Hidden Nexus (9 page)

Friday 31st December 9:30am

‘You don’t look so good Kinjo. Anything the matter? Are you ill?’ Hiro Watanabe slapped his number two on the back, in a manner soaked in over-indulgent bonne-homme.

Kinjo looked flushed – more so than usual.

'I'm fine, fine. Just a cold coming on, I think,’ he mumbled from within his briefcase.

Watanabe looked around the group. 'Where's Ito san?'

'She phoned in earlier… said she was ill… sent her apologies.' Kinjo took out a wad of papers which he placed on the table.

'Oh really? She seemed okay yesterday. Anything serious?'

'Chicken Pox she said. Doctor's put her in quarantine... said she'd send the sick note through to us...'

But Watanabe was no longer listening. He didn’t like Ito anyway. 'Okay, then. We're all here,' he said looking around the group once more and pulling his chair up to the table. He was however, grateful that the banal chit-chat had once again helped him to shift into a more confident and focussed direction. 'Let's get on, this is an important meeting and the Ryozo are due here in a few minutes.’

A minor discussion took place reminding all of the overall strategy and ensuring that all points of view were taken in. Watanabe was satisfied at what he was hearing and beamed in pleasure at his colleagues around him. He could feel everything coming together nicely.

Nothing, it seemed, could stop him now – not even a strangled, dead women in Kamioka
– or at least, that is what he believed.

Ten minutes later The Ryozo group, headed by their Chairman Matsuhiro Shimizu, filed wordlessly into the room and sat stern-faced around the table. Equally as stern-faced sat Watanabe and his faction chiefs. This was no convivial meeting between firm friends and mature allies but the first tentative forays into un-mapped territory. It appeared that no ground would be gained or given easily. The stakes were too high for either side to allow events to get away from them, but both sides knew that their future, quite possibly, might lie together.

Each man had a glass of water to hand, sitting on a lace doily and a few rice crackers had been placed in the middle of the table. Without exception these meagre refreshments remained untouched until that is the leaders lead by example, after which the rest of the men gradually followed suit, took hesitant sips of their water and munched surreptitiously on the rice crackers. There was still a great deal of strain in the room with neither side wanting to stray too far from strict protocol. Watanabe glanced across to Kinjo who looked nervously back, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. Watanabe had more important matters on his mind than the lack of composure in his colleague and so, for the moment, let this brief lapse in equanimity slide. Later he would regret not picking up on these tell-tale signs a lot earlier – something was not quite right.

‘I think we all know the reason why we are here,’ began Watanabe clearly. ‘The time has come for us to forge a new Japan – together. One based on truth, openness and honesty.’

There were murmurs of agreement around the table. Shimizu however, pursed his lips and looked doubtful. If his look was designed to throw Watanabe off his stride, it didn’t. ‘I’m sure that we can agree on some common goals and common ground,’ continued Watanabe. ‘I’m sure we can stand united together and shift Japanese politics into a new and more effective era. Now-,’ he said, reaching to his left where his hand rested on a folder of documents and from which he pulled out a wad of typed papers and distributed them around the group. ‘I have some proposals here that my team and I have been working on. I’d like you to read through them and tell me what you think.’

The collected group proceeded to read quietly through the documents that they'd been given and the only sound that could be heard within the room was the turning of the pages and the occasional cough or sniff. Watanabe examined everyone carefully, on the look-out for signs of agreement or dissention. He had no need to read the document himself – after all he and Kinjo had spent hours putting it together – well Kinjo had anyway! Despite his analysis
he could perceive nothing of consequence in the inscrutable faces of the Ryozo.

Eventually after ten minutes or so it was apparent that most of the men around the table had completed their reading as one by one they sat back with their hands clasped waiting for their colleagues. Some took sips of their water, others looked around the room or at each other. The atmosphere was still tense.

‘Of course, we need further time to read through your ideas more thoroughly before we commit to anything,’ said an unsmiling Shimizu directly.

‘Of course,’ agreed Watanabe. ‘That is only to be expected. The purpose here was only to lay on the table the broad areas for discussion. There will be a lot of details that will need ironing out. I’m sure of that.’

‘There is one thing that we would like to add-’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Watanabe warmly. ‘Anything at all.’

The thunderclap burst out of a clear blue sky.

‘We want you to resign as Chairman of your faction.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘We demand that you resign!’

Watanabe attempted to remain calm. He couldn’t for the life of him understand where this had come from. What on earth were they thinking of to ask such a thing? ‘It’s out of the question,’ he said simply, hoping to avoid a stutter in his voice.

‘Then there will be no deal.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Either you go or we do.’

‘I don’t understand – on what grounds?’

‘We believe you to be a liability and scandals like this hardly help.’ As he spoke Shimizu slapped down one of the many national tabloids ‘
Nikkan Gendai
’ onto the table. In huge script on the front page was the statement, ‘Watanabe sex fiend’ beneath which was a huge picture of Watanabe next to one of a scantily clad young woman.

‘I don’t understand,’ spluttered Watanabe again. ‘What are these fabricated lies?’

‘You deny this?’

‘Of course I do. Who do you take me for? I’m a happily married man. And this paper – it’s a left-wing tabloid. They'd stop at nothing to undermine me, even if it means printing lies. The picture there is a complete invention.’ He looked around his group for some support, but none came, not even from Kinjo, who had turned a pale shade of green.

‘Look! I think in the circumstances we need to adjourn this meeting until I’ve got to the bottom of this… this nonsense!’ said Watanabe slapping the newspaper.

Matsuhiro Shimizu stared coolly back. ‘I agree. Until this is resolved it would be foolish for us to enter into any public agreement with you at this time. I’m sure you understand.’

‘I understand.’ Watanabe gritted his teeth and ushered out the men who not fifteen minutes before had entered the room. Once again his political ambitions appeared to be lying in tatters on the floor around him.

He dismissed the wider team and only Kinjo remained to field his anger.

‘Damn that slut!’ shouted Watanabe kicking the wall. ‘I should have suspected that something was wrong. She was far too eager – far too ready to push herself onto me.’

His mind quickly flashed through the series of events, seeking meaning – or blame.

It had been Kinjo who had introduced them. It had been Kinjo who had pointed him in her direction, or her in his direction - he didn’t know which now. One phrase stuck in his mind – a pivotal phrase that had him panting like an idiot.

‘She gives excellent head,’
Kinjo had lustily explained. Watanabe had been in no mind to refuse. He had few principles and even fewer scruples.

Whatever his own failings Watanabe concluded that he had been placed in this position because of one man – and one man only! His mind was working overtime now. When he was cornered, as he quite often was, he had a tendency to lash out. He was quite incapable of attributing culpability to himself or taking responsibility for his own actions. Without doubt the man to blame was Kinjo!

Also within the dark recesses of his mind - in the secluded, distrustful and paranoid places where he dared not often tread but often found himself alone and wandering – and wondering, the thought stabbed at him that Kinjo might well have engineered this whole honey-trap deliberately for his own political ends and ambitions.

He looked at Kinjo who was sat blank faced on one of the office’s comfy chairs. He had said nothing, explained nothing – had shown no emotion what-so-ever, except perhaps a snivelling disregard for the fortunes of his leader. Watanabe’s thoughts bounded from one to another leaping effortlessly like a mountain goat. It was Kinjo who had suggested the link up with the Ryozo - they weren’t Watanabe’s natural partners. It was Kinjo who had negotiated the meeting, established the connections and smoothed the path. But perhaps this was all for himself. Perhaps this was all a simple coup by his erstwhile close companion.

Watanabe looked upon his colleague with different eyes.

‘You are responsible Kinjo!’ Watanabe shouted, pointing an accusatory finger in Kinjo’s direction. ‘You said that the hotel was discreet and you said the woman was safe! You said a link with the Ryozo would be beneficial! I blame you and no-one else!'

‘I can explain.’

‘No Kinjo – I don’t think you can!'

‘
Gomenasai
.’ Kinjo fell to the floor.

Watanabe paced around the room. Kinjo remained wretched, his face ill-looking, reduced to a shade of pearl, glistening with moisture and appearing as if he was about to throw up.

‘You’re fired!’ said Watanabe suddenly.

‘W-what?’

‘You heard! Get out of my sight. I never want to see you again.’

Friday 31st December 9:45am

Kenta Fujiwara drained what was left of his whiskey and slumped back into his chair. He was blind drunk, as he had been for most of the previous night. He derived little pleasure from it. His head was thumping and his office seemed to have the unnerving habit of billowing back and forth in front of him. He spat into a spittoon that he kept nearby his desk, topped up his glass, downed it in one, topped it up again and then threw the now empty whiskey bottle against the wall. It simply thudded loudly and then dropped to the carpet without smashing. He couldn’t even get that right!

It would be quite fair to suggest that his numerous dilemmas had forced him to slip involuntarily into alcoholism but he couldn’t admit to it. He was completely unaware that he had come to depend more and more on the drink to see him through his day.

And one prime cause of his dilemma was that he was becoming less and less confident that the faint trickle of money that was currently dribbling into his coffers would soon turn into a free-flowing stream even once the real pressure had begun to tell on
all
those who persisted in their late payments. He desperately needed the cash and was anxious to call in a few favours. The trouble was that the few friends that he knew had suddenly deserted him.

He took out his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number but it remained unanswered and he was in no mind to leave a message. He pondered on a few other people he could phone, tapping his mobile in the palm of his hand as he did so, but then thought against it, so he switched off his phone and returned it back to his pocket.

It wasn’t quite what he’d imagined when he’d first signed up.

Fujiwara openly recognised that in terms of the hierarchy he was still well down the pecking order, in fact he was just one level above the shop floor - and was grateful for that meagre fact, but even so life had become a little wearisome. Not even the gorgeous creatures who routinely adorned his office and paid him no little sexual attention, attention that his repulsive features as a rule would not warrant – not even they could distract him from the underlying feeling that all was not well in his life.

The pressure was beginning to tell.

He recalled his spell on the shop floor which if anything, at the time, had seemed even worse than his current predicament. It had all been a world away from his romanticised dreams that had prompted him to volunteer in the first place. In the numbing reality
the foot soldiers of the organisation
were forced to handle almost everything that was needed to be done: driving, manning telephones, patrolling, cleaning, enforcing – every dirty and degrading menial job that could be conceived of and due to the working hours, sometimes from six in the morning to midnight, and there being virtually no salary, he’d only survived, like every other shop floor worker, through a system of patronage and gifts, where the organisation supplied what they could at their own discretion. It had taken a long time to be accepted and it wasn’t unusual for new, voluntary starters to remain in their positions for over a decade. It had been tough and uncompromisingly boring work. At the time there was little else to do but to knuckle down and hope to be admitted more formally onto the organisation’s first rung of the hierarchy but even then, after being moved up in rank, the salary was barely above the minimum wage.

It would be wrong to suggest that Fujiwara was seriously questioning his career decisions but he was certainly becoming tired of the position he had found himself in.

And he was certainly becoming stressed! Not that he would articulate how he felt in such a feeble way. After all he was Yakuza!

He looked across to a small sake cup artfully displayed on the shelf opposite and above him. This cup was enormously special to him - a cup that had been used during his
adoption ceremony known as
 the
sakazuki-goto
 
- the
sakazuki
being the small sake cup on the shelf and which was handed over to him after the ceremony. In the ceremony itself, which had its origins in Shinto ritual, he had taken turns with his
Oyabun
, father, to drink from the cup, an act which symbolised a physical contract between the two. It had been a cementation of his elevation from shop floor onto the first rung. The cup had to be returned or destroyed in case of his expulsion. He had experienced nothing but exaltation on that day.

Much like the rest of Japanese society, his
Oyabun
placed a strong emphasis on loyalty and the importance of seniority. All members of the organisation were expected to obey without question, sacrificing themselves without hesitation should the need arise, acting as
teppodama
 
(bullets) to be fired, whenever and wherever by their boss. To foster this kind of blind loyalty his
Oyabun
offered him protection and advice on how to
maintain and run his organisation and in addition he provided entertainment and gifts. In return he expected
complete and utter servitude from Fujiwara and the payment of regular tribute money.
 
While Fujiwara sometimes struggled for a decent existence his boss by comparison lived luxuriously off the tribute money. This siphoning of funds from the lower ranking members meant that his
Oyabun
no longer actually had to commit any crimes at all and instead could lead an indolent and lavish lifestyle owning expensive foreign cars and elegant houses in fashionable residential areas.

Fujiwara looked upon this incredibly glamorous lifestyle with envy but regardless of his possible resentment, until now, he had carried out his activities and used his organized power to guarantee his leaders’ sumptuous lifestyle on the understanding that he would either inherit or grow his own organisation enough so that he too, in his own right, could become
Oyabun
. It was this dream, this promise, that Fujiwara was still clinging to but meanwhile the burden of having to pay the tribute money was having undesirable, negative consequences and he was coming to severely begrudge his hand-to-mouth existence.

He wondered, not for the first time, about how his life had become so pressurised and so stressful and how it was that his dreams of an effortless slide into affluence and high living had become so horribly complicated and monstrously derailed.
At what point in his life did he begin to stop trying he wondered and at what point did an expectant future dissolve into a helpless nothingness? At what point did the dreams begin to warp?
Of course he had sadly realised some time ago that he was neither cut out for business nor, for that matter, management nor organisation either. This latter realisation he had found difficult to accept as it signalled, after all, that in all probability he would not be offered a higher position in the organisation. He would not be made
Oyabun
. Duty, deference, hard work and loyalty had been the key tenets which he had religiously followed, but each one, he now recognised, was wholly beyond his abilities and inclinations. He was no longer sure where his future lay.

On the other hand he had only ever known work for the Yakuza – he had only really known the work of an enforcer. He considered himself good at that - violence and intimidation. He was good at it
and
he enjoyed it.

He disturbingly recalled the fate of Sazaki and Miyagi two of his colleagues who had found the pressure to be so great that they had committed suicide. Fujiwara had not reached such a denouement, but he knew that something would have to give - soon. He was by no means a coward, but neither did he have much stomach left for the fight. Both the stress and the shame could lead him quite easily into suicidal thoughts.

He picked up the newspaper that was lying on his desk and skimmed over the headlines – unable to focus much beyond the bold print. One story in particular smashed into his consciousness – ‘Strangled woman mystery’. He read a little of the story amused at the stumbling description and pallid guesswork of the journalist who without an adequate range of facts had limped to the conclusion that it was all a pitiful indictment on the change for the worst in Japanese society that could see an innocent woman taken down without anyone coming to her rescue.

He grinned maliciously and then laughed out loud. Fujiwara’s conclusions were far more brutal.

The bitch deserved it. It was as simple as that.

He laid down the newspaper. Reading hurt his eyes. Reading hurt his whole body.

He glanced at his watch and traced the second hand as it crawled slowly from four around to eleven.

Nine forty-five!

Time was dragging. He was sick and tired of sitting in the dingy little office and sick and tired of staring at a computer screen that resolutely refused to tell him what he wanted.

Reparations were due to his
Oyabun
by Monday and he desperately had to get some money from somewhere and given his present lack of credit he was sure not to receive any special favours or allowance for deferral.

He picked up his leather jacket that was lying on the floor and wandered down the long, dark corridor and into the main reception. The place was empty – they didn’t really open until ten, and anyway the time of day seemed to be becoming increasingly irrelevant. Ten p.m., ten a.m. – it didn’t matter. The place had lost its hum. The clientele were simply not coming in the numbers they used to and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He realised that he’d become quite passive in the face of adversity.

Behind the small bar Ishimura was polishing some glasses.

‘Last night’s takings any good,’ asked Fujiwara.

Ishimura grimaced – just like he did every morning.

‘I’m going out for a while,' added Fujiwara.

Ishimura just nodded.

This was also part of the problem. Aside from the girls Fujiwara had no-one he could talk too. Ishimura was next to useless – hardworking but useless and monosyllabic at the best of times. It pained Fujiwara to admit it but he saw a lot of himself in Ishimura – plenty of muscle and precious little brain. A man who had volunteered under the impression that his life would be overflowing with ready cash and girls but above all a life that would be radically different from the monotone, commuter nine-to-five of every-one else. What he had found was that he was cleaning glasses just like any other
bakayarou
. Fujiwara had been there. He knew exactly how he felt.

‘We’re all
baka
,’ he thought –
Bakayarou
with tattoos and ceremonial cups.

He took the elevator down to the ground floor, exited through the electronic doors that shut quickly and firmly behind him and walked a few blocks down the street immediately feeling the biting cold and regretting not wearing something a bit thicker than his leather jacket, but he wasn’t going far. A minute later he turned into a glass-fronted, garishly painted building and was immediately hit by a wall of noise – pachinko noise!

He walked through the lines of machines and made his way to the back of the parlour. Using a prepaid card he purchased a tray of balls – small metal balls resembling ball-bearings and then took up his customary position slumped in front of his favourite machine. He preferred the older, traditional ones, not that he was particularly against the newer digital variety with their LCD displays playing colourful animations if you hit the jackpot, and where in this particular parlour the owner had opted for noisy, erotic anime. But he wasn’t in the mood. If he’d wanted sex and titillation he would have gone to one of the girls. The older machines were just as noisy though with their bells and lights and of course the sound of the metal balls slipping through the machine and rebounding off the pins. He also knew that in the old style
 
machines the positioning of the pins greatly affected the payout and unless they were tapped into less forgiving locations by the operator they generally offered good returns. Fujiwara was after an easy
win,
not that he was seeing this as salvation for his financial woes – pachinko didn’t pay that much, but he just wanted to have the feeling of
being successful
again.