Once the gangster had gone about ten feet, he told him to stop and lie facedown on the floor with his hands behind his head.
He muttered into Gangster One’s ear, “Do I need to rip your arm out of its socket right now to be sure you’re going to cooperate with me?”
“Iie,” Gangster One said. [No.]
“Good,” Tatsuyama said. “Because if I get the slightest feeling you’re going to try something, you’ll never use either arm again. I promise.”
Tatsuyama hated this. It wasn’t his way of dealing with people. Never had been.
“Move,” he said, guiding the gangster toward the other goon on the floor.
He tightened his grip. “Shiori?” he called.
“Hai?” she said. Her voice was tense.
“Please pick up what these gentlemen dropped in the doorway.”
She emerged from the dark office into the pale light of the hallway. Glancing toward Tatsuyama and the two goons, she reached down and retrieved the items. In the hall’s dim light, he couldn’t make out how well she was handling all this.
“Are there weapons, Shiori?”
Now standing again, she said, “I’ve got them.”
Tatsuyama tossed the letter opener into the second office and deftly set about patting down Gangster One. Removing the goon’s cell phone and wallet, he tossed them out into the common work area.
“Now, lie on the floor like your friend over there,” he said.
Somehow these two must have sensed Tatsuyama’s deadly resolve. They didn’t test him.
Once Gangster One was facedown, Tatsuyama said to him, “Remember: I could have killed you. If you follow us, I’ll take that to mean you want me to end your life.”
He held out a hand to Shiori. She gave him one of the pistols.
Before his knees could turn to jelly and his voice could begin to quiver, he murmured to her, “Let’s go.”
They backed down the hall, then turned and ran to the elevator lobby.
“Let’s take the elevator to the third floor,” Shiori said in a strained whisper. “We can walk down the stairway to the bottom. I think that might be less risky.”
Tatsuyama agreed. On the way down, he asked, “Are you OK?”
She nodded. “I will be.” Beads of perspiration glistened on her temples.
He wanted to get her out of there.
The stairwell they chose even continued down into the parking levels below the building. The two exited the stairwell at the first level below ground. They left through the garage entrance ramp without a soul taking notice of them. Catching a cab, they disappeared into the largest megacity on Earth.
21
Haruta and Yamada sat together in the seventh row at the Kokugikan arena. It was the afternoon following the scene at the Hole in the Wall nightclub. It was also day three of the May Grand Sumo Tournament.
Yamada was dressed now in an exquisitely tailored dark-blue suit and tie. He held his chin high as he asked his near double, “You waited outside the building until sunrise?”
“Hai, Yamada-san. And there was no sign of Tatsuyama anywhere. He must have found his way out through another store into a different alley. You know how it is in Roppongi—there are so many stores and clubs.”
“Hmm,” Yamada mused. He lifted his hand to signal that he didn’t want to be distracted from viewing the next sumo match. The Mongolian yokozuna Hashimaru was about to face Minanoumi, a Japanese sumotori who, with enough wins in this tournament, might climb into the second-highest rank in the sport. To Yamada, it was always a pleasure to watch Hashimaru dispatch his opponents with ease, regardless of their skill.
Minanoumi, in a blue sash, squatted to take his starting stance. Hashimaru adjusted his medium-brown sash, waiting just briefly to assume his own starting posture. The mind game was already on. Match after match, the careful observer would note that the famed Mongolian habitually took his cue from his opponents. They set themselves to attack him. He chose a corresponding stance just before the match technically started.
The gyoji, the designated referee—wearing a samurai-era costume in green and blue—didn’t signal the start of the bout. According to the ancient rules, the start is spontaneous. This time, the famed Mongolian initiated the attack. Minanoumi could do no more than react to Hashimaru. The anticlimactic match was over in five seconds. The Japanese sumotori stumbled out of the ring all too easily. Yamada nodded his head in approval.
“Shall I fetch Ikeda now, Yamada-san?” Haruta asked deferentially.
Yamada gave him one slight, sharp nod.
Minutes later, Haruta returned with a stern Coach Ikeda.
Ikeda looked directly into Yamada’s eyes and nodded sharply. He said, “Yamada-san, I am pleased that you have made the time in your busy schedule to attend this evening. I hope you are enjoying the matches.”
Yamada wasted no time getting to the point. “Ikeda...” He paused, deliberately dispensing with the honorific -san. “Two days ago, you told Haruta here that you have no interest in discussing certain business arrangements with me. Have you, by any chance, reconsidered that foolish response? You must have begun to realize how…shortsighted it is.”
Ikeda casually adjusted his glasses. “I’ve given the matter enough thought. My resolve to maintain the honor of the sport hasn’t wavered. I train rikishi. Victory or defeat, advancement or decline—all of it will continue to be determined on the dohyo, not in a financier’s office.”
Yamada would no longer deign to look back at Ikeda’s face. Seated higher than where Ikeda had been led to stand, he compelled the coach to look up to catch his gaze.
“Your stable will continue to function for now,” Yamada stated coldly. “You will, however, find fewer and fewer recruits year by year. And your sumotori—from jonokuchi to yokozuna…” Yamada paused. “Well,” he continued, “you will have no yokozuna. This is the choice you have made.”
Haruta adjusted the cuffs of his heavily starched shirt, turned to Ikeda, and said tersely, “You will leave now, Ikeda.”
Ikeda glowered back at Haruta and insisted, “Ikeda-san!” He didn’t blink or flinch. When Haruta said nothing, the sumo coach repeated, “Ikeda-san!”
“Ikeda-san,” Haruta finally sneered, “you will go now.”
Once Ikeda was out of earshot, Yamada said, “There was a time when I would have been disappointed not to have won the support of Ikeda and his student, Tatsuyama. Now the balance is tilting in my favor. I no longer need these men. They are finished in sumo. The Yamada will succeed without them.”
He rose, collected his entourage, and left the arena.
22
Tatsuyama peered out the second-story window of MOS Burger in downtown Kyoto, two hundred and thirty-five miles from Tokyo. It was midday. The sun peeked from the clouds and glinted off dozens of windshields on Higashi-Cho Street. He set down his pen and took another bite of his MOS rice burger.
He needed a strategy for breaking out of the hold Yamada Hideyoshi had put on his life. Nothing more than the first two steps had come to him yet.
As for wrestling, he could practice—somewhere. But until the court ruled on the Yamashita assault charge, he couldn’t compete.
Meanwhile, since the affair at Hole in the Wall, he figured he could only put himself and others in danger by wandering around Tokyo. For that matter, even staying home wasn’t safe. His fellow wrestlers were now gone every day, competing at the Kokugikan arena. Yamada might grow bold enough to try to jump him at the stable. He didn’t like the feeling of being holed up, waiting for criminals to make the next move.
When Shiori offered to let him stay at her place or at the apartment of a friend, he hadn’t accepted. He didn’t want to put anyone in the path of Yamada or his underlings. Yet even if Tatsuyama never again saw Shiori, she was already in danger. Her boss was an active participant in framing Tatsuyama at the Kaki-Shinju concert. Now that Shiori had warned Tatsuyama at Hole in the Wall, Naoko could identify Shiori as an opponent. She cou
ld tell Yamada, the Shibuya 109 security director, or both.
So Tatsuyama decided to take action. The first step of his plan was to slip out of Tokyo. He had discussed it with Coach Ikeda, and the coach agreed. Unfortunately, while Coach Ikeda himself remained a target, he had to stay behind with his sumotori at the tournament. With Ikeda’s blessing, Tatsuyama rented a car and left for a destination undisclosed even to his coach.
The next step was to get Shiori out of town, by a different mode of transportation; he didn’t want to risk having her captured with him if Yamada should try again to take him in Tokyo. She told her boss that her old grandmother in Hiroshima was extremely sick, and that she needed two weeks off work. She would catch a train from Tokyo, but instead of going all the way through to Hiroshima, she would get off in Kyoto. There would be security cameras in the train station, so at arrival time, he planned to be waiting for her at the curb in the rental car.
Now for step three, Tatsuyama thought. Let’s see…. He looked at the pad of paper beside his burger. He had listed organizations he knew Yamada had infiltrated in his effort to take control of sumo in Japan: Tokyo Metro Police, Japan Sumo Association, Shibuya 109 Security, and the stable Yamashita had come from.
He had also listed organizations or businesses he suspected Yamada had infiltrated: NHK TV, Hanshin Heavy Industries, and the Japanese Ministry of Education, Culture, and Sports. He picked up his pen and reluctantly added one more: Coach Ikeda’s stable. He circled it.
Naturally, Tatsuyama didn’t believe Coach Ikeda himself had been compromised, but he had an uncanny hunch that Yamada’s people had contacted—and maybe even turned—somebody from among his own stablemates. He’d come back to that.
His gaze moved across the paper to another list. It contained names, from Yamada himself to Haruta, Yamashita, Ota, Inoue, Endo, and the last one in the column—Naoko.
He sighed and took another bite. A drop of sauce dripped and splatted on Yamashita’s name. He grinned. How appropriate.
How should he go about this? How did anyone win fairly—and live to tell about it—against Yamada’s kind of corruption? Yamada had money. Yamada had people in high places. Did Yamada pay off malcontent police officers, or did he have eyes and ears tracking down policemen who were already crooked?
Tatsuyama realized there were limits to what Detective Kobayashi could do, especially since he was working from within the police department. Kobayashi had to be certain he had done his homework well before rounding up powerful men like Yamada Hideyoshi. Otherwise the whole affair could blow up in his face. Would Kobayashi find his case shipwrecked—run up on a reef of Yamada’s creation—before he ever got it afloat?
Tatsuyama would have to work on a plan of his own. He would draw Kobayashi back into his strategy in the future, but not too quickly. He had to be able to work outside the constraints of law enforcement protocol. He had no intentions of breaking the law, but he didn’t need bureaucratic red tape putting him or people dear to him in danger.
Whatever the case, he had one working assumption: the closer Yamada came to achieving control of sumo, the more audacious he would become in reaching out to eliminate him, Coach Ikeda, or anyone else who did not want to accept his terms.
His cell phone rang. It was Shiori.
“Is everything OK at work?” he asked.
Shiori tactfully answered, “That’s difficult to say.”
“Is your boss behaving differently toward you?”
“Hai. Most definitely.”
Tatsuyama’s stomach tightened. “Can I still expect to see you here?”
“My shift ends in an hour. I’ll be there tonight. Tell Sobo, OK?” [Tell Grandmother, OK?]
“Be careful. OK, Shiori? Leave from a different station. Change trains if you have to.”
“I will. Dewa mata.” She hung up.
Tatsuyama was worried. He wished she could be free and clear of this whole mess. Dewa mata—see you later. He certainly hoped so. He hadn’t asked for her help. She had gotten herself involved, even knowing she was taking a risk.
Unable to get over her selfless courage, he shook his head. Don’t know why she did it…but I’m grateful…so very grateful. His strategy had to include ensuring Shiori’s safety.
Staring out the window again, Tatsuyama decided he didn’t want any more of his burger. He could’ve insisted that Shiori go on to Hiroshima, where her father lives. She might be able to lay low there until the Yamada business blows over. Maybe he should’ve insisted. But he wanted Shiori to be in Kyoto with him. He wanted her to be the one to help him think up a plan and put it into action. He trusted her. Beyond that, her pleasant, gentle manner was a comfort to him.
Could he and Shiori be invisible in Kyoto? He had booked two of the five rooms at a quiet little ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn, just a bit north of the main rail station in Kyoto. “Fewer guests, fewer people to notice and ask questions,” he had told her.
Normally the doors of the ryokan would be closed for the night at eleven—the same time Shiori’s train was to arrive—but Tatsuyama had informed the owners of a late arrival. He and Shiori should be able to slip in without other guests noticing. From that quiet location in the heart of old Kyoto, he and Shiori would work out the best plan they could and try to put things back to normal.
All of a sudden, he realized something. She had pointed out the missing security officer, Tatsuyama, and Naoko to her boss on the video feed on the afternoon of the concert. Her boss knew she was suspicious, and he knew perfectly well that Tatsuyama was the person being played that afternoon. So Yamada, too, surely knew that Shiori was suspicious.
Shiori’s boss wouldn’t be the only one watching her. With or without Tatsuyama there, Yamada’s goons would be watching as well. If Yamada learned that Shiori was leaving Tokyo, he might have somebody tail her on the chance that she’d lead them to Tatsuyama. Then, he could try to nail both of them.
Tatsuyama’s MOS rice burger suddenly wasn’t sitting so well.
Cameras or not, he had to be there to watch her get off that train.
23
Coach Ikeda arrived home at the sumo stable at dusk on day four of the Grand Sumo Tournament. He had just witnessed Hashimaru literally spin Toyofuji right out of the ring in an embarrassingly easy victory.
Shuffling up the front walk, he chuckled aloud. It’s good to have something to laugh about when times are so difficult.
Key in hand, he paused at the door. I wonder how Tatsuyama would have done against Hashimaru this month. He certainly trained well last week.
Ikeda inserted his key and slid open the front door. His hand was only halfway to the light switch when someone inside latched onto his arm and pulled hard. He stumbled into the pitch-dark hallway.
A second assailant caught him from the other side. They slammed him against an exposed wooden stud in the wall.
Itai! The pain in his shoulder was immediate and intense.
Resorting to judo, he struggled to counter the manhandling the attackers were inflicting on him.
“Who are you?” he asked through gritted teeth.
They didn’t reply. One thing for sure—these weren’t slim yakuza hoodlums. Their size. The techniques they used. These were sumotori. They knew what they were doing.
Ikeda couldn’t see their faces. His own face smashed into the wall. Blinding pain triggered a brilliant flash of psychedelic light in his eyes. A fountain of blood opened in his nose. He struggled on.
Where are my own wrestlers?
Panic gripped him. He took a punch to the chest. Couldn’t catch his breath. A leg swept his feet from under him. His head struck the wall again.
Everything went black.
Ikeda came to. Felt cold. Wondered why he was on the ground…outside.
His head hurt badly, and he tasted blood.
When he tried to push himself up from the damp asphalt, sharp pain shot through his shoulder. It wouldn’t work. He tried the other arm and managed to raise himself a li
ttle.
With his forehead throbbing and one eye swollen nearly closed, he surveyed his surroundings.
He slowly realized he was waking up on the back side of the Kokugikan sumo arena.
As his disorientation dissipated, he noticed reflections of pulsing blue and red lights. A sound registered—several people running toward him.
“Stay down! Stay down!” they screamed.
He looked. Four police officers.
Good, they’ll take care of me.
One yanked him up by the arm.
Ikeda cried out in agony. “My shoulder!”
The police were handcuffing him.
His lip was still bleeding. Forehead, too.
“Why are you doing this, officers?”
No answer.
Faced the opposite way, Coach Ikeda then saw that he hadn’t been the only person sprawled on the pavement. No! Who’s that? Somebody else hurt…plenty of blood.
A voice sounded far away. “He’s still got a pulse.”
“Don’t pull out the knife,” another distant voice said. “Leave it till the paramedics arrive.”
Ikeda tried to see. It was getting darker. Silence followed.
24
At ten forty-five Tatsuyama walked from the ryokan to Kyoto’s main rail station. The station was sparsely populated at that time of night. The emptiness was both good and bad. He could spot Shiori easily enough, but others could also effortlessly observe him. He had to minimize that problem. Shiori didn’t know to look for him inside the station, so Tatsuyama picked up a newspaper, found a suitably situated bench, and tried to make himself as small as possible. From there he waited and watched.
Ten minutes later, Shiori rolled one small suitcase past the bench without noticing him. Tatsuyama let her go by, along with everyone else from the Tokyo express train. He didn’t want to leave her alone on the curb, but neither did he want to let a Yamada gangster lag behind and track them both. Everybody flowing through the lobby looked pretty ordinary to Tatsuyama—businessmen, a few families, tourists, and a couple of high school kids trickled by.
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller Page 11