Shadows of Tokyo

by Matthew Legare

  “Kuroki-san!” Masaru said.

  “Yes sensei!”

  “I am giving you a chance to redeem yourself. Tomorrow morning, outside of the Marunouchi Building, you shall strike Isamu Takano dead!”

  Kuroki’s bruised face glowed with joy. “Sensei! I am honored!”

  “Takano’s assassination will serve as the Kusanagi Society’s declaration of war against evil,” Masaru said, his face steadfast.

  The patriots threw up their arms and roared another round of banzais.

  “This night will be Makoto Kuroki’s sokokai,” Masaru said before gesturing to one of the patriots. “Fetch us some sake. Kuroki-san should have a proper send-off to war.”

  The man bowed and dashed out of the room. Reiko took that as her cue. The men expected a geisha after all. She opened with the Dance of Spring, entrancing the Kusanagi Society with each graceful movement and delicate pose. Minutes later, one of the patriots returned with a bottle of sake, opening the door for drinking games. Rock-paper-scissors followed by konpira fune fune lubricated the sokokai even further. Maybe she wasn’t such a lousy geisha after all.

  “Sing us a song, Harutora” Masaru ordered.

  Reiko remembered how days earlier, he’d begged for jazz like ointment for a wound. But now, something patriotic seemed more appropriate. She grabbed her shamisen and strummed out the steady, haunting melody of Japan’s national anthem.

  “May the reign of the Emperor

  continue for a thousand, nay, eight thousand generations

  and for the eternity that it takes

  for small pebbles to grow into a great rock

  and become covered with moss.”

  It’d been years since she’d played Kimigayo, but the lyrics came out effortlessly. The simple display of trite patriotism moistened several eyes in the room. Even Masaru looked ready to weep.

  A good geisha always wore a mask to hide her true emotions. But that song had reawakened a love, not just for Tokyo, but all of Japan. Not for this Japan, a strange nation rotting from militarism, corruption, and assassinations. No, it was for the Japan of a few years ago, carefree and peaceful. That was her Japan. And she’d do anything to bring it back to life.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  An outside banging stirred Aizawa awake. He sat up and rolled off his futon. After clicking on a nearby lamp, he checked his wristwatch. It was 5:50 in the morning. Junsas knew better to knock on his door this early, so it had to be Reiko. After a deep yawn and a satisfying stretch, he answered the door.

  Reiko Watanabe stared back at him with half-closed eyes. Gone were her cloche hat, pea coat, and skirt, replaced with a black kimono, shimada hairstyle, and white face paint that couldn’t hide the bright red in her cheeks. The moga caterpillar had become the geisha butterfly, Harutora. Across the street, a taxicab had parked behind Baron Onishi’s Rolls-Royce. Its driver smoked a cigarette and warmed his hands near the engine as a light sprinkling of snow drifted to the ground.

  “Yer right, Inspector. These one-yen taxis are great,” she slurred. “Mind if I come in?”

  After she removed her geta clogs, Aizawa led her to the main room of the nagaya where she almost collapsed into a kneeling position.

  “Do you want any tea?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Are you sure? You look ready to pass out.”

  She scoffed. “If I couldn’t handle my alcohol, I couldn’t be a geisha.”

  “You’re a very unconventional one.”

  Reiko’s stomach gave a loud grumble. She covered her mouth with a paper fan and asked, “On second thought, do you have anything to eat?”

  Aizawa retreated to his pantry and presented Reiko with a small box of Glico Caramel Candies. Still holding her paper fan with one hand, she opened the box and shoved a handful of sweets into her mouth. After a few loud chews, she swallowed and expelled a satisfied sigh. She cooed her thanks and set the box aside with a contented smile.

  Reiko Watanabe was a new species of woman. A Frankenstein monster assembled from discarded parts of mogas and geisha. Their alliance was something that could have only been arranged by the gods—as a practical joke.

  “Why are you here, Reiko-san?” he asked, kneeling across from her.

  “I’m sorry! Maybe I am drunker than I thought.” She laughed. “When I returned to my apartment, guess who was waiting for me?”

  “Masaru Ryusaki.”

  She nodded. “And like something out of a Rudolph Valentino picture, he asked me to marry him.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Of course I agreed.”

  Aizawa tensed, half-expecting her to call their alliance off. Instead, she laughed and shook her head.

  “If he’d asked a month ago, I might have actually meant it,” she said with a wistful sigh. “But still, it’s nice that he finally proposed.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I’m getting to the most important part, Inspector.”

  “Please do.”

  “Masaru wanted me to entertain his men,” she gestured to the makeup and kimono with her paper fan, “but when Lieutenant Nakajima began to whine, Masaru kicked him out! Just like that!” She snapped the fan shut and lapsed into a fit of laughter.

  Aizawa sighed with relief. Lieutenant Nakajima was almost untouchable without involving the Kempeitai. Now that the strings to the Army were cut, the Kusanagi Society was an entirely civilian organization, making it easy prey for the Metropolitan Police.

  “Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know. I just came from Asakusa. We all went our separate ways after the party. Masaru said he’d contact me later. Right now, he’s probably staying with one of his many admirers. He wouldn’t tell me where in case I was picked up and tortured by the Police.” She laughed again. “My Masaru…such a trusting fool!”

  “Is that all?”

  She waved the fan. “You’re not very patient, Inspector. I was just going to say that they’ve picked their first target. Isamu Takano. Kuroki-san is going to kill him.”

  “When? Where?”

  “Whenever the work day starts outside the Marunouchi Building,” she said.

  That meant around 7:00. Aizawa glanced back at his watch. 6:00.

  “Why Takano?”

  As if he needed to ask. All zaibatsu capitalists were hated by the patriotic societies, but bankers earned a special contempt.

  “Because all of this was Takano’s doing. Lieutenant Nakajima found out it was that banker who was really controlling General Sakamoto. He offered the General the chance to become prime minister after Inukai.” Reiko leaned closer. “Takano isn’t just some zaibatsu…he’s a shadow shogun.”

  That made sense. After all, Takano was a major donor to the Seiyukai and must have had the influence to choose its leadership. Even the powerful General Sakamoto was a mere puppet of Isamu Takano. What schemes was this banker plotting in the shadows? Aizawa searched his memory for any clues and remembered the conversation with Baron Onishi.

  Reviving full trade with America was an issue that stood out. What else had the Baron sneered at? Oh yes, Takano’s insistence on returning to the gold standard. Baron Onishi had mentioned that the banker had been speculating in American currency and if Japan was no longer tied to gold, he’d double his profits when he converted his dollars into yen.

  Money was motive enough for most people to kill but to orchestrate a political assassination? That took a certain kind of audacity. Japanese politics was loaded with intrigue left over from the old shoguns, but this was something new. Part of him wanted to go back to bed and step out of Kuroki’s way. But assassination was still a crime even if the victim was a villain like Takano. Besides, the banker couldn’t testify at his own trial if he was dead.

  “I have to get ready,” he said, standing up. “You should go.”

  She rose with a yawn. “Good idea. I think I actually am about to pass out.”

  “If you get any more information, especially where Ry
usaki is, please let me know.” He led her to the door. “And Reiko-san…”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you. For everything,” he said with a deep bow. “I am in your debt.”

  “You can pay me back now,” she said, extending an open palm. “I don’t have enough for the fare back to my apartment.”

  Aizawa sighed. The gods must have been laughing at their handiwork.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Marunouchi crackled with an energy that rivaled Asakusa. The work day was just beginning and salarymen poured out of electric trams while executives emerged from gleaming sedans and limousines. Many filed into the concrete buildings of the four major zaibatsu; Mitsui, Sumitomo, Mitsubishi, and Yasuda. If Asakusa was a terminally ill patient, then Marunouchi was a corpse that had risen from the dead. Most of the smaller zaibatsu went under, but Takano Bank had somehow thrived. However, its survival now seemed less miraculous and more like the product of black magic.

  Aizawa circled the Rolls-Royce around the eight-story Marunouchi Building, the Maru-Biru, searching the streets for anyone with a Charlie Chaplin mustache. Damn it all. It had stopped snowing but it was near impossible to identify anyone out in these crowds. A squad of junsas would make his job much easier. But that request would have to be approved by Superintendent Shimura. He gave a resigned sigh and kept driving.

  At least in the financial district, a Rolls-Royce was inconspicuous among all the imported foreign cars. Even in a depression, the zaibatsu traveled in style. Unsurprising, since there had always been a wide gulf between rich and poor in Japan. During the Tokugawa Shogunate, society was organized in four clearly defined castes; daimyo lords at the top, followed by samurai, then farmers, and finally the merchants.

  That would place Baron Onishi at the apex, followed by Masaru Ryusaki, then Lieutenant Nakajima, and finally Kenji Aizawa. But the title of police inspector was a prestige that none of his ancestors could ever have reached. His grandfather had peddled tofu but his father died a railway switchman. Each generation crawled a little higher on the social ladder.

  What caste would Isamu Takano be part of? As a niwaka narikin, a new rich, he would still technically be at the bottom of the pyramid. But Takano was far more powerful than any daimyo lord or samurai warrior during the Tokugawa Era. He deserved his own caste; a shadow shogun, as Reiko had called him.

  Aizawa circled a few more times but Kuroki was nowhere to be found. Parking the Rolls-Royce near the Marunouchi Building, he looked at his watch: 6:50. He glanced through the swarms of salarymen, all of whom looked far too well dressed to be anyone in league with Ryusaki and none sported that ridiculous mustache.

  He viewed a sleek Bentley pulling up behind him in the rear view mirror. The doors sprang open and out hopped two enormous men in long gray overcoats. Most wealthy men hired off-duty police officers for protection, but from the looks of it, Takano’s bodyguards were former sumo.

  Isamu Takano himself emerged, wearing a stylish homburg and a fur-trimmed black coat. Another elegantly dressed man followed him out of the automobile, but this one wasn’t even Japanese. A white foreigner towered over Takano and his sumo bodyguards like a giant among pygmies.

  Aizawa hopped out of the Rolls-Royce and walked straight toward Takano. The bodyguards took notice and blocked his path. He dug into his coat and pulled out his meishi card, holding it up like a token sacrifice. But the two sumo stared at him like stone Buddhas, unmoving and implacable. A few meters away, Takano and his foreign friend looked over and chatted in what sounded like English.

  “Metropolitan Police. I need to speak to Takano-san.”

  “Takano-san is with a very important guest,” one sumo said.

  “From New York City,” the other emphasized.

  Takano continued chatting with the foreigner, occasionally shooting quick glances at Aizawa. Bodyguards were deterrent enough for most crooks but the fact that Takano needed them at all must have been an embarrassment. Especially in front of such an important gentleman from New York City. Perhaps that was a weakness that could be exploited.

  “You can either let me speak with Takano-san now or I will come back here with the entire Police Department. I have no qualms about interrogating him in front of his American friend.”

  The bodyguards edged closer, backing him up. He’d never grappled with a sumo before but had seen enough wrestling matches to know he was about to be thrown from the ring. Behind the advancing sumo, Aizawa saw Takano give an apologetic bow to the American and then begin walking toward them.

  “Stop this now,” Takano said, parting the bodyguards. “Leave us.”

  The sumo bowed and walked back toward the foreigner. Takano drew himself up and glared.

  “Inspector Aizawa, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “You and I have much to discuss, Takano-san.”

  The banker’s face betrayed no emotion as he gestured to the American.

  “Do you know who that is?”

  “Hebert Hoover?”

  Takano chuckled. “No, more important. He’s from Wall Street.”

  Aizawa looked back at the foreigner. There wasn’t anything remarkable about him; a large nose, wide eyes, and taut face turned pink from the cold. Only his height was impressive. But weren’t all Americans supposed to be tall? Regardless, he was much taller than the sumo bodyguards. He also dwarfed another Japanese man who approached with rapid steps.

  A gust of wind billowed the man’s tattered overcoat. Although his face was partly obscured by a threadbare flat cap, he obviously wasn’t Makoto Kuroki. He didn’t even have a mustache. And unlike Kuroki, he actually managed to draw his weapon and aimed it with both hands like a cannon.

  “Tenchu!”

  Divine Punishment. The typical battle cry for soshi nationalists.

  Like a human avalanche, one of the sumo bodyguards tackled the would-be assassin and hit the pavement with a loud thud. Despite an impressive hold, the soshi slithered out and drew his pistol again, struggling to get a bead. Pushing Takano aside, Aizawa pulled out his Colt automatic and in one fluid motion, aimed and fired.

  The soshi’s chest exploded and he fell backward, painting the sidewalk with a gruesome red. Aizawa walked closer and examined the dead man. It wasn’t Makoto Kuroki but his face still possessed an eerie familiarity. Where was it from? The way he fell backward bore a resemblance to the first man he’d killed, a Bolshevik soldier back in Siberia. There’d been a few others since then, but even now he could still see that Russian boy falling backward, cushioned by a pillow of bloody snow.

  No, it wasn’t that. Recognition set in. He’d seen this soshi only yesterday in Ueno Park, one of the original Kusanagi Society men. But where was Makoto Kuroki? Aizawa grabbed the pistol, half-buried in snow. It wasn’t a Nambu or Japanese, but rather a Nagant, the sidearm of choice for Bolshevik commissars.

  He stood up, holstered his Colt, and shoved the Nagant into his waistband. A few horrified salarymen stared at him and crowded around the body. He glanced over at Takano, surrounded by his sumo bodyguards. They pushed aside the salarymen, leading both the banker and his American guest into the Maru-Biru.

  As a group of salarymen ringed the scene, Aizawa cast his attention back to the dead soshi, who stared back with wide, hateful eyes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  A series of sharp knocks shook Reiko awake. Sunlight trickled in through the windows and illuminated the clock next to her bed. 7:42. The knocking continued, now in rapid bursts. Who could be at her door at this hour? She heaved herself out of bed and stole a glance in the mirror. A haggard-looking ghost in a night slip squinted back, her face still painted white. Last night had left her so exhausted that she didn’t even bother to remove her makeup before passing out. Now she looked like a sad clown who’d been kicked out of the circus.

  She opened the door. Masaru stood there, fresh-faced and alert. He’d even managed to change out of his kimono and into a mobo outfit; blue suit, red tie, and fedora. How did he still look so hand
some this early in the morning?

  “I apologize for my appearance, Masaru,” she said with a bow.

  He waved a hand. “Even in rags, you’re as radiant as sunlight.”

  She giggled. “You look quite dashing yourself.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Do you want some tea, Masaru?”

  “No thank you.” He removed his shoes and followed her into the apartment. “I’m here to request your presence as a geisha.”

  Reiko groaned. “Again?”

  “You’re still wearing the makeup, darling.” He said the last word in English. “Another one of my patriots will have his sokokai today. I’ve chosen the next target to assassinate.”

  “Who?”

  A knowing smile broadened Masaru’s face. “Our greatest enemy.”

  Whoever that was, he sounded important. Reiko sat on the bed with a defeated sigh. Part of her wanted to make another appeal to Masaru’s better side but there was no point now. The only thing she could do was find out where the entire Kusanagi Society would be later and tell Inspector Aizawa. That would put an end this madness once and for all.

  “Okay. I’ll do it. Where and when should I meet you?”

  “The Dragonfly Tea House,” he said, sitting next to her.

  “There? But General Sakamoto—”

  “Has been dealt with. So get ready. I’ll help you change.”

  Her stomach tightened, realizing there was no way to warn Inspector Aizawa in time. Grabbing her pack of Golden Bats from the nightstand, she lit one up and wracked her brain for some excuse to leave early.

  “What’s wrong?” Masaru asked, concern shining behind his glasses.

  She forced a weak smile between drags. “Nothing. I’m just so tired from last night. Can we postpone this? I need to get some sleep.”

  He met her smile with a deep frown. “I’m sorry, Reiko. I know how tired you must be entertaining my men. But it is your duty as a geisha and my wife.”