Japantown

by Barry Lancet

  This time it was a mother, father, and eleven-year-old boy.

  From everything I’d learned in Japan, I was certain the second attack couldn’t be Soga’s doing. Japantown had spawned a copycat. But even so, unless Brodie Security came up with proof real soon, Renna wouldn’t be able to tough out this new setback.

  Maybe none of us would.

  CHAPTER 50

  MY next call to Renna found him locked behind closed doors in an emergency meeting with city officials. I left an urgent request with the detective who picked up the phone that Renna track down the purchaser of the car dealerships previously owned by Mieko’s uncle, a trail left by one of Soga’s clients I hoped he might be able to follow.

  After hanging up, I scrolled through my address book for the Mainichi Newspaper and dialed Hiroshi Tomita’s direct line. Tomita was a Japanese journalist in his mid-forties who, in his early days, had taken down a dirty Liberal Democratic Party politician, a sleazy real estate baron, and a backroom loan shark company secretly funded by a major bank. After his third scoop, the foreign press tagged him with the nickname “Tommy-gun.”

  “Tommy? Brodie.”

  “Brodie-san, hisashiburi.” It’s been a long time.

  “Over a year. How’s the news business?”

  “Dull as August in Tokyo. Why?”

  “I have a few questions about Katsuyuki Hara and a company called Teq QX.”

  His voice grew cold. “You’re talking to the wrong guy, you know? I’m not covering any of that.”

  “But—”

  “Working on a piece about the glorious new monorail. Ultramodern design. World-class technology. Stupendous stuff!”

  It was hard to miss the artificial enthusiasm in his voice.

  “Tommy?”

  “Sorry, Brodie. Jenny-chan okay?”

  “Fine,” I said in a flat voice, waiting.

  “Well, give her my regards. See you next trip, if there’s time. Sayonara.”

  The line died and the dial tone buzzed in my ear. Well, you couldn’t send out signals any clearer than that.

  Replacing the receiver, I webbed my fingers behind my head, leaned back in my chair, and contemplated Jenny’s framed photograph, my father’s Bizen saké flask, his Japanese short sword, and the LAPD marksmanship award. Then I stared at the ceiling and let my mind wander. Ten minutes later, Mari patched through a call. When I lifted the phone to my ear, Tomita said, “Hey, monkey brain, you trying to get me fired?”

  “Now that you mention it, don’t know why they haven’t axed you yet.”

  “You keep asking sensitive questions over the office line, they might. They listen in.”

  “Never been a problem before.”

  “It is now. You like shogi?”

  Shogi is a traditional board game often referred to as Japanese chess. Rectangular wooden pieces with pointed triangular tips were moved across a varnished checkerboard, captured, reincarnated, and moved some more until the Jeweled General was checkmated.

  “Never had time for it.”

  “Make time. West Gate Park in Ikebukuro. Come alone. No one riding your tail, okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “No you don’t. Not by half.”

  —

  Once more, Noda and I took separate taxis in opposite directions. This time his driver circled around and hung two hundred yards behind mine. Staying in touch by cell phone, I arrived at the west exit of Ikebukuro Station, tailless, as God intended, wondering what Tomita was raving about.

  I paid the driver and plunged into the heavy foot traffic pouring from the station exits, with Noda somewhere behind me. My cell phone remained silent, which told me I still hadn’t drawn a shadow.

  West Gate Park lived up to its innocuous name, abutting the west side of Ikebukuro Station, a commuter hub on the northern edge of central Tokyo. The park was a slate-cobbled public square with sculpture, an amphitheater, and the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Space, a seven-story building sporting an atrium in the shape of a massive slashed cube.

  As I did before starting down a street in my old L.A. neighborhood, my eyes automatically swept the scene, dove into nooks and shadows, scrutinized each cluster of park inhabitants, looking for a furrowed brow directed my way, a surreptitious glance, any sign of a ripple in the accepted social fabric. All looked normal. The homeless lurked on the south side of the park, under a clutch of undernourished poplars. Teenagers with radios and guitars staked out the stage of the park’s amphitheater. Nearby, a skein of game boards sat on overturned plastic beer crates. Squatting on plastic bath stools, lanky professor types, taxi drivers, and retirees hunched over shogi boards, absorbed in the tactics of sending pieces forward into battle. No one looked threatening or out of sync or as if they didn’t belong.

  Scanning the crowd for Tomita, I strolled over to the players’ circle. The reporter was nowhere in sight. Making my second pass through the cluster of boards, an old man with silver hair and a Yomiuri Giants baseball cap called out, “You play shogi, gaijin-san?”

  Honorary foreigner. I groaned. One of those guys. Just what I needed.

  “No, sorry.”

  “Sure you do. Sit.”

  Right. Tommy must have sent him. No one would willingly corner a gaijin player. I sat on a yellow bath stool. The old man moved.

  “Your turn,” my opponent said.

  I nudged a piece forward, glancing around for Tommy.

  “Like this,” he said. “With wrist action, you know? Slap it down, manly-like.”

  Cantankerous and demanding. Where the hell was Tomita? Imitating the old man’s gesture, I made a second move.

  “You’re hopeless, Brodie-san. I’ll beat you in ten.” The voice had clarified, losing the geezer’s gravelly edge.

  I shot a look across the board without raising my head. Under a gray wig and three decades’ worth of makeup, I made out the reporter’s visage. I didn’t show the surprise I felt, but the transformation spooked me. I wouldn’t have known him if I’d smacked into him at Tokyo Station. Once again, I had the feeling I was in way too deep. Only Tomita’s voice, which he’d allowed me to hear stripped of age, gave him away.

  “Good,” he said. “Don’t look at me. Just make a move after mine, doesn’t matter how. From a distance, it’ll look fine. Keep your head bowed and move your lips as little as possible. Can you do that?”

  “Sure,” I said, bewildered that my simple question had birthed such a ruse. “But what’s going on?”

  “You’re only asking about one of the hottest stories of the year.”

  “I know the Nakamura killings are big news but—”

  “Not that. Hara. There’s a blackout on Hara. All but the killings.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “Move a piece. If you’re not playing you have to vacate the seat. Rules of the park.”

  I pushed a wooden marker forward, more confused than ever. Hara’s pain had been splashed over the front pages and still generated lead stories. Surely, Tomita was overreacting.

  “Tell me what you know,” I said again. “Especially about Teq QX.”

  “Aré ka?” That? “I should have guessed.”

  “Talk to me, Tommy.”

  “One thing first.”

  He removed a cell phone from his pocket and set it on the edge of the board.

  “I have men on all sides of the park, watching. Anyone approaches, the phone rings once. Twice, they’re coming fast. You leave fast. The best way is south, down the steps right behind you and through the lane of shops to the right.”

  “Jesus, Tomita.”

  All feeling drained from my limbs. Suddenly I was back in Soga, phantoms hovering in the darkness, every step a risk. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take.

  On edge and silently cursing myself for missing Tomita’s people, I said, “So what’s this about?”

  “There is a news blackout like I haven’t seen since th
e triple killing in Shin-Okubo. If you’ve got something, I want it.”

  “You feed me now, and I’ll fill you in when I know what the hell’s going on.”

  “Omae no motteiru joho o saki ni kure.” He wanted a sample of my wares before he divulged.

  “There isn’t time. I have someone watching my back too. As we speak.”

  “So they’re on you already?”

  “Big time. Give me background now and the stuff I have is yours later. Deal?”

  Tomita sensed my urgency. “You got it. But be warned. The pressure is intense. Any pro-Hara story gets killed. Dirt gets printed. Until the family got shot, any dirt on them saw print as well.”

  “When that happens, who’s behind it?”

  “Guesses are useless, Brodie-san. Top of the heap is your best bet, though.”

  “You say you have guys watching. What kind of guys?”

  “Other reporters like me. We back each other up. We know who strolls through the park and who lingers. If anyone crosses the square with purpose, we’ll know that too.”

  “You’ve done this before, then?”

  “Not for this story, but for others just as sensitive. I write it now, I lose my job. Got to time it so they can’t shut you down, or send you to terra incognita to report on the cherry blossom front.”

  “Teq QX. Tell me about it.”

  “It’s based in Taiwan, founded by two whiz kids. One American computer jock educated in Israel, and one Taiwanese software engineer schooled at Stanford. They developed a number of chip improvements. Patent fees to Sapporo and back. Then rumors started: they were on the verge of the next generation chip and revolutionizing microprocessor design; future of computers, wireless, ‘smart’ everything. Pachinko central. The Double Flower Jackpot. Then the acquisition battles began. The Chinese, Dutch, and a trio of Korean chaebols all have markers in. From your country, Intel’s leading the charge. But we Japanese are waging the biggest campaign, which is where you come in, right?”

  Chaebols are Korean family-owned conglomerates. The Big Five control most of the Korean domestic market.

  “Yeah, a walk-on part. Is Tokyo in deep?”

  “Government’s swinging away with the blessing of the Iron Triangle.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Gossip is not my business, Brodie-san.”

  Japan’s Iron Triangle was a secret network of high-echelon bureaucrats, industrialists, and politicians. The ministries and the pols rammed through laws and funding to support the triangle’s conglomerate needs and the companies returned the favors with large campaign contributions for pols and lucrative postretirement positions for bureaucrats.

  “Yeah, sorry. So who’s winning?”

  “Game’s not over yet. There are rumors that the Taiwanese government will step in to keep its native son home and more rumors that the Iron Triangle tried to buy off the chaebols with promises to share the technology, which just made the Koreans mad. At the moment, the Chinese, Koreans, and Japanese are the main contenders. In Japan, Hara’s CompTel Nippon, NEC, Fujitsu, and Toshiba are leading.”

  Great. I was in search of Soga’s client for Japantown and Tommy Tomita had just added most of Asia to the suspect list. “Aren’t the Japanese companies working together on this? They usually pool resources to lock up the technology.”

  “Yeah, they are. The ministries forced them. But Hara’s gone renegade. He’s ignoring the ministries, their regulations, the whole system. The big man figures it is the future, or at least a major piece in the jigsaw of global telecommunications for the next few decades. Americans and Dutch don’t figure it that way. They have other options.”

  Hara had always been a trailblazer, rising against all odds while fighting Japan Inc. in the trenches. Among the everyday citizenry he was a folk hero to be emulated, but the powers that be hated his lone-wolf tactics.

  “Who’s right?”

  “Doesn’t matter. If the Taiwanese government doesn’t intrude, it’s supposed to close any time now.”

  “With?”

  “Hara’s CTN.”

  From the moment Hara had gone after Teq QX on his own, the pressure must have been immense. Not only from the competition, but also from the Japanese government. According to Tommy, Hara had rebuffed all comers. According to Lizza, her father had hired a bodyguard once he’d become enamored of the Taiwan chipmaker.

  “So Hara’s a tiger or a spoiler, depending on who you talk to.”

  “My sources say the Japanese ministries are rabid. Foaming at the mouth.”

  The rebel Hara had gone against the tribe and a dozen-plus competitors, and one of them sicced Soga on him. Yet they chose to leave him standing. Why?

  “Has anyone put a price tag on Teq QX’s future earnings?”

  “Between two and five billion dollars U.S. annually within ten years.”

  More than enough motive. “But you have no idea who called the press blackout on Hara?”

  “None, Brodie-san. Sorry.”

  “Who might hate him enough to . . .”

  “Wipe out his family? I don’t know, but that’s what you’re after, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, is all. Thanks for the help, Tomita. I owe you the story if it breaks.”

  “You mean when. How about a taste now? I hear rumors you’re working for Hara.”

  So word had spread. “Keep it to yourself?”

  “Atarimae da yo.” Naturally.

  “You heard correctly.”

  Tomita grinned. “You’re the man, Brodie. Stay in touch, you hear? But watch yourself with Hara. You’ll get burned if you don’t.”

  Another spot-on warning delivered too late.

  “One last question,” I said. “What do you know about Goro Kozawa?”

  Tommy’s eyes glittered. “He involved, too?”

  I kept my mouth shut. Tomita got the message.

  “He’s hara guroi, a black-hearted one. If you’re dealing with him, watch your back, your pocketbook, and don’t trust a word out of that snake’s mouth.”

  Tension furrowed the lining of my stomach. My client was out to get me, and now Tommy was saying our latest ally was even more slippery.

  Tommy’s cell phone buzzed once. The next instant a single word in Japanese scrolled up its small screen. Nigero! Run!

  “Trouble,” Tommy said.

  Then it buzzed a second time.

  “Go! Get out of here, Brodie. Now!”

  I dashed for the corridor of shops Tommy had mentioned. In my peripheral vision, I caught rapid movements off to the far right. My attackers were twenty yards away and closing. A great flapping sound rose up as a cloud of pigeons launched itself. Two men cut through the birds, charging straight at me.

  I ran faster. Behind me I heard footsteps pounding the pavement. My cell phone rang. Noda had seen them also, but a beat too late.

  The shopping lane was crowded with foot traffic. I looked over my shoulder. A third man joined the chase, cutting in yards ahead of the first two and taking advantage of the path I cleared through the crowd. From three yards back, he drew a gun. He aimed. I sluiced left. A woman coming toward me with boutique shopping bags on her arm crumpled. I didn’t hear the shot, didn’t see a wound.

  I kept running.

  I figured Noda was around and closing—if he hadn’t lost me.

  In seconds, I knew the other two would be on me. Three men would be hard to handle on my own.

  I veered left down an alley and stepped into a crevice between buildings. The man with the gun raced past. I leapt out on his heels and brought the 9mm down on his skull. He folded. I ran on. The other two turned the corner and high-jumped over their fallen crony. I took a quick right, plowing between two men in gray suits. My pursuit gained. Their guns came out. I zigzagged. A pedestrian facing me wilted, his eyes rolling up in his head. I still didn’t hear anything or see a wound. What were they firing?

  I took another right and found myself in front of a ramen shop
whose back end opened on the passage I’d just been in down. I flew through the restaurant past a dozen startled customers slurping noodles from oversize bowls and charged out the back, then circled around the corner again and came out three dozen paces behind my pursuers. I’d accomplished the turnaround in thirty seconds, a counterintuitive South Central move taught to me by a middle-school-friend-turned-petty criminal now serving time in San Quentin.

  The pair ran on for another half block before they slowed, their eyes scanning the pedestrian traffic rapidly but calmly.

  I shifted my gun to my left hand.

  The men stopped. The taller of the two spoke and turned to glance back over his shoulder. I was on him then, smashing my right fist into the middle of his face. He dropped. His partner half-turned. I said, “Lose the gun,” in Japanese, the weapon in my left hand digging into his spine.

  He let his piece fall and I kicked it across the pavement.

  I heard another set of footfalls charging fast. I looked around.

  A fourth man, gun drawn, was five yards away and closing.

  Noda blindsided him from the left. They tumbled over each other and hit the pavement with a dull thud. Noda jammed an elbow in the gunman’s eye. He screamed and grabbed his face.

  My prisoner stirred.

  “Move again, I pull the trigger.”

  My captive eyed me with contempt. I pistol-whipped him before the contempt sprouted into rebellion. He buckled to the pavement.

  Noda was on his feet, his man motionless.

  People cowered up against storefronts, warily assessing the fallen bodies and our firearms. There was a police ministation two hundred yards back. No doubt someone had alerted them to the disturbance, or was about to. Either way, uniformed officers would arrive momentarily.

  Noda grabbed my elbow and shepherded me away from the scene. “Nice takedown.”

  “Good to be appreciated by a pro.”

  Noda frowned. “Stay focused.”

  “Am. What was that about?”

  We blended into the stream of people heading for the station.