Tokyo Vice (39 page)

He took out a pack and looked at it longingly, shrugged his shoulders, and opened it. I retrieved my pack, the clove cigarettes. He lit mine for me, and I lit his for him.

Sekiguchi wrinkled his face a little at the smell of the clove tobacco, “Those things smell like incense every time. You know … I’m not dead yet.” He inhaled deeply on his own coffin nail.

“What does that mean?”

“Weren’t you a little monk once? Incense is for funerals. You don’t have to smoke one now; you can light one for me then. No need to rush. You’ll have a chance soon enough.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m home early because I had chemo yesterday. I was too sick to work. I go in almost every day, though. What else am I going to do? Play golf? The doctors say I’ve got a year, maybe two years left.”

Sekiguchi’s cancer had spread. It had started in his appendix, of all places, and metastasized quickly. There had been a period when it had seemed as though he might have been cured, but it was still there festering away out of reach and beyond detection. When they caught it the second time, it was way too late.

If Sekiguchi had been Tadamasa Goto, the powerful gangster, he would have been getting the best medical care in the world. Several doctors would have been analyzing his charts, checking his vitals, and mapping his progress every day, every night. He’d have a hospital suite to himself at Tokyo University Hospital. But he wasn’t Tadamasa Goto, he was just a low-ranking cop who’d never made it past sergeant, and he didn’t have much money.

He couldn’t afford to stay home and get better. He had to go to work every day. The cost of not dying was expensive, even in Japan.

“You know, I finally quit smoking. A little late but I did.”

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have brought these.”

“Nahh, one last smoke with you. Seems like a good thing to do. Even with these shitty premium cigarettes. Maybe I’ll smoke one of yours.”

“Be my guest.” I offered him one.

He took it in his fingers, tapped it gently on the table, looked it up and down, lit it—twice; they’re hard to light—and inhaled.

“Sweet. I can feel that nicotine burst. Not bad, not bad at all. Now, while I’m smoking this thing, bring me up to date. You better have a good reason for being back in Japan, or I’m going to have to kick your ass—something I never thought I’d have to do. I don’t think coming back so soon is a good idea.”

He was right. He was almost always right. He’d been right when we’d been sitting at the hotel in Shinjuku having such a lovely talk with Goto’s ambassadors a few months before. A lot had changed since then. I had officially resigned from the
Yomiuri Shinbun
in November 2005, about a month after Goto’s emissaries had made their threats.

In my mind, the Goto article was going to be my last scoop, my graduation thesis. It hadn’t worked out, and I didn’t plan to stick around for one more article that I couldn’t see getting published in the first place. The
Yomiuri
let me take most of my unused vacation time and sent me on my way. I had liked working for the
Yomiuri
, but by the start of 2005 the human trafficking stories had taken their toll, and my unpleaseant meeting with Goto’s enforcers was enough to send me packing. The
Yomiuri
was very understanding during the whole process and let me stay in the company insurance plan even after I left.

After resigning, I returned home to the Midwest. I had enrolled in an LSAT preparation course and was getting ready for law school. I was diligently trying to make the transition to a new way of life. No cigarettes. No drinking until three in the morning. No friends calling after midnight. No yakuza cops or strippers or prostitutes to hang out with. Nothing more dangerous around than a lawn mower.

And then I got an e-mail from a good buddy, Ken, who used to work for the CIA. The U.S. State Department was sponsoring a massive study of human trafficking in Japan. He said he had recommended me for the job and wanted to know if I was interested. I read the e-mail several times.

I thought about it. I had cleared up things with Goto, ostensibly. I had a peace treaty of sorts. I wouldn’t want to bring my family, though. I didn’t trust those guys. The job sounded good; the remuneration not bad. It could do some good in the world. I might be able to do a lot more with the proper funding. However, taking the job would put me right back into the world of depravity that I had left behind.

I thought about my plans for law school. I thought about my promises to Sunao. And then, without consulting anyone, I replied, “Yes. I’d love to take the job.”

I felt as if it would be wrong to say no. It felt like a duty and an obligation. Maybe I should have seen it as a temptation instead.

And so, before the year even ended, I found myself back in Japan, revisiting the same places I’d spent so much time before. I needed to see Sekiguchi. I think I wanted his approval more than his advice.

I brought him up to date. He was satisfied with my answers.

“You have a friend who used to be CIA? Always thought there was a little more to you than your goofy appearance. But every time I talk to you, I think ‘probably not.’ Well, it’s good work to be doing. And it’s important. And the pay sounds good. You’re going to keep the family in the States while you do this, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Because it’s dangerous stuff you’re doing. Let me tell you something about reporting about the yakuza. You can write all you want about their gang wars, their tattoos, their sexual exploits, but when you start looking into how they really make their money, what companies they own—you’re walking into scary territory. And make no mistake, human trafficking is a source of revenue for these guys. Child porn. Prostitution. Anything where the profits are high. It’s all about the money with these guys now, and that kind of reporting threatens to screw up their business.”

I had a question. I wanted to know if my “truce” with Goto would hold.

“I’m pretty sure he knows you quit the
Yomiuri
. Correction. I’m definitely sure he knows. So as far as he’s concerned, you’re an ex-reporter. What you’re doing now, as long as he doesn’t know about it, is fine. But you should be extra careful. Tokyo is his turf. You’ll be walking around his playground without permission. If you’re going to ask around for that report, be very, very careful. Be careful who you call, who you meet, what you say. Got it?”

I nodded that I understood. Sekiguchi didn’t look so good, and I didn’t want to add to his worries. While we were chatting, Mrs. Sekiguchi came home and so did the girls, both of them now in their teens with crazy haircuts. It was hard to compute.

They both gave me a hug, and we chatted for a while. Mrs. Sekiguchi made us all yakisoba and then massaged Sekiguchi’s legs,
which were as stiff as boards, some kind of side effect from the chemotherapy. He had me knock on them; it was just like hitting wood.

I stayed for an hour and then called a taxi. Sekiguchi walked me to the door himself and motioned for his wife and the kids to stay back. It wasn’t the usual all-family bye-bye.

It was pitch-black in Konan, and the only area of light was the wide circle in front of the porch. It was like looking into space from where we stood. Sekiguchi-san gave me back the carton of cigarettes and the opened pack, saying, “Thanks, but this is enough for a while. I appreciate the thought.”

“Understood. I wish I could do something more.”

He shook his head and waved his hands as if to say, Not needed.

“Jake, I’ve known you for a decade now. Pretty amazing, huh? You’ve come a long way since you were a naive little cub reporter. I’m proud to know you. I think you’re doing the right thing, but you better know where you’re going with this, okay? Watch your back. And look out for the people you care for. You start looking into this sexual slavery thing—I forget the fancy word—you’ll step on a lot of toes. Sometimes people step back. You keep in touch.”

He patted me hard on the shoulder, waited for me to get into the taxi, and waved good-bye. He made a gentle bow as I was about to take off, and the kids and Mrs. Sekiguchi came out to the porch and waved.

I appreciated the sentiment, but I was no longer a newbie reporter who didn’t know the difference between purse snatching and armed robbery. I knew what I was doing. At least I thought I did.

It’s hard to think when you can’t breathe. It’s even harder to think when you can’t breathe because a yakuza bruiser has you pinned against the wall, with one hand around your neck and the other hand punching your ribs, and your feet are dangling off the floor.

Still, you would be surprised at how quickly sundry thoughts pass through your head.

I was in the entranceway of what was being called a “Russian pub,” the hottest thing in human trafficking at the time in Tokyo. The women were brought over from Russia, Ukraine, and elsewhere, allegedly to work as hostesses, and quickly turned over to yakuza groups, which put them to work as indentured prostitutes.

This club was on the third floor of a four-story building in Ike-bukuro, an area that means literally “pond bag.” The area lives up to its name. The club was called Moscow Mule.

It was one of the newer clubs. I’d heard about it from Helena and went to check it out. Like most clubs trafficking in foreign women, it was off limits to foreigners. The problem with foreigners is that they feel sorry for the other foreigners working in the clubs—and they tell the police or the NGOs about it.

If I spoke softly, killed all emotion in my voice, and wore a suit and thick, black-rimmed glasses, I could sometimes pass for a Japanese person in extremely low light. I’d talked my way into the club. But the woman I was interviewing began to break down and cry, which quickly blew my cover.

The eight-fingered, badly tattooed, pock-faced giant bouncer at the
door must have picked up on it, because he grabbed me and pulled me outside and into the entranceway, where he started beating the shit out of me. I wasn’t holding my own very well. In fact, I was thinking that I would probably be dead very soon and that this wasn’t how I wanted to check out of the world. Unlike an Apache warrior, I always wake up thinking to myself, “Today is a good day not to die.”

Much as in my early days, I was still a terrible martial artist. Even though I had since studied both karate and aikido, I had no talent for forms or kata or anything at all. The highest compliment my karate teacher ever gave me was “You do everything wrong, your stance is awful, your form is terrible, and your movements are sloppy—but often, because you grasp the underlying principles, what you do … it works. It baffles me.”

I didn’t really have much time to think about what wonderful esoteric wrist lock would get my opponent’s hands off my neck so I could breathe. It was while I was thinking about breathing that I recalled what my old aikido teacher, who was a cop, had once told me was the most effective aikido move of all. It’s effective because even the biggest man in the world can’t survive without taking in oxygen.

I stiffened my fingers and jabbed him repeatedly in the little indentation under the larynx as hard as I could, rapid-fire. It was basic
atemi
. There was a nice tactile sensation of puncturing fleshy tissue, and he fell back. Now I could breathe.

He couldn’t breathe; he started gagging and fell to his knees. While he was down there I curled my hands into half shells and smash-clapped them over both of his ears as hard as I could. This is called
happa-ken
, or “the rupturing fist.” In theory, it’s supposed to break a person’s eardrums, throw off their balance, induce nausea, and cause him great pain. In practice, it seemed to work.

He moaned and rocked back. I kicked him in the face and then ran out of the place as fast as I could and kept running all the way to Ike-bukuro station, where I hopped into a cab and told the driver to take me to Roppongi. It was only after I sat in the back of the cab and took a deep breath that I realized how much my frigging ribs hurt. I thought my hands were covered with sweat and blood, and then I realized that it was the pomade from the slicked-back hair of the bouncer. It had a fruity, medicinelike scent to it. Probably Mandom pomade.

I didn’t think about calling the cops. Maybe I could claim to have been defending myself, but I feared I might have overdone it. And I was
a foreigner, which meant that in nine out of ten cases, I was presumed guilty until proven guilty. I wasn’t excited about the prospect of possibly going to jail. And though I once might have had the protection of the mighty
Yomiuri
in case of a dispute, now I was a nobody, a man without a business card or a normal job. I was now just a nonentity, a former journalist working for a foreign government in Japan as an investigator and with no real backup. Yes, maybe a little dangerous, but I felt it was a worthy cause. Good versus evil. I was the good guy. I’d just be more careful.

The next day I called a friend in the drug squad. I’d seen some girls snorting cocaine or meth in the back at the urging of their manager, so I knew there were drugs there. The woman I’d talked to said that all she wanted to do was go home. I figured that one way or another, that would get her home. I didn’t really know what else to do.

What had saved my ribs was a
boha
vest. An antiknifing vest. If you’re going to get killed in Japan, you’re more likely to be stabbed to death than shot. The penalties for using a gun in a crime are steep; this encourages people to use knives. In recent years, the penalties for using a gun have gotten a lot steeper. It’s a crime to own one, another crime to fire it, and an aggravating factor if you wound or kill someone with a firearm. This has brought about a revival of the Japanese sword as a weapon of choice among the yakuza, which was why I wore a boha vest.

The research was going well. The job was to not track the victims but to track the victimizers—to map out the whole sex slavery industry or capture a detailed microcosm of it. I was supposed to find out how the women were brought into the country, who brought them in, who profited from the business, and which politicians and bureaucrats were aiding and abetting the human traffickers. I got an ex–immigration official to give me the name of a Japanese senator, Koki Kobayashi, who had personally pressured him to stop raiding the illegal sex clubs. I had the name of what was considered a human-trafficking lobby, Zengeiren—which held its annual meetings at the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) headquarters. Mind-blowing stuff.