning properly. The amounts collected at their funerals were several orders of magnitude larger than at ordinary funerals. This money was usually divided up between the surviving family to take care of them after the death of the breadwinner. It let current employees know that their people would be looked after should anything happen to them.

  Scanning the room, Vasili saw his lieutenants, Hikaru, Tengu, Kozu, Madoka, and Chieko, each accompanied by their top people. He also saw several people he had seen around Arekusuandaa’s warehouse from time to time. There was also a contingent of family, friends, and others from outside the organization gathered in one corner. The deceased’s relatively low rank in the organization explained why the other higher-ranking bosses stayed away. Not that it was unheard of for lower-ranking members to have well-attended funerals, but it was absolutely unheard of for traitors.

  “My condolences, Ms. Namonai,” Vasili said in Japanese as he approached the woman he had widowed. “We are all very sorry to hear of Arekusuandaa’s passing.”

  It always struck Vasili as strange to be the one to console the widow of a man he had killed. Especially for the men he actually liked, like Arekusuandaa. But then, being two-faced was part of the business. Arekusuandaa might have even said the same, if acting that way hadn’t gotten him killed.

  “Thank you. And thank you for your help arranging all this,” his widow said. Her eyes were red from crying. “I’ve been a mess since he died.”

  “Of course, we take care of our own,” Vasili said. It was only too true in this case.

  “I just don’t understand … I don’t know why he would … all of a sudden … he never …”

  “There, there,” he said, patting her with one massive hand, then embracing her in an awkward half-hug.

  “It’s this … what do they call it? This Rot, you know? Living in a city with no sun, wearing a mask just to breathe … it gets to some people. Then, something stressful happens and it’s more than they can bear.”

  His widow nodded.

  “I’m just … scared, is all. I don’t know how I’m going to raise our children without his support.”

  “We’ll help you with that, with a little something to get you started.”

  Vasili looked past her to the table where the envelopes of condolence money had been placed. It looked suspiciously light to him.

  “Count that,” he said to Kameko.

  Kameko snatched up the envelopes before the widow could protest and disappeared into a back room.

  “And of course,” Vasili continued, “if you don’t already have a job, I can get you set up with something. Aboveboard, of course, something that pays above market rates. As a thank-you for your husband’s service.”

  “Thank you, I may take you up on that.”

  Kameko returned and whispered something in Vasili’s ear. He shook his head.

  “No. No, that won’t do. Jun, fetch the briefcase. The large one.”

  Jun nodded and left the room. When he returned, he was carrying a gleaming metal briefcase with some difficulty. One of the traditional envelopes for condolence money had been tucked into a strap on the outside of the case. This he set down in front of Arekusuandaa’s widow.

  “Something to help you on your way,” Vasili said.

  He signaled that it was time to leave.

  “Thank you so much,” the widow said.

  “Of course. Like I said, we take care of our own.”

  The difference between Arekusuandaa’s funeral and Tetsuo’s couldn’t have been starker. This one was thronged with people, no doubt due to Tetsuo’s greater importance to the organization (and his loyalty to the end). Vasili stepped into the room filled with mourners.

  “You owe me money,” Matsuo said, greeting Vasili in his traditional manner.

  “Matsuo, what a pleasant surprise,” Vasili said with a smile. “Is great to see you too. Me? Oh, I’m fine, thanks for asking, buddy.”

  “You’re funny. That’s funny, I like that. But you still owe me money.”

  With his puffy cheeks, overbite, and protruding belly, Matsuo resembled the cartoonish statues of tanukis found throughout Japan. A raccoon-dog-like animal native to Japan, the tanuki had long been regarded as trickster spirits in Japanese lore. They were frequently depicted in ancient woodblock paintings with enormous scrotums and scrotal sacks, which they used as everything from fishing nets to hats and more. This comparison was apt for Matsuo, as the man frequently used his gigantic balls for everything from being a huge pain in the ass to shaking people down for money at every opportunity. Not having been seen in the wild for years, the tanuki were considered to be extinct. Another likeness Vasili wished they shared.

  The money he spoke of was Vasili’s tax for operating in Matsuo’s territory out in Chiba. Vasili had recently dipped a toe into the construction industry by acquiring a cement manufacturer. Actually, it was more like gifted to him by the owner, who had fallen behind on his gambling debts. It was customary for bosses to pay a consideration to one another for operating in another’s area. Most waived such fees as a show of goodwill. Matsuo never did.

  “Yes, I know I owe you. But considering this is funeral of bagman who handled the payments, I think maybe I have good excuse for being late.”

  “Excuse or no excuse, it’s late. Either I start taking my vig, or you find another way to pay me.”

  “I’ll sort it out. I’ve got much on my plate right now. But rest assured, this is going right to top of my list.”

  “See that it does.”

  They stood there, regarding each other silently.

  “Matsuo, I ever tell you how much I enjoy our little chats?” Vasili asked.

  Matsuo snorted.

  “Ho-ho, watch this one,” said an old man as he approached them, wagging a finger at Vasili. “This one’s got a silver tongue and knows how to use it.”

  “Hello, Yoshii,” Vasili said.

  Just being in Yoshii’s presence was an exercise in self-restraint for Vasili. He loathed the man but tried not to show it. Professional courtesy and all.

  If Matsuo was a tanuki, then Yoshii was a snake, plain and simple. He was a short man with leathery skin and wide-set eyes that almost seemed to stare off in different directions. Vasili could have sworn that his teeth had been filed to points. But maybe that was just his impression of the man’s character making him seem colder and more reptilian than he actually was. He was trailed closely by his own personal guards as he slithered through the crowd of people.

  Vasili, Matsuo and Yoshii were technically equals of the same rank in the syndicate, but the other two would never stoop to acting as such towards Vasili. To men like those two, Vasili was just an interloper in their world.

  Yoshii’s domain, while not as large as Vasili’s in terms of physical territory, came close in sheer profitability. He controlled large parts of Shinjuku Ward, which brought with it the Golden Street bar area and, most prized, the Kabukicho red-light district. The bulk of his cash came from a wide range of hostess clubs, pink bars, strip clubs, soaplands, and outright brothels that crowded the s
treets of Kabukicho. The man had erected an empire that fed on base desires—one about which dark rumors swirled.

  “This is all truly touching,” Yoshii said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But I must ask, why all the trouble for a subordinate? Tetsuo was a good man and all, but you look like you went all out for this occasion.”

  “He was a good man,” Vasili replied. “And a good friend as well. He was also—if I’m not mistaken—your cousin. No?”

  “He was. Never cared much for the runt myself.”

  “Well, is good of you to show your respects.”

  “Oh, it’s not for him. He’s already dead, so why would he care? No, it’s for that sentimental sister of mine.”

  Vasili looked past Yoshii to see an elderly woman all in black, crying quietly as her family consoled her.

  “I suppose I owed her this one, seeing as how I missed the last funeral for her … oh, who was the last one for?” Yoshii said, turning to his bodyguard.

  “Her husband.”

  “That’s it.”

  “If you don’t like funerals, this is wrong line of work,” Vasili said.

  Yoshii scoffed. “Fuck it. We’re all just meat. Nothing much to fuss over. Burn the body and be done with it, I say.”

  “Exactly, funerals aren’t cheap,” Matsuo chimed in. “Would save us all a lot of time and money if we didn’t have to put on such pageants.”

  “Funerals are for the living,” Vasili said. “A sign of respect.”

  “Oh, speaking of which, Chobei wants to speak to you about something. The boy asked me to arrange a meeting with you.”

  Yoshii said it in an offhand manner while glancing around the room, but the mention of that name made Vasili freeze up momentarily. He scanned Yoshii’s face for any tells he might have, but found nothing.

  “Of course. Did he say what about?”

  “Didn’t mention it,” Yoshii said. “Next week? Say Wednesday?”

  Vasili looked to Kameko, who nodded. “Fine, fine.”

  “Well, then, gentlemen, I will take my leave,” Yoshii said. “Too much death lately.”

  “Tell me about it,” Matsuo said.

  “You must feel the same way,” Yoshii said, looking at Vasili. “Lately death has been following you like smoke from a fire.”

  Vasili scanned Yoshii’s face for a clue. The old man gave him a wicked grin. Vasili shrugged.

  “Can’t be helped. Is like, occupational hazard, you could say.”

  “Wái.”

  Wu Lin’s nasal drawl came out of the plastic handset Vasili held to his ear. The elegant black funeral attire he was wearing cut a dashing figure in the cramped public phone booth.

  “Wu Lin, long time no talk, my friend. We have much to discuss.”

  “Vasili? Where you been? I no hear from you lately,” Lin said, flipping to English.

  “Yeah, maybe you should answer your phone more.”

  “Sure.”

  “Right.” Vasili could barely tolerate Wu Lin’s aloofness in the best of times. Now was not one of those times. “We had a problem with the last shipment you sent.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, it blew up. Killed a bunch of my men. Destroyed everything on boat, including boat. Now I am wondering what you plan to do about it.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I look into it, get back to you.”

  “I assume you’re going to make this right, yeah?” Vasili asked.

  “I see what I can find. If we at fault, I make things right. But let me take look first.”

  “When am I going to hear back from you?”

  “When I know more, you know more.”

  The line went dead.

  Kazuhiko sat at the bar to the club, getting a load on. As per instructions. He had been dropped off a few hours before and told to line up for the club. He must have been twice as old as most of the other clubbers, and he felt out of place standing in line with them. But that could be because he was stone cold hungover and always felt awkward without a few drinks in him. He was under strict orders not to drink until he was inside. Once there, he was on strict orders to get as drunk as possible, then look for his target.

  The bouncer eyed him suspiciously over his ID but motioned him towards the elevator with a group of kids. He paid with the cash he had been given, then made a beeline straight for the bar. After a few hours of dedicated drinking, he didn’t feel so out of place anymore. He even had a go at flirting with some of the cuties there. They looked at him in disgust before disappearing back into the crowd of people on the dance floor.

  True to his word, Kazuhiko had gotten himself nice and shitfaced. Luckily, he had been tasked with the one thing he was truly gifted at. And his luck just got better. Because now he saw the big gaijin he had been told to look for coming his away. He slammed the rest of his drink, not knowing that it would be his last, and went up to the big man heading to the door by the bar.

  “Hey, fuckface! Hey, you white ape!” he said as he gave the big man a hard shove.

  The man couldn’t have been expecting it, but it didn’t even faze him. His vision was already a drunken blur, yet he caught the momentary look of surprise on the foreigner’s face. Then he saw the ceiling, then the dance floor, then a bunch of legs. Then his view was obscured entirely as a group of heavy bodyguards piled onto him. He kept screaming at the big man even as he was roughly pulled to his feet and dragged back towards the elevators.

  As he was being manhandled out, he recalled how he had been promised a bonus if he was able provoke a fight with the big man. Now he couldn’t wait to get what was coming to him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Just where is this damn thing coming from?”

  The drip was driving Mei crazy. She was standing on one of the beat-up office chairs, using a penlight to peer into the ceiling over the corner. Every time another droplet of water splashed into the little pond that had formed, it chipped away at her already-raw nerves. It had been wearing on her all afternoon, and now she was ready to snap.

  The sudden piercing shriek of the phone almost startled her into falling off the chair.

  “Kentaro … Uh-huh … Shit, where? Hang on,” he said, grabbing a pen. “Go ahead … The what building? Alright, on our way.”

  Mei was already hurrying to get her things.

  “We’ve got another body. It was just discovered behind the AJX Building at Azabu Juban, 2-chome 8.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Mei and Kentaro drove in one car, followed in another vehicle by the others. They arrived on the scene just after the police had cordoned off the area.

  “Detective Kimura, I’m leading the serial killer investigation,” she said to the ranking cop at the scene. “What do we have?”

  “Trash man noticed the body in the dumpster behind the building and just called it in. Seems to fit the MO of the Shibuya Killer.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Mei pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and handed a pair to Kentaro.

  The cop walked them back towards a large dumpster with a swirling red logo featuring a large H emblazoned on it. Mei noticed a row of posters that had been plastered to the side of the building. They featured a skeleton dressed as a Shinto priestess. It was wearing the traditional loose-fitting hakama pants, but the kimono jacket on its upper body was black instead of the usual white color. It was holding a jeweled dagger in one hand and beckoning with the other. “YOU ARE INVITED!” read the caption below. She had seen lots of similar posters lately all over.

  “Whose dumpster is this?” Mei asked.

  “Well, from the logo, I’d say it’s Club Hyperion’s,” said one of the duty cops standing nearby.

  “Why does that sound familiar?” Mei mused aloud to herself.

  “Probably because they have stickers all over town,” Kentaro said.

  “Yeah, and they get some of the top international DJs to play there,” the cop said. “Seriously, some nights I think the only
thing nastier than the beats are the girls!”

  Mei and Kentaro looked at him.

  “I’ll just go and … uh …”

  “Secure the crime scene,” Mei said.

  “Yes, that.”

  He walked off quickly. As he was leaving, Suzuki walked up to them from the other direction eating a steamed bun in a 7-11 wrapper.

  “Afternoon. So our serial killer has struck again.”

  “That’s what they tell us,” Kentaro said.

  “You’re hungry now?” Mei asked.

  “Yeah, I missed lunch today,” Suzuki said, popping the last bite in his mouth. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Gingerly, they extracted the body from the dumpster and laid it out on a sheet. It appeared to be that of a middle-aged man.

  “Just to get you started here, I’ll have a quick look,” Suzuki said. “But you’re going to have to wait for the full report.”

  “Anything you can do for us would be appreciated,” Mei said.

  “Okay, right off the bat I’m seeing ligature wounds to the neck and bruising indicative of strangulation.” He untucked the victim’s shirt and pulled it up to reveal the stomach region. “The mutilation is consistent with the others. Though there’s more blood with this one. That tells me the evisceration took place either soon after death, or possibly even concurrent with it. I won’t know what was removed until I can examine it later at the morgue.”

  “What about the pockets? Anything in there?” Kentaro asked.

  “The contents of his pockets include one wallet, faux-leather, with about three thousand yen in crumpled bills. His ID says his name is—let’s see—Ide Kazuhiko, age forty-one. Lives in Ogikubo. Other contents include a wad of bills, much crisper than the ones in his wallet, it seems, totaling roughly twenty thousand yen. Also a cell phone, keys, ticket stub to a … Club Hyperion to see DJ Aki.”

  Suzuki looked up. “This ticket is from yesterday. Looks like our victim was at Club Hyperion sometime last night.”

  “Excuse me! Hey! Can I get back here? I need to throw something out!”