Shadows of Tokyo (Reiko Watanabe / Inspector Aizawa Book 1)

by Matthew Legare

  The driver turned around and said, “Sorry sir, but this is as far as I can go. That’ll be one yen please.”

  “Stay here. I won’t be long,” Aizawa said, handing a one-yen coin over.

  The driver gave a sly smile. “Take as long as you want in there, I don’t judge. Besides, it’s not as if I have anywhere to be.”

  Every business had taken a hit apparently, even the one-yen taxis that drove anywhere in Tokyo for a single yen per trip. It looked as if the water trade, as the Japanese so delicately called prostitution, was no exception. Only a small trickle of men in overcoats and winter kimonos filtered through the main gate like factory workers beginning their shifts.

  Aizawa hopped out of the car and joined their ranks. Brothels lined the streets of Yoshiwara like noodle stands. Before the depression, he’d been a frequent customer. But only duty brought him here these days.

  Aizawa walked down the main street of Naka-no-cho until he reached the Water Temple. It was a simple, two-story wooden structure with noren curtains that proclaimed its name at the entrance. Pleasant and inviting, but also owned by the Okamura Gang. He needed to make sure he his toys were ready before he went in to play. He felt for his Colt automatic, snug in its shoulder holster. He took a deep breath and entered.

  *****

  The silence was suffocating. Reiko searched for an excuse to leave the machiya, but her mind went blank. Masaru would suspect something…or did he already? No, by the look of that empty stare on his face, she was the last thing on his mind. He hadn’t even said anything since she’d finished her song. Not even a ‘thank you’ after she cleaned up all that broken glass.

  Walking over to the radio, she turned it on, filling the room with a tune that was jazzier than “Sake, Tears or Sighs?”

  “What’s the name of this?” Masaru wondered aloud.

  “‘Minnie the Moocher’,” she answered. Not the best song to lift someone’s spirits, but that’s what geisha were for. “Masaru,” she cooed, kneeling next to him, “it’s over now.”

  He glared back from behind his glasses.

  “You don’t understand. I can’t ignore my duty to the Emperor and my ancestors.”

  That reminded Reiko of her own duty as a geisha; to lift Masaru out of the swamp of self-pity. That meant more jazz. She hummed “Minnie the Moocher’s” melody and ad-libbed her own scat. Masaru sat grim-faced but at least she was having a good time.

  “Ryusaki-zensei?” a folksy voice called from outside.

  Hajime Nakajima. What did that country monkey want?

  “Turn that off,” Masaru said, pointing at the radio. Reiko leaped up and turned the knob, then resumed her post. “Come in, Nakajima-san.”

  The sliding door whooshed open and Lieutenant Hajime Nakajima stepped inside. Fresh snow clung to his black boots and khaki cape, draped over his frame. With one swift motion, he parted the cape, revealing the rest of his dark brown uniform. Red collar patches, red and gold shoulder insignia, yellow aiguillettes, and a brass star centered in the crimson band on his peaked service cap looked like drops of blood and piss in a sea of shit.

  Despite his clothes, Lieutenant Nakajima looked dashing with a strong jaw, soft cheeks, and warm brown eyes underneath his cap’s black leather visor. He cast a glare toward Reiko, like a man discovering a thief in his home. Turning his attention toward Masaru, Nakajima gave a deep bow, like a samurai appearing before his daimyo lord.

  “Zensei, I have urgent news.”

  “I know that Kuroki has failed,” Masaru said. “I’ll find another man to kill Baron Onishi...”

  “Yes, but General Zakamoto wishes to speak to you.”

  Masaru’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “He’s here in Asakusa…at the Dragonfly Tea House.”

  Panic struck Masaru’s face. “Is he calling the plan off?”

  Nakajima shook his head. “The General regards this as merely a setback.”

  Masaru sighed and smiled. “Come Harutora. Let’s show General Sakamoto a good night.”

  Nakajima’s face distorted with irritation. “Zensei, should we really bring…her?”

  The Lieutenant didn’t look like a samurai anymore. More like a dog begging for scraps. She stood and bowed. “Yes, perhaps I should be turning in for the night.” Her brain was already overloaded with intrigue.

  Masaru shot her a paralyzing look and turned back to Nakajima. “You don’t expect us to pour our own drinks, do you?”

  *****

  “For the last time Inspector, we don’t keep records of our customers,” the woman said from behind her desk. Wearing an elegant kimono and heavy wrinkles down her cheeks, she possessed the look of a former prostitute turned brothel mistress. And one didn’t rise from the depths of Yoshiwara without learning to keep your mouth shut. “If you’re not planning on becoming one, I suggest you leave.”

  From behind her little wooden desk, the brothel mistress guarded the entrance to the main entryway, closed off behind a shoji screen door. If this were any other brothel, a flash of his meishi card would be sufficient, but it was always better to tread carefully with the yakuza, especially the Okamura Gang. Still, something was off. Yakuza thrived in the illegal shadows of society; protection rackets, organizing construction workers, and above all, gambling. But prostitution was legal so long as it was licensed. No matter. Right now, he needed to focus on more important matters.

  “I’m only interested in one of your customers. Makoto Kuroki. Little man. Charlie Chaplin mustache. He was in here a month ago with some stolen money. Sound familiar?”

  The woman shifted her eyes down but said nothing.

  “I…I can’t say anything,” she said, squirming in her seat.

  “Not if you want to keep your tongue!” a voice shot out from behind them. Aizawa drew himself up as the shoji door slid open. A man stepped out, clutching a wakizashi short sword. His young face was partially obscured by a flat cap but didn’t shadow the glow of alcohol in his cheeks. His stocky body was draped in a light gray kimono and black hakama pants, so loose-fitting that a horned oni demon tattoo was visible on his chest, cushioned by bright, swollen skin.

  “Who are you?”

  “He’s with the Metropolitan Police,” the mistress said, standing to attention.

  “Police?” he sneered, lowering his sword slightly. “What do you want? Our license is up to date…”

  “I’m just asking a few questions.”

  “We don’t have good memories here,” the man said, sake clinging to his breath.

  Aizawa searched this yakuza for any signs of an impending attack. The status of being a police officer was usually enough of a shield, but alcohol mixed with youthful arrogance could make an explosive cocktail. He decided on a compliment to diffuse the tension.

  “New tattoo?”

  The yakuza smiled and opened his kimono further, showing it off. It was a red-faced demon, snarling and swinging an enormous club. The red ink glistened in the pale electric light. “Like it? It’s my first. Just got it a few days ago. The demon symbolizes strength. It’s also my nickname.” He chuckled. “That’s why I’m on security duty here.”

  Aizawa forced a smile. Any yakuza who chose that as his first tattoo had something to prove. But so far, the wakizashi hung harmlessly at his side, easing Aizawa’s fears.

  “Demon-san, I tried to tell Inspector Aizawa that we don’t keep records,” the mistress said.

  “Aizawa?” Demon snapped, bringing the wakizashi up close. “The same Inspector Aizawa who raided that gambling den last year?”

  Aizawa tensed. That raid not only earned him an accommodation but also the undying hatred of the Okamura Gang. Members of the yakuza rarely attacked police officers, but the intense hatred in this hoodlum’s bleary eyes was cause for concern.

  Aizawa reached for his gun but like a rushing tsunami, Demon slammed him up against the wall. Air rushed out of Aizawa’s lungs. The yakuza hadn’t lied about his strength. Grasping Demon’s wrists, it took
everything Aizawa could muster to keep the wakizashi from plunging into his throat.

  “Our gang was almost ruined because of that raid. What’s worse, you made us all lose face,” Demon hissed, as the sword shook in his hand. “You owe us, Inspector. Now pay up!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  A fiery pain ripped through Aizawa’s muscles as he struggled to keep the sword at bay. He scanned the room, searching for help. The brothel mistress backed up into the corner, wide-eyed with mute horror. No customers came in or out, although it was doubtful whether Demon would stop even in front of witnesses.

  “I think I’ll bring your head to Boss Okamura,” Demon said with breath like poison gas. “We’ll crack it open in front of the whole gang like a watermelon. Then, I’ll get a new tattoo to celebrate. Maybe a severed head?”

  Aizawa’s gaze shifted to the snarling tattoo on the yakuza’s chest, set against raw, pink skin. He could still attack Demon’s one weak spot. Summoning the last of his strength, Aizawa pushed Demon back as far as he could with one hand and used the other to dig his nails into the inflamed flesh.

  Demon threw back his head and spat out an agonized scream, letting the wakizashi drop slightly. Aizawa threw a heavy right cross and sent the hoodlum stumbling across the foyer and up against the other wall. Within seconds, Demon collected himself and stood, grasping the wakizashi for a renewed attack. Catching his breath, Aizawa plunged his hand into his coat and drew the Colt automatic. Demon froze and tossed the sword to the ground.

  “You win, Inspector,” he sighed, extending his hands out to be cuffed.

  Nothing would please Aizawa more than to have Sergeant Murayama give this hoodlum the works but members of Tokyo’s crime families couldn’t be treated like normal criminals. The Metropolitan Police and the yakuza maintained a delicate balance that was rarely upset. Aizawa didn’t need any more trouble at Headquarters.

  Instead, he strode over to Demon and gave him another firm punch right on his bloody tattoo. The yakuza collapsed onto the floor, clutching his chest and gasping.

  “Let’s try this again. Makoto Kuroki. Short man. Charlie Chaplin mustache. When did you last see him?”

  “Last night. He was one of Yuki’s regulars,” Demon said with a wheeze and twisted his head toward the brothel mistress. “Bring that little fool out.”

  The woman nodded and disappeared behind the shoji door. Demon struggled to pick himself up but Aizawa forced him back to the floor with another kick to his tattoo. The yakuza’s face contorted in pain but he kept quiet. The brothel mistress returned with a plump-faced young girl, no older than fourteen, wearing a green kimono and an empty expression.

  “Yuki,” Demon wheezed. “Answer the Inspector’s questions.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Yuki-san, do you remember Makoto Kuroki being here last night?”

  “Yes. Kuroki-zan was one of my regulars.”

  There was no mistaking Yuki’s distinct dialect from the Tohoku region. She couldn’t be the same woman who had called him earlier. Instead, her accent summoned images of that Army officer from earlier, Lieutenant Nakajima. Tohoku boys typically joined the Army and Navy, while Tohoku girls did their tour of duty in the brothels of Tokyo and Osaka.

  “Yuki-san, are your parents rice farmers?”

  She nodded.

  Everything aligned with clarity. Licensed prostitution wasn’t the yakuza’s preferred business, but gambling and money-lending were. The girl’s parents had probably fallen into debt with Demon’s gang and had sold her off in order to save the farm for another season. In return, Demon and his bosses made a profit from each lay Yuki gave from now on. During famines, only the locusts ate well.

  “What did Kuroki-san say last night?” Aizawa asked.

  “That he wouldn’t be coming back. He wouldn’t tell me why. It was heartbreaking.”

  “Heartbreaking? Did you love him?”

  “No,” Yuki said. “He was a good customer. Until he lost his job.”

  “Did he love you?”

  “Maybe. He has no friends or family.” Yuki sighed. “Such a pitiful man.”

  “He does have one friend,” Demon gasped. “He was here last night…even paid for Kuroki’s lay.”

  “Who?”

  Demon shook his head. “Didn’t give his name.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Tall and thin. Wore a nice suit and horn-rimmed glasses,” Demon said.

  The description sounded hauntingly familiar. “Tell me more,” Aizawa said.

  “He only paid for Kuroki-san’s round. Instead of treating himself, he kept going on and on about some patriotic society he led.”

  An ominous chill swept over Aizawa. “A patriotic society? What was its name?”

  “I can’t remember…there are hundreds these days. The Dark Ocean Society, the National Foundation Society, the Black Dragon Society…”

  Aizawa lifted his foot over Demon’s tattoo. “Think harder.”

  The yakuza’s eyes widened. “Something to do with a sword…that’s right. It’s from that story where the sun goddess gave her grandson the invincible grass-cutting sword from heaven…the Kusanagi!”

  Aizawa’s foot hit the ground with a hollow thud. The Kusanagi Society. That meant Masaru Ryusaki. It had to be him. All the details fit. He should have known that bloodthirsty samurai would be involved somehow.

  “Tell me exactly what he said or I’ll peel that tattoo off your chest.”

  Demon nodded. “He tried to recruit me. Lots of yakuza have ties to patriotic societies. Some genuinely love Japan while others just use it as a way to make a few extra yen. I don’t care about politics but I humored this fool as he went on.”

  “Did he mention anything about Baron Onishi?” Aizawa asked, raising his foot again.

  “No, he didn’t,” Demon said, his face tightening with fear. “Just that the Kusanagi Society needed patriotic men in the coming days. Typical right-wing bluster. Once Kuroki finished I asked them both to leave. That’s all I know, I swear!”

  Some yakuza he turned out to be. Still, Aizawa felt some gratitude toward this sniveling creature for unmasking his old enemy. He turned to the women. While the brothel mistress shook in fear, Yuki stood there like a department store mannequin. The kid had already braced herself for years of service in Yoshiwara and the cruelest part of all was that it was entirely legal. Such an unjust system gave rise to men like Masaru Ryusaki and his Kusanagi Society, willing to kill whoever they wanted in the name of reform.

  Aizawa bowed and began walking toward the exit, but paused in front of Demon. “If you hear anything about the Kusanagi Society or Masaru Ryusaki…come directly to me.”

  Demon nodded and whimpered in agreement. Aizawa marched out of the Water Temple and slammed the sliding door behind him. The thought of Ryusaki controlling Kuroki, along with other puppet assassins, filled him with anger and dread. Masaru Ryusaki’s involvement meant that a dark plot was wrapping itself around Tokyo like some giant octopus.

  A light snow fell and dusted Yoshiwara with a dreamlike atmosphere. Aizawa lit a Pall Mall and soaked in the warmth from the lighter. Winter was the best time for plots.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Back at the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Aizawa took the elevator to the second floor. A century ago, it could have been the shogun’s torture chamber but it now served as the ‘interrogation and processing level.’ A junsa escorted a middle-aged woman with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks past him. No doubt she was one of the many housewives caught thieving everything from rice to koi fish out of ponds, just so the family could have a something to eat. Aizawa shook his head and hoped the courts would show leniency. At least her type confessed easily. For the holdouts, there were other methods.

  Officially, torture had been banned some fifty years ago, during the Meiji Era. But behind closed doors, police officers had perfected the art of slapping, beating, and brutalizing without leaving marks that would show up in court and complicate matters.<
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  Entering the interrogation room, Aizawa reminded himself that duty to the Emperor wasn’t always pleasant. He gave the room a once-over. On the wall, a portrait of the Emperor cast a paternal, yet judgmental gaze onto his subjects. After all, His Majesty was not just a mere monarch, but also the Son of Heaven and direct descendant of the sun goddess Amaterasu. Simply seeing the Emperor’s disapproving face was enough to break some suspects. But not Makoto Kuroki.

  Sergeant Murayama stood naked to the waist, bathed in sweat and clutching a bamboo sword. Swollen and battered, Kuroki sat handcuffed, beaming a triumphant smile.

  “Sorry, Inspector. He still hasn’t talked,” Murayama said, buttoning his tunic back up. “This little worm has armor for skin.”

  Kuroki gasped out a laugh. “Patriotism has given me the strength of a hundred men! I am harder than any bamboo you can beat me with.”

  Aizawa sighed. This was going to be difficult.

  “I’m impressed, Kuroki-san,” Aizawa said. “Yuki-san would be too if she could see you now.”

  Kuroki’s smile dropped and his mustache twitched. If brutality didn’t work, perhaps shame would.

  “She’s heartbroken that you’ve been arrested,” Aizawa said, taking a seat across from him.

  Kuroki’s eyes dropped.

  “You were her best customer. What will she do for money? Don’t you care about her?”

  “I did…but…” Kuroki lifted his head with a newfound confidence. “My mission was more important than any woman.”

  “Your mission? You mean assassinating Baron Onishi?”

  “I wasn’t going to assassinate anyone.”

  Aizawa sighed again. This was going to be very difficult.

  “You weren’t? Don’t tell me you were carrying that Nambu around for protection. Besides, it’s illegal for a private citizen to own a firearm.”

  “The pistol was my brother’s,” Kuroki said.

  “An Army officer?”

  Kuroki bit his lip and nodded. “A lieutenant in the Imperial Guard.”