Shadows of Tokyo

by Matthew Legare

  “You think your childhood was harsh?” she snapped. “Imagine that every minute you were out of school, your parents made you sew pretty kimonos and stockings that you could never wear. Imagine being beaten for every misaligned seam or tear. Then, picture your entire life collapsing under the greatest earthquake in history and seeing your hometown burnt to a cinder.” She swallowed hard. “Your suffering is not unique.”

  He remained still for several moments, except for a trembling bottom lip. “I will not take such disrespect from…from—”

  “From what? A geisha? A moga? A woman? You’re pathetic. Even Masaru understands you.”

  The trembling stopped. He flashed a confused expression. “What do you mean?’”

  “You hate women. That’s why you’ve never been with one.” She looked him over. “You’re just a boy, wearing a man’s clothes.”

  For the first time, Hajime Nakajima removed that mask of contempt and looked at her with a human face.

  “You misjudge,” he said. “I am fighting for the men and women of Japan. Our sisters groan under the heel of poverty even louder than men. I don’t doubt your childhood was a collection of miseries, but imagine yourself sold by your own parents to the brothels after the rice harvest failed to bring in enough money.”

  She kept quiet. Better not to poke a barking dog.

  “It was during the Rice Riots when they took my older sister Chitose away from us,” Nakajima continued. “A man from Tokyo came to our rice farm, looking for country girls to fill the Yoshiwara brothels. Chitose was nineteen at the time, but still a virgin so she fetched a good price. With the money she was sold for, we were able to pay the rest of the year’s rent. She actually bowed and thanked my parents for giving her a chance to honor the family.”

  Nakajima shook his head.

  “The brave little fool,” he said with a whimper. “Of course my parents couldn’t part with my older brother or me. We were needed for the next year’s crop. At the time, I was jealous of her for having left. Long summers of toil passed. I begged the gods to let me drown in those never-ending paddy fields.”

  Nakajima released a morose sigh as his head drooped.

  “But I escaped years later. As a boy, I read countless novels about the wars against China and Russia. Ah, how I longed for the opportunity to fight for the Emperor! Even the battlefield was more appealing than life in the rice paddies. At least there my death would mean something.

  “I studied and was accepted into the Imperial Army Academy, here in Tokyo. It was over a year ago, right before I graduated, when I finally tracked my sister down. Not to a brothel in Yoshiwara, but to an insane asylum.” He shook his head. “She was wrapped up in a straightjacket like a fly in a spider web. Her face was an enormous open sore. Syphilis had rotted her mind. This was the fate of my older sister and thousands of other women. Fortunately, the gods had mercy and ended her wretched existence a month later.”

  He glanced up. His eyes were glassy and distant, sending waves of terror down Reiko’s spine.

  “Soon after, I read Ryusaki-zensei’s book. Not just I, but all my brother officers studied it from cover to cover. It became clear to us that something drastic needed to be done to save the nation. So we enlisted Ryusaki-zensei to our cause.” He sighed. “But in March, Inspector Aizawa ruined our plans...”

  “So you tried again.”

  “Yes, without any civilians that time. But the October plot failed too. I knew we had to enlist Ryusaki-zensei once more. Imagine my disgust when I found him in the arms of a…moga.” He curled his upper lip at the word.

  “I felt the same way when I first saw you.”

  Nakajima scoffed. “Ryusaki-zensei and I are swords to be used by the Emperor’s divine hand. Sex, individualism, luxury, and frivolity…these are all corrosives that dull our blade. You embody all of these evils, Watanabe-zan.”

  Under normal circumstances, she’d take that as a compliment. But now such accusations were tantamount to a death sentence. She kept kneeling with elegant poise, determined to die in a refined position. Nakajima removed his grip from the saber and stretched across the room, running his fingers down her face. The sweep was firm, peeling off the face paint until stopping at her bottom lip. White paint clung to his fingertips and he smeared it across the floor.

  “I have always seen past your disguise…but I had to convince Ryusaki-zensei first,” he continued, rubbing his fingers together. “At first, we tried to enlist Superintendent Shimura to order Aizawa into a trap…but he declined and had to be…disposed of. So now, you’ll have to be his replacement.”

  A chill swept over her, realizing her purpose as bait for Inspector Aizawa.

  “But I don’t hate you…and neither does Ryusaki-zensei.” Nakajima gestured to the butchered meat across the room. “I didn’t hate General Zakamoto either. I hate the evil you both represent.”

  Nausea seized Reiko’s stomach. Partly from fear, partly from the stench of Sakamoto’s bloated husk, but mostly from humiliation. Some spy she’d been. Taken in by a performance and sweet words. She’d have to be more skeptical in her next life.

  Nakajima donned his service cap and stood up. That brown uniform had always made him look like a walking wall of shit, but now it radiated the ferocity of a stampeding horse.

  “Get up,” he said, grabbing her collar. “Your rehabilitation begins now.”

  Had General Sakamoto been “rehabilitated” before or after he lost his head? With shaking legs, she rose and steadied herself with a prayer. But one glance at that headless corpse on the floor told her that none of the gods could save her now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  “Wake up, Inspector.”

  The words cut through the dark waves where Aizawa lay submerged. Deeper and deeper they plunged, wrapping around his body and raised him up to the surface.

  Aizawa opened his eyes and looked out a car window. The proud structure of the Metropolitan Police Headquarters stood across the street. A junsa holding a formidable keijo stick stood guard outside. Morning sunlight cast a bright glare on the snowy sidewalks, forcing him to turn away. In the front seat were the two sumo bodyguards, staring back with amused grins. No doubt they had a good laugh out of almost crushing his insides. Aizawa’s entire body was still numb but soon prickled with sensation. Once feeling had returned to his arms, He felt inside his coat for the Colt and Nagant.

  “Looking for these?” the sumo in the passenger seat asked, holding both guns up by their barrels. “Don’t worry, we’ll give them back. After all, what would a police inspector be without his gun?”

  “A private detective,” Aizawa groaned, rubbing his temple. How long had he been out? He glanced at his wristwatch: half past noon.

  “You should consider Takano-san’s offer. He pays very well.”

  “I’ll bet,” Aizawa said.

  “Takano-san is an honorable man,” the driver sumo said. “He spared your life out of gratitude for saving his.”

  “Tell him I said ‘thanks.’”

  The sumo looked at each other with smug grins before tossing the guns out the window.

  “Have fun playing hero, Inspector.”

  Aizawa opened the door and hopped out. The car sped off, merging into the steady flow of traffic. With a sigh, he bent down and scooped up the pistols. After tucking them back into his coat, he started across the street. Hopefully, the junsa standing guard hadn’t seen him get tossed out on the curb like a drunk.

  Aizawa entered Metropolitan Police Headquarters and paused to absorb the warmth. Once defrosted, he started for the elevator. A pair of conversing junsas walked by and gave half-hearted salutes. Another inspector passed without acknowledgment. He’d been losing face ever since the arrest of Masaru Ryusaki had been reversed back in March. The past few days had dealt a death blow to his status. Joji Shimura’s once favorite pupil was now the most unpopular boy in class. He needed to regroup in the safety of his own office.

  Aizawa entered the elevator and too
k it to the third floor. Walking out, he caught the attention of two detectives, staring at him with eyes colder than anything he’d felt outside.

  “Hey, Aizawa-san,” one called out from behind a desk, overcrowded from files. “Come here.”

  Aizawa was all too aware that these detectives were both senior men who resented his rapid rise through the ranks and, above all else, his private office. A small, vocal part of him wanted to ignore them, but he started toward them anyway. After all, he was still just a rookie compared to these hardened veterans and protocol demanded appropriate subordination. Aizawa had always worn his duty like a uniform but now it felt more like a dog collar around his throat. Nevertheless, he presented himself with a low, supplicating bow.

  “Superintendent Shimura is dead,” one of the senior detectives said.

  Aizawa’s throat and fists tightened. “W-what happened?”

  “He was found murdered in his machiya this morning. Someone nearly cut him in half. I’m sorry…I know you and he used to be close.”

  The room felt colder and emptier. Aizawa wanted to sit down but maintained his poise. An image of Masaru Ryusaki. his katana dripping with blood, entered his mind. Their private war had claimed yet another casualty.

  “It’s Ryusaki…it has to be him,” Aizawa said.

  “Who?”

  “Masaru Ryusaki…”

  “Oh yes, that playboy with the little moga girlfriend. We heard about how you tried to pin Baron Onishi’s assassination on him.”

  “It is Ryusaki! I can prove it,” Aizawa said, slamming his fist on the desk. The other detective gave a skeptical grunt.

  “Focus on your own case, Inspector. We’ll solve this one. Congratulations on saving that banker today.”

  Aizawa’s eyes widened.

  “Oh yes, one of the junsas mentioned it to us,” the senior detective said. “If only you could have saved Baron Onishi and Sergeant Murayama as well…”

  Aizawa wanted to crawl deep inside his overcoat. The shame couldn’t reach him there. Instead, he turned around and continued down the hall. There was no time for self-pity.

  Aizawa closed the office door behind him and lit a Golden Bat. Turning to the framed newspaper on the wall, tears swarmed around his eyes as he stared at the photograph of his former partner. He wiped them clean and returned to his desk, wondering what to do next. Visit a temple and pray for the soul of Joji Shimura? He’d have to pray for Sergeant Murayama and the Onishis too. No, not yet. Ryusaki was his first priority. But even if he managed to apprehend Ryusaki…then what? Takano and his co-conspirators had won. Aizawa finally understood how insignificant his duty was. Still, he was bound to follow it, like a wind-up toy soldier marching toward the edge of the table.

  A shrill telephone ring cut through the silence.

  “Inspector Aizawa,” he answered.

  Reiko’s worried voice broke through. “It’s me.”

  That damn fool.

  “Reiko-san, I told you not to call here anymore.”

  “Just listen. Masaru’s planning something even worse than what we thought. I found out only moments ago and escaped with my life.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “No time to explain. I’m on the run.”

  “What happened?”

  “There’s no time to explain! I have to keep moving.”

  “Meet me at my nagaya and—”

  “No! Masaru’s men might follow me there! Meet me at Ueno Park after sundown. Around nine o’clock. I’ll be near the statue of Takamori Saigo.”

  “Reiko-san, I—”

  The line went dead. Aizawa clicked the receiver down as a typhoon of thoughts swirled in his head. Another death on his shoulders was more than he could bear. He’d see Reiko Watanabe tonight but only to tell her to leave town. He looked at his watch. Almost one o’clock. He’d have to return to Marunouchi and retrieve Baron Onishi’s Roll-Royce if he wanted to be at Ueno Park at nine. From there he’d drive Reiko to Tokyo Station, allowing her to escape from this city of shadows forever.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Ueno Park was ugly in the daytime but it possessed an eerie stillness after dark, like a frosted nightmare. Aizawa parked the Rolls-Royce near the south entrance and dashed up the flight of stairs, powdered with snow. Reaching the top, he scanned the meeting square for Reiko Watanabe. However, there was only the statue of Takamori Saigo and his faithful dog, glowing a pale bluish-green in the electric light of a nearby lamppost.

  In fact, the only person in sight was a sleeping tramp on a nearby bench, blanketed by a newspaper. Pitiful sights like this always reminded Aizawa that no matter how low you fell, there was always somebody lower.

  Aizawa scanned the path for any oncoming figure. Had Ryusaki discovered her? He remembered his promise from last night with a slight feeling of shame.

  ‘Watanabe-san, I swear that I will protect you.’

  The best way to protect Reiko now was to get her out of town. Aizawa checked his watch again. Ten after nine. Where was she?

  The tramp stirred underneath an issue of the Asahi Shimbun but kept his face covered. Walking closer, Aizawa could make out the words more clearly. It was a special morning edition with the headline “Madman Gunned Down in Marunouchi!” Those fools at the Asahi went ahead and ran the story anyway. Ryusaki had probably read this over his morning tea and realized there was an informant within the Kusanagi Society. All of a sudden, Reiko’s desperate pleas over the telephone sounded mechanical and forced.

  He’d been lured into a trap. Aizawa whipped out his Colt automatic and began a quick retreat back to the staircase. Before he could reach it, a samurai in full armor stepped out of the darkness and blocked his path. Like a ghost from the Tokugawa Era, he clutched a full-sized katana like an executioner’s blade. Armored in red-and-black lacquer and a metal breastplate, he looked like a demon ready for the battlefield. Two horns jutted out of a black helmet that shadowed his face. But there was no mistaking his true identity. Only someone as vainglorious as Masaru Ryusaki could orchestrate this.

  Aizawa stood in numb disbelief for several moments before the samurai gave a guttural cry and charged. The night air was quiet except for the incessant clanking of armor like war drums. Instinct took control and rolled Aizawa out of the way just as Ryusaki swung his sword. Tumbling to the side, Aizawa straightened himself up and saw Ryusaki stumble a few steps, but he soon steadied himself for another attack.

  Aizawa aimed his gun and fired three quick shots. The bullets connected and forced Ryusaki back, but not enough to stop his advance. Wearing that armor didn’t seem so vainglorious now, since it also doubled as a bulletproof vest. Aizawa steadied the pistol again but before he could fire, out of his peripheral, he saw the tramp rise from the bench and leap toward him. They both slammed against the cold pavement, leaving Aizawa out of breath.

  Seeing him up close, Aizawa recognized this “tramp” as one of the seven founding members of the Kusanagi Society. Aizawa’s arms were soon pinned to the ground as Makoto Kuroki sprang forth from the shrubbery and stood over him with a taunting grin.

  “Looks like you’re the one under arrest now, Inspector,” he said before taking both the Colt from Aizawa’s shoulder holster and the Nagant from his waistband.

  Kuroki shoved the weapons into his coat and helped the tramp hoist Aizawa off of the ground. With firm grips, they locked Aizawa’s arms at his sides. Five other soshi stepped out of the shadows and shrubbery, each clutching a wakizashi short sword, forming a wall of steel and blocking the exit to the staircase. Fitting that Ryusaki would enact his revenge before the statue of the disgruntled samurai who plunged Japan into a civil war.

  Aizawa struggled against Kuroki and the tramp’s grip, to no avail. “You put on a costume just to kill me?” he called out.

  “Oh, it’s no costume,” Ryusaki said. “This is the armor of the Ryusaki family, worn for generations into battle. But it’s more than that. It is the uniform of purity and patriotism!”
/>   “Not to mention bulletproof. Isn’t that the same armor you wore to threaten your fellow Dietmen?”

  Ryusaki laughed. “Arrogant to the end! I’m actually glad that you dodged my blade just now. Now, each of my men can slice off a piece of you…before I end your miserable life with one quick stroke.”

  With their short swords glinting in the moonlight, the five soshi began advancing. Aizawa twisted and turned but couldn’t break loose. Part of him wanted to stick his neck out and be done with it. But another, more vocal part reminded him that this was Masaru Ryusaki he was dealing with. If that bastard wanted him dead, he’d have to hack him to pieces while he fought to the end.

  Aizawa twisted and turned but still couldn’t break loose. Despite being a head taller, these two soshi held him like a vice. Only his hands remained free and with one motion, Aizawa grabbed the back of his captor’s kneecaps, dug his fingers into vulnerable pressure points, and slammed the entirety of his weight backward.

  Kuroki and the tramp buckled and hit the ground hard, cushioning his fall. Still atop of them, Aizawa reached over to Kuroki, searching for the pistols. The tramp let out a strained groan but Kuroki recovered quickly and pushed Aizawa off before he could recover the guns. The other five soshi rushed toward them, holding their wakizashi swords high in a battlefield charge.

  There was no other option but to make a break for it and lose them inside Ueno Park. Aizawa spun around and dashed northward, his stride quickening with every step. Behind him, a symphony of laughter arose.

  “Run Inspector!” Ryusaki called out. “Run for your life!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Aizawa ran north and stole quick glances behind him. Ryusaki and his soshi hadn’t caught up yet. Not that it mattered. In a few minutes he’d be able to call for backup and end this war forever. Reiko Watanabe entered his mind. First as a moga, then as a geisha, and finally as a severed head. Hopefully, Ryusaki’s arrest would be a token of penance.