The Courier

by Gordon J Campbell

  He kicked the bystander several times in the leg, dropping him to the pavement.

  Gregg grabbed the mobster, preventing further injury to the bystander lying prone on the road. He pulled the chimpira across the street, wrestling for mere seconds before tossing him over the car’s hood. The Japanese businessman pulled himself up and limped away, holding both hands on his injured leg.

  Hundreds of spectators encircled the combatants, and the crowd continued to grow. Gregg and one other acquaintance found themselves squared off against five angry Japanese goons. One jumped Gregg and he threw him off before another vicious thug came straight at him. He concentrated on blocking several punches and high kicks until an opening allowed him to foot sweep the second attacker. He punched the thug twice as he tumbled down.

  Gregg caught a glimpse of his ally, a basketball coach from a local international school. The tall and lanky Oregonian was more familiar with ice hockey fights than street brawls. He had yanked a gangster’s shirt up over the man’s head, effectively blindfolding him, but the man continued to kick and twist. The coach struggled to hold him down and they rolled across the street lit up by car headlights and neon signs.

  The two men fought with vicious urgency and bounced on the pavement, gouging and grappling. They were unaware of their surroundings and moved to the edge of the crowd. They ping-ponged off the wall of spectators, reversing the direction of their struggle back toward the car. The gangster was now shirtless, revealing his full back tattoo. The illustrated koi inked on his back seemed to be rising to the surface and swimming back and forth across the road. A drunk in the crowd screamed, “Surreal.”

  Gregg had a few seconds to gather himself before a short and heavy older man attacked with a front kick. Gregg blocked it with a solid swing of his left arm and countered with a punch backed by all his strength and weight. He watched the yakuza back off several yards and drop to his knees, while another mobster lined Gregg up from his blind side. The solid punch connected with Gregg’s nose, causing blood to gush from both nostrils. The sight of Gregg spouting blood silenced the crowd and all action seemed to pause.

  The uninjured gangsters backed up a step, and the two combatants on the ground released their grips. They got to their feet and backed away from each other. Gregg put his hands up as if surrendering and walked toward the gangster who had sucker-punched him. He smiled and looked him in the eyes, offering a conciliatory posture, before head-butting the mobster at the bridge of his nose. The fight erupted again, only to cease seconds later when police sirens blasted from multiple directions.

  The brawlers and the crowd dispersed, leaving Gregg seated on the curbside disorientated. He felt a small hand grab his shoulder. “Use this,” said a mature Japanese woman and offered Gregg a handkerchief. She waited for Gregg to apply it to his injury before ordering, “Come with me.” Gregg stood and followed the Good Samaritan while holding the cotton cloth over his face.

  Chapter 7

  West Shinjuku

  “I’ve got a few photos to show you,” said Ward. He pulled out a file and started handing black-and-white close-ups taken in Roppongi. “Our people are concerned about anything impacting bilateral relations. We do forensics when there is an incident involving Americans in Japan. We try to neutralize or sterilize problems before they grow out of proportion and tarnish the reputation of the fine American military people stationed in Japan,” said Ward.

  Gregg examined the photos and frowned. “Why would you investigate this?”

  “Our records indicated two athletic Caucasians were involved in a brawl with several yakuza soldiers. Our base command was praying the individuals involved were not military personnel. One embassy official observed the brawl and described the man wearing the polo shirt as special forces tough. Stories posted in the Mainichi Daily would create difficulties if proven true.”

  One photo captured a much younger Gregg Westwood launching a well-tanned Japanese man over a beautiful Mercedes sedan. The Japanese man’s punch perm hairstyle was favored by low-level yakuza called chimpira. Gregg was drawn to his own hairline. “I miss the curls,” he said in a voice he hoped sounded calm. “What leverage do you expect to gain from these photos?” he asked.

  “Relax, there isn’t any leverage. We want to impress on you the serious nature of this discussion. It’s our job to maximize resources to achieve objectives and confirm intelligence reports. Are you the man wearing the NHL polo shirt?” asked Ward.

  The two men were quiet for a few long moments. “I’m not proud of it,” said Gregg. Ward continued to look at Gregg, as if waiting for more. “The brawl could have ended my career in Asia. I owe a lot to a woman who led me away from the Roppongi to a park about a mile away. She helped me clean up in a public washroom and sent me home in a cab. I never even got her name,” said Gregg.

  “Yogi Berra once said something like, ‘If you come to a fork in the road, take it,’” offered Ward.

  Gregg considered his predicament and leaned toward Ward, working to restrain his anger from entering his tone of voice. “Did you arrange to have me terminated from the medical group?”

  Ward looked amused by the concept. “You give us too much credit. You think I’m capable of masterminding the ultimate manipulation. Nice idea, but no. We knew about your contract termination, but our office can’t take credit for it. In fact, we think the Danish crew screwed you royally. Hopefully it’ll be their loss and our gain,” he explained.

  Gregg sat back in his chair and laughed before looking carefully at Ward who sat with perfect posture staring back at Gregg with a poker face. “Tell me more about your dental plan,” he said.

  “Let me start by saying we’re prepared to match your current salary for the next three months. Please consider your first ninety days with us as a probation period. I’ll be happy to review the entire benefit package but first, let’s have a glass of wine. Steve Brown is buying,” said Ward, and he signaled the waitress.

  Chapter 8

  Zushi Marina

  The cell phone rang and Sato checked the number before answering, “Wait one moment.” He put out his cigarette in a large crystal ashtray sitting on his coffee table. He stood up and walked out onto a veranda overlooking Zushi Marina. He smelled a hint of charcoal and broiled fish from someone’s grill, but it didn’t linger. The wind was coming in warm over the Pacific Ocean and blew his Japanese summer kimono open at the leg. It exposed the tattoos associated with the men of his profession in Japan.

  The work was fine art by any definition. The skin on his body was a canvas engraved with images of dragons, cherry blossoms, and hummingbirds. The representations had been accumulated over decades, requiring thousands of hours under the tattoo expert’s needle. They covered him from ankle to neck with multiple shades of blue, deep reds, and earthy yellow hues. The remarkable look enhanced his notoriety and proved to be a legitimate investment.

  Sato sold futures on his skin for ten million yen to an oyabun heading a yakuza operation in Kobe. A girlfriend asked, “Why would someone with your wealth sell his own skin?”

  “It is the closest I’ll ever come to immortality,” he replied.

  The deal for Sato’s skin concluded with jokes referring to “Sato hanging around the Kobe Yacht Club after his demise.”

  “Moshi moshi,” said Sato, indicating his availability to the caller.

  “It’s Shimano. Have you got a minute, my dear friend?”

  Sato’s voice raised half an octave. “Thank you for the sensational paintings. My girlfriend loves them, and they made her condominium so much more enjoyable.”

  “What about the one I brought back from Paris? I trust there was room in your home’s main hallway for the painting?” asked Shimano.

  “It worked well in the hallway, and my wife was pleased. She is fond of French Impressionists. Thank you for asking. Now, what favor can we do for you in return?” asked Sato.

  “This one is sensitive. Is this a good time for you?” Shimano replied.
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br />   “Let me call you back on another line,” said Sato.

  Sato hung up and returned the call on a burner cell phone. “How can I help you?”

  “I’ve been contacted by a certain client who asked me to facilitate a project for him. The potential for profit is staggering and I think you’ve got all the resources to make it happen,” said Shimano.

  “What services would I be providing?” asked Sato.

  “We need to have a container slide past customs and be redistributed for shipment to the United States,” replied Shimano.

  Sato laughed. “This type of project requires some deep pockets and upfront cash. What kind of cargo is going to make our efforts worthwhile?”

  “Let’s just say we’re involved with a $78.5-billion industry where one kilogram of product costs $6,000 to manufacture and can be sold on the American streets for $1.6 million. This project will work when we split and redirect the mother lode to designated distributors. We can simply act as shipping agents or coordinate sales to American distributors to maximize our profits,” said Shimano.

  “I read newspapers and watch new reports. You’re obviously talking about opioids, and specifically the synthetic product called fentanyl. This is an intriguing proposition, but great rewards rarely come without risk. Before we continue our discussion, you’ll need to share some details,” replied Sato.

  “My point of contact is an agent working for a foreign intelligence service of a country not considered friends with Japan or most any other nation. They’re interested in securing foreign currency, but a secondary motivation is to fuel the opioid crisis killing 130 Americans daily,” said Shimano.

  “You’re out of your mind. I’m a criminal but have never been a traitor to my beloved Nippon. Do you even realize what you’re considering?” asked Sato.

  “We will receive one thousand kilograms of fentanyl with an American street value of $1.6 billion dollars in less than one week after we notify my POC. They’re willing to accept payment for goods after we ship them to the United States.”

  The line was silent for several seconds before Shimano heard the sounds of Sato lighting up a cigarette. “Have they suggested a price for the merchandise?” asked Sato.

  “They want $50 million after the vessels depart with the containers from Tokyo and an additional $50 million within ninety days of our receipt of the original shipment,” stated Shimano.

  The sound of Sato taking a deep drag on his cigarette came clearly through Shimano’s disposable phone. “Give me a day to perform some due diligence and I’ll get back to you,” said Shimano.

  “Thank you, your time and trouble are sincerely appreciated. It should be simple work for your fine people,” he said, and Shimano bowed while holding the phone.

  “Nothing is ever easy or simple with any worthwhile business. Why do you think so few try to develop innovative projects? The upside of this opportunity is a staggering profit potential, but anything less than perfect execution will cost lives. We are playing Russian roulette with four rounds loaded. Do you understand the precarious nature of our relationship?”

  The line went dead, and Shimao snapped his burner phone in half. He stood up and left the park bench where he had been sitting and walked over to a nearby sewer hole to deposit the pieces.

  Chapter 9

  Shinjuku Kabukicho

  The sixteen-year-old girl stepped into the changing area of a private room at the Pink Kangaroo soapland operation. She took a seat when the short man with the ugly scars on one side of his face gestured to a stool. If she was trying to hide her fear and discomfort, the effort failed. Her knees shook and she remained quiet while keeping her gaze on the tiled floor in front of her.

  “Do you know where you are and why?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” she whispered. The room remained quiet for several seconds and she added, “Soapland.”

  “Now tell me why you are here?” asked the man.

  “My father,” she said and started to cry.

  “Excellent. Your father is careless and a terrible mah-jongg player. He owes the family an extremely large amount of money. The miserable man is solely responsible for your predicament. Do you understand the term ‘collateral’?”

  The girl looked up. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Your father ran out of money and offered your services as a technician at the Pink Kangaroo. You’ll be working here until his debts are paid in full. Do you understand?” The girl remained silent and he screamed, “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I arranged for your official Tokyo driver’s license. You’re a documented twenty-one-year-old and legal to work with us here in the baths,” said Nakada.

  “Thank you,” she said and started to shake.

  “Disrobe and don’t make a fuss.” He opened a leather bag and inventoried a selection of instruments. “You remember how electricity improved your hearing at our first session,” he said.

  The girl frantically struggled to comply by pulling and kicking off her clothes, leaving them strewn across the floor.

  “Get to the shower and wash,” the ugly little man ordered.

  The teenager crawled to the room’s bath area and started the shower. She was testing the water temperature with her hand when the man’s phone rang.

  “Turn it off,” he yelled and answered the cell. “How are you today, boss?” he asked.

  “I want you to visit the container port at Yokohama and reconnect with some of our brothers down at the dockyard. We may have a shipment coming that requires some special care,” said Sato.

  “Will we have to grease the wheels at customs as well?” asked the scar-faced man.

  “That’s a certainty, and the Yokohama police will need to be accommodated. Suga san is on his way to the Pink Kangaroo. He’ll bring you up to speed. Get it done,” ordered Sato and the phone line went dead.

  He looked over the tiny girl. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, and she shivered in the corner, avoiding his gaze. “We’ll continue your lessons later,” he said and locked the room behind him.

  Chapter 10

  Kuji Station, Kawasaki

  It was sunny with a wet heat, causing Gregg to feel sweat run down his back as he left the shaded building and stepped out of the east exit of Kuji Station. He glanced around and found chalk markings scrawled on the sidewalk in front of the station. He looked over the rough script and arrows pointing west. The message read, “Hash this way.” Gregg walked toward the main street and found chalked arrows scrawled every fifty meters on the sidewalk. He reached the corner where markings led to a park about three hundred meters away.

  He shaded his eyes from the sun and scanned a group of Japanese and expatriate runners assembling in a children’s playground. Slides and swings were built in the center of the graveled corner lot. About a third of the two dozen runners wore “Fuji Run” T-shirts from the previous weekend’s event. A few donned Matsuri Festival happi coats and two men wore kilts. Gregg checked his watch, noting he had ten minutes before the run started.

  He approached a tall bearded man he’d met at the Atsugi Naval Air Station and at previous hash runs. Mike managed the administration center at the Atsugi medical clinic. He was Mike at the base clinic but at the hash run everyone called him “Banana-hammock.”

  “Good morning, who’s collecting the registration fee?” asked Gregg.

  Mike pointed at a middle-aged Japanese woman stretching under the shade of a tree. “Pass your fifteen-hundred-yen hash cash to our embezzler, Camel-toe, over there. It pays for lots of cold beer and sandwiches at the ‘on-after.’ You might want to check out the ‘on-on-on hash bash’ later. It’s at the HUB in Machida, if you can make it. You remain a drinker with a running problem, right?”

  “I’m working at it,” said Gregg.

  “It’s your fourth hash. Knock out a few more and you might be awarded a hash name,” said Mike.

  Gregg rushed to pay the run fee to Camel-toe before dr
opping off his backpack with the hash locker manager and lacing up his minimalist shoes. Gregg jogged after the group leaving the park to start the run. One hasher blew a whistle and the pack’s pace moved from a walk to a jog. They ran up the hill from the station, turning right at the first traffic light, and headed in the direction of Kawasaki.

  They ran parallel to train tracks until they reached an intersection, where they broke off to find the trail marked by the hare. The group scattered in all four directions, attempting to locate the path. Camel-toe touched Gregg’s arm before he could join the search. “Let the FRB find the trail, and it’ll encourage them. Front-running bastards often finish DFL,” said Camel-toe.

  “Got it, thanks for helping with the hash terminology. I’m hoping DFL stands for dead friggin’ last,” said Gregg.

  “Something similar,” said Camel-toe. She slapped Gregg on the rear end and took off after the FRB who found the trail. He caught up with the pack of hashers near the train tracks as the crossing lights lit up. They flashed in time with an alarm, and safety arms started to fall across the road. Hashers sprinted through the intersection, ducking under the metal railway gate, and strode up the hill toward Kuji cemetery.

  A bamboo forest bordering thousands of Japanese family tombs stretched into the distance. Tidy burial-related businesses selling marble monuments, flowers, and general supplies, lined the street to the hashers’ right. The slope was steep, and most were breathing hard by the time they crested the hill. The road branched in three directions as the landscape flattened.

  Gregg noticed a funeral home bus and a hearse parked on the left side of the road. He hoped the graveside ceremony wasn’t in progress. He imagined a mob of motley-dressed hashers rushing past a mourning family. It wouldn’t add dignity to the ceremony nor enhance the hash group’s reputation. The front-runners split up to locate hash markings and arrows left by the hare.