A Dog in Water (21 page)

I returned to Takanawadai and wandered around Kamata’s neighborhood, speaking to the staff of bars and restaurants for about an hour, but turned up nothing. The December sun was beginning to slip from the sky. Just as I was about to head back to my car, I caught sight of a stout, middle-aged woman rinsing off the sidewalk in front of a sushi restaurant.

“Excuse me, can I ask you a question?”

The woman turned around on hearing my voice and smiled, then moved closer. “You’re a police detective, right? So that thing with the man next door, that wasn’t suicide, was it?” she asked in a low voice.

“No, I’m searching for someone … Do you know this man?” I showed her a photograph of Kamata I’d gotten from a junior of mine in the organized crime subsection in the Atago Precinct.

“Oh, him. He comes to our place sometimes. He lives in the area, doesn’t he?”

“And what about this person?” This time I showed her a photo of Toshikawa from before his arrest, procured by a former colleague in the MPD.

“Yeah, he was here, he was here just a while ago. They came together.”

“Please look carefully. You sure you’re not mistaken?”

“Well, his hair was shorter and he looked a little older, but I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

“This is a photo of him from eight years ago.”

“Then it’s definitely him. The first guy usually comes alone or with a woman, and that was the first time I’d seen him with another man. I thought it was strange. And this second one’s a quiet type. Maybe he was in a bad mood or something, but the regular seemed to be really keen on pleasing him.”

“When was this?”

“Not too recently. Last month, maybe. Or the month before.”

“About the middle of November?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. I don’t know. So did these two kill the old man next door?”

“Well, I couldn’t say.”

I thanked her and walked away.

So Toshikawa had met with Kamata. The guy was lying. Why would he try to hide Toshikawa? Was it just a defense instinct often found in such men?

My only choice was to shake up Kamata.

After dark, I wandered around Roppongi. I showed photos of Toshikawa and Kamata to some gossip-mongering acquaintances, but I learned nothing new. Yet it was enough—word would get out that someone was going around asking about Kamata. Hopefully it would reach Kamata’s ears.

I was heading back to the parking garage when my cell phone rang. It was my informant.

“I got all kinds of dirt on this Kamata guy. Where are you now?”

When I answered Roppongi, as usual he unilaterally picked a place for us to meet and hung up.

I had asked for his help last night. Mitsuaki Kamata had been an executive member of a tertiary organization of the Kuniyoshi Group, but five years prior he had been excommunicated. Three years ago he was charged with assault and unlawful confinement and sentenced to
prison, but now it was unknown how he kept food on the table. I got in my car and headed towards Yotsuya.

My informant was there when I arrived. He was snacking on what appeared to be stale cheese and drinking either South American or Southeast Asian beer straight from the bottle. I ordered a chicken sandwich and ginger ale from a swarthy foreign youth of indeterminate heritage and lit a cigarette.

“That Kamata’s a real nasty piece of work,” my informant said with a smirk as he produced a photo. It showed Kamata walking alongside an aging man in sunglasses. The photo looked like it had been taken on the sly.

“As fast as always,” I remarked, and it wasn’t flattery.

“Ha, don’t underestimate my intel network,” he said proudly and took another sip of beer.

“Who’s that?” I asked, indicating the man wearing sunglasses. He was graying but his large build was intimidating.

“Gunji Kawakubo. He was Kinsei Group’s standing director but was expelled four years ago.”

“Why would they expel such a bigwig?”

“I dunno the details, but apparently he opposed some decision of the executive board’s.”

“How are the two related? They’re both excommunicated yakuza, but they weren’t under the same umbrella.”

“Kawakubo’s a gung-ho hardass that age hasn’t mellowed out. He gathered up a bunch of expelled lowlifes and started his own organization.”

“If he tried that he’d be crushed by existing groups. Nowadays no one would recognize an upstart that’s not a part of a syndicate.”

“That’s the thing. Kawakubo’s organization ain’t yakuza.”

“What?”

“In the yakuza world they’re called DBO: Dirty Business Only. Their specialty is gettin’ their hands dirty. These days regular yakuza don’t want to get involved with such jobs. There’s a ton of college
grads, and ex-bankers or ex-CPAs are the ones sittin’ pretty in the gangs. Organizations who’ve only got a bunch of violent young thugs ain’t the ones makin’ money. Modern yakuza are more focused on moving millions in gray markets.”

“I see …”

“But they can only pull that off thanks to their yakuza reputation and the persuasive power of violence. If there’s no one willin’ to do the dirty work then they can’t make money hustlin’.”

“So Kawakubo’s group is like a subcontractor for the yakuza?”

“Not quite. More like a temp staffing agency. They’re compensated for doin’ dirty jobs on request by the big gangs. They’re not affiliated with the gang so no one knows who they are.”

“…”

“Kidnapping, murder, arson, anything goes. They’re called DBO but they’re not proper yakuza, so there’s no doorplate, no office. Not even a list of members. They’ve got no interest in doin’ time. Every one of ’em is a rank-and-file soldier who’s gone to ground. A real hazardous bunch.”

“Sounds that way.”

“If you’re gonna sniff around guys like that, you’d better pack heat this time.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep it in mind.”

I left the restaurant, my chicken sandwich still untouched.

It was about 11:00 p.m. by the time I got back to the office. Light filtered through the frosted glass pane in the door.

Fast bastard
.

Quietly, I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. I had expected an ambush in pitch darkness, but he’d just brazenly waltzed on in. I opened the door and walked inside. Kamata sat munching on popcorn and watching TV with both feet up on my desk.

“You’re late, Dick.” Kamata’s friendly demeanor was so changed from that afternoon he almost seemed like a different person.

“What are you doing here?” I walked over to the desk.

Kamata gave me a thin smile. “I told you I’d tell you if I heard anything.”

“So? What did you hear?”

“That you’re a moron.”

I sensed another presence in the room behind me and turned around. A tall, gaunt, gloomy-faced man wearing leather gloves stood leaning against the metal lockers. A sharp noise sounded from his right hand. Light glinted on the honed blade of a retractable knife. The man’s legs moved slightly.

“I did try to warn ya,” I heard Kamata say.

I kept my eyes on the blade. The next instant, however, acute pain shot through my left ear. I realized that my left earlobe had been sliced through. I felt lukewarm blood flow down my neck.

“Now then, Mr. Detective, it’s my turn to ask questions.” Kamata swung his feet off of my desk and stood up. He turned up the volume on the TV. The commotion of a gaggle of comedians on a variety show reverberated through the room. “The hell are you snoopin’ around for?” Kamata walked past the edge of the desk and stood in front of me. The skinny, morose knife-wielder had slumped back against the lockers.

“I told you, I’m searching for Mr. Toshikawa.”

Kamata’s lips twisted in response. “Why look for Toshikawa? He’s fresh outta the slammer.”

“Someone who is indebted to Mr. Toshikawa wants to see him.”

“And who’s that?”

“I cannot divulge private information concerning my client.” My left ear began to throb in earnest.

Kamata gave a cheerful smile. “Do you want to die?”

Just then, the phone on my desk rang. Kamata stared silently at the disturbance, but the ringing continued.

“Can’t I pick up?” I asked.

“ ’Course not!”

Just when Kamata glared toward me, the phone stopped ringing. Right away, however, the cell phone in my pocket started to ring instead.

“What about this one?”

“Are you screwin’ with me?”

Kamata gave my left ear a ferocious snap. I grit my molars together and bore the pain. He reached into my pants pocket, pulled out my cell phone and threw it to the floor. He ignored the still-ringing device and started removing the contents of all of my pockets. When he took out my pocketbook from my coat and saw one of the photos tucked between its pages, his face colored.

“You even got your hands on this …”

It was the shot of Kamata walking with Kawakubo. The cell phone on the floor fell silent.

“How much do you know?” Kamata peered into my eyes.

“Up to you folks being called a DBO,” I answered.

“Then you know what it means to keep sniffin’ around us.”

“I just want to meet Mr. Toshikawa. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“You’re already causin’ plenty of trouble.” Kamata tossed the contents of my pockets onto the lounge table and sat down on the sofa. “Listen, Dick. We’ve got a code of absolute silence. We don’t talk about anythin’ to anyone. Not about our colleagues, not about our jobs. That’s our rule as non-yakuza.”

“Then are you like the mafia?”

“Somethin’ like that. Let me give you an example even an idiot like yourself can comprehend. Let’s say one of our associates was hired for a job. An illegal job, ’course. He’s gotta get things done without drawing any attention. But all of a sudden some asshole starts sniffin’ around.”

“…”

“So, you think our client would be happy about that? It’s gonna create trust issues for our whole business. Get it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then forget about Toshikawa.”

“Why can’t you arrange a meeting between us? Do that and I won’t need to snoop around.”

“Hah, you really don’t get it, do you? If I do that I’ll have broken our rule. They’ll get rid of me. Getting rid of you would sit much better with me, in that case.” Kamata slung his arm across the backrest of the sofa. The front of his jacket fell open, revealing the butt of a revolver at his waist. “So? Ya get it now, Mr. Detective?”

“Yes, I get it.”

“Nah, I still don’t think you do.”

“What?”

“You’re not the type to change your tune just ’cause your earlobe’s cut off.”

“…”

“We haven’t even started in on the real reason we’re here. Feel special, ’cause I’m letting you choose. Either we put you in a state of mind to never even think of comin’ near us again, or we make it so your body won’t be in any condition to let you wander about for quite a while. Which’ll it be?” Kamata was clearly enjoying himself.

“I think there’s another option,” I said.

“Croaking here and now. That’s about the only other option.”

“Who’s gonna do the croaking?”

I glanced between Kamata and the knife man. They both looked like they were staring at something they couldn’t believe.

“Didja hear that, buddy?” Kamata gave the knife man a stiff smile. “This jackass is makin’ fun of us.”

“Then I’d better nick off a little more,” said the knife wielder. The tip of the blade in his gloved hand jiggled.

I took a deep breath and held it. There was a knock at the door behind me. Kamata and the knife man looked towards the sound.

“Who the fuck is it?” Kamata shouted sharply.

A low chuckle drew closer. “Geez, Dick. You sure are one hell of an exciting bastard.” It was Yano’s voice. “Your lights were on but you weren’t picking up the phone. Figured you were asleep so I came to shake you awake, only to find you’re havin’ a party.”

I turned to face Yano. He saw the blood trickling from my ear and huffed a laugh.

“The hell are you?” Kamata sprang up from the sofa.

Yano looked at him as if he were just noticing him for the first time and said, “The TV is fucking annoying. Turn that shit off.”

“I asked you a question!”

“Turn off the TV.”

“Y-You asshole …”

“Turn it off.”

The two men’s presences were not nearly equal.

A shadow of humiliation passed over Kamata’s features as he walked over to the TV and kicked it off the side table and onto the floor. With a terrific crash the set went quiet.

Kamata drew the stainless steel revolver from his holster. “So? Who the hell are you?”

Yano ignored him and sat on the edge of the desk and reached into his jacket’s inner pocket. Kamata hastily aimed his gun. Unperturbed, Yano pulled out a pack of cigarettes, stuck one in his mouth and lit it.

“Hey, Dick. Who’re these guys?”

“DBO,” I replied.

Yano snorted. “Huh, D-Boys?” He coolly glanced from Kamata to the knife man. “Yo, paleface, have I seen ya before?”

The knife man stood ramrod straight as though he’d swallowed a pole.

“You know this guy?” Kamata asked him. The knife man turned away from Yano and nodded weakly. Kamata turned back to Yano. “So this guy’s a Hishy?”

Yano stood up from the desk and brushed dust off of his suit, cigarette still dangling from his mouth. “Being called a ‘Hishy’ by a piece of shit like you might just manage to piss me off.” He moved closer to Kamata, still with an easygoing air.

Kamata pointed the gun at Yano’s abdomen. “Stop actin’ like a hotshot, motherfucker! You think you won’t get shot just ’cause you’re with the oh-so-magnificent Hishiguchi Group?”

By the time he’d finished talking, Yano’s face loomed right in front of his eyes. Yano poked the tip of Kamata’s nose with his right index
finger.

“You’re a helluva big talker, ain’t ya?” With those words, Yano jabbed his index finger into Kamata’s left eye. There was no gunfire. Yano’s left hand gripped the cylinder of Kamata’s gun from the top, and when an uncocked revolver’s chamber was secured like that, the trigger couldn’t be pulled. Kamata, unable to even cry out, pressed both hands to his left eye and collapsed onto his knees.

Deftly the revolver switched hands, to Yano’s right. He aimed it at the knife wielder, who promptly dropped his weapon and raised both hands.