Shadows of Tokyo (Reiko Watanabe / Inspector Aizawa Book 1)

by Matthew Legare

  Such straightforwardness for a Japanese man! She didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved to be spared idiotic small talk. Still, better to just deny everything and ask him to leave.

  “I honestly don’t…wait, how did you find my apartment?”

  The Inspector gave a confident smile. “Easily. You had an altercation with your landlady back in March. She said you hadn’t paid the rent and the Police were called in. I simply consulted the report.”

  She sighed, recalling the incident. It was right before she’d met Masaru who then began paying her rent, saving her from eviction.

  “That may be, Inspector, but—”

  The jazz music on the radio cut out and gave way to a crisp announcer.

  “Special bulletin! Special bulletin! Important news regarding the nation! His Imperial Majesty has now offered the government to Tsuyoshi Inukai, president of the Seiyukai Party. Inukai-san has now become the twenty-ninth prime minister of Japan. Further details about his cabinet have not been released, but it is suspected that Korekiyo Takahashi will serve as finance minister. In accordance with this, Prime Minister Inukai has issued a statement that has effectively ended gold exports. Citizens are to be advised of a sudden inflation of prices as high as forty percent. Please stay tuned for more details.”

  The announcer faded out, replaced by the jazzy melody of “My Blue Heaven.”

  “That broadcast means the overthrow of the government,” Aizawa said, staring at the radio. “Unless you tell me where Ryusaki is.”

  “Inspector…I…”

  He snapped his neck around and snarled, “Stop lying! I recognize your voice. You’re the woman who called me. Why do you deny it?”

  Yes, why was she still lying? He could see right through her, so what was the point? Maybe there was a little loyalty left in her. Still, the game was over. Time to forfeit.

  “It’s over, Inspector. We lost.”

  The muscles in Aizawa’s taut, squared face looked ready to snap like ropes. “No, we haven’t. Tell me where he is or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what, Inspector?”

  Reiko clenched her fists and braced herself. But the Inspector backed off and began pacing back and forth between the posters of Louise Brooks and Anna May Wong.

  “You don’t realize what’s at stake…” he muttered. “You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”

  Reiko let out a bitter laugh. “No one understands Masaru Ryusaki better than me.”

  The Inspector stopped in his tracks. “Then why won’t you help me now?”

  “Even if you arrested him, he has enough friends to make sure he’d be out by morning. Just like last time.”

  Shame flashed across the Inspector’s face, forcing him to look away. Instead, he focused his attention toward the open closet, stuffed with pea coats, drop waist dresses, cloche hats, skirts, a black kimono, and her shimada wig.

  “You’re a geisha?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And a moga?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned back to her. Shame and anger had left his face, replaced by an eerie confusion. “Who are you, Watanabe-san?”

  Reiko let the question settle in her mind. She’d been meaning to ask herself that for years and always put it off, probably because she wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Whatever I need to be,” was the best she could offer.

  “I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a woman accustomed to being spoiled and pampered. Does Masaru Ryusaki spend all of the money he gets from General Sakamoto,” he gestured to the open closet as if it were a sewer, “on that?”

  Reiko could tell where this was going. “Yes, yes. I know there’s a depression and I’m some selfish little moga with ritzy clothes and gaudy jewelry. I should be ashamed but I’m not.”

  The Inspector clutched his fedora so tight it looked ready to rip apart. “Tonight while you sleep in your warm apartment, think of the men forced to live on benches in Ueno Park and our soldiers in Manchuria.”

  “Don’t try this with me, Inspector, because I gave up on shame long ago. You think the depression has hurt working men? My heart goes out to them, but do you shed tears for the unemployed secretaries and salesgirls? All of whom were laid off because businesses figured they couldn’t afford to employ women any longer?”

  Inspector Aizawa said nothing but continued with an accusatory stare.

  “And when the working women of Japan were fired, what did their bosses tell them? ‘Get married! Your husband will take care of you!’ Never mind the fact that no man wants to settle down and start a family in these troubled times! So I had to make a choice, Inspector. You see, shame only works for those who have pride to lose.”

  The Inspector broke his stare and pulled a packet out of his coat. He removed two glossy photographs and tossed them on the bed, like a gambler playing his last hand. A few quick glances told her all she needed to know. She’d seen bodies like that before; her parents after their little house of wood and paper collapsed and turned them into butchered meat. Well played, Inspector.

  “You may not have pride but you must have some honor left,” he said. “That policeman was Sergeant Toru Murayama. He leaves behind a widow and three children. The Baron and Baroness Onishi died in each other’s arms. According to the official report, it took three junsas to pry Onishi’s grip off his wife.”

  Reiko turned, straining to keep the tears at bay. How pathetic. Shame had worked after all. After a moment, she composed herself and faced the Inspector.

  “Watanabe-san, Japan is faced with two futures. Either we are a nation of laws,” he pointed to the photographs, “or that.”

  Reiko sighed and rubbed her temple. She must have looked like she needed a smoke because the Inspector offered her a lit Golden Bat. After a few drags, she sat back on the bed.

  “At least give me time to think it over. I’ll telephone you later.”

  “No, my line might be bugged,” the Inspector said, donning his fedora. He gathered up the photographs and crammed them inside his coat. “Meet me in a public place.”

  Reiko glanced over at the issue of Kinema Junpo. “What about the cinema?” She handed the magazine over. Aizawa thumbed through it with a tepid expression.

  “One that’s not crowded,” he said. “What about The Neighbor’s Wife and Mine?”

  “The talkie? It sells out every show.”

  Aizawa flipped through a few more pages. “How about Sword of Justice?”

  She’d seen the film back in October, with Masaru, and remembered grabbing his hand during the thrilling sword fights. “That’s fine. It’s playing at the Denkikan Theater.”

  “How long will you take?” the Inspector asked, tossing the magazine aside.

  “As long as I need,” she said. “And by the way, Inspector I know how to lose a tail. So please don’t get any ideas about following me back to his house.”

  The Inspector said nothing as he walked out, leaving Reiko alone with her thoughts and the fading strains of “My Blue Heaven.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Aizawa stepped out of the apartment building and back into Asakusa’s stream of people. If Azabu was the city’s most refined area, then Asakusa was its evil twin. The further east you went in Tokyo, the deeper you sank.

  Completely destroyed during the Great Earthquake, Asakusa had rebuilt itself as the capital of ero guro nansensu, erotic grotesque nonsense. Whenever a store was robbed or a mistress murdered, the suspect was likely hiding out here. A ferocious chill blew off the Sumida River, only a few blocks away, prompting him to walk faster. Rubbing his hands for warmth, Aizawa regretted leaving Baron Onishi’s Rolls-Royce back at Metropolitan Police Headquarters. However, one look at some of the riff-raff clustered in Asakusa’s narrow alleyways told him that such an alluring target wouldn’t last long in this part of town.

  Aizawa soon passed by the Kaminari Gate, which led to the oldest Buddhist temple in Tokyo, the Senso-ji. Throngs of people passe
d under it, while groups of rickshaw men called out for business. An appealing thought, but Asakusa’s streets were so crammed full of life that it was quicker to be carried by their current. Aizawa turned and found himself on a street packed with souvenir shops, selling everything from toy soldiers and model battleships, to parasols and masks of oni demons.

  Aizawa turned again and was on a less crowded street, packed with food carts and stalls. Men and women slurped bowls of noodles near a ramen cart, merchants hawked sweet chestnuts, while scruffy children lined up at a stall selling Glico caramel candy. As Aizawa passed, they eyed him like pickpockets sizing up a mark. He made another detour and strolled past the gambling halls. Each entrance was guarded by narrow-eyed men with tattoos creeping up their necks and down their arms; the uniform of the yakuza gangs. Aizawa kept his head low and kept walking.

  Up ahead was a street band wearing samurai costumes, led by a smiling woman in light green kimono and twirling a trumpet like a baton. They struck up a number of songs, “Tokyo Bushi,” “Dinah,” “Bye Bye Blackbird,” and even a jazzy version of the national anthem, “Kimigayo.” It was astounding that such frivolity still existed in Japan. Asakusa was like a hospital patient who hadn’t been told its condition was fatal.

  Aizawa turned the corner again, leading him into the Rokku, the theater district. Rows of neon marquees advertised Bela Lugosi in Dracula, Tokihiko Okada in The Lady and the Beard, and Kinuyo Tanaka in The Neighbor’s Wife and Mine, which had a line out the door.

  The Denkikan Theater was less busy. Posters for Sword of Justice hung outside, showing a dashing samurai, wearing a top-knot and brandishing a drawn katana, facing down an army of grubby-looking bandits. A beautiful woman in an elegant kimono cowered beside him, obviously the love interest.

  Still standing since the turn of the century, the Denkikan had somehow withstood the Great Earthquake, as if protected by the gods of cinema. How many of those old films had disappeared on that sunny September day? Entire worlds had been lost forever, burnt along with Tokyo’s past.

  Aizawa bought a ticket and entered a deserted lobby, decorated with placards that promised talkies by early next year. He walked past an unmanned usher stand and into the theater. The flickering projector light illuminated a sparse crowd. Some moviegoers were transfixed while others, with unshaven faces and threadbare clothes, snored away. Movie theaters always offered a temporary refuge for the homeless, especially in winter.

  Next to the screen stood a benshi narrator who provided live dialogue and commentary for silent pictures. He had already begun his act and was halfway through a grainy news film. No matter, since once admission was paid you could watch the show as many times as you wanted. However, most people left when the benshi did, since bombastic narration of these silent pictures had given them voices long before the talkies premiered.

  The screen panned over a column of marching soldiers in heavy coats and steel helmets. An intertitle declared “The Kwantung Army advances!”

  “March on brave soldiers!” the benshi cried. “Ah, our soldiers are human bullets for the Emperor!”

  A military march rang out from an upstairs piano while onscreen, armored cars and tanks rumbled over the snowy plains. Another intertitle exclaimed, “Triumph at Tsitsihar!” A wide shot showed soldiers waving Rising Sun flags from rooftops and raising their arms in a banzai cheer.

  “After a fierce battle, the Kwantung Army expelled the enemy forces from the city of Tsitsihar. The Chinese bandit defenders have fled across the Soviet border in disarray. Now, only Chinchow and Harbin remain in enemy hands. Soon, Japanese and Chinese will work together like brothers to keep Manchuria cleansed of banditry and warlords forever! Banzai to the Kwantung Army!”

  “Banzais” erupted from the audience, even from those who looked asleep. The march died out, replaced by a morose tune. Onscreen, a line of soldiers carried white boxes with bowed, sullen heads. “Funeral service for fallen comrades,” read the intertitle. The benshi said nothing, but the film had its desired effect. No matter how bad things got in Tokyo, the soldiers had it worse. You couldn’t escape shame, even at the cinema.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Rubbing her gloved hands together, Reiko cursed Masaru with frosted breath. Why did he make her come out here in the cold, just to entertain that rice farmer? If he expected her to dress like a geisha then he was in for a disappointment. Hajime Nakajima wasn’t worth applying elaborate makeup and asking her neighbor to tie her obi belt. On an icy night like this, she couldn’t imagine wearing anything but her blue pea coat, matching cloche hat, brown leather gloves, and most of all, stockings.

  Asakusa was its usual lively self and the streets were clogged with its spawn. Reiko imagined Inspector Aizawa wading through the crowds like a turtle in a sea of sharks. His words and those horrific photographs haunted her mind as she considered her options. She could lead Inspector Aizawa directly to Masaru, but with powerful allies like Superintendent Shimura and General Sakamoto, another arrest would be futile. They’d ensure Masaru’s release again and where would that leave her? Probably without a head.

  However, if she kept her mouth shut, she’d be the mistress to one of the most powerful men in Japan. But what about those who might die in the approaching coup? Maybe she could convince Inspector Aizawa to leave town since he’d probably be standing before a firing squad by the end of the year.

  Both were bad options, but which was worse? She’d have to decide later since Masaru’s machiya was already in view, alive with lights and song. Reiko entered the genkan vestibule and found a row of shoes next to a pair of black boots. She removed her heels and tore off her cloche hat before walking into the main room of the machiya.

  Seven men, wearing kimonos or rumpled Western suits, knelt alongside Hajime Nakajima, who had unbuttoned the collar on his uniform. Empty beer bottles lay scattered on the floor and not a single man looked sober, not even the Lieutenant. They gathered around a crackling phonograph that blared “If Ten Thousand Enemies Should Come,” that horrible song the Army played over the radio before announcing the capture of some insignificant Manchurian town. Bawling the lyrics, they almost slumped over before the song was even finished. Only Lieutenant Nakajima maintained perfect poise, despite a red glow in his soft cheeks.

  From the side, Masaru approached and embraced her.

  “Masaru!” she squealed, squirming away. His face was also a deep crimson, explaining his lapse in modesty. Men were always so quick to forget their inhibitions after a few toasts. “You’ve been drinking too much!”

  “Yes, and I want you to join me,” he said, handing her a bottle of Kirin beer. Suddenly, his bleary eyes narrowed and he leaned in closer. “Why aren’t you dressed as a geisha?” he whispered.

  Reiko had been so focused on the weather that she didn’t consider how the rest of the Kusanagi Society might react to a decadent moga instead of the elegant geisha they were used to. She tried to think of some placating excuse when one of the patriots called out, “Ryusaki-sensei, who’s the moga?”

  “What? Don’t you recognize me?” Reiko turned and struck her most refined pose.

  The Kusanagi Society stared with slackened jaws before showering her with smiles.

  “That’s Harutora-san?”

  “What a looker!”

  “A great patriot like Ryusaki-sensei deserves such a beautiful woman!”

  Reiko looked back at Masaru with a bright smile. The Kusanagi Society was too drunk to care whether she was a geisha or a moga...except for Lieutenant Nakajima, who sat fuming in silence beside the phonograph.

  Reiko raised the beer bottle and said, “A toast! To Second Lieutenant Hajime Nakajima and our great victory! Kanpai!”

  “Kanpai!” the men toasted.

  Masaru raised his bottle. “Another toast! It was you seven patriots who helped me found the Kusanagi Society earlier this year. As our ranks continue to grow, I will never forget the faith you placed in me.”

  The men gave a loud cheer
. Masaru leaned over to Reiko and said, “Ask the Lieutenant what he wants. This is his sokokai after all.”

  The final indignity. Time to play the dutiful geisha again. She took a swig of her beer and knelt beside him.

  “Nakajima-zzzzzan,” she hissed, hoping her contempt would show. “What do you want to do? We could play games…do they play games up north? Rice picking, perhaps? Or I could sing one of your little military songs…”

  “I want to know why you’re not wearing your geisha costume,” he snapped.

  Reiko forced a smile and gripped her skirt. “Now now, Nakajima-san…I know the Army hasn’t taught you much about women but geisha don’t always wear face paint or kimonos.”

  The patriots chuckled drunkenly and Nakajima’s face reddened further.

  “I can’t decide whether you’re worse as a geisha or as a…moga,” Nakajima said, practically vomiting the last word.

  “That’s enough, Nakajima-san!” Masaru said. “Show Reiko proper respect. Without her, you might still be Aizawa’s prisoner.”

  Nakajima lowered his head. “Forgive me zensei. I don’t drink very often.”

  Reiko released the grip on her skirt and stood. She wasn’t going to let him get away with weeks of snide comments and turning Masaru into this assassination-plotting madman. If this was to be the last time they saw each other, she had a few things to say.

  “Attention everyone! In honor of Nakajima-san’s departure, I would like to perform a one-act play titled Lieutenant Nakajima’s Manchurian Adventure!”

  Masaru and his patriots, except for Nakajima, applauded. Reiko sprang up and darted back to the genkan vestibule. In a gray and brown pile of flat hats and fedoras, the bright red band and brass star on Nakajima’s peaked service cap seemed to burst out with color. She plopped it on her head and tugged on the black boots. Marching out, she snapped a salute and clicked her heels.