Tokyo Noir: The Complete First Season

by J. Scott Matthews

  “Fuck you.”

  This was still a sore spot for Takabe, which made it an endless source of jokes for the other two. Takabe’s territory largely coincided with Chuo Ward, which included landmarks like Tokyo Station and the Emperor’s Palace. It also contained the Ginza District, which was a major center of corporate power in Japan and home to many foreign companies. This made it ideal as the headquarters for Fujita, Cheon, and the other corporate raiders. Takabe wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but had been pressed by Eriko herself to accept it.

  Vasili glanced around the room and saw Uchida, the woman who now controlled Edogawa. She was standing on the edge of a group of people, without taking part in the conversation. She caught his eye and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile. He tipped his glass her way.

  “Got to give credit where credit’s due, though,” Takabe said, following his gaze. “Uchida there has somehow been able to squeeze blood from the stone that is her territory.”

  “No argument here,” Nobunaga said. “She’s as violent as they come.”

  “No, dummy. I mean money. Blood from a stone is an idiom. I mean she’s somehow been able to turn a profit there.”

  “More power to her,” Vasili said.

  “Yeah. Rumor is the queen bee might even tap her for the shacho position. I hear the two of them have been pretty cozy lately.”

  Vasili considered that. “Probably would not be worst thing in world. Probably wouldn’t be best either. She’s cold, unpredictable.”

  “And violent, unhinged, and borderline psychotic,” Nobunaga added. “I’d rather see one of us in the top position. Second choice would be Fujita or one of his asshole buddies.”

  “A ringing endorsement,” Takabe said. “What do you think, Vasili?”

  “Maybe not my first choice, but I could live with them. Fujita’s got a golden tongue and is not afraid to use it. Cheon’s almost as good, and the two seem tight.”

  Takabe waved his hand dismissively. “Bah, corporate raiders and extortionists. They don’t have the balls to keep this group in line. Sure, they can shake down companies and businessmen, but some of the others here would eat them alive.”

  “Maybe, but with their straight businesses, they could potentially legitimize the rest of the organization.”

  Vasili considered this for a minute. “Possibly. But Toru there,” he said, motioning to the woman standing with Fujita and Cheon, “is weak and getting weaker. This train line might be final nail in the coffin for her. She’ll lose some of her more profitable bus routes.”

  “What are you women gossiping about?” Eriko said.

  They turned to see Eriko being wheeled over by Kuroda, her personal assistant. Kuroda was a waxy, pallid man with a pencil-thin mustache and slicked-back hair. He was obsequiously loyal to Eriko, if a bit stuffy and formal. Vasili always figured he had missed his true calling of being a butler, rather than assistant to the most powerful woman in Japan.

  “Oh, you know, just girl talk,” Takabe said.

  Eriko grunted, then turned to Vasili. “And you, I’m sorry to hear about Yukari. She was a good girl. I’d tell you shikata ga nai, but seeing how busy you’ve been lately I’d say you’ve already put the lie to that cliché.”

  Vasili nodded. “I’ve been dealing with it constructively.”

  “You plan to chase down every small-time crook in the city until you turn up a lead?”

  Vasili shrugged. “If I have to.”

  “Well, I can’t fault you,” Eriko said. “I’d do the same if someone came after me and mine.”

  “What else can you do?” Nobunaga said.

  “Well, let’s get started,” Eriko said, glancing up at Kuroda.

  “Yes of course, ma’am,” Kuroda said. “Please take your seats, gentlemen. The meeting is about to begin.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You ready for this?” rasped the voice over the phone.

  Satoshi hesitated. “I’m not sure. I don’t even fully know what we’re getting ourselves into.”

  “Yeah, well, story of my life,” Tengu said. “I’m leaving now, I’ll see you by the main gate in half an hour.”

  Satoshi’s search had proven fruitless time and again. Now all dead ends led him to the Festival of Knives. Masa was bound to show up there, he was sure of it. The fights at the festival were legendary. Which meant that, for a reputation-obsessed, ultra-violent lunatic like Masa, they were practically mandatory. Satoshi was banking on the fact that Masa’s need for validation would overwhelm his caution. It was one of the few chinks in Masa’s armor, and Satoshi had to be there to exploit it. Not that he particularly relished the idea of attending the festival.

  The Sai Matsuri, or Festival of Knives, had started off as an annual festival organized by a number of far-right-wing organizations. What had begun as an annual expression of uber-patriotism and barely concealed racism had morphed into a monthly circus of slavering xenophobia and race hate. It was held on the grounds of Yasukuni Shrine, long a pilgrimage site for the right wing, and had recently expanded to encompass nearby Kitanomura Park.

  In recent years it had taken on a decidedly martial feel, as it had added fighting to the roster of events. It had absorbed a number of the fight clubs from around the city and turned their low-stakes fights into a tournament that lasted all year. They were held in the Nippon Budokan sports arena located in the park. The semifinals and finals drew crowds of thousands.

  Lately the fighting hadn’t been confined to the pits. News coverage of the events occasionally relayed how the cleanup crews had been finding bodies behind the tents, or dumped in the bushes in the park. Each festival was also host to several beatings and a number of rapes.

  At least he would have Tengu there with him, he thought as he slung his respirator behind his head and opened the door to head out.

  As soon as he did, Hisoka came tumbling in, nearly losing her balance before he caught her against his chest. Her keys clattered across the hardwood floor before coming to a rest against Satoshi’s foot. She grasped onto his hands as if for dear life. Her face was pale and frightened.

  “Hisoka? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not feeling well, I asked for the night off.”

  “Everything okay? You seem—”

  “I think it’s the baby,” she said with a look of concern. “Satoshi, I think I need to go to the hospital.”

  “Are you sure? What’s wrong?”

  “My stomach hurts bad and I’m … I’m bleeding. Not much, but it’s got me scared.”

  “Hisoka … maybe you just need to rest for a little bit, just—”

  “I need you to take me to the hospital. Please.” Even as her voice remained quiet and calm, her eyes were terrified.

  “I can make an appointment, take you in the morning. How about that?”

  “Please, I need to go now. Please.”

  “I … I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not now. This … thing tonight, it’s my best chance to catch Masa.”

  Hisoka’s lip quivered, and she looked at him through large, frightened eyes.

  “Can you call one of your friends? Maybe someone from the hospital?”

  She just stared at him for a while with eyes that were frozen in disbelief.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, disengaging his hands from hers. “I have to go. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Though it broke his heart, he began backing away towards the end of the hall. She never took her eyes off of him. He mouthed “I’m sorry” again as he disappeared around the corner, leaving her propped up in the doorway. He hated to leave her like that to face the pain and the uncertainty alone. But there was nothing he could do right now. Duty was duty.

  Then again, conscience was conscience.

  And right now, he had never felt worse in his life.

  But the night was still young.

  The cab was just pulling up near the main gate when Satoshi saw the text from Hisoka. It read:

  In pain. Heading to
Hiroo Hospital. Come.

  He winced as he read her text. His hands hovered over the screen as he thought of how to respond. Ultimately, he took his hand away and slipped his phone back in his pocket. He would go to her as soon as he could, but he couldn’t help her right now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to push her from his mind. But all he could see was that hurt look she had given him when he’d walked away. Goddamn this job. He had to get out. He couldn’t keep hurting Hisoka like this. She deserved better.

  He saw Tengu approach and forced a smile.

  “Hey, there,” Tengu said. “Ready for a fun time at the fair with these fucking loons?”

  “Yeah, can’t wait. The fights start in about an hour. Figured we’d walk around some, see if we can find him before.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  They walked through the festival grounds. There were food carts and stands set up by the entrance. For the most part it was typical Japanese festival fare. The aroma of okonomiyaki, fried soba noodles, skewers of salted meat and fish, and other foods mingled in the night air and made his stomach grumble.

  They walked on past the food stalls to stands selling goods. These included everything from right-wing manifestos and books to survivalist gear, weapons, megaphones, political stickers and decals for right-wing political parties (mainly the Genyoto), and more.

  Past the merchant tents and booths was an open plaza where a crowd was forming.

  “What is it?” Tengu asked from closer to the ground than Satoshi.

  Satoshi stood up on his toes and could see that the crowd was forming around one man. At first Satoshi thought he was looking at an Elvis impersonator of some sort, given the man’s gelled pompadour hair, huge sunglasses, and suit. But as they got closer he realized who the man was.

  “It’s the governor,” Satoshi said.

  “Haraishi? Not that fucking guy.”

  They tried to go around the swell of people but ended up sucked into the vortex swirling around the governor. A woman who looked like an advisor was trying to pull him along to his next engagement, but Haraishi was enjoying the attention too much to move that fast.

  When someone yelled, “Speech!” he graciously demurred. But when someone handed him a bullhorn and guided him towards a nearby bench, Haraishi launched into a speech. The bullhorn hissed and popped with static as it carried his gravelly voice to the assembled throngs of people. The crowd fell silent, eagerly lapping up his bullshit.

  “People of Japan! It’s great to be here at the Festival of Knives. We in the Genyoto would like to extend our warm gratitude to our brothers and sisters in the Dark Army, as always, for providing security. I hope you enjoy this festival celebrating our national strength and unity in such difficult and trying times.

  “Let the patriotic displays and shows of martial strength here tonight be a lesson to all foreign elements and other subversives who would do harm to this great nation of ours! The imperialist United States has fallen from its global superpower status, but forces closer to home in Asia still menace us from across the sea! We in Japan must stay eternally vigilant against the threats aligned against us, both foreign and domestic. For soon it shall be incumbent upon us, as true-blooded Japanese, to shoulder the mantle of global leadership once more and usher in a glorious era of unity and peace!”

  Shouts from the crowd drowned out everything after that. The cheers soon devolved into chants of “Pure Japan! Pure Japan!” The phrase was practically the Genyoto Party’s unofficial slogan by now.

  When Satoshi and Tengu were free of the crowd, Tengu turned to look at Satoshi, then pointedly shook his head.

  “I don’t like where this is heading.”

  “What?”

  “Any of it. If we’re not careful, we could end up with a civil war like the one that tore the US apart.”

  “I don’t think it’s that bad here yet,” Satoshi said. “Not that I’ve been following it too closely.”

  “Baby steps to fascism,” Tengu said, shaking his head. “No one thinks it can happen to their country until it’s already happened. Vasili taught me that.”

  “Well, I guess he’d know.”

  “Yeah. Come on, we’ve still got some time to kill. Unfortunately.”

  They walked along and soon came to a large pavilion where a show was underway. They climbed the rafters for a better view. There before them they saw an enormous arena that was part dirt motorcycle course, part performance stage. Flames and other pyrotechnics whooshed and crackled above performers wearing uniforms that looked like World War II–era military fatigues. The entire performance was set to a dramatic musical score.

  “What do you even call this music?” Satoshi asked.

  “Progressive thrash metal opera?” Tengu offered. “What do you think is supposed to be happening now?”

  Satoshi shook his head. It looked like a battle reenactment, in which the Japanese military stand-ins handily trounced a troupe of vaguely foreign-looking soldiers. Grateful people looked on and applauded the Japanese. When the battle had been won, the people danced around in jubilation and showered the Japanese with flowers.

  “Hey, what’s this supposed to be?” Tengu asked the guy standing next to them.

  “It’s the Liberation of Nanking from the Communists by the Japanese Imperial Army.”

  “I thought you guys didn’t believe that happened,” Tengu said. The right wing had long been trying to scrub school textbooks of any reference to Japan’s imperialist past.

  “It happened,” the guy said. “But it happened this way.”

  “Okay.”

  There was a brief interlude involving bikers ramping their bikes off the dirt jumps around the outside of the arena. While this was going on, the stage was being set for another performance. Then the lights dimmed. Swelling orchestral music combined with the thousand-mile-an-hour drumbeats and wall-of-sound guitar distortion as the next performance began.

  A single spotlight illuminated a beautiful young woman in the center of the arena wearing a traditional kimono with the hi-no-maru on it.

  “Kind of looks like your lady,” Tengu said.

  Satoshi nodded. There was definitely a resemblance.

  In case it wasn’t obvious enough, the lyrics she sang drove home the point that she was proud to be a member of the best, most industrious, intelligent, fearsome, and generous country ever created. One that was ruled over by a wise and just emperor. Wink, wink. The song had barely just established her credentials when the young woman was attacked.

  Soon, she was beset on all sides by an Uncle Sam doppelganger carrying nukes, men in Chinese military garb, Illuminati, Freemasons, some sort of death cult, Jews for some reason, and yakuza thugs and biker gang members. She was also attacked by more nebulous concepts, represented by men in black tights wearing oversized symbols representing the financial system (at least that was Satoshi’s guess—the actor just wore giant dollar and euro symbols) and globalization (again, Satoshi’s best guess).

  These soon began symbolically raping her, indicated through the magic of interpretive dance. Artificial fog filled the arena as jagged music heightened the sense of dread.

  “Tasteful,” Tengu scoffed. “Real fucking tasteful.”

  While her attackers were having their way with her, the music turned from discordant to uplifting, almost triumphant. A single spotlight shone on a trio of men in three different uniforms. One wore the uniform of the Japan Self-Defense Forces, another was dressed as a buff politician with the Genyoto’s party symbol on his suit, and the third was garbed as a member of the Dark Army. They were soon joined by ranks of soldiers and Dark Army volunteers, who swept the criminals, foreigners, and other miscreants away. This earned a huge cheer from the audience.

  The battle won, the woman’s attackers were rounded up and summarily executed. Each was made to bow down in turn to be decapitated by a samurai sword. Their papier-mâché heads or masks would be sent flying, accompanied by a stream of fake blood. When they k
icked two men who were clearly yakuza (judging by their tattoos and slicked-back hair) to their knees, Satoshi couldn’t help but feel uneasy. The two men bore more than a striking resemblance to him and Tengu.

  The defenders of Mother Japan now celebrated with a rousing rendition of the national anthem before segueing into another patriotic tune. But as they sang, it became clear that the woman was distressed over something.

  “Come on, enough theater,” Tengu said. “The fights have probably already started.”

  Tengu began walking towards the exit. Satoshi was about to follow when something onstage caught his eye. The woman was now wide-eyed and panicked. Her stomach began to swell and, with the help of her three defenders, she delivered a child.

  The baby was monstrous. Clearly a bastard hybrid with features representing all of her rapists, an unholy amalgam of different bits and pieces. The three men and the woman each took a limb and ripped the child apart in a spatter of blood. They held the limbs aloft and waved them in a sign of triumph over intermixing.

  Satoshi turned and hurried from the building.

  Hisoka sat in the emergency services waiting room at the hospital. She was hunched over, clutching her stomach in pain. It felt like knives were swirling around inside her. When she’d first arrived, she had gone straight for the window.

  “I need to see a doctor, it’s an emergency!”

  “Please sign in here. Then have a seat and fill out this form while you wait,” the receptionist said automatically.

  “No, it’s an emergency, I’m in serious pain.”

  “Ma’am, everyone here is in need of emergency help. We only have so many doctors to go around. So unless you have a clearly life-threatening medical crisis, you’ll just have to wait your turn.”

  “Please,” Hisoka whispered, pleading with her eyes.

  The receptionist’s expression softened. “I’ll speak to someone about moving you up in the queue. It’s the best I can do. Now take a seat.”

  Hisoka did as she was told as the receptionist disappeared onto the ward.