The Toyotomi Blades (10 page)

“What do you mean?”

“You dress very much like James Dean.”

“Of course. James Dean is a symbol of rebellion and I am still a rebel.”

“Yes, but James Dean is an American.”

“But he’s a Japanese symbol of rebellion. They even feature him in Levi’s ads in Japan.”

“But Levi’s are an American product, too. You’re upset about the indiscriminate abandonment of Japanese customs, but you’ve adopted Western symbols.”

Sugimoto looked confused and I thought I had crossed the line between polite chit-chat and what Japanese call “stomach-to-stomach” talk, a frankness that strips away the social straight-jacket that governs so much of Japanese interpersonal relationships. Most stomach-to-stomach conversations occur between old friends or after a great deal of
sake
and beer has been consumed. Sugimoto was drinking beer, but I just had a soft drink and there would be no excuse for me drifting over the line, except that I was an ignorant gaijin.

Fortunately, Sugimoto was taken by the novelty of an observation that was obvious. As is often the case, perhaps it was so obvious that no one had ever mentioned it to him before. We spent the rest of the evening talking about safer topics, like Japanese art and the economy.

10
      

W
e finished the dinner and Sugimoto offered to hail me a cab. By now, I was familiar with the Yamanote line and knew that I could get off at Shimabashi station near the hotel, so I begged off and said my goodnights to him. It was around eleven, the time when most of the nightlife in the city starts to wind down, and it was a pleasant ride back to the station.

I got off and made my way down the platform to the street. In the station, I had taken out my tourist map of Tokyo to make sure I knew where I was going and decided to take a shortcut by following the path of the overhead railway.

Under the tracks of the railway, a whole culture thrives. In every little nook and cranny you’ll find small bars,
yakitori
chicken stands, or parking. In a city where you have to prove you have a parking spot before you can buy a car, that latter use for the space under the tracks is especially precious.

Near the station were some small bars tucked into the concrete arches that hold up the elevated tracks. The bars had large lanterns with kanji written on them, probably the name of the bar. I noticed a small mound of salt near the entrance to a couple of them, a Shinto religious invocation. A block past the station, the bars petered out and the arches were used for storage and parking. I was in a dark part of the alleyway with the arches of the railway to my right and to my left, a tall concrete wall.

I was thinking about what I should do the next day. I was interested in taking a trip to Kamakura to see the sights. Kamakura is less than an hour from Tokyo and it’s where the giant bronze statue of Buddha is. It’s also full of historic shrines and sites from Japan’s past. I had a lot of things on my mind except the one thing I would have thought about if I had been in the same situation in Los Angeles or New York: Was I safe?

Someone behind me bumped into a trash can, causing a sudden noise. I turned around to see what the fuss was and saw two men a few feet behind me. If I were a cartoon character, I’d have jumped about five feet in the air. As it was, I think I actually gave a physical start as I realized who was following me. They were the same two men from the previous night.

When they saw that I recognized them, they started coming towards me at a half trot. Scientists say humans have a flight or fight reaction when faced with danger. Maybe Sam Spade would have considered it an evening’s sport to duke it out with two thugs in a dark Tokyo alley, but it was no contest for me to choose between fight or flight. I turned and flew.

I could hear them running behind me. Ahead it was just as dark and deserted as the stretch I had come through, and I didn’t think I could count on any help. I knew that sooner or later I would come across a street, but I had no idea how far I would have to run. Spurred on by a massive jolt of adrenaline, I was outpacing my two pursuers, but I had no idea where I was going.

Ahead I could see what looked like doors to a shopping arcade under the train tracks. Pale light flooded out from the glass double doors that marked the entrance. I decided to see if any of the shops in the arcade were open. I pushed open the glass doors and ran in. I quickly looked up and down the arcade. It was lined with row upon row of tiny stalls selling souvenirs, electronics goods, and T-shirts. They were all closed, with metal grates pulled down in front of them. I was like a rat trapped in a tunnel.

I thought about trying to get back into the alley, but a glance through the glass doors showed me that the two goons had already caught up with me. I had thrown my lead away. I turned and started running down the central corridor of the arcade, praying that I wasn’t going to hit a dead end or locked doors. In the enclosed space of the arcade I could hear the pounding feet of my pursuers, and when I risked a glance over my shoulder, I could see that the taller of the two had pulled ahead and was gaining on me.

I ran for what seemed like blocks before I saw another set of glass doors at the end of the corridor. I wondered if I should slow down and realized that if I did I might be caught from behind. Trusting that the doors were unlocked, I ran up to them and pushed my way through. If they had been locked, the pursuit would have ended with a splat. Fortunately, I was able to surge through them, only slowing down slightly.

I burst onto a cross street that went under the railroad tracks and glanced to the left to see if there were any oncoming cars. That, of course, was a mistake. Since Japan drives on the left side of the road, I should have glanced to the right first and then to the left. Panic and force of habit made me do the reverse.

When I did look to the right, I saw I was about to run into a passing car. It was a convertible with the top down, and unable to stop, I launched myself into the air and landed in the backseat of the vehicle. The driver jammed on the brakes and came to a screeching stop.

I found myself wedged between the front seat and the biggest belly I’ve ever encountered. With a person this obese you’d expect the stomach to be pillowy and soft, but the belly I landed on was hard as a rock.

“Hey, bruddah, what you think you doin’?” the mountainous backseat passenger said to me. The voice was angry, but it was music to my ears. It was English with a Hawaiian accent.

“Two guys are chasing me,” I said excitedly. “Please help me. I’m a Hilo boy.” I mentioned my hometown in Hawaii like it was some kind of magic talisman. There was no logic to it, but I figured that telling this enormous man that I was also an island boy might help. It did.

“Hilo?”

“Yes. My house was right by Coconut Island.” Coconut Island is a small island in Hilo bay.

“I come from Olaa,” the backseat passenger said, the anger draining from his voice. He was acting as if flying Hawaiian tourists landed on his stomach all the time and the natural thing to do was to exchange the name of our hometowns. Olaa is a very small town on the big island of Hawaii, and not too far from Hilo.

Before we could finish our introductions, the doors of the arcade burst open and the two thugs ran out into the street. I lifted my head up to look at them and then I looked at the man I landed on. To my surprise, he was wearing a kimono, and he looked very young. His hair was long and slicked down into a fancy curve on the top of his head. He was a sumo wrestler! His eyes narrowed. “Are these da guys chasin’ you?”

“Yeah.”

The man grabbed me by the shoulder and leg. He lifted me as easily as you would lift a baby, and he put me down on the seat next to him. Then he stood up. Despite my excitement from the chase and the shock of its abrupt end, I looked with a dropped jaw. The guy was close to seven feet tall and he must have weighed five hundred pounds. He was simply the biggest human I’ve ever met, and his height was amplified by the fact that he was standing up in the back of a car. It was awesome.

My two pursuers must have agreed, because after a few seconds of stunned shock with their faces tilted upward, they both turned and shot down the street.

A low chuckle started from deep within the enormous belly of my benefactor, and in a few moments, he was laughing uproariously. Watching my erstwhile tormentors, I couldn’t help but join in. My two pursuers looked like they could sprint for Japan at the Olympics as they scrambled down the street.

The giant sat down and composed himself. He almost filled the backseat of the car, jamming me up against the side. The driver said something to him in Japanese and he waved the driver on. As we drove along, the
sumotori
asked me, “Why were they chasin’ you, bruddah?”

“I honestly don’t know. They chased me last night, too, so I don’t think it was a random mugging. Tokyo has twelve million people and I don’t see how I could come across the same two muggers.”

My large companion peered down at me and said, “Say, you look familiar.”

“I’ve been on some TV commercials for a show called
News Pop.
That’s why I’m in Japan. I’m supposed to appear on it in a few days.”

The sumotori snapped his fingers. “Dat’s it. You’re da kine detective.”

“I’m not a detective. I just solved a murder.”

He smiled. “You better do some detecting on da two punks, bruddah.”

Hawaiian Pidgin English has its own vocabulary and grammar. I’ve forgotten all of mine, but I can still detect the rhythm of Pidgin. He was talking an accented English, not true Pidgin. It’s just as well, because I don’t know if I could still communicate with a Pidgin speaker. “Who are you?” I asked.

“Gary Apia. Also known as Torayama. Dat’s my
shikona,
my sumo fighting name.”

“What’s an island boy doing in Japanese sumo?”

“There’s all kinds of island boys in sumo. Jesse Takamiyama, Konishiki, and Musashimaru are all island boys. Chad Rowan is
Akebono,
he’s da
Yokozuna.”

“What?”

“Chad Rowan fights with the shikona of Akebono. He’s da champ. A Yokozuna is a grand champion, da tops in sumo. I’m still in the
Juryo
division. Dat’s sort of the minor leagues farm club of sumo. I’ll be moving up to the majors soon. That’s when da big bucks come, bruddah.”

“Well, you’re already the champ as far as I’m concerned. If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what I’d have done. You said you’re from Olaa?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know Henry Tanaka?”

“Sure! I went to high school with his kid, George.”

“I’m Henry’s cousin, Ken.” Hawaii is actually a small place, especially for old-time families. I took Gary to be a Samoan or Tongan and not Hawaiian, so his family might be relatively new to Hawaii. But if he claimed Olaa as home, it was a safe bet that he either knew my cousin or he knew someone who knew him. In Hawaii, even for a bigger city like Hilo, that was always a good bet.

“Dat so? Gee, bruddah, you’re a long way from home.”

“So are you.”

He laughed. “Dat’s true. Dat’s why we island boys gotta stick together! You need help? You call da
Torabeya
and ask for me. In fact, you can come to da
beya
anytime if you want to see us work out. Jes tell ‘em that you’re da kine friend of mine. I’m goin’ a sumo party right now, but after I get dropped off, I’ll have da driver take you anywhere. Jes ask.”

“Right now, I’d like to be taken to a police department.” Despite what Sugimoto had told me about Japanese cops, I decided it was time to talk to them about my two persistent shadows.

11
      

I
nspector Ishii of the Tokyo police sat back at his cluttered metal desk. “You sure the two men were chasing you?” he asked. His accent was so thick you could pick it up with a chop-stick. I had to listen intently to understand him. They called him in especially to deal with me in English, and it took over an hour for him to arrive at the station. I wanted to take my best shot at getting aid from the Tokyo police. Asking him to repeat everything he said to me didn’t seem like a good tactic for accomplishing this.

“That’s right.” The metal chair I was sitting on was hard and uncomfortable.

“How do you know?”

“Inspector, those guys chased me for blocks. They weren’t just out for a late night jog. This is the second time they’ve followed me.”

“How did you get away?”

“Yesterday, I lost them on a train. I slipped out as the doors were closing. Tonight, I got the help of a sumo wrestler.”

Ishii showed a flicker of interest. Maybe he was a sumo fan. “Which
rikishir

“That’s a word I don’t know.”

“A rikishi is a sumo wrestler.”

“Oh. His name was Gary Apia. He wrestles under the name of Torayama.”

“Oh, a Juryo rank rikishi.” Definitely a fan, but apparently it would have gotten me more help if I had jumped on the belly of a big-name sumo champ. In fact, Ishii seemed irritated by the whole situation. They had probably dragged him from home to take care of an excited English-speaking tourist.