Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller

by GP Hutchinson

  “Wait,” Tatsuyama said, pulling back.

  The arresting officer gave a harsh frown. “You’re not going to give me trouble, are you?”

  He hesitated. Why me?

  “Are you?” The policeman’s tone carried a hint of a threat. His eyes glared, unblinking.

  OK, they didn’t see what happened here. Tatsuyama submitted. Maybe they just want to question me outside.

  The handcuffs bit into his thick wrists. The cop clamped a hand firmly on the back of Tatsuyama’s neck, pushing him roughly toward the door.

  “You’re not even going to ask what happened?”

  “Later,” the police officer snapped.

  “Can we talk right outside for just a minute?”

  “Later!” The officer’s resolve was clear.

  Tatsuyama glanced quickly over his shoulder. He saw teary-eyed Kaki-Shinju band members being gently hurried toward the Shibuya 109 store offices. The concert was apparently over. Cut short by the intrusion. He wondered again where store security had been while this whole mess was happening.

  Then he caught the briefest glimpse of Naoko. She remained standing right where she had been. Tears glimmered down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook as she silently cried.

  Before he could call out, “It’ll be OK!” he lost her in the chaos of the disappointed, dispersing crowd, and the arresting officer shoved him out the door to a waiting police car.

  4

  Across town, in the study of an impressive home in Tokyo’s Edogawa Ward, two men stood watching the seven o’clock news on a large-screen Sony television. One was tall, thin, and about sixty years old. As he pulled off an archery glove, he said to the other, “Well, let’s see how things are progressing.”

  At the news desk, an NHK TV anchorman read from the teleprompter, “Tokyo Metropolitan Police officials have confirmed that sumo great Tatsuyama was arrested late this afternoon following an alleged altercation at the Shibuya 109 department store. According to eyewitnesses a drunk wandered into the upscale store during a promotional concert featuring the band Kaki-Shinju. When the drunk approached the stage, they say, the yokozuna took matters into his own hands, using force to remove the gentleman from the concert area. NHK reporter Imai Yoko has more.”

  “Hai, Sakae,” the female reporter said. “Shibuya 109 store officials have refused to comment on the incident that cut short this afternoon’s concert and landed both men in jail. Tokyo police will not reveal whether yokozuna Tatsuyama is being held at the department’s Kasumigaseki headquarters or at another location, such as the Shibuya koban. We also have tried to contact managers and agents representing Kaki-Shinju, but to no avail. In short, we have very few details so far on this highly unexpected story.”

  NHK news footage of Tatsuyama entering the Kokugikan arena before a recent tournament was displayed in the top right corner of the TV screen while the reporter spoke from just outside the department store.

  Imai Yoko continued, her short hair bouncing as she bobbed her head for emphasis, “An anonymous source within the Tokyo police department tells us that the man arrested along with Tatsuyama has pressed charges of aggravated assault against the popular sumotori. Now back to you, Sakae.”

  “Arigatou, Yoko.” The anchorman’s young, telegenic face showed concern as he wrapped up the brief story. “Naturally, we all wonder how this will play out for one of the country’s most popular sports personalities. Tatsuyama is due to compete in just three days in the May Grand Sumo Tournament here in Tokyo. NHK will, of course, keep you up-to-date on the latest developments in this breaking story. In other news…”

  Back in the luxurious Edogawa home, the man dressed for archery tossed his glove onto a couch and clicked the remote, turning off the television. “So far, perfect,” he said to his associate. “Tell Hiroko I’ll have dinner now.” He strode out of the study, chin held high.

  Just as he reached the central living room, the front door flew wide open, slamming the wall. Naoko rushed in, stopping cold in her tracks when she saw him. Tears still ran down her flushed cheeks. Her eyes narrowed when they met his. He stood unflinching.

  “How could you? You lied, Chichi!” she shouted. “That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to—”

  He thrust out his palm to interrupt her. “Never mind what you think I was supposed to do,” he barked. She was strong willed. She got that from him. But he knew how to handle her. “I will keep my part of the agreement. You will see your policeman boyfriend the day after tomorrow.”

  There was silence for a moment, her tear-glittered dark eyes still locked on his. He could see she was fighting to keep from sobbing aloud. “In case you forgot,” she said between shallow breaths, “I’m dating someone else now.”

  “And that’s all over.” His voice was level now. He crossed the room and stood directly in front of his daughter. “You did what I asked you to do and thus proved your family loyalty. Now that I know I can trust you again, you may return to the policeman you were so in love with a few months ago.”

  A middle-aged man with a flattop haircut stepped in through the open front door.

  Naoko’s father shifted his gaze past his daughter to his employee. “Mori?”

  “She was about to get into her car when I caught up with her,” he said in a gravelly bass voice.

  He turned back to Naoko. “Where were you planning to go?”

  “To my apartment,” she sniffled.

  “You will stay in your room here tonight.”

  She swallowed. Her narrow shoulders trembled briefly, then settled. She lifted her chin and headed toward the bedroom wing. But she didn’t release him from her glare until she disappeared into the back hallway.

  “Hiroko,” he called toward the kitchen.

  A woman in her fifties wearing a peach-colored kimono shuffled in and stood awaiting his instructions. Her gaze never made contact with his, nor did she speak.

  “Let the others serve dinner. You keep an eye on Naoko tonight. She is not to leave.”

  Hiroko bowed deeply and headed immediately to the bedroom hallway.

  5

  Tatsuyama peered through the bars of the holding cell at the assistant inspector of police. The police officer stared right back, his feet apart, arms folded across his chest. Coach Ikeda leaned his thick frame on the outside of the bars, completing the trio.

  “Whether the man has pressed charges against me or not, there is absolutely no reason for you to hold me here overnight, sir,” he said for the fourth or fifth time. “My coach is here, as you can plainly see. He’ll vouch for me until my court date. And I’m definitely not leaving Tokyo. You know the May grand tournament starts in three days.”

  The officer tilted his head away. “This is the last time I’ll explain this to you: I have my orders. Those orders tell me to keep you here.”

  “Sir, I’m not a violent person. That drunk was a threat to the girls in the band, and he was disrupting a public event besides. I didn’t hurt him—at all. I only moved him to the side of the stage.”

  The assistant inspector merely shrugged.

  Tatsuyama blew out a long stream of air. This was crazy. “Where’s the drunk? Why isn’t he locked up here?”

  “He’s been taken to headquarters—to Kasumigaseki. When they put him in the other police car, he said he wanted to file charges against you, so they took him there.”

  Coach Ikeda raked his fingers through his gray hair. “Is the drunk being detained behind bars in Kasumigaseki like my sumotori is here?”

  “I don’t know,” the assistant inspector said. “You want me to go find out?”

  Ikeda nodded. “Hai, I do want you to go find out. And if he’s not being held, then I want Tatsuyama released too. Immediately.”

  The inspector turned to head out. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  The coach shook his head. “I’m going to step outside again to make more phone calls. Maybe I can find somebody in the Japan Sumo Association with enough poli
tical clout to get you out of here tonight.”

  “Arigatou gozaimasu, Oyakata,” Tatsuyama said. [Thank you, Coach.]

  Tatsuyama got up and paced back and forth in the cell. What a day this had been—grueling training this morning, an interview with ASPN, trying to keep Naoko calm in bad traffic, the high-energy opening number of the concert, and then the drunk. What if he hadn’t gone to Akiko’s aid? He wouldn’t be stuck here in jail. Better for him, but what about Akiko? What might the drunk have done? A mental image of that oversized creep sliding his lascivious hands over Akiko’s bare shoulders filled Tatsuyama with revulsion. Where had all the store’s security officers gone?

  His thoughts were interrupted when a pair of police officers came in—half walking, half dragging a tousled, unshaven soba noodle of a man to the door of the cell. They opened the door, let the fellow curl down on top of himself, and clanged the door closed again without speaking a word. Tatsuyama looked from his new cellmate to the retreating policemen and back again. No. They couldn’t leave this guy here. Being locked up was bad enough. This guy reeked—really reeked—of body odor and beer vomit. Tatsuyama fought back the bile rising in the back of his throat.

  Noodle man’s head rolled around revealing glazed, red eyes at half-mast. Tatsuyama turned his back to the new cellmate and gripped the bars. Behind him, the guy started moaning—over and over again—the same line from a vulgar song about a woman from Kabuki Cho. From time to time, he let out a cell-rattling belch, followed invariably by a long, raspy laugh.

  Great. No escaping the assault on my senses.

  Tatsuyama retreated to his recollections of the concert. Who had escorted the all-girl band out toward the store offices? They didn’t look like security. Looked more like sales clerks or store executives. Suits and look-alike dresses. His stream of consciousness led him down a dozen rabbit trails and eventually back to where he had started.

  He pounded the bars. Where was Coach Ikeda? Seemed like at least an hour since he had gone to make phone calls. Somebody in the world of sumo had to have enough pull to swing that cell door open.

  The notion of getting out brought back all the realities of being stuck in jail, including the permeating stench of his cellmate. Why hadn’t they dropped the louse in the back corner of the cell? Not that it would have helped much. Tatsuyama pulled the sleeve of his kimono over his nose, peered through the bars, and waited through another stretch of unmarked time.

  Where was Naoko? Why hadn’t she followed him down to the police koban? Who knows—maybe she had, but nobody told him.

  At last, around four in the morning, the sound of approaching footsteps reverberated in the hallway again. Two fresh faces in blue uniforms came to the cell, unlocked the door, and escorted him to the front desk to collect his belongings. Coach Ikeda was there.

  “You’ll be notified of a court date,” the desk officer said, pointing to a box on a form where Tatsuyama was to sign his name. “Meanwhile, don’t leave Tokyo.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” he said curtly. “I’ve got a tournament to win.”

  Coach Ikeda studied the desk clerk and then Tatsuyama. With tight lips and tired-looking eyes, he motioned for Tatsuyama to follow him through the main glass door.

  As Tatsuyama and his coach emerged from the Shibuya police station, the faint glow of early dawn had just begun to fade the darkness. Coach Ikeda turned to say something when, all of a sudden, an ocean of intense light engulfed them both. Tatsuyama threw up a hand to shield his squinting eyes.

  A TV camera. Even at that hour, a dozen or so sportswriters and news reporters awaited a statement. The cluster rushed at Tatsuyama, firing questions in rapid succession.

  “Tatsuyama, how will your arrest affect your preparation for the grand tournament?”

  “Keep walking,” the coach said.

  The reporters were unrelenting. “What made you decide to take matters into your own hands at Shibuya 109 yesterday?”

  “Did you know that the man you beat up was a former rikishi?” The question came from a short reporter right at his elbow. It made Tatsuyama break his stride.

  “I didn’t beat up anyone.”

  Coach Ikeda grabbed his arm and picked up the pace as they crossed the street to where the car was parked.

  Once inside the vehicle, Tatsuyama asked, “Did Naoko come to the station at all during the night?”

  The brawny coach shook his head. “Not that I know of anyway.” Key in the ignition, he paused and looked his prize athlete directly in the eye. “News of this whole affair has already spread to the entire governing body of sumo. I received a phone call just before you signed out of jail. The Japan Sumo Association has given me shocking news.” He hesitated. “They’ve suspended you. You won’t be allowed to compete in the May grand tournament.”

  Tatsuyama’s jaw dropped.

  Persistent reporters had followed the two to the car. They plied the yokozuna with questions through the side window glass. Ikeda started the car and revved the engine.

  “What?” Tatsuyama, eyes wide, shifted toward Coach Ikeda. “Suspended me? Why?”

  Ikeda cocked and shook his head. “I’m as stunned as you are. To say the penalty is excessive is an understatement. But they said they cannot let the sport—which is already suffering—be disgraced by permitting a sumotori to participate while he has criminal charges against him.”

  Tatsuyama slumped back against the seat. “But the guy was pawing on Akiko. I didn’t even hurt him. His complaint won’t stand up in court.”

  “You probably won’t even see a judge until after the May grand tournament is over.”

  Reporters were still trying to eavesdrop. Tatsuyama glanced at them. The brilliant glare of the news camera’s floodlight turned the school of journalists just on the other side of the glass into so many silhouettes bobbing, opening and closing their mouths. They were like koi swimming over one another, struggling to be the one to catch the dropped tidbit.

  “Let’s get you off the streets, Tatsuyama.” Coach Ikeda put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “The chairman was emphatic—you won’t wrestle while there are charges against you. Believe me, I argued for you. The association won’t budge.”

  6

  Forty-five minutes later they pulled into the narrow driveway in front of the training stable. Fellow wrestlers, already up for early morning workouts, crowded the entryway.

  “How bad was it?” Tatsuyama’s close friend Masaru asked as he reached the door.

  Tatsuyama twisted his lips, then said, “Don’t ask.”

  Coach Ikeda stopped on the stone walkway just outside the front door. “You’ll all hear the whole story after morning workouts. For now, though, you need to prepare for Sunday, and Tatsuyama needs some space.”

  Sumotori of every rank nodded their heads and retreated to the training ring or the weight room, speculating quietly among themselves as they went.

  Ikeda’s thin, stern-faced assistant, Junichiro, clapped Tatsuyama on the shoulder. He led him and his coach into the stable’s kitchen. Once the three were inside, he slid the door closed behind him.

  “The keikan delivered official papers for the assault charges last night around ten,” Junichiro said, handing Tatsuyama a thick envelope. Over the sealed flap there was an official stamp that read Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

  Tatsuyama tore open the envelope, extracted the documents, and spread them out on the table.

  The three read in silence for a moment before Coach Ikeda spoke. “Tatsuyama, what did you say the drunk from the concert looked like?”

  “He was big. Almost as tall as I am. Maybe two hundred and seventy-five pounds. At least, that’s about how heavy he felt when I picked him up.”

  Coach Ikeda frowned. “That’s a big guy. What about his face?”

  Tatsuyama rubbed the bridge of his nose and forced himself to recall. “He was probably about forty years old. Wide face, short nose. He wore a plaid fedora. Nothing remarkable—”<
br />
  He stopped short. The drunk. In his mind, he contrasted the stinking drunk in the jail cell and the creep at the concert.

  “There actually was something remarkable. The drunk at the concert smelled like sake, but not like it was wafting out of his pores. He looked me straight in the eyes just before I picked him up. And his eyes weren’t bloodshot—they were clear and focused. He locked on my eyes just like a sumotori does when we toe the line on the dohyo.”

  Coach Ikeda looked up from the police documents on the table. “Interesting you should say that. Your so-called victim’s name here…” He tapped the paper. “Yamashita Kenzo—you see? How many Yamashita Kenzos are the precise size and age you described? I believe your ‘assault victim’ just might be a former sumotori.”

  Junichiro looked at Ikeda. “Are you talking about Nikuyamura?”

  Coach Ikeda nodded. “Expelled from sumo ten years ago for betting on his own matches and for intentionally losing bouts.”

  Tatsuyama studied his mentor’s face. He had learned long ago that Coach Ikeda wasn’t like Kyushu’s active volcanoes, spewing cinders and ash for all to see. He instead resembled a seismic detection buoy floating on the waves, subtly transmitting its response to the tectonic activity far below the surface.

  “So Yamashita Kenzo, the man charging me with assault at the concert, is Nikuyamura, a sumo wrestler expelled for betting on his own matches,” Tatsuyama said.

  Ikeda scratched his stubbled chin, his face slightly reddened. “Maybe…probably.”

  Tatsuyama had a flashback to Tuesday night. He looked down and shook his head. “Coach, I didn’t tell you this yet. I didn’t think it was anything new—or very important—until now.”

  “What?”

  “Naoko and I had dinner with a supposed corporate sponsor the other night—a guy named Ota, from Hanshin Heavy Industries. He, Inoue Ken from the Ministry of Education, Culture, and Sports, and Endo Ichiro from NHK TV were pressing me with questions. They were trying to find out where I stand on betting as a means of bolstering national interest in sumo.”