“That has to do with an extortionist,” Shirai answered simply.
This cleared away one of Shiroyama’s suspicions, and the pieces fell into place.
“You mean the story was leaked . . .”
“It seems that way. Since Hatano disappeared from the site of the interview, human resources had a lot to handle that day and was distracted.”
“What have been the extortionist’s exact moves?”
“On the night of the second interview, Kurata received a strange call at home from someone who wouldn’t give his name. The caller mentioned the name of a certain individual, and that this person has a connection with Seiji Okamura, who is a distant relative of Hatano.”
Shiroyama looked down at the name “Seiji Okamura” on the first page of the transcript of the anonymous tape.
“And who is this individual?”
“Yoshinori Toda. The tape does not mention him by name, but it refers to him. He’s the man who was fired from our Kyoto factory in 1946 for inciting a dispute. I’ve looked him up—he now works as a freelance writer, and he’s been digging around about Chunichi Mutual Savings Bank.”
In his mind, Shiroyama was able to make some sense of the story. Someone who had heard about Hatano’s second interview deduced that the incident was relatively unusual, quickly fished around the student’s family history, somehow found the name Seiji Okamura among his relatives and, while he was at it, uncovered Okamura’s erstwhile connection to this writer Toda, which he determined could be of use.
“In any case, I assume Kurata warned human resources against saying anything sheerly to avoid trouble, but in the interest of maintaining consistency, what he did was not very good,” said Shirai, arriving at his first conclusion. Shirai’s method was to stick pins, one by one, into those surrounding him, as a means of securing his own logically coherent path. Just now, he had stabbed a pin into Kurata’s wings over his handling of the matter within human resources, and Shiroyama wondered if by bringing up the story of Sugihara and his daughter, who were his relations, Shirai had meant to pin his own wings as well.
The blowfish himself might have had no such intention, and now he lightly scratched his head of abundant gray hair, then with the same hand tapped Shiroyama’s desk as he sat upright in his chair. There were many employees who, whenever Shirai adjusted his position like this, felt compelled to straighten their own posture.
“You know, Shiroyama-san, even supposing this tape was just a prank, if someone is pulling the strings behind the scenes, I feel this problem needs a bit of attention.”
What Shirai was trying to say now was probably similar to what Shiroyama had been thinking as he listened to Tsukamoto’s version of the story. Shiroyama sensed this was not a conversation he should ignore, so he prudently kept his personal feelings to himself for the time being.
He looked at the clock. Eight-fifty.
“Please go on,” Shiroyama succinctly encouraged him.
“The Okada Association is behind this,” Shirai said. Just as Shiroyama had expected.
Known as an enterprise composed of corporate extortionists, corporate raiders, loan sharks, and financial brokers, among others, the entity known as the Okada Association was in fact the corporate underling of a large crime syndicate known as the Seiwakai, or so Shiroyama had heard from top officials at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Ultranationalist bigwigs guarded access to Seiwakai, granting entrée to various politicians, followed by a trail of government agencies and financial capital from commercial banks and securities. Among Hinode’s board members and the representative from general affairs whose job it was to deal with such corporate extortionists, they were referred to simply as “Okada.”
Confidentially Shiroyama had been informed that both Ogura Transport, a company affiliated with Hinode, and Chunichi Mutual Savings, its main creditor, were currently facing loan problems, and that Okada was secretly and intricately entangled in the situation. He immediately understood that this situation must be connected to that one.
Hinode was not directly involved in the matter with Ogura and Chunichi, but as long as Okada was involved, it was hard to deny an indirect connection. Moreover, since this was by nature a world in which people got away with offering their right hand to shake while making threats with their left, it wouldn’t be out of the question for Okada to use Hinode’s years of loyalty against them and launch a new attack. Shirai’s remark—The Okada Association is behind this—implied all of these circumstances. Nevertheless, Kurata was the one who had managed the company’s relationship with Okada for years, and Shirai still had no business offering his opinion on the situation.
“So, what kind of moves have they made?”
“Neither Chunichi nor Ogura will be able to avoid an investigation at some point. Having anticipated this, Okada has probably started taking precautions.”
Sure, but just how accurate is this story? Shiroyama wondered as he nodded cautiously.
“It means Okada is also getting nervous. It’s a good time to strike,” Shirai pressed on, his speech now progressing to the pet theory he had been hinting at for quite some time. “I’ve made the same suggestion to Chairman Suzuki, but we should wait and see how the situation may change before intervening in the management of Ogura Transport. If we were to pursue things now, the public would say Hinode has bought up stolen goods. That would give Okada even more leverage against us.”
“Yes.”
“Our main issue is Limelight. As the executive in charge, I’m most fearful of the JFTC exploiting our weakness. They might leak the story of our joint venture with Limelight to put pressure on us. Then again, Okada might also leak it. You can’t deny that we are walking through a minefield right now.”
“Right.”
“And I know you have no objection to the assessment that Okada is a malignant tumor for Hinode. There is a right time for settling accounts. Luckily for us, this time Okada has exposed its tail in a completely unrelated matter. Now, about this tape with the reading out of Okamura’s letter—wouldn’t it be fine to notify the police about how the tape was sent to us by the student’s father, at least?”
“What?”
“I’d like to figure out a way to file a claim with the police, without naming that dentist Hiroyuki Hatano as the sender of the tape. I also want to include the second letter where he assumed the BLL’s name.”
“—Perhaps you’re right.”
Shiroyama looked at the clock. The minute hand read five to nine. Time was up.
“I understand what you’re saying. I’ll talk it over with Kurata.”
“Please let me know your decision as soon as possible. It’s already been five days since we received the tape.”
“Indeed. Personally, I can’t help but feel we did wrong by that student Hatano, so I’m reluctant to involve a grieving father in a police matter in addition to all that’s happened. At this point, it’s not as if we’ve suffered any actual damage.”
“Once we do suffer damage, it’ll be too late. To be honest, I have a bad feeling about this,” Shirai said as he stood up.
“What do you mean?”
“There is no such thing as a premonition without a cause. Just like there can be no revelation for those of us who don’t pray.”
Every so often, Shirai made reference to the fact that Shiroyama was a Christian and he himself non-religious, but each time he did so he looked like a young man weary of debating conceptual matters. There was no time, however, to respond to his remark. Shiroyama also rose from his seat. Outside the thirtieth-floor window, the morning cityscape emanated a faint glow as it basked in the thin sunlight of late autumn.
“By the way, which board members know about the tape?”
“You, me, and Kurata,” Shirai replied. The executives in charge of general affairs and human resources, who ought to have been informed in cases
like this, were kept out of the loop. Well, well, Shiroyama thought. Shirai had also stabbed a pin through Tsukamoto from human resources.
As a sales machine, Shiroyama’s sole mission had been to sell as many cases of product as possible, and throughout those years of experience he himself had witnessed his fair share of the ins and outs of corporate activities, but it wasn’t until he was promoted that he became acutely aware of the tumor that was stealthily attached to such ordinary occurrences. A beer company couldn’t get by just making and selling beer. Not that Hinode was special—it was the same with any other corporation.
After revisions to the Commercial Code in 1982, there were generally two roads that corporations could take. One way was to sever all ties to corporate extortionists; the other was to maintain a relationship by subtly changing its form, and like so many other corporations, Hinode opted for the latter. The reason went far beyond the simple need to avoid trouble; the choice was made in the face of a reality that, even before the Commercial Code, corporations alone could not change the systematic customs of this country.
In Hinode’s case, however, the various expenditures to the Okada Association far exceeded an amount that could be approved by the manager of general affairs, and it was a dubious honor that the responsibility of dealing with Okada had been tacitly entrusted to Kurata. The fact was that, after all these years, nobody on the board could determine the limits of reasonable conduct—or just what that meant, anyway. Under such circumstances, when Shirai took his position as a board member six years ago, he asserted the need to settle their accounts as soon as possible, a hair-raising prospect for all the other members. At the time, Kurata had scoffed at the notion, indignation draining the color from his face. “I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t so easily insinuate yourself into a matter I’ve been taking responsibility for,” he had retorted.
The context for the argument’s turning so emotional was the corporate culture that supported such deep personal connections to political and business circles and ultranationalist groups, connections that had carried over from the zaibatsu era. Since a beer business couldn’t exist without distribution, in addition to its network of ten affiliated land transportation companies, Hinode controlled extensive real estate throughout the country. One might say that here was where the problem stemmed from, but every root was entwined with all of Japan’s economic activities and financial capital. Kurata could not be faulted for recognizing that it was not so simple as one corporation upholding a naïve sense of social justice on its own. Justice for a corporation was its ability to reap a profit.
And yet, Shirai was also correct that there was no long-term gain in Hinode’s continued entanglements with these subterranean roots. Shirai was not simply urging them to settle accounts. His argument was that they needed to make careful preparations and the necessary calculations in order to sever all ties. Shiroyama was well aware that over the last six years Shirai had been looking for an opportunity at every turn to lay the groundwork at board meetings to build consensus for his strategy.
Shiroyama also knew that the tide was about to turn. The economic boom would eventually end. Real estate and stock prices would readjust accordingly. If he were to predict what would succeed this gilded era of mass consumption, it would be, in a nutshell, “petit-bourgeois fastidiousness.” The mentality of citizens that could be summed up in such key words as thriftiness, downsizing, simplicity, and individualism would drive them to abandon material wealth in favor of emotional fulfillment, and to insist upon “fastidiousness” in society. In such a demanding era, the character of the political world, not just banks and corporations, would be challenged to follow suit. The age in which corporations would be scrutinized about their social responsibility and morals before their pursuit of profit was just around the corner.
If he were to examine his own company this way, Hinode’s management practices, which boasted an equity ratio of 47 percent, were clearly sound, but the reality was that Hinode’s overwhelming superiority did not align with an image of “fastidiousness.” From their ties to the National Tax Agency on down through various regulatory agencies, to their corporate keiretsu alliances throughout sales and distribution, and their designated shareholders comprised of major banks and insurance companies—every one of these factors would be considered out of step with everyday people’s lifestyle. And if their connection to a shadowy realm such as Okada became public, Hinode’s hundred-year-old brand image would collapse.
It was true that something had to be done about Okada. And just like that, Shiroyama had added another item of concern to his list—and it was still so early. But by the time he entered one of the executive conference rooms with Shirai, he wore an expression appropriate for the start of the day, presenting himself to the staff assembled there and repeating more morning greetings.
The executive breakfast meeting that took place the second Monday of every month had been a tradition at Hinode for more than twenty years. Those invited included the twenty executives at the main office as well as the presidents and vice presidents of each subsidiary company, but since they each had their own various affairs to tend to, attendance generally amounted to around twenty people. Since everyone sat down in the order they arrived, seatmates changed every time, so that they spoke with different people about different topics. Thus, while they ate their three-thousand-yen bento boxes delivered from Matsukado, they exchanged only generic news and information; there was a tacit agreement that serious subjects would not be discussed.
When Shiroyama took a seat, he found himself for the first time in quite a while next to the president of Hinode Beverage, who had already dangled the new health drink commercial that had gone on air last week as a conversation starter. “That monster that goes dancing by, it’s pretty weird, no?” “The monster’s supposed to be from Saturn.” “Oh, really?” “Now I get it, that’s why it’s wearing a skirt.” “Oh, that’s a skirt?” And so the mindless chatter around him continued.
“Say, Shiroyama-san. That commercial for Lemon Sour, it’s weird, right?” President Ishizuka of Hinode Beverage suddenly addressed him, to which Shiroyama replied vaguely, “Oh, sure.” Meanwhile, a scan of the room confirmed that Takeo Sugihara was not present. Since Sugihara regularly attended this meeting, Shiroyama wondered if his absence today might mean that Kurata, his superior, had spoken to him about the issue with his daughter.
“Well, that ad is now a hit. It seems that young people today appreciate a fresh kind of ‘weirdness.’ That’s what the guys from Mainichi Advertising tell me,” President Ishizuka continued.
It was Seigo Kurata who responded, “If that’s the case, our ‘100 Years in the Making’ spot with its gold letters and Viennese waltz might be too orthodox. And that one’s also by Mainichi Advertising.”
Kurata was a big man—the exact opposite of Shiroyama and Shirai—and his taciturnity, in inverse proportion to his physicality, also made him stand out among the board members. His face was even less remarkable than Shiroyama’s and Shirai’s, yet he gave the impression that only actual results mattered, which had earned him the nickname “the whiz” within the corporate world, and no one would deny that his savvy was the backbone of the beer division. To wit, in the caricatures that appeared in last month’s in-house newsletter, this silent torpedo of a man was rendered as an ox with a nondescript face, while Shiroyama was depicted as a penguin and Shirai as a woodpecker.
Even now, after taking the position of vice president, Kurata never took his eyes off the various numbers coming in from their branch offices and stores and, with every inch of the company’s sales network in mind, he read the weekly stats and compared these figures with the marketing analysis reports. He would observe any variations silently for the first month, and if they continued for a second month then he would call the branch office or stores directly himself; in the mornings Kurata’s phone line was generally busy. He was never in the office in the afternoons—almost e
very day of the week he was off visiting a branch company or a factory or a distributor. Back when he was still deputy sales manager, one of the executives had remarked, “Kurata is a torpedo.” What he had meant was that one could not see Kurata’s face because it was always submerged beneath the numbers.
And for the past ten years, Kurata had neatly tucked away his relationship with the likes of the Okada Association somewhere within his businesslike persona. Owing to the incompetence of the director of general affairs and the executive in charge at the time—who knows what the actual details were—apparently one of the EVPs had simply asked Kurata to take care of the problem. It was a while before Shiroyama, his superior, even learned that Kurata was handling it, and when he asked him about it, Kurata maintained his tight-lipped nature. Before Shirai started poking around about it six years ago, it was considered taboo to mention Okada at board meetings, and whatever weariness or frustration Kurata may have felt in shouldering such a taboo on his own could only be glimpsed in his slight stoop.
The conversation around the table had not let up, and with Kurata’s comments added to the mix, Hinode Lager’s 100 Years in the Making commercial became fodder for all. “It’s true that Hinode Lager can come off as orthodox, but that Viennese waltz spot actually flips our brand image on its head and pushes it to the edge. Does everybody see that?” asked an executive in charge of advertising. Someone then replied, “You’re right. That commercial is an elegant spoof,” while another added, “We ought to try selling beer by embracing the weird,” which was followed by laughter.
Ishizuka continued, “I met with the managing director of Dentsu the other day. He heartily endorsed the new commercial. He said Hinode’s sense for advertising is really cutting edge.” Shiroyama agreed with this. Once Hinode stopped depending on the overwhelming dominance of the lager—and in order to strip away their imposing and traditional image in accordance with their diversification policy—their entire advertising strategy had been entrusted to their young employees. This was already starting to show results. After all, they were the ones who had turned Shiroyama into a penguin and Shirai into a woodpecker.
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 10