The Kaisho (54 page)

This is how Mikio Okami became
oyabun
of the Okami clan.

Before he left the office, Okami had the presence of mind to take up his uncle’s head by its damp hair. For six weeks afterward it hung by a leather cord in the courtyard of Okami’s house. Everyone whom he summoned over that time—the underbosses of his family, as well as the
oyabun
of the other Tokyo families—was obliged to pass it on his way to meet with him.

The last
oyabun
Okami summoned was Seizo Yamauchi. He was a bull-shouldered man with a long, pouty face and a righteous air about him. He was forever decrying the loss of traditional values among the new recruits to the Yakuza ranks, but he was a usurer par excellence, squeezing the old people in his territory who increasingly came to him for help, as the specter of war crept over the land and conscripted their sons on whom they had been dependent.

The two
kobun
Okami had overheard in the bar were from the Yamauchi clan.

As Seizo Yamauchi made his way across the courtyard, he stared long and hard at the shriveled, crusted head of Okami’s uncle. He shook his head disapprovingly as if he were regarding the handiwork of some anarchist.

“Filthy days,” he said to Okami when the ritual introductions had been made.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Okami said, reaching over the hibachi to make tea for his guest. He could feel the older man’s tension like a pressure drop in a descending elevator, and he fought to keep his own anxiety in check. He had a long way to go, and there could be nasty surprises lying in wait for him.

Neither man said another word until the cut leaves had been placed in the bottom of the cups, the hot water poured over them, the whisk taken up, making the pale green froth on top. Okami watched as Yamauchi put the cup to his lips; only then did he take his tea. Yamauchi nodded, pleased at the younger man’s manners.

“This is why I asked for this meeting,” Okami said in his sweetest voice. “Now that the traitor to the Okami clan is taken care of, I would seek an alliance with the Yamauchi.” He poured more tea for them both. “These times are, indeed, filthy. War is coming; I can feel it in the same way an old man feels the onset of rain—in my bones. Now, more than ever, we need to band together, drop our various territorial feuds, forsake revenge. For survival, Yamauchi-san.”

He put down his cup. “And for another reason, if I may speak freely.” The older man nodded, more at ease now. “I am a young man. Perhaps—as some no doubt have said—I am as yet too unseasoned to become
oyabun
of such a large family as mine. But I have been merely reacting to circumstance, so perhaps I can be forgiven the abrupt… elevation in rank. However, I am not unaware of my precarious situation, and thinking it over, I see that it would be to my benefit if I were to have a mentor, someone older and wiser than I am, to whom I can turn for valued advice and counsel. In return for this expenditure of time and effort, I am willing to share the wealth of the Okami. How does this idea strike you, Yamauchi-san?”

Yamauchi made a show of mulling this offer over, but Okami could feel his elation as if the sun had appeared from behind a cloud.

At length, Yamauchi said, “What you propose has merit. It shows me that despite the rashness of youth that some
oyabun
condemn, you possess a wisdom others in your clan did not.” He nodded. “I accept your proposal.”

“Excellent. And to seal the arrangement I ask only that you find the two perpetrators of my father’s murder and put them to death by your own hand.”

Yamauchi said nothing for a long time. He did not move; did not touch the remainder of his tea, which was growing cold in its cup. After a time, he said slowly, “I have had enough tea. Please bring a bottle of Napoleon brandy so that we may each in our own private way celebrate this historic union of the Yamauchi and the Okami families.”

Three nights later, Okami welcomed Mitsuba Yamauchi to the back room of the late-night bar that served as a Yakuza safe house. Mitsuba was one of Seizo’s underbosses and one of his two chief expediters; he was also Seizo’s nephew.

Mitsuba was wary, as Okami would have been in his place. He was a thin man with no hips and the long legs of an arachnid. He had a nervous habit of stroking the side of his jaw with his thumb. His face was carved into flat planes and was dominated by a thick-lipped mouth he worked into an ingenuous-looking smile for friend and enemy alike.

After the ritual greeting, Mitsuba unbuttoned his jacket, sat at ease across the small table from Okami. As he did so, Okami saw the butt of a .38 arching up from the waistband of his trousers. Hovering in the main room of the bar were a pair of Mitsuba’s soldiers, alert as hunting dogs who had been given the scent of prey. Okami was alone, deliberately so.

For thirty minutes or so the two men drank fine black market scotch and spoke in polite banalities. The sounds of the bar up front were muted. A radio played a jaunty American pop song, and some drunk sang along with it for a few bars before going unalterably off-key.

At length, Okami said, “What is your opinion of the proposed merger between my family and yours?”

“You have an interesting manner of expressing what is already a fact,” Mitsuba said.

Okami nodded sagely, though a bit ruefully. “I, too, believed this to be the case. Until today when this was delivered to me.” He rose, went to the back of the room, switched on a 16mm film projector. “I would ask you to watch this film in its entirety, Mitsuba-san, and then render an opinion.”

The film had already begun to run as Okami slipped back into his seat. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Mitsuba’s reaction to the grainy but perfectly clear black-and-white film capturing with professional skill Seizo Yamauchi shooting to death two members of his own clan. They were, of course, the soldiers who had murdered Okami’s father.

The spellbinding film ran its course. Okami briefly left Mitsuba to turn off the projector. He poured more scotch for them both.

“Where—” Mitsuba paused to clear his throat. He swallowed half his whiskey before continuing. “Where did you get this document?”

“From a source of mine in the Tokko.” This was the notorious “thought police,” who were so powerful they were even feared by the Yakuza.

“So the police already have this evidence against Seizo-san.

Okami noted that he hadn’t used the term
my uncle.
Okami said nothing, wanting to see in which direction his pinch in the buttock would cause Mitsuba to jump.

“This will cause chaos in the ranks,” Mitsuba said almost to himself. “With Seizo-san gone…” He turned his gaze on Okami. “May I confess something to you, Okami-san? I have for some time been disenchanted with Seizo-san’s long-range… plans. In fact, I bitterly opposed several decisions he made most recently.” His eyes held Okami’s and they both knew Mitsuba meant the directive to murder Okami’s father.

“I appreciate knowing this,” Okami said. “Perhaps something of the alliance between our two families can yet be salvaged.” Then he rose, indicating the interview was at an end.

An hour later, this same scenario was replayed with Katsuodo Kozo, a brash, swaggering man, Seizo’s other chief expediter. Kozo had a hard-edged, brittle personality that had made him almost as many enemies as his clear-eyed, logical mind had made him admirers. Unlike Mitsuba, he had come alone.

He sat still and silent through the film, absorbed Okami’s spiel without comment. When Okami was through, he said, “You know, these two boys who Seizo-san shot are the ones responsible for your father’s death.”

“They were the weapon, that much is true,” Okami said with some emphasis. “But it was Seizo-san whose hand directed that weapon.”

Kozo considered this for some time. “I don’t believe Seizo-san would have taken retribution on them had it not been a stipulation of the alliance.”

“Old debts must be settled before new liaisons can be consummated.”

Kozo made a steeple of his fingers, stared at them intently. “It seems that Seizo-san made a serious miscalculation.” Now he stirred a little. “I cannot speak for Mitsuba, but as for myself I believe the best course for the Yamauchi family is to forge its own path that runs parallel to the Okami.”

Well said, thought Okami. “There is bound to be no small turmoil within the Yamauchi in the coming weeks,” he said. “There are those who will disagree vigorously with your philosophy. This turmoil may spread to the other families. There may even be talk among the
oyabun
about intervening in their own self-serving way. I do not believe this to be the best course for the Yamauchi. It no doubt would prove dangerous for whoever is seeking control.”

He leaned over, poured whiskey for them both. “The Yamauchi family has lost its way. My wish is for the Yamauchi to regain the stability it once had. As of now I consider it a danger not only to the Okami but to all the families. Rest assured I will do everything in my power to see that this stability is established and maintained.”

Okami could see that Kozo understood precisely what he was proposing. He lifted his glass in a Western toast. “To stability,” he said with the ghost of a smile.

A week later, responding to an anonymous tip, the police discovered the bodies of Seizo Yamauchi and his nephew Mitsuba in the living room of Mitsuba’s residence. From the position of the bodies, the angles of the entry wounds on both bodies, it was clear that the two Yakuza had had a disagreement that had led each to use deadly force against the other. And if there were one or two minor discrepancies, the police were more than willing to overlook them. After all, the main thing was that there were two less Yakuza to worry about. Maybe they would all rub each other out—now there was a policeman’s dream come true.

In the ensuing weeks, the bodies of various Yamauchi soldiers and underbosses were found, until Katsuodo Kozo had weeded out all his enemies and had consolidated his power. As Okami had predicted, the degree of bloodshed unnerved the other
oyabun,
and there was some talk of moving in concert to establish order within the Yamauchi.

True to his word, Okami protected the peace and Kozo by keeping the other
oyabun
at bay until Kozo had established control.

The outcome not only increased Kozo’s standing in the underworld, but also cemented Okami’s. From then on he was increasingly seen as a visionary who could guide the families through difficult times.

This was the beginning of Okami’s rise to the position of Kaisho, the mysterious commander,
oyabun
of all
oyabun.

It happened that General Willoughby had an adjutant who had come to the attention of Okami’s people. This was because he had a taste for young men, and the underworld into which he was obliged to slip in order to slake his particular thirst was the province of Okami’s family.

His name was Jack Donnough. He was a youngish man, quite handsome, with sandy hair, a high forehead, and green eyes. He was thin lipped and intense at work but, according to Okami’s sources, just the opposite during his nightside forays.

Now, as Okami made his way across nighttime Tokyo, he thought he might have use for Donnough. He had his driver change course, head into Shinjuku, where establishments of the water trade, as the Japanese so eloquently put it, flourished like mushrooms beneath a tree.

The owner of the Iron Gate ushered him inside, bowing so often and so deeply her head must have begun to spin. She was a tiny woman in a black-and-orange kimono. Her hair was elaborately coifed in the style of the old geisha. Huge tortoiseshell pins held it in place. Her face, though lined, was still an elegant reminder of times when she had been both beautiful and desirable.

Jack Donnough was indeed plowing the fragrant field, she told him matter-of-factly as she pointed out the room upstairs in the back. Okami thought it interesting that Americans had such a strict taboo against sexual liaisons between men; in Japan, it had been an accepted part of life for centuries.

Curiously, Donnough insisted on this one room, the owner said. She didn’t know why, but after a swift perimeter inspection of the building, Okami did. The window of Donnough’s trysting place gave out onto the corner alley that was dark and easy to get lost in in the event of a police raid or other disturbance.

Okami went back inside the Iron Gate and was about to mount the stairs when he saw the Army nurse he had encountered when he had gone to see Johnny Leonforte—Faith Sawhill—walking.

He stepped quickly back into the shadows of the hallway that led to the kitchen, watching her as she went straight for the stairs and up them. It was interesting that she was here, even more so that she apparently knew her way around.

Okami approached the owner, asked her if she knew anything about the American woman.

“She comes in from time to time,” the woman said, concentrating. “Perhaps one time in every three or four that Donnough does. She’s never here when he isn’t. What she does in there with the two men I have no idea.” She shrugged. “I told
Donnough the first time it happened that I expected more money from him. He paid it without question.”

Fascinated, Okami went silently up the stairs after Faith Sawhill.

At the end of the corridor he paused, considering his next move. On impulse, he put his ear to the door, which was, in this kind of establishment, thin enough.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Sawhill’s voice came through the door.

“I told you,” a male voice said, undoubtedly Donnough’s, “he doesn’t speak English.”

“This whole thing gives me the creeps.”

“Which whole thing,” Donnough said icily, “sex between men or running for Alba?”

“You’re awfully flip for someone playing so dangerous a game,” Sawhill said. “If Willoughby finds out what you’re doing…”

“He won’t,” Donnough said flatly. “The little fascist is too busy exercising his Jap colonels’ brains. He wants to turn them into spies.” He gave a low chuckle. “Well, I suppose work is hard to come by if you’re a full-blown war criminal.”