“I don’t know any of those names, but go on.”
He had the coaches’ full attention now. “The last thing Ota said to me before I walked out on them was something like, ‘I’m betting you’ll be retiring from sumo earlier than you expected.’”
Coach Ikeda turned to Junichiro. “Do you know any of those names—Ota, Inoue, or…”
“Endo, Endo Ichiro from NHK TV.”
Junichiro shook his head. “Iie.” He then asked Tatsuyama, “How did you meet these men?”
“Ota gave me his business card during the March grand tournament. Then he called a couple of weeks ago to arrange a dinner meeting.”
Coach Ikeda took a seat on one of the cushions at the long, low dinner table. “But the prediction—or threat—about you leaving sumo early, what brought that about?”
Tatsuyama, exhausted from a sleepless night, sat down too. “I argued that betting would be the death of sumo. He said it was sumo’s only hope for survival.”
Junichiro paced the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back. “Coach, do you think there could be a connection? Yamashita Kenzo, who may not have been drunk after all, and this man Ota?”
“Could be? Of course.”
Other than the sound of a large pot of chanko simmering on the stove, it was quiet for a moment while the three men pondered. His eyebrows knit, Coach Ikeda drummed softly on the table.
Tatsuyama asked, “What stable did Yamashita come from?”
Junichiro joined him and Coach Ikeda at the table. “From Kitagawa-beya.”
“That’s a Yamada family stable,” Coach Ikeda added. “ Yakuza.”
Tatsuyama sat upright. “So Ota made a veiled threat regarding my career, and two days later an expelled sumotori formerly associated with a yakuza-controlled stable stumbles into my path, and now I’m suspended from competition. If that doesn’t smell fishy, then neither does the chanko over there.” He waited for his coach’s reaction.
Ikeda eyed the dining area walls. Tatsuyama followed his gaze. Photos of past champions from his stable hung interspersed with two-hundred-year-old, sumo-themed ukiyo-e wood-block prints. Shelves supported dozens of sumo trophies, small and large. The room was classic in style, tastefully—and expensively—paneled, a silent testimony to the long history of success enjoyed by those who trained here.
Finally the coach said, “The suspension is inexplicable. Until yesterday you’ve had a spotless record, Tatsuyama. You come from an honorable stable with no history of corruption or embarrassing behavior. And it’s not as though you broke his jaw in a bar fight.”
Tatsuyama took a measure of comfort in knowing that his coach believed him and backed him 100 percent.
“Let’s turn the question around,” Junichiro said. “Is there any evidence that Ota’s threat and the run-in with Yamashita are only an unfortunate coincidence?”
After thinking about it a few seconds, Tatsuyama said, “I have to admit, on the surface, it might look like a coincidence. How could Ota, Inoue, or Endo have arranged a run-in between Yamashita and me at the concert when going to the concert was a last-minute thing? Naoko and I decided to go to Shibuya for the concert on the spur of the moment.”
Tatsuyama shrugged as he answered his own question. “The only thing I can think of is that Endo claimed to be from NHK TV, and NHK and ASPN worked together to arrange the interview yesterday. Somebody at the interview could have overheard Naoko just before we left, and then sent Yamashita after us.”
“I don’t know how likely that is. But I suppose it’s remotely possible,” Junichiro said.
Coach Ikeda appeared lost in thought again, his elbows on the table, his fingers laced near his mouth. When he at last spoke, he said, “Follow my logic on this. If Yamashita spent the night in jail, just like Tatsuyama had to, then maybe it’s all just a strange coincidence. But if he didn’t spend the night in jail, maybe he has yakuza, business, or government connections that took care of getting him out.”
“We asked about that last night,” Tatsuyama said, “and the assistant inspector of police said he’d look into it. I assume from the way you put it, he never got back to you with an answer?”
“He never did. We need to follow up on that.”
Just then, someone knocked on the kitchen door. Junichiro slid it open an inch.
It was Masaru. “Coach, you’d better come back to the dohyo. Uesugi’s trying to take over your job again.”
Junichiro looked back to Coach Ikeda. “Are we done here for now?”
Coach Ikeda nodded. “I was on the phone all night. I need to get some rest. Tatsuyama does, too. I’ll get to work on appealing the association’s decision after I’ve had a couple hours of sleep.”
As Tatsuyama headed down the back hallway toward his comfortable private apartment, he pressed a speed-dial number on his phone to call Naoko.
Just her voice mail...darn!
“Ohayou gozaimasu, Naoko,” he said after the recorded message. “It’s me. Please give me a call as soon as possible.” He almost hit the END button, but instead paused and added, “Ah, anooo…Sorry for ruining your concert yesterday. Hope you got home OK. Bye.”
After soaking for twenty minutes in an almost excruciatingly hot bath, he stretched out on his futon. He was exhausted, but his mind was too busy to let him fall asleep. He grabbed his laptop and logged in to Facebook and Twitter. Since Naoko had neither texted him nor left a voice mail, he was curious to see whether she had messaged him on Facebook.
She hadn’t. But one private message did catch his eye. He clicked on it.
Tatsuyama-san,
Doumo arigatou gozaimashita.
I don’t know what I would have done if you had not come up to help me yesterday. I’m sorry I did not get to thank you in person. So for Kaki- Shinju and for myself, I would like to say how much we appreciate your protection. You are very gentlemanly.
Tanaka Akiko
He pulled a pillow around and put his head down. Glad to help, Akiko. His thinking gradually turned muddled. At last he felt drowsy. Akiko contacted me, he thought, but Naoko hasn’t. Didn’t come to the police station. She hasn’t called. Hope she’s OK. She hasn’t…
As he drifted off into a deep sleep, he saw her in his mind’s eye, just the way she was the moment he had agreed to go to the concert with her.
7
Tatsuyama heard the tap-tap-tapping repeatedly in his sleep before he realized he wasn’t dreaming.
Masaru slid open his apartment door. “Hey, Tatsuyama, wake up!” His stablemate let himself in and shook Tatsuyama’s shoulder. “Get up, yokozuna—there’s a police detective here to talk to you.”
He had been sleeping so deeply, the words weren’t making sense at first. He looked at his alarm clock. It was 3:33 p.m. His eyes burned, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. Slowly, the mental fog lifted, and he began to recall the events of the past twenty-four hours.
“I’m coming. Tell the detective I’ll be right out.”
“He asked if you still own any Western clothes. He said if so, you should wear them.”
Tatsuyama frowned. “Western clothes…I haven’t needed those for years.”
Masaru shrugged.
“What? Are they kicking me out of sumo altogether already?” It was the only reason Tatsuyama could think of, on the spot, why a detective would ask a yokozuna who had been in the sport for fourteen years to not wear a yukata.
Masaru shook his head emphatically. “Kicking you out of sumo? That’s out of the question! Hey, we’ll talk at dinner. Junichiro is waiting for me.” He smacked the doorframe with his hand as he beat a path back to the training wing.
Tatsuyama sat up. “I don’t own any jeans,” he said to himself aloud. “No trousers. No sports coat.”
He got up, washed his face, and dressed in a fresh, clean yukata. Now wide-awake, he hurried to see what the detective wanted.
Tatsuyama found the detective sitting in the dining room. Steam rose from a cup of o-cha green tea
on the low table in front of him. Tatsuyama paused a moment in the doorway. The detective was younger than he had expected. He looked to be about Tatsuyama’s own age—twenty-nine. He didn’t realize Tokyo police were allowed to grow their hair that long. It nearly covered his suit collar in the back. The clothes, on the other hand, were exactly what Tatsuyama had expected: dark suit, white shirt, dark tie—almost a uniform.
The investigator spied Tatsuyama and rose from his cushion. He looked wiry and fit, maybe a practitioner of some of the other martial arts.
As Tatsuyama approached, the detective retrieved a business card from his suit pocket and presented it with both hands. He bowed slightly. “I’m Tokyo Metro Police Detective Kobayashi Koji. I believe you and I should talk.”
Tatsuyama returned the bow. The policemen in Shibuya had treated him brusquely and had shown little interest in his explanation about the drunk—Yamashita—and the young musician Akiko. The experience had left him leery about law enforcement. He didn’t want to say anything that could be twisted and used against him in support of Yamashita’s assault charge.
He wondered where Coach Ikeda was. Had he thought about calling an attorney? As he weighed whether or not to speak at all, he assessed the detective’s face and body language. Fairly neutral. He decided to give the investigator one line. Based on the answer, he’d decide whether they should talk.
“It depends on the nature of the talk,” Tatsuyama said.
Kobayashi sat down again and motioned for him to do the same. Tatsuyama waited.
“I don’t like what I know about this case so far,” Kobayashi said. “Yamashita filing charges against you…Given his background, how ironic. It’s like Kim Jong Un accusing Japan of holding unfair elections.”
Tatsuyama walked to the stove and began to ladle out a bowl of still-warm chanko. “Would you like a bowl of stew, Detective?”
“That’s OK. Arigatou.”
Tatsuyama returned to the table and sat across from Kobayashi. If this guy weren’t a real detective, he could always play one in an action film. Looked the part. Tatsuyama wondered whether he was any good. Or maybe they’d sent him a fresh-out-of-training junior investigator just to go through the motions.
“I went by Shibuya 109 this morning,” Kobayashi said, “to ask what they thought about yesterday’s incident. You’ve got allies there…Well, among the salesclerks, anyway.”
“That’s good. Allies that’ll show up in court?”
“I don’t know. But they said you brought a young woman to the concert with you.”
“That’s right,” Tatsuyama said. “My girlfriend, Naoko. But she wasn’t involved at all. It was just between Yamashita and the singer Akiko and me.”
The detective hesitated. It looked like he was taking his turn to analyze face and body language. “Tatsuyama-san, when was the last time you saw Naoko?”
Tatsuyama frowned. “What’s wrong? Do you know something I don’t?”
Detective Kobayashi rephrased his question. “Have you seen your girlfriend since your arrest?”
“No,” Tatsuyama said. His stomach tightened with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “When they put the handcuffs on me, I looked over my shoulder and saw her standing there, sobbing silently, with her hand covering her mouth. I haven’t seen her since. I…”
He wanted to tell the detective that he hadn’t heard from Naoko either, and that his own efforts to contact her had been unsuccessful. But he didn’t. He didn’t know Kobayashi. Could be just like the other Tokyo policemen he’d faced since yesterday.
“Had you and Naoko-san discussed where she might go after the concert?” Kobayashi asked.
“To tell the truth, no. We had only agreed that I needed to get back here early in the evening. I wanted to have a last workout before getting some sleep.”
“How often do you see Naoko-san?”
“That depends on my training schedule and other responsibilities, but usually I see her three or four times a week.” Where is this leading? Does he know what’s happened to her?
“Tatsuyama-san, how long have you known Naoko-san? Where and when did you meet her?”
He couldn’t take any more questions like this. Leaning across the table, he said, “What does that have to do with anything? Listen, Kobayashi-san: I’m tired. I want to appeal for reinstatement to the May Grand Sumo Tournament. All I did was try to help a poor girl who was being bothered by a drunk, and now this Yamashita wants to mess with me for some reason. And you—you haven’t asked me anything about what really happened at Shibuya 109. You’re just sitting there picking apart my dating life. With all due respect, Kobayashi-san, what can you do to help me? I haven’t heard a word from Naoko since the concert. Do you know where she is? Because I don’t.” The release left his pulse throbbing.
Kobayashi didn’t lose his composure. He seemed to be working to maintain a benign face. “Tatsuyama,” he said, “these questions are extremely relevant. And in just a moment you’ll see how important they are. But I need you to answer me. When and where did you and Naoko meet?”
The jury was still out on Kobayashi’s trustworthiness. But something inside told Tatsuyama to take a chance.
“We met at the Ryogoku Kokugikan,” he said, picturing in his mind Japan’s most important sumo arena. In the same mental image, he recalled his first glimpse of Naoko. What an incredible moment! He had been approached by lots of fans before…for autographs, for photos. But never by anyone as gorgeous as Naoko. Her pale complexion was flawless. So feminine. She was so quick to smile.
“It was at the January Grand Sumo Tournament,” he continued. “She was a fan. She came up—like people always do—and asked, ‘Can I take a picture with you?’ We started talking, and things took off from there.”
“January,” Kobayashi said. “You haven’t known her very long then. How old is she, Tatsuyama-san?”
“She’s twenty-six. Her birthday is May third. She just turned twenty-six. I know her better than you’re giving me credit for.”
The detective showed both palms. “OK. Where does Naoko work, Tatsuyama?”
“She’s a graduate student—in marketing.”
Kobayashi paused. “I’m just guessing,” he said, “but I bet you never took her to class at the university even once. You’ve also never picked her up from the university, have you?”
“I’m busy here, working out and training, while she’s in classes. What are you implying?” His pulse was picking up again.
“I don’t mean to add misery to misfortune, Yokozuna-san,” the detective said, “but I’m afraid you’re about to discover some things about Naoko-san that you’re not going to like.”
Tatsuyama was already past liking what he heard. How could Naoko be anything other than the beautiful, lighthearted university student he had believed her to be all along?
“Do you know the Yamada clan?” Kobayashi asked.
Tatsuyama nodded. “Of course I do. Anybody who knows sumo knows they practically ran the sport until 1950. But that was a long time ago. And anybody who reads the newspaper today knows they’re an organized crime family.”
Kobayashi got up from the table. He looked down at Tatsuyama and said, “Here’s the big picture. I personally don’t think your arrest yesterday was random at all. Based on some investigative work I’ve done, I believe something much bigger is about to happen. It’s big enough that somebody seems prepared to destroy your career to make it happen. And as outlandish as this may seem, they may even be prepared to take your life.”
“Take my life?” The suggestion was simply too farfetched—even considering that morning’s speculations. Any fear he had felt since yesterday had never included fear for his life. Fear of unjust imprisonment, maybe. Fear that something bad might have happened to Naoko, yes, but—
“We know Yamashita was from a Yamada training stable,” the detective said. “I’m wondering whether Naoko-san may be a Yamada herself.”
“Why would you think that? Her family
name is Kusunoki Naoko, not Yamada Naoko,” Tatsuyama protested. Kobayashi was throwing wild ideas at him rapid-fire. What’s he trying to do? See what sticks? See what I balk at?
“Why were you at Shibuya 109 yesterday to begin with, Tatsuyama? Are you a big fan of Kaki-Shinju?”
“No…Well, I am now. Naoko said she’d heard they were really good…and they were good!”
“What if getting you to the concert was all that mattered to Naoko?” Kobayashi let the question hang in the air for a few moments.
Tatsuyama had barely touched his meal. He placed his chopsticks across the nearly full bowl and slid the dish away. He glared at the detective. “Impossible, Kobayashi. What you’re saying is impossible. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Look,” the detective responded, “I can understand why you find this hard to believe, but I’ve been investigating similar little incidents for months now, and they all have one common denominator: the Yamada.”
Now squatting at Tatsuyama’s side and looking him intently in the eyes, the detective went on. “I’m telling you one more time: I don’t know all the details yet, but I believe the Yamada want you out of the way. I think yesterday was just the start of that. I seriously doubt that you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think you were exactly where the Yamada wanted you to be. Explain to me how that happened.”
How did that happen? His stomach felt like it was being twisted. Was Naoko tricked into leading me where the Yamada wanted me?
Kobayashi asked, “Now, do you want to train tonight and pretend you’re going to wrestle on Sunday? Or do you want to come to your senses and see that there is almost no way you’ll step onto the dohyo at the Ryogoku Kokugikan this month?”
Tatsuyama gazed past Kobayashi to the wall where the antique wood-block prints hung between photos of past sumo champions. He rested his chin on his thumb and thought for a few moments.
“Coach Ikeda said I probably won’t see a judge until after the grand tournament. And he said sumo’s governing body won’t budge regarding the suspension.” He turned back to the detective. “What can I do to prove you’re wrong about Naoko and to give me the best chance for a quick return to sumo?”
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller Page 4