The Toyotomi Blades (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 2)

by Dale Furutani

  “Well, have fun.”

  “Oh!”

  “What is it?”

  “I almost forgot the most exciting news of all.”

  “More exciting than potential muggings?”

  “Yes, because this news means money.”

  “Some producer has seen your TV piece and wants you to star in a Japanese soap opera.”

  “Get serious. The researcher on the News Pop show says the sword I bought may be rare and could be worth a lot of money.”

  “Like millions?”

  “Probably thousands, but certainly a lot more than I paid for it.”

  “That is exciting!”

  We said the usual lovey-dovey things you say and I hung up. I watched some TV to kill time. They run English language movies late at night in the hotel, probably because difficulty adjusting to the time shift is a common occurrence. There was a button on the TV where you could hear the original English soundtrack or a dubbed Japanese version. We have the same thing in Los Angeles, where you can hear many programs in English or Spanish.

  They were playing the original Alien with Sigourney Weaver, one of my favorite science fiction films. I also like Them, starring Jim Arness and giant ants, and a whole host of old Japanese movies like Rodan (it inspired me to learn how to spell pterodactyl long before dinosaurs became popular), Gammera (who could not like a giant, spinning, jet-propelled turtle?), and Godzilla (the original English-language version, not the 1985 remake). In other words, I’m a film buff. I watched Sigourney dodge the creepy alien until I got sleepy again, and nodded off before she was finally able to blast the creature into outer space.

  The next morning, the rigors of foreign travel didn’t look too stressful in the face of the really foreign travel of science fiction films. I ate another expensive breakfast and spent the day in Ueno Park looking at museums. In the late afternoon, I went to the studio and met with Junko. She said she was still waiting to hear back from the professor, but that she wanted to incorporate some information about the sword during the interview.

  Buzz Sugimoto met me at Junko’s desk. He was dressed just as I saw him at the airport, looking like an Asian, and aging, James Dean. As promised, he said he would take me to a real family-style Tokyo restaurant and we took the Yamanote line to Meguro station. From there, it was just a minute’s walk to the restaurant.

  The restaurant was large, cheerful, and crowded. Diners sat at a long polished wooden counter while the cooks worked on the other side. The specialty of the house was tonkatsu, a breaded pork cutlet, deep-fried and served with a special sauce on a bed of finely shredded cabbage. The restaurant’s name, Tonki, fit with the name of the dish.

  “I used to come here in my student days,” Buzz said. “This is a typical neighborhood restaurant here in Tokyo, quite different than the ones we normally go to when we’re on expense account.” We had to wait for a place, sitting along the wall with about thirty other people. There seemed to be a constant ebb and flow of people entering and leaving the restaurant.

  “How do we know when it’s our turn?” I asked.

  “The woman by the cash register saw us enter. When it’s our turn she’ll call us up.”

  I was a little skeptical of the woman’s ability to keep all the new arrivals in order without notes or even a glance towards the door as new customers came in, but sure enough, we were called up in the proper sequence.

  The pork cutlets were cooked in front of us in large vats of hot oil. The cooks were all veterans with hands scarred pink and brown from splattering oil. They worked over the vats using extremely long metal chopsticks, seemingly oblivious to the heat and jumping oil from the vats. I thought this might be a boring job, but many Japanese craftsmen seem to have a very Zen-like approach to this kind of career, carefully perfecting their craft though diligent repetition. It’s something we seem to have forgotten in the U.S., where we’re always seeking novelty in the things we do. The thought of spending a lifetime to perfect something as simple as frying a pork cutlet is a notion we can’t fathom.

  There’s a story about old-time Tokyo oil sellers that illustrates this attitude. In the 1920s these peddlers used to walk around neighborhoods with a big jug of oil slung on their backs, crying out their wares. A local resident would come out with a pot to buy oil, and the seller would tip the big jug and pour out the purchased oil into the pot. One local oil seller was famous because he would take a Japanese coin that has a small 1/8-inch hole in the center and pour the oil through the hole without getting any on the coin. A visiting tourist once saw this demonstration and exclaimed, “What skill!” The oil seller looked at the tourist and said, “That is not skill. It is practice.”

  The food was good and filling and I decided that fast-food tonkatsu could be a big money maker in the states. During the dinner, I mentioned the two muggers and I asked Sugimoto if he thought I should report the incident to the police.

  “You want to stay away from Japanese cops. They’re terrible.”

  “What do you mean?” I was surprised.

  “There’s a story about an emperor in China who had three suspects for a crime,” Sugimoto said. “The emperor didn’t know who the real criminal was, but he knew one of the three had to be guilty. Instead of finding out who the guilty one was he simply had all three killed. In the West, you worry about protecting the rights of the innocent. Here in Japan, the cops are more interested in closing a case. They’re like that Chinese emperor. They’d rather kill innocent men and close the case.”

  I looked incredulous, so Sugimoto continued. “Do you remember the Matsumoto poisoning case?”

  “Is that the one with the doomsday cult?”

  “That’s right, the Aum Supreme Truth, the same cult that released the poison gas in the Tokyo subways. Matsumoto is a small town. One night a cloud of poison Sarin nerve gas rolled over a neighborhood in Matsumoto and seven people died. Hundreds of others were sickened. In that neighborhood lived a judge who had given a judgment against Aum. We know now that Aum wanted to test its nerve gas on people, and they figured they could literally kill two objectives if they released the gas in the judge’s neighborhood.

  “After the attack in Matsumoto, the police were puzzled. They didn’t make the link between Aum and the judge, even though at least one newspaper reported it. Instead of tracking down Aum and perhaps preventing the Tokyo disaster, the police decided to close the case by saying a man named Kono caused the cloud of poison gas by mixing garden chemicals to make a weed killer. Scientists from all over Japan pointed out it was absurd to think that an amateur gardener could accidentally make a sophisticated nerve gas in a potting shed, but the police stuck to their theory and even extracted a confession out of Kono-san. I don’t know how they got that confession, but Kono-san recanted it later. Anyway, after the Tokyo gassing, they quietly dropped the case against Kono-san, but they were quite willing to prosecute an innocent man to close the Matsumoto case. The Japanese legal system has something like a ninety-nine percent conviction rate on criminal cases, mostly based on confessions by the people charged.”

  “So the bottom line is, you don’t think I should report my incident to the police?”

  “Nothing good can come of it and maybe something bad might happen. The police aren’t going to do anything. Two guys seemed to chase you, but you don’t know why. It was an unpleasant chance encounter, and I’m sorry it scared you.”

  “Excuse me for saying this, but the Japanese legal system doesn’t sound too attractive.”

  Sugimoto hesitated, but since I had plunged in, he decided he could speak frankly, too. “Actually, to most Japanese, the American legal system seems a little crazy.”

  “I’m not going to try to defend the American legal system. Something is definitely broken.”

  “Why don’t Americans fix it?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. One barrier to reform is that there are too many vested interests protecting the current system, so agreement can’t be reached on how to fix it.
Some people support radical change and others are fearful they will become victims of unfair changes. It’s a difficult problem because the American system is essentially based on idealism. We honestly believe that an individual’s life and rights are important. Most of us don’t accept arguments that individual rights should be sacrificed. Despite that, we still act in ways that contradict this principle. As a Japanese-American, I’m especially sensitive to this because one hundred twenty thousand Japanese-Americans, most of them U.S. citizens, were rounded up and shipped off to camps in World War II. We weren’t treated with the inhuman cruelty of the Nazi concentration camps, but our rights as citizens were certainly trampled. The U.S. Supreme Court said this action was fine, and it took half a century to achieve redress and overturn the legal underpinnings of this action. Most people don’t realize that for half a century after World War II, any American president who declared a national emergency could take groups of people selected by race or other criteria and ship them off to a camp with the signing of an executive order.”

  “Well, the Japanese system may be better, after all.”

  “I didn’t say that. The Japanese system seems to be based on maintaining harmony, not on respecting individuals. It’s ironic, but that’s exactly the kind of thinking that promoted the camps for Japanese-Americans. Besides, you seem pretty unhappy with the Japanese system.”

  “Actually, I’m unhappy with Japan.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ve lost our way. We’re drifting without a clear concept of where we should be going as a nation. We adopt Western fads and abandon Japanese customs without any rhyme or reason. Maybe I’m an idealist, too, but we seem to have lost the unique things that make us Japanese.”

  “Mr. Sugimoto—”

  “Call me Buzz. I like people to call me that.”

  “Okay, Buzz. I don’t want to insult you, but I’m puzzled by why you dress the way you do if you have strong feelings about Japan losing her way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You dress very much like James Dean.”

  “Of course. James Dean is a symbol of rebellion and I am still a rebel.”

  “Yes, but James Dean is an American.”

  “But he’s a Japanese symbol of rebellion. They even feature him in Levi’s ads in Japan.”

  “But Levi’s are an American product, too. You’re upset about the indiscriminate abandonment of Japanese customs, but you’ve adopted Western symbols.”

  Sugimoto looked confused and I thought I had crossed the line between polite chit-chat and what Japanese call “stomach-to-stomach” talk, a frankness that strips away the social straight-jacket that governs so much of Japanese interpersonal relationships. Most stomach-to-stomach conversations occur between old friends or after a great deal of sake and beer has been consumed. Sugimoto was drinking beer, but I just had a soft drink and there would be no excuse for me drifting over the line, except that I was an ignorant gaijin.

  Fortunately, Sugimoto was taken by the novelty of an observation that was obvious. As is often the case, perhaps it was so obvious that no one had ever mentioned it to him before. We spent the rest of the evening talking about safer topics, like Japanese art and the economy.

  10

  We finished the dinner and Sugimoto offered to hail me a cab. By now, I was familiar with the Yamanote line and knew that I could get off at Shimabashi station near the hotel, so I begged off and said my goodnights to him. It was around eleven, the time when most of the nightlife in the city starts to wind down, and it was a pleasant ride back to the station.

  I got off and made my way down the platform to the street. In the station, I had taken out my tourist map of Tokyo to make sure I knew where I was going and decided to take a shortcut by following the path of the overhead railway.

  Under the tracks of the railway, a whole culture thrives. In every little nook and cranny you’ll find small bars, yakitori chicken stands, or parking. In a city where you have to prove you have a parking spot before you can buy a car, that latter use for the space under the tracks is especially precious.

  Near the station were some small bars tucked into the concrete arches that hold up the elevated tracks. The bars had large lanterns with kanji written on them, probably the name of the bar. I noticed a small mound of salt near the entrance to a couple of them, a Shinto religious invocation. A block past the station, the bars petered out and the arches were used for storage and parking. I was in a dark part of the alleyway with the arches of the railway to my right and to my left, a tall concrete wall.

  I was thinking about what I should do the next day. I was interested in taking a trip to Kamakura to see the sights. Kamakura is less than an hour from Tokyo and it’s where the giant bronze statue of Buddha is. It’s also full of historic shrines and sites from Japan’s past. I had a lot of things on my mind except the one thing I would have thought about if I had been in the same situation in Los Angeles or New York: Was I safe?

  Someone behind me bumped into a trash can, causing a sudden noise. I turned around to see what the fuss was and saw two men a few feet behind me. If I were a cartoon character, I’d have jumped about five feet in the air. As it was, I think I actually gave a physical start as I realized who was following me. They were the same two men from the previous night.

  When they saw that I recognized them, they started coming towards me at a half trot. Scientists say humans have a flight or fight reaction when faced with danger. Maybe Sam Spade would have considered it an evening’s sport to duke it out with two thugs in a dark Tokyo alley, but it was no contest for me to choose between fight or flight. I turned and flew.

  I could hear them running behind me. Ahead it was just as dark and deserted as the stretch I had come through, and I didn’t think I could count on any help. I knew that sooner or later I would come across a street, but I had no idea how far I would have to run. Spurred on by a massive jolt of adrenaline, I was outpacing my two pursuers, but I had no idea where I was going.

  Ahead I could see what looked like doors to a shopping arcade under the train tracks. Pale light flooded out from the glass double doors that marked the entrance. I decided to see if any of the shops in the arcade were open. I pushed open the glass doors and ran in. I quickly looked up and down the arcade. It was lined with row upon row of tiny stalls selling souvenirs, electronics goods, and T-shirts. They were all closed, with metal grates pulled down in front of them. I was like a rat trapped in a tunnel.

  I thought about trying to get back into the alley, but a glance through the glass doors showed me that the two goons had already caught up with me. I had thrown my lead away. I turned and started running down the central corridor of the arcade, praying that I wasn’t going to hit a dead end or locked doors. In the enclosed space of the arcade I could hear the pounding feet of my pursuers, and when I risked a glance over my shoulder, I could see that the taller of the two had pulled ahead and was gaining on me.

  I ran for what seemed like blocks before I saw another set of glass doors at the end of the corridor. I wondered if I should slow down and realized that if I did I might be caught from behind. Trusting that the doors were unlocked, I ran up to them and pushed my way through. If they had been locked, the pursuit would have ended with a splat. Fortunately, I was able to surge through them, only slowing down slightly.

  I burst onto a cross street that went under the railroad tracks and glanced to the left to see if there were any oncoming cars. That, of course, was a mistake. Since Japan drives on the left side of the road, I should have glanced to the right first and then to the left. Panic and force of habit made me do the reverse.

  When I did look to the right, I saw I was about to run into a passing car. It was a convertible with the top down, and unable to stop, I launched myself into the air and landed in the backseat of the vehicle. The driver jammed on the brakes and came to a screeching stop.

  I found myself wedged between the front seat and the biggest belly I’ve ever encountered. With a
person this obese you’d expect the stomach to be pillowy and soft, but the belly I landed on was hard as a rock.

  “Hey, bruddah, what you think you doin’?” the mountainous backseat passenger said to me. The voice was angry, but it was music to my ears. It was English with a Hawaiian accent.

  “Two guys are chasing me,” I said excitedly. “Please help me. I’m a Hilo boy.” I mentioned my hometown in Hawaii like it was some kind of magic talisman. There was no logic to it, but I figured that telling this enormous man that I was also an island boy might help. It did.

  “Hilo?”

  “Yes. My house was right by Coconut Island.” Coconut Island is a small island in Hilo bay.

  “I come from Olaa,” the backseat passenger said, the anger draining from his voice. He was acting as if flying Hawaiian tourists landed on his stomach all the time and the natural thing to do was to exchange the name of our hometowns. Olaa is a very small town on the big island of Hawaii, and not too far from Hilo.

  Before we could finish our introductions, the doors of the arcade burst open and the two thugs ran out into the street. I lifted my head up to look at them and then I looked at the man I landed on. To my surprise, he was wearing a kimono, and he looked very young. His hair was long and slicked down into a fancy curve on the top of his head. He was a sumo wrestler! His eyes narrowed. “Are these da guys chasin’ you?”

  “Yeah.”

  The man grabbed me by the shoulder and leg. He lifted me as easily as you would lift a baby, and he put me down on the seat next to him. Then he stood up. Despite my excitement from the chase and the shock of its abrupt end, I looked with a dropped jaw. The guy was close to seven feet tall and he must have weighed five hundred pounds. He was simply the biggest human I’ve ever met, and his height was amplified by the fact that he was standing up in the back of a car. It was awesome.

  My two pursuers must have agreed, because after a few seconds of stunned shock with their faces tilted upward, they both turned and shot down the street.