“Fine, thanks for asking. You?”
“Busy. What are you doing these days? Have you found work?”
For a moment, I wondered if maybe I would have been better off without the small talk. Was his question innocent? Or was he suggesting he might have suspicions about my activities that he would prefer, for the sake of our friendship, to avoid? Tatsu was more subtle than I—though I supposed that wasn’t saying much—and I sometimes had trouble reading him.
“No, nothing really. I’m dating someone, though.”
He raised his eyebrows. “It sounds serious.”
“I barely mentioned it.”
“You wouldn’t have mentioned it at all otherwise.”
I laughed. Tatsu couldn’t stop being a cop, even when it was just reflex.
“Yeah, it is kind of serious, I guess. She’s…pretty special. We’ll see. How about you? How’s your wife, your daughters…?”
He beamed. “Very fine, very fine. I’m fortunate they put up with me.”
Though it’s slackening a bit in more modern times, the custom in Japan is to say something mildly disparaging about one’s spouse or children, even in response to a compliment, lest one seem unduly proud. But the closest Tatsu could come to adhering to the niceties was to say something disparaging about himself. It was touching.
“I think they’re very lucky to have you.”
He shook his head and turned away to take a sip of his beer. I smiled. Had I managed to embarrass him?
The food arrived and we dug in. It was delicious, and I had no trouble understanding why Tatsu liked the place.
“Anyway,” he said, around a mouthful of chicken, “I was asking if you might tell me why you need the information you asked for.”
He could have given me the information before asking the question. That he hadn’t suggested there might be a quid pro quo.
I took a swallow of beer. “Are you asking as a friend, or as a cop?”
“As long as I don’t hear about anything illegal, we’re just two friends, enjoying an evening at an
izakaya
.”
I smiled. This was about as obvious as Tatsu ever got. He was telling me to feel free, short of any outright confessions.
“I’m in a bit of a jam. I think the girl knows who’s behind it, and why.”
“Did you…do something to hurt someone’s feelings?”
I laughed. Tatsu had seen me get up in a few faces back in the day. “It wouldn’t be the first time, right?”
“This jam…how serious is it?”
“I’ve faced worse.”
“What you’ve faced has left many better men dead. How serious?”
“Pretty serious.”
“Can I help?”
“The information on the girl is all I need.”
He nodded as though considering that, then dipped a slice of
maguro
in soy sauce, chewed and swallowed it, and washed it down with beer. “If you’re mixed up with the yakuza, I don’t think a little information from the motor vehicles department is going to be enough.”
I looked at him, appalled by his instincts. “Why do think it’s yakuza?”
“Surely you’ve heard? Hideki Fukumoto, the head of the Gokumatsu-gumi, was gunned down at his home in Denenchofu the other day, along with three associates. And today three Gokumatsu-gumi soldiers were killed while visiting his grave.”
That “surely you’ve heard” felt uncomfortably dry to me. “Yeah. The papers were speculating about some kind of turf war, Vietnamese gangs or something like that.”
He enjoyed some of the tomato salad and drank a bit more beer. Was he trying to make me sweat? Finally he said, “This doesn’t feel like Vietnamese to me. Those gangs are fearsome, but impulsive. And fundamentally small-time. This feels like a decapitation strike. Regardless, whoever is involved, I believe they’re no more than a cat’s paw for someone more intelligent and ambitious. I expect they’re being duped, and, when they’re no longer useful, will themselves be eliminated.”
Well, it wasn’t particularly flattering from my perspective, but he had the broad outlines right.
“Decapitation strike…you mean the son is in charge now that Fukumoto is dead?”
“That is my understanding.”
“But why would you think I was mixed up in any of that?”
He shrugged. “The woman whose license plate number you gave me. She is a known associate of Fukumoto Junior. A girlfriend.”
My throat went dry. Here I’d been thinking I was being so smooth, yet I’d handed Tatsu everything he needed to put the pieces together. I took a sip of beer, realizing as I did so that Tatsu would probably read it as nervousness. Christ, no wonder I’d been avoiding him. The life I was in and friendship with a cop was too dangerous a combination.
But he told you how he knew of the yakuza connection, right? A cop wouldn’t do that. A cop would have held back, seen what else he might elicit, what lies he could trap you in
.
That was true, and somewhat reassuring. Though still, he
had
held back, to some extent. He could have told me earlier in the conversation. Instead, he’d waited to see if I would talk more, say something incriminating, before showing his hand. A classic interrogation technique. I had to be careful.
“That is a hell of a coincidence,” I managed.
“Indeed. So much so, I feel no need to inquire into your whereabouts at the times of these killings.”
I took another swallow of beer and let out a long breath. He was telling me he wasn’t going to press it further, that we were all right. But…Jesus.
I cleared my throat. “So…you think the dupes who did it will find a way to survive what they’ve gotten themselves mixed up in?”
He looked grave. “I wouldn’t bet on it. If they would listen, I would advise them to run.”
“Run from the yakuza?”
“They would have to run far.”
“They probably would, if they thought they could. If they thought it would work. But maybe they feel they need to finish what’s been started.”
He sipped his beer. He knew I would tell more if I wanted to. And maybe he hoped I would another time, if not tonight. Was that the quid pro quo? We were friends; he would prefer not to ask directly. And it would be rude for me to make him.
“So that thing at Fukumoto’s grave today,” I said. “You think that was what, someone trying to finish the Fukumotos’ control over the Gokumatsu-gumi?”
“I’d be more interested in your theories.”
I’m sure you would
. “The truth is, I’m flying blind. If I had a theory worth a damn, I’d tell you, but so far I don’t know more than what’s been reported in the news. Of course, if I learn more, I’ll tell you.”
He looked at me and nodded once as though to say,
Deal
. “I think this is about control, yes, though control over what or by whom I don’t know. And I think whoever killed Fukumoto Senior knew or anticipated that his son would be at Yanaka today. Either the information was faulty, or the son got away. The son denies having been there, but I don’t believe him.”
I’d been hoping he would know more, but it seemed he was going on even less than I had. “What do your superiors think?”
He laughed. “A turf war with the Vietnamese. Always the most comforting, conservative, conventional view.”
I could have mentioned the CIA payments, my role as a bagman, McGraw—those were important pieces, and maybe if Tatsu had them, he could combine them with whatever other information he held and provide me with some actionable intel. But I couldn’t do it. Telling a Keisatsucho cop about CIA payments to the LDP…it was too big, too explosive. I wasn’t going to put myself in the middle of something like that. I did consider asking him about Ozawa. Something like,
Hey, hypothetically, what if that guy who died at the
sentō
in Kita-Senju weren’t accidental
? But it felt too risky. A bunch of dead gangsters was one thing, but if Tatsu suspected I had killed the
sōmukaicho
of the LDP, that would probably be a bridge too far. It wasn’t just my concern about my own skin, though of course that was part of it. I also didn’t want to put him in a position where he would so starkly have to choose between
giri
and
ninjō
—duty, and human feeling. And besides, it seemed he didn’t know that much anyway. I decided to hold questions about a possible Ozawa-Fukumoto connection in reserve, for an emergency. First I’d see what I might get from Mad Dog’s girlfriend.
Although he hadn’t handed that information over yet, had he? I wondered what he was waiting for, what I was missing.
We spent a while commiserating about his frustrations at having to kowtow to a bunch of cerebrally challenged higher-ups, and finished the meal with
ochazuke
rice and plum sherbet for dessert. When we were done, I paid, and we headed out.
The sun was down, but the air was still radiant with the residual heat of the buildings, streets, and sidewalks. I smelled skewered chicken and onion roasting over briquettes at a street stall
yakitoriya
on the corner next to us, dripping fat sizzling on the fire. From somewhere down the street, a man was karaoke-crooning to accompanying cries of approval and delight—the signature sounds of a
sunaku
, a tiny neighborhood bar. From the second floor of the tiny wooden house across from us came the distinctive
crack!
of a dozen
shinai
, the bamboo practice swords used in kendo, accompanied by as many war cries, the house practically shaking with the simultaneous violence of the
kendōka’s
distinctive stomping attack. An old man in a blue
yukata
shuffled past us, probably on his way to the neighborhood
sentō
, his wooden
geta
clop-clopping on the pavement. The Yamanote train’s arrival bells pealed from nearby Ueno Station, like an aria underpinning it all.
Tokyo nocturnes
, I thought, and couldn’t help but smile at this city I loved no matter how I tried not to.
Tatsu stretched, then patted his belly. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
“My pleasure.” He still hadn’t given me the information about the girl. What was he waiting for? Had I missed some cue?
There was a pause. He cleared his throat. “May I say something I’m sure is unnecessary?”
So I had missed something. “It would be unlike you, but sure.”
“The girl. I hope your plan is simply to follow her, or at worst to brace her.”
“What else would it be?”
He sighed. “As I said, I’m sure that’s all it could be. Still, so many people have died violently in the last few days. And while I wouldn’t be so foolish as to suggest that violence solves nothing, it has also been my observation that violence can also be a kind of…contagion. Often it begins with difficulty, but then gets progressively easier. It starts with limits, and those limits then begin to dissolve.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“Whoever killed those yakuza is likely guilty of manslaughter, if not murder, yes? Legally speaking.”
I looked at him, wary. He was warning me. But of what?
“I’d say that’s true.”
“And yet, morally, guilty of little if anything. After all, legalities aside, is the world not a better place with fewer gangsters in it?”
“I think you could make that case, sure.”
“But a woman…or a child…that would be different. There would be nothing moral about that. Nothing redeeming.”
I nodded, trying with only partial success to push away memories from the war. “I agree.”
“I knew you would. Among people who use violence, there’s only one real dividing line. Either you have limits. Or you don’t.”
“Well, the reasons are important, too.”
“Up to a point. But everyone believes his own reasons are good ones. In the end, it’s the limits that separate men from monsters.”
Finally, I saw it. As always, he was being courteous enough to express his concern exclusively in terms of what would be best for me. But unspoken was an admonition:
If I give you the information about that girl and you hurt her, her blood would be on my hands. And I would make you pay for that.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I said. “Regardless of what might have happened to those other people, I’m sure the girl will be fine.”
He nodded, reached into his jacket pocket, and handed me a folded piece of paper. “If you need help with anything else, I hope you’ll ask. I’m concerned this won’t be enough.”
Coming from Tatsu, that was practically sentimental. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I said, and instantly remembered Sayaka’s response:
How many people do you think have been in over their heads, and said that right before they drowned?
Tatsu headed to the train station; I went back to the shrine. It would be a good place to read whatever he’d gotten me about the girl. And I thought another prayer for success in the test I was about to face couldn’t hurt, either.
chapter
thirty-one
T
atsu’s information on the girl was a spymaster’s fantasy—home address; work address; employment records; bank records; names and addresses of relatives; detailed information about known associates based on phone records. Either McGraw was incompetent in the files he’d put together on Mad Dog, or he’d been sandbagging, as I’d suspected. And I knew McGraw was anything but incompetent.
Her name was Rei Takizawa. She worked as a hostess in a club in Roppongi, one of the ones managed by Mad Dog. Based on phone records and street scuttlebutt, she’d been involved with him personally for the last three years. So what had she been doing at Fukumoto’s house that day?
Maybe…three years is long enough for her to know the father well, maybe even to have privileges about entering the house. Maybe Mad Dog took her there that morning on a pretext, a business discussion with the old man, whatever, then went out while she cooled her heels in the kitchen. The old man doesn’t mind…she’s gorgeous, maybe he enjoys her company. Maybe she flirts with him a little. Maybe he even has hopes. Whatever. The point is, she sticks around. Mad Dog hasn’t really left; he’s parked on the street, waiting to spot me. When he does, he tells her to leave, reminds her to make sure I get a good look at her pressing the button on that garage door opener
.