But he told you how he knew of the yakuza connection, right? A cop wouldn’t do that. A cop would have held back, seen what else he might elicit, what lies he could trap you in.
That was true, and somewhat reassuring. Though still, he had held back, to some extent. He could have told me earlier in the conversation. Instead, he’d waited to see if I would talk more, say something incriminating, before showing his hand. A classic interrogation technique. I had to be careful.
“That is a hell of a coincidence,” I managed.
“Indeed. So much so, I feel no need to inquire into your whereabouts at the times of these killings.”
I took another swallow of beer and let out a long breath. He was telling me he wasn’t going to press it further, that we were all right. But…Jesus.
I cleared my throat. “So…you think the dupes who did it will find a way to survive what they’ve gotten themselves mixed up in?”
He looked grave. “I wouldn’t bet on it. If they would listen, I would advise them to run.”
“Run from the yakuza?”
“They would have to run far.”
“They probably would, if they thought they could. If they thought it would work. But maybe they feel they need to finish what’s been started.”
He sipped his beer. He knew I would tell more if I wanted to. And maybe he hoped I would another time, if not tonight. Was that the quid pro quo? We were friends; he would prefer not to ask directly. And it would be rude for me to make him.
“So that thing at Fukumoto’s grave today,” I said. “You think that was what, someone trying to finish the Fukumotos’ control over the Gokumatsu-gumi?”
“I’d be more interested in your theories.”
I’m sure you would. “The truth is, I’m flying blind. If I had a theory worth a damn, I’d tell you, but so far I don’t know more than what’s been reported in the news. Of course, if I learn more, I’ll tell you.”
He looked at me and nodded once as though to say, Deal. “I think this is about control, yes, though control over what or by whom I don’t know. And I think whoever killed Fukumoto Senior knew or anticipated that his son would be at Yanaka today. Either the information was faulty, or the son got away. The son denies having been there, but I don’t believe him.”
I’d been hoping he would know more, but it seemed he was going on even less than I had. “What do your superiors think?”
He laughed. “A turf war with the Vietnamese. Always the most comforting, conservative, conventional view.”
I could have mentioned the CIA payments, my role as a bagman, McGraw — those were important pieces, and maybe if Tatsu had them, he could combine them with whatever other information he held and provide me with some actionable intel. But I couldn’t do it. Telling a Keisatsucho cop about CIA payments to the LDP…it was too big, too explosive. I wasn’t going to put myself in the middle of something like that. I did consider asking him about Ozawa. Something like, Hey, hypothetically, what if that guy who died at the sentō in Kita-Senju weren’t accidental? But it felt too risky. A bunch of dead gangsters was one thing, but if Tatsu suspected I had killed the sōmukaicho of the LDP, that would probably be a bridge too far. It wasn’t just my concern about my own skin, though of course that was part of it. I also didn’t want to put him in a position where he would so starkly have to choose between giri and ninjō—duty, and human feeling. And besides, it seemed he didn’t know that much anyway. I decided to hold questions about a possible Ozawa-Fukumoto connection in reserve, for an emergency. First I’d see what I might get from Mad Dog’s girlfriend.
Although he hadn’t handed that information over yet, had he? I wondered what he was waiting for, what I was missing.
We spent a while commiserating about his frustrations at having to kowtow to a bunch of cerebrally challenged higher-ups, and finished the meal with ochazuke rice and plum sherbet for dessert. When we were done, I paid, and we headed out.
The sun was down, but the air was still radiant with the residual heat of the buildings, streets, and sidewalks. I smelled skewered chicken and onion roasting over briquettes at a street stall yakitoriya on the corner next to us, dripping fat sizzling on the fire. From somewhere down the street, a man was karaoke-crooning to accompanying cries of approval and delight — the signature sounds of a sunaku, a tiny neighborhood bar. From the second floor of the tiny wooden house across from us came the distinctive crack! of a dozen shinai, the bamboo practice swords used in kendo, accompanied by as many war cries, the house practically shaking with the simultaneous violence of the kendōka’s distinctive stomping attack. An old man in a blue yukata shuffled past us, probably on his way to the neighborhood sentō, his wooden geta clop-clopping on the pavement. The Yamanote train’s arrival bells pealed from nearby Ueno Station, like an aria underpinning it all. Tokyo nocturnes, I thought, and couldn’t help but smile at this city I loved no matter how I tried not to.
Tatsu stretched, then patted his belly. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
“My pleasure.” He still hadn’t given me the information about the girl. What was he waiting for? Had I missed some cue?
There was a pause. He cleared his throat. “May I say something I’m sure is unnecessary?”
So I had missed something. “It would be unlike you, but sure.”
“The girl. I hope your plan is simply to follow her, or at worst to brace her.”
“What else would it be?”
He sighed. “As I said, I’m sure that’s all it could be. Still, so many people have died violently in the last few days. And while I wouldn’t be so foolish as to suggest that violence solves nothing, it has also been my observation that violence can also be a kind of…contagion. Often it begins with difficulty, but then gets progressively easier. It starts with limits, and those limits then begin to dissolve.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“Whoever killed those yakuza is likely guilty of manslaughter, if not murder, yes? Legally speaking.”
I looked at him, wary. He was warning me. But of what?
“I’d say that’s true.”
“And yet, morally, guilty of little if anything. After all, legalities aside, is the world not a better place with fewer gangsters in it?”
“I think you could make that case, sure.”
“But a woman…or a child…that would be different. There would be nothing moral about that. Nothing redeeming.”
I nodded, trying with only partial success to push away memories from the war. “I agree.”
“I knew you would. Among people who use violence, there’s only one real dividing line. Either you have limits. Or you don’t.”
“Well, the reasons are important, too.”
“Up to a point. But everyone believes his own reasons are good ones. In the end, it’s the limits that separate men from monsters.”
Finally, I saw it. As always, he was being courteous enough to express his concern exclusively in terms of what would be best for me. But unspoken was an admonition: If I give you the information about that girl and you hurt her, her blood would be on my hands. And I would make you pay for that.