He sighed. “Fine. I’ll meet you there at around four o’clock.”
A smile enveloped her face. Although the situation looked bleak, an evening at Harlem was her best chance to snap Masaru permanently back to sanity.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Reiko said, “I need to go change into something I can fox-trot in.”
*****
Aizawa glanced at his watch and cursed. It was ten past four and he dreaded keeping Baron Onishi waiting. Frustrated, he quickened his pace back to Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Although he’d spent the entire morning and afternoon searching all over Tokyo, he had nothing to show for it. Every old lead and contact proved useless in his search to find Masaru Ryusaki’s new residence. The Ryusaki family estate in the Roppongi neighborhood had remained derelict since March. He was most likely slumming in the eastern part of the city, but there were hundreds of holes that spider could crawl into.
Aizawa reviewed the timeline again in his mind. A year ago, Ryusaki published his book. In January, he founded the Kusanagi Society, which began collecting members and high explosives. In March, Aizawa infiltrated the group and personally arrested its sensei. But after his release, Ryusaki had vanished like a bad dream.
Metropolitan Police Headquarters came into view along with a sleek Roll-Royce Phantom parked outside the steps. They must have seen him approaching because the junsa hopped out of the back seat and held the door open for Onishi. The Baron exited and fixed Aizawa with a disapproving stare.
“Forgive me, Baron,” Aizawa said after bowing. “I’ve had a busy day.”
“So, you’ve found this soshi who wants to assassinate me?”
“No…not yet.”
“I see. And what about the other soshi? Has he confessed?”
“No…not yet.” Aizawa turned to the junsa. “You’re dismissed. Good work. Go home and get some sleep.”
The junsa saluted, gave a respectful bow to Baron Onishi, and marched off.
“He never left my side once, except when I had to relieve myself,” the Baron said.
Aizawa didn’t know whether or not that was a compliment but allowed himself a proud smile as he followed Onishi into the Rolls-Royce.
*****
Lieutenant Nakajima steadied the shaking Arisaka rifle in his hands. Was he nervous or just cold from the crisp air seeping in through the open window? Whatever it was, he couldn’t let it affect him. His destiny was approaching fast. Baron Onishi would soon appear on the street below, directly in his crosshairs.
After kicking the regular staff out, by orders of General Sakamoto, he’d spent the afternoon converting the Army recruiting office into a makeshift sniper nest. Even though he hadn’t fired a gun since his graduation from the Imperial Army Academy, such details didn’t matter. Soon, all of the corrupt villains in Tokyo would fear for their lives.
In his mind, Nakajima reread a letter he’d received from his mother, little over a month ago. In agonizing detail, she had told him about the hunger pains, the grinding poverty, and their rice farm ravaged by famine. Most likely, she conceded, the whole Nakajima family, her, his father, and his older brother, would all starve to death by spring. Unfortunately, they’d already sold their only daughter, Chitose, to the brothels some ten years ago. That well had gone dry long ago.
But once General Sakamoto became the new shogun, he’d seize extravagant fortunes from men like Baron Onishi and redistribute them to the poor. If only his family knew that help would soon arrive. Ah, he couldn’t wait to fire a bullet straight into the heart of evil, saving not only his family but the entire nation.
From the open fifth-story window, Nakajima surveyed the bustling Marunouchi district for what must have been the twentieth time. It was toward the end of the work day and dozens of salarymen, stock traders, and finance drones crisscrossed each other, exiting the enormous eight-story Marunouchi Building, the Maru-Biru, directly across the street. Inside, men in three-piece suits decided the fate of millions through schemes and intrigue.
Below, Marunouchi was a sea of American cars; Model A Fords, Plymouth Chryslers, and Buick Coupes flowed by like the Sumida River. Added to their ranks was a flashy Rolls-Royce that slid to a halt in front of the Maru-Biru. The chauffeur hopped out and opened the passenger door. Baron Onishi emerged, donned his top hat, and headed toward the Maru-Biru’s entrance. Every god in the Shinto pantheon screamed to open fire.
Nakajima angled for a clear shot, but pulsating adrenaline distorted his aim. The crosshairs finally aligned with Baron Onishi’s gray face but before he could pull the trigger, a tramcar surged by, obscuring his view. When it passed, Onishi was already entering the Maru-Biru, followed by a man in a black overcoat and fedora.
Inspector Aizawa.
Lieutenant Nakajima slid the crosshairs over the Inspector’s head and for a brief moment, considered pulling the trigger. No, such a fate befitted scheming villains like Baron Onishi, not honorable men carrying out their duty. The Inspector would have to be dealt with some other way.
But for now, he’d wait. The Baron would have to exit sometime.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Reiko gripped the receiver as a low voice answered.
“Metropolitan Police Station.”
“Yes, is Inspector Aizawa there?”
“No, may I take a message?”
Reiko hung the receiver up and heaved a deep sigh. She’d called three times today but Aizawa was nowhere near his office. Looking up, she stared at the worried reflection in the telephone booth glass. She still wore eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick but white greasepaint no longer hid her face.
Instead of a shimada wig, her hair was a chic bob topped with a blue cloche hat. In place of her kimono, she wore a dark blue pea coat, pleated wool skirt, and held a beaded handbag. A pair of brown leather gloves and matching heels completed her transformation from geisha to moga, a modern girl.
Reiko stepped out of the telephone booth where a cold breeze met her. Rubbing her gloved hands together, she tried to soak up the last remaining rays of sunlight. Soon, electric lights would bathe Ginza in a neon glow. The fancy foreign restaurants, department stores, boutiques, and nightclubs held a charm second only to Asakusa. Not only was Ginza the most modern part of Tokyo, rivaling Times Square, Piccadilly Circus, and the Bund, it was also where Masaru and she had met back in March. She’d always be thankful for that.
Unfortunately, there weren’t many people taking in Ginza’s beauty. While a steady stream of automobiles and rickshaws passed through the street, most pedestrians looked like the wealthiest Tokyoites. As they tossed their cigarette butts onto the pavement, a few ragged-looking men in worn-out coats scooped them up, thirsty for tobacco.
Looking up, Reiko saw Masaru walking toward her. He had undergone a similar transformation himself. Instead of a kimono, a blue suit and overcoat framed his slender body. A matching fedora topped his head, partly concealing his dour face.
Reiko couldn’t suppress a smile at the sight: Masaru had returned to his roots as a mobo, a modern boy. Appropriate, since they were headed to Tokyo’s best jazz club, Harlem, where nice mobos took their mogas.
“Harutora,” he said, looking her over.
“It’s Reiko now.”
“Yes...Reiko. You look stunning.”
She smiled. “You look handsome yourself. Like a Japanese Harold Lloyd.”
He scanned his outfit with less enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry for being late. I needed to change into clothes that wouldn’t draw attention here.”
“Don’t apologize. You look good in a Western suit,” she said, taking his arm.
They walked across the street and into an alley. Harlem was made to look like an American speakeasy, unmarked and exclusive. After knocking, the door opened and they entered a secluded world of jazz. Trumpets squealed, saxophones blared, and the air was hazy from cigarette smoke, just as she remembered it. Most comforting of all were the portraits of the living gods of jazz, still hanging in the lobby
. Duke Ellington, King Oliver, and Cab Calloway smiled back like old friends.
A smiling waitress, clad in kimono and white apron, led them to a table across from the small dance floor and even smaller band, clad in black suits and blackface. Smallest of all was the clientele, made up of what looked like homesick foreign diplomats, businessmen and their mistresses, and a paltry showing of mogas and mobos.
“Anything to drink?” the waitress asked.
“A gimlet for her and I’ll have a Kirin beer,” Masaru said.
The waitress bowed and soon returned with their drinks. The blackface band struck up “Alligator Hop”. Reiko sipped her gimlet and tapped a foot to the beat. Masaru took a swig of his beer before slamming it down.
“Masaru, you can stop pretending that you hate jazz. Nakajima isn’t here.”
Masaru said nothing and took another gulp.
“Does this place remind you of San Francisco?”
Masaru stared at the blackface band and empty dance floor before responding. “Not really. The government had outlawed alcohol so we had to drink in secret.”
“In speakeasies, right?”
He nodded. “The first time I went to one, there was a raid. I begged a policeman on my hands and knees to let me go, telling him what shame an arrest would cause my family.”
She leaned in. “What happened?”
Masaru gave a bright smile. “The officer lifted me up and said, ‘Son, I’m just looking for a bribe.’”
Reiko giggled and said, “Go on...”
“Another time, King Oliver himself asked me onstage and requested I sing ‘Royal Garden Blues’ in Japanese. I don’t think I’d ever been happier.”
So, the mobo was trying to escape that samurai armor. When the band commenced with “The Charleston”, she saw an opportunity to help bring him out even further.
“There’s plenty of space on the floor,” she said, sipping her gimlet. “I wish some dashing mobo would ask me to dance.”
Masaru looked hesitant, but when Reiko pouted her lips and gave a wistful stare, he stood and stretched out his hand. She took it and together they strolled out to the dance floor with “The Charleston” in full swing. Masaru led, animated by the music.
They kicked their legs, stepped the steps, and waved their arms. They flowed with the song, like a ship adrift during a storm. “The Charleston” was confidence, passion, and freedom put into tempo. She resisted the urge to kick off her heels to gain extra mobility and dutifully spun when Masaru twirled her.
The music stopped, followed by sparse applause, allowing her to catch her breath. Masaru mopped sweat from his brow and smiled brightly. She couldn’t contain a sigh. He looked so handsome when he smiled like that. What would Lieutenant Nakajima think if he could see them now? She tensed at the thought of that devil soldier shooting at Baron Onishi from an open window, like some sort of American gangster.
Of course! Aizawa must be with Onishi at the Marunouchi Building! She glanced at her watch. Half past four. There might still be time left if she hurried.
“Would you excuse me, Masaru? It’s so hot in here…the cold air might do me some good.”
Masaru nodded her dismissal. She eased out of the main hall, threw on her pea coat, and fled out the front door. Sprinting, she crossed the street and entered the phone booth. After depositing five sen, she called the main office of Takano Bank.
“Takano Bank,” a voice answered.
“Is Inspector Aizawa there?” she cried out, her voice ricocheting off the glass.
“Hold please.”
As moments passed in silence, Reiko gripped the receiver tighter and prayed she wasn’t too late.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Isamu Takano’s office was larger than Aizawa thought possible in the overcrowded beehive of Tokyo. Carpeted floor, a large oak table, stock ticker, and a beige globe perched atop a mahogany desk looked like something on Wall Street. Only a framed portrait of the Emperor in ceremonial uniform rooted the office in Japan.
Three men were gathered around the table. Takano was easiest to identify by his three-piece suit and flashy Rolex, but also because his chiseled, distinguished face made regular appearances in the press.
According to the newspapers, Takano Bank had risen to prominence at the turn of the century, even loaning the government money during the Russo-Japanese War. However, two years before the stock market crash on Wall Street, Japan suffered its own financial panic that almost ruined Takano along with countless other bankers.
But strangely enough, Takano was one of the few zaibatsu who had somehow survived the 1927 crisis and the depression so far. His ability to weather economic storms led to the joke that Isamu Takano didn’t pray to Daikoku, the god of wealth, but employed him as a bank teller.
Tsuyoshi Inukai’s beard and diminutive figure identified him, but he’d never seen the last man, a tall Army officer. The man’s masklike face was decorated with hooded eyes and a gray goatee and his dark brown uniform was encrusted with glittering medals. Most impressive were the gold-colored shoulder tabs with three stars, proclaiming his rank of taisho, a full general.
Bows were exchanged, differing according to prestige and stature, with Aizawa always lowering himself the deepest. Not that it bothered him. Outsiders rarely saw the machinery of government stripped bare, and here he was with a front-row seat.
“Baron Onishi, thank you for joining us,” Takano said after bowing. “Allow me to introduce Inukai-san. And you are already acquainted with Vice-Minister of the Army, General Yori Sakamoto.”
“And this is Inspector Aizawa of the Metropolitan Police,” the Baron said flatly.
The three men traded concerned looks with each other.
“While I have the utmost respect for the Police,” General Sakamoto began, “I would prefer to conduct this meeting in private. Even Army Minister Minami doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Such intrigue,” Takano said with a laugh, offering the Baron a seat. The others sat back down, leaving Aizawa to stand near the belching stock ticker.
Onishi said, “I understand your concern, General, but the Inspector is not investigating anyone here. He’s concerned only for my safety.”
“Yes, I heard about the incident outside of the Diet. I’m glad you’re safe,” Inukai said, then shook his head. “No one is more hated than Dietmen these days.”
“Bankers are a close second,” Takano said, chuckling. “The nationalist press claims we all must have Chinese ancestry to be so money-hungry.”
“If the Baron feels unsafe here, perhaps we could relocate the meeting somewhere else,” Sakamoto said.
Baron Onishi forced a smile and glanced over at Aizawa who understood he was being dismissed. His glimpse behind the paper screen had been fleeting. It was, after all, taboo to see kabuki actors without their makeup. He gave a departing bow and walked out of the office. Aizawa closed the heavy wooden door behind him but made sure to leave a slight crack open. If he had learned one thing from Superintendent Shimura, it was that there was nothing dishonorable with a policeman eavesdropping.
After predictable small talk, Takano steered the conversation to the business at hand.
“Gentlemen, the Imperial advisers are meeting with His Majesty to decide who to appoint prime minister. Whoever it is, he will have a difficult time governing. Baron Onishi, you may have the support of aristocrats in the House of Peers, but the political parties in both chambers will block whatever policy you enact. And Inukai-san, the Minsei Party is still the majority bloc in the Diet and will not yield ground to your Seiyukai.
“I suggest a coalition government. Onishi-san becomes prime minister, Inukai-san becomes finance minister, and General Sakamoto becomes the army minister, thus creating a united front against the Minsei Party.”
“And what about the Imperial Army?” Baron Onishi asked. “We must reign in its wanton behavior.”
“As army minister, my first order will be to purge these hotheaded extremists from active duty,
” General Sakamoto cut in.
“Up until last month, weren’t you one of those hotheads, General?”
“Times change, Baron. Certain incidents…tempered me.”
“Regardless, General Sakamoto is willing to serve in either of your governments,” Takano said diplomatically.
“However,” Inukai cut in, “leaving Manchuria is out of the question. Regardless of the insubordinate way it began, our forces will soon occupy the entire region.”
“I agree, Inukai-san,” Baron Onishi said. “Withdrawing now will cause a tremendous loss of face. But we cannot have further military action without approval from the civilian government. The League of Nations frowns upon flagrant militarism. It reminds them of the German Kaiser during the World War. Many in the West already see our empire as the Yellow Peril. We will gain a reputation as some sort of South American nation if we do not re-establish discipline.”
“The Army will obey whatever orders I issue,” General Sakamoto said. “Currently, that boy warlord, Chang Hsüeh-liang, has garrisoned the bulk of his troops in the southern city of Chinchow. Harbin in the north is also controlled by enemy forces. These two strongholds are all that remain of the opposition in Manchuria.”
“What about Chiang Kai-shek?” Baron Onishi asked.
“The Generalissimo is too busy fighting the Communists in China’s southern provinces to assist his allies up north. He’s no threat to us,” Sakamoto said. “As Takano-san mentioned, the Chinese are a greedy race of merchants and mercenaries. Their soldiers fight for loot, not China.”
“And the Soviet Union?”
General Sakamoto laughed. “Another fake warrior playing with his toy sword.”
High-heeled footsteps approached, prompting Aizawa to look up.
Takano’s secretary gave a polite bow and said, “Inspector, there’s a call for you.”
Aizawa nodded and followed her out of the hallway and into the main lobby where a phone receiver waited on her desk.
Shadows of Tokyo (Reiko Watanabe / Inspector Aizawa Book 1) Page 7