It was late afternoon when the Majesta got stuck in traffic right near the famous Studio Alta video screen. Fashion clips, information and commercials were broadcast non-stop from the large video billboard on the side of a building.
“Let’s walk,” Tiger said.
They got out after Tiger issued some instructions to the driver. Then he led Bond to the pavement and began to push through the mass of humanity.
“We’re going to Kabuki-cho,” he said. “It’s still daylight now, but watch your step. This is yakuza territory.”
They walked north, passing all sorts of colourful and noisy characters. Bond knew about Kabuki-cho. It was a notorious red light district, containing strip clubs, peep shows and pornography shops as well as bars, restaurants and the uniquely Japanese “love hotels.” These were places where an amorous couple could rent a room for a few hours during the day to get away from the relative non-privacy they might have at home. Since families usually lived together in houses made with thin walls, couples often found it difficult to make love there. Love hotels did a booming business and were designed around themes: a fairy tale castle, a pirate lair, 1970s disco, 1950s Americana and other fantasy dreamlands. They were also completely discreet; a couple checking in never saw the staff. The exchange of money and keys was done through little windows the size of a hand. Obviously, the love hotels were popular among couples having illicit affairs.
“This place really comes alive at night,” Tiger said.
“It’s not exactly sleeping now,” Bond replied, his senses overloaded.
There were signs advertising all kinds of sex for sale; one didn’t need a translation to get the gist. High-pitched female voices called out invitations through distorted sound systems to enter their establishments. Rough-looking young men and women stood on the street handing out flyers. Some hawkers were aggressive, following the men for a half-block until Tanaka turned abruptly and shouted at them. One hawker wouldn’t take no for an answer and kept on their heels. Finally, Tiger pulled out a badge and shoved it into the man’s face. His eyes widened; he apologised profusely and bowed rapidly.
“It is not much further, Bondo-san,” Tiger said. “There, I see Miss Tamura now.”
A police car and motorcycle with lights flashing were parked in the middle of a small side street. Reiko, still dressed in a suit, was speaking to several uniformed officers. She saw them out of the corner of her eye and waved.
As they approached, she bowed to them. “Tanaka-san, James-san, please come this way.”
She led them into an empty noodle shop. The chef, a skinny old man, was sitting at a table smoking a cigarette. He looked shaken. A woman, presumably his wife, sat with him.
“The owners of this restaurant found him in the back. Come and look,” Reiko said.
She took them into the back alley where the rubbish was piled in bags and boxes. Police tape had been strung around it. Several plain clothed and uniformed officers stood taking notes and photographs.
Falling out of the heap of rubbish was the body of a young man in his twenties. He was covered in dried blood and bent at a grotesque angle. The corpse was dressed in black leather and his long mop-top haircut was dyed red.
“Kenji Umeki,” Reiko said. “The detectives are still examining the crime scene, but it looks like he was killed last night. Stabbed to death and dumped here. Look—”
She bent under the tape and pointed to the dead man’s hand. Bond saw that all of the fingers had been chopped off, leaving bloody stubs.
“So desu ka,” Tiger muttered. “He was killed by yakuza,” he said to Bond. “The removal of all the fingers on the hand is a signature of the Ryujin-kai.”
“Don’t some of them cut their own fingers off?” Bond asked.
“Yes, but that is a penance to an oyabun. Something they do to make amends for a wrong that they might have committed.”
“But didn’t he work for the Ryujin-kai?”
“The relationship between bosozoku and parent yakuza are not always harmonious, Bondo-san,” Reiko said.
“When did you say he contacted you for our meeting today?”
“Yesterday,” Tiger replied.
“Is it just a coincidence that he was killed a few hours later?”
“You are thinking the same thing as I am, Bondo-san. Was he murdered for the information he was going to give us?”
“Perhaps his cousin, Abo, maybe he knows something,” Reiko said.
“Let’s talk to him,” Bond said.
One of the detectives said something to Reiko and showed her a bag full of small gold-coloured, metal plates. She nodded and turned back to Bond and Tiger.
“Pachinko winnings,” she said. “They give you those metal plates in exchange for the balls when you win. Then, you exchange those plates for money at an exchange shop in a different location. He had a bag with him, not worth a lot, but he might have just come from one of the parlours around here when he was killed.”
“Perhaps we should visit a few of them and ask if our friend was seen,” Bond suggested.
“That is police work, Bondo-san,” Tiger said. “You would not enjoy it.”
“What are you talking about, Tiger?” Bond said. “I’m here in your country to do police work. What else would you call it? Come on, let’s take a look around. Besides, this area fascinates me. It’s alive with electricity.”
Tanaka’s mobile rang. He answered it, “Moshi moshi.” He listened, then spoke a few words.
“I must go to headquarters,” he said. “Miss Tamura, if our British friend really wants to tour Kabuki-cho and stick his gaijin nose into the business of the yakuza, by all means, we should allow him to do so. But would you please accompany him and make sure that he gets into no trouble?”
“It would be my pleasure, Tanaka-san,” Reiko said, bowing.
Tiger shook Bond’s hand. “You will be in good company. I will speak to you later.”
“Absolutely,” Bond said. Tiger turned and walked back the way they had come.
“Come on, James-san,” Reiko said. “Our tour of Sin City begins here.”
They walked away from the crime scene and turned the corner. A placard that displayed the word “SOAP” and featured the faces of four lovely young Japanese girls stood on the middle of the pavement.
“Soaplands,” Reiko said. “You know about them?”
“Only a little. Massage parlours, aren’t they?”
“Much more than that,” she explained. “Soaplands are the highest level of prostitution in this country. Technically, prostitution is illegal, but it’s been an accepted part of our society since the beginning of time. When the Occupation outlawed the ‘water trade,’ as it’s called, the yakuza took it over and it still thrives today. It’s a wink-wink enterprise now. No one talks about it but everyone knows it’s there. Supposedly you are going in to have a bath and massage, but you have sex, too.”
“Why are they called soaplands?”
“I was afraid that you would ask me that. It’s because they rub you down with soap. The girl uses her body to lather you up. It is very elaborate, from what I understand. Of course, I have no experience in these things!”
“Of course not!”
She laughed, perhaps to conceal her embarrassment at discussing these matters with an attractive man. Or perhaps not. Bond couldn’t tell. Reiko continued, “Actually they used to be called Turkish baths, but the Turkish embassy complained about it some years ago. So the name was changed. Soaplands are very expensive. Sometimes soapland girls become very rich and marry someone of importance. Just the other day there was an article in the newspaper. One of the Diet members announced his marriage to a former soaplands girl and no one thought anything of it. The girls often marry celebrities or politicians. On one hand the girls are considered prostitutes and lowerclass citizens; on the other hand they are admired and respected because to be a soapland girl you have to be the best. And usually soaplands do not take foreigners. Japanese only. There ar
e some exceptions, if you are interested.”
“No thanks.”
“Oh,” she said, “you don’t find Japanese women attractive?”
“I didn’t say that.” Bond glanced at her and she smiled flirtatiously.
They passed a stand-up food stall and she asked, “Are you hungry?”
“Quite.”
“Let’s have some noodles.”
They both ordered bowls of fresh udon, thick white noodles made from kneaded wheat flour. They were served in a hot broth mixed with fried soybean curd and spices such as red pepper that they could shake into the bowl according to taste. Bond found it delicious and ordered two cans of cold Kirin beer to go with the meal.
Bond noticed that the chef and another man at the stall were staring at her.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Reiko said as she slurped her soup. “Most young women are probably afraid to go to a stand-up noodle stall. It’s usually for elderly salarymen. But you know what? I don’t care. About four years ago I made up my mind that I wanted to eat at one of these stalls and so I did. I have ever since.”
“Reiko-san,” Bond began, “if the soaplands are at the top of the water trade, what is below them?”
Reiko sucked a noodle into her mouth like spaghetti. “Mmm, gomennasai. Well, then you have the regular massage parlours, the so-called health clubs, the strip clubs, the image clubs, hostess bars, and everything else you can imagine. The lower you go, the worse the conditions. That’s where you’ll find imported Thai or Korean girls, or Filipinos, brought into this country illegally and forced to work for the yakuza. They believe they are going to Japan to work in a nice job as a hostess somewhere, but they end up being enslaved.”
“That happens a lot in other countries as well,” Bond said.
“Yes. But never mind about all of that. How are your noodles?”
“Delicious.” He pulled out a wallet but she stopped him.
“No, no, you are our guest,” she said. “I will pay.”
Bond thought that her formality was appealing. “Arigato,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Come on.”
They headed towards the nearest pachinko parlour, just down the street. A big business in Japan and mostly yakuza controlled, pachinko was the equivalent of Western slot machines and the parlours were similar to game arcades. The establishments were hugely popular and they were almost always crowded.
They went inside and were greeted by two thugs wearing money belts. One of them asked Reiko if she needed change but she shook her head.
The noise was worse than in the casinos of Las Vegas. A pachinko machine resembles a vertical pinball table that uses dozens of tiny metal balls. Colourful designs adorn the front, behind the glass, where the balls fall through pins. This particular parlour charged a 2,000 yen minimum to play. Coins were dropped into the slot and a mass of balls emptied into a tray at the bottom of the machine. They were then fed automatically into the machine when the player depressed a handle. The balls shot up to the top and fell down through the pins, dropping into slots that were worth points. The player could control the speed and force of the balls with a throttle knob. The skill apparently came from knowing how much speed and force to use. If the balls fell into a specific catcher, then three wheels containing numbers and pictures would spin, like on a slot machine. The goal was to finish with more balls than one started with. They could then be exchanged for prizes.
“It’s gambling,” Reiko said, “but not really. You can’t exchange the balls for money. Gambling is illegal. You exchange them for things like cigarettes, biscuits and other prizes. But as I said earlier, you can exchange those gold plates at other places for money. More yakuza controlled business.”
“Do you have Umeki’s photograph?” Bond asked.
“Yes, I have it here.” She pulled it out. It showed two arrest shots, full front and profile. “This was taken a year ago when he was picked up for gang fighting. Let’s ask these boys if they saw him last night.”
She showed one of them the photograph and spoke to him rapidly. The kid barely looked at it and shook his head. He called over his friend, who also gave it a cursory glance and shrugged.
“I don’t think we will get anywhere here,” she said.
“Shall we try another place?”
They left the building and walked across the street to another parlour that was multi-level. Bright neon described it as “Pachinko Heaven.”
Once again, they were regarded with suspicion by the staff. One boy who had a scar on his face and three gold teeth took the photo for a closer look. Bond noticed that the first joint on the little finger of his left hand was missing. The fellow smiled and said something to Reiko. She asked him more questions but he shook his head.
After he walked away, she said to Bond, “He knew Umeki. Said that he used to come in here a lot. I asked if Umeki was in here last night and he said that he didn’t know. But he said something odd.”
“What’s that?”
“That Umeki finally got what was coming to him. I asked him how did he know that, and he replied that the word on the street travels fast.”
“Did you see his little finger?” Bond asked.
“Yes. He is definitely yakuza. Or bosozoku, more likely. He is young.”
“Tiger said that he must have made a mistake or something for him to do that.”
“That’s right. The ritual cutting off of the fingers is called yubitsume. When one of them does something wrong, they have to do the cutting themselves. They start with the first joint of the little finger, cut it off with a sharp knife, and they give the piece of finger to the kaicho as an apology. If they make more mistakes, the next joint goes and so on. Sometimes we see yakuza who are missing several fingers!”
“And what we saw on Umeki? What did that signify?”
“That he had done something very bad. His fingers were removed by his killer or killers to make a statement.”
“Come on, let’s try another place.”
As they left the building, the thug who had identified Umeki pulled out a mobile phone and made a quick call.
It was growing darker. Now the Kabuki-cho neon was blinding. The buildings were solid walls of illuminated kanji, kana and masses of bright colours that flashed and demanded attention.
A Mercedes with dark windows drove past them on the street.
“Yakuza,” Reiko said. “A Mercedes is one of their status symbols.”
The atmosphere in the area had changed markedly. Nightfall had brought out even more touts, hoods and riffraff. Mixed in with these picturesque characters were members of Japan’s working force: the salarymen. They were still dressed in the suits they had worn all day at the office, walking in groups of three or four, and they were already beginning the evening’s debauchery. By 9:00 p.m. they would be completely drunk.
“One of the products of our fierce Japanese work ethic,” Reiko explained when one salaryman accidentally bumped into Bond. He apologised, slurring his speech, bowed, and walked on. “We are encouraged to work ten hours a day or more. The men especially. Then they are pressured to go out drinking with their colleagues after the day is over. They don’t get home to their families until late at night. The pressures of playing the corporate game are tremendous. No wonder they all drink so much.”
“And the women?”
“Women in the work force are called ‘office ladies,’ and they can’t hope to progress in a corporation like the men do. Housewives have to put up with never seeing their husbands except on the weekends. That’s family time. I only saw my father on Sundays, never during the week. It is the wife who holds the purse strings. The husband brings home the pay cheque and immediately hands it over to his wife. She then gives him an allowance and manages the household herself. I am lucky. I have a man’s job. That’s a different situation.”
The explosive sound of a motorcycle interrupted their conversation. A black Kawasaki ZRX blasted down the street, zipping around cars
until it nearly sideswiped Bond and Reiko.
“Look out!” Bond shouted, pulling Reiko out of the way just in time. They fell on the pavement but were unharmed.
The rider turned back to them and raised his middle finger. He was dressed in black leather and wore a yellow scarf to mask his face.
Bond stood and helped her up. Reiko said, “Creep. He was a Route 66—bosozoku—and that was no accident. They sometimes do things like that to intimidate someone. I would bet that one of the punks we have spoken to in the last couple of hours has put the word out that we are asking questions.”
“I hear more bikes.”
Bond was right. They could hear motorcycles revving their engines not far away.
“James-san, I think we have outstayed our welcome in Kabukicho. Let’s go.”
They started to walk fast against the flow of pedestrian traffic, back past the touts who had solicited them once already. The noise of the bikes drew closer, so Reiko grabbed Bond’s hand and picked up her pace. She navigated through the crowd quickly but as soon as they got to the corner, three bikes zoomed around to face them.
The ZRX was back, and a Suzuki Inazuma and a Kawasaki Zephyr had joined it. They had four-stroke, four-cylinder engines and no fairings; what were generally called “naked” bikes. The mufflers had been cut off so that they were outrageously loud.
All three riders wore black leather. Unlike most yakuza, their black hair was long and it blew in the breeze. Their eyes bore down on them from above the yellow scarves.
“Route 66,” she whispered.
She did an about face and pulled Bond with her. As they ran back the way they came, the cycles revved and two of them shot forward. Pedestrians jumped out of the way and some screamed. The Zephyr rode onto the pavement behind Bond and Reiko and increased its speed. The couple was forced to break hands as the bike sliced between them. Reiko fell against a soaplands placard and grunted. Bond reached for her hand and helped her up.
The Man With The Red Tattoo Page 8