Shadows of Tokyo (Reiko Watanabe / Inspector Aizawa Book 1) Page 6

Inside the main room, a wall scroll of Mount Fuji hung ornately. Below it sat a general, kneeling in front of a low-lying table like a monk in meditation. Reiko now understood why she’d been dragged along. Not only to pour drinks but to compete with General Sakamoto’s uniform. It was a matter of prestige. How many medals was a geisha equivalent to?

  “General Sakamoto,” Lieutenant Nakajima said with a bow and clutching a bottle of sake. “May I present the honorable Masaru Ryusaki, zensei of the Kusanagi Society.”

  Masaru gave a deep bow, the lowest Reiko had ever seen. Not expecting an introduction, she bowed too.

  General Sakamoto stood and returned the greeting, though at a higher level.

  “I am honored to see you again, General. My apologies for making you wait, but there seems to be a shortage of alcohol in Asakusa,” Masaru said as Nakajima placed the sake bottle and three cups on the table. Sakamoto smiled and nodded. Late or not, after Kuroki’s failure it would have been unthinkable for Masaru to show up empty-handed. With the introductions concluded, they knelt around the table, forcing Reiko off to the side. Still, Sakamoto’s eyes gravitated toward her.

  “And she is?”

  Masaru beamed. “This is Harutora, the finest geisha in Tokyo.”

  Reiko gave a deep bow, touching her forehead against the tatami mat. “Pleased to meet you, honorable General.”

  “How charming,” Sakamoto said. “I adore geisha but the Lieutenant thinks they’re a distraction.”

  Nakajima said nothing.

  “Femininity is lost on some men,” Reiko said. “Like coins to a cat.”

  Sakamoto chuckled. Masaru smiled and gave a quick nod to continue.

  “Masaru has told me much about you,” Reiko said.

  “Oh?” Sakamoto’s thick eyebrows rose. “Such as?”

  “Your honorable service to the Emperor,” Reiko said. “And how you’re the only hope for Japan.”

  The General rubbed his chin. “He exaggerates.”

  “I disagree.” She gestured to his glittering medals with her paper fan. “Such a colorful uniform is the cloak of a true hero, one who does not frighten easily.”

  Sakamoto gave a deep, hearty smile. It was almost too easy. Inflating a man’s ego was the geisha’s primary duty. Everything else was a distant second.

  “Let’s have a toast,” Reiko said, filling up three cups. She handed one to each man. Masaru poured her a shot and she lifted her glass. “To our great General Sakamoto! Kanpai!”

  “Kanpai!” Lieutenant Nakajima and Masaru chorused and downed their cups. General Sakamoto leaned closer to Reiko.

  “I’ve heard geisha take secrets to the grave. Is that true, Harutora-san?”

  “Of course, honorable General.”

  “I’ll share a secret with you if you promise not to tell.”

  Reiko tittered and pressed the fan against her mouth.

  “Last year, I bought this tea house,” General Sakamoto announced, gesturing around the room.

  Reiko removed the fan from her lips and said, “Oh? You must have all sorts of geisha who entertain you here.”

  Sakamoto shook his head. “Unfortunately not. My men and I,” he glanced at Nakajima, “meet here to discuss our plans in secret, away from prying eyes. But junior officers don’t appreciate geisha these days. They feel they’re creatures of decadence and luxury.”

  “That’s our best trait. Besides, what do junior officers know about geisha? Only colonels and higher can afford us.”

  Sakamoto gave a pleased smile and said, “You’re quite the talker, Harutora-san.”

  “A woman’s tongue is her sword, General. And one that never rusts,” Reiko said, matching the General’s smile.

  That earned a bout of laughter from Sakamoto. Masaru nodded in approval while Nakajima remained stone-faced.

  “I haven’t had the company of a geisha since before the depression,” General Sakamoto continued. “They’re like a painting come to life.”

  “Harutora’s dance is like a work of art,” Masaru said.

  “Is that so?” Sakamoto remarked.

  “Oh but there’s no music,” Reiko said. “It would be like swimming without water!”

  Masaru glared a warning and Reiko realized she had little choice. After a quick bow, she said, “Please enjoy the Dance of Spring.”

  She rose to her feet and snapped open her paper fan, decorated with fluttering pink cherry blossoms. She twisted it around to reveal a tiger stalking through the mist. A gift to reflect her geisha name: Harutora, Spring Tiger.

  It had been years since she’d done the Dance of Spring, a movement written to celebrate the cherry blossom festival. Normally, the twanging melody of a shamisen provided her rhythm, but the motions were still ingrained in her muscles from endless hours of training.

  Reiko held the fan high, representing the radiant sun melting the harsh winter snow. She snapped it closed and slowly opened it, inch by inch, just as the cherry blossoms bloomed in the spring sunlight. Pressing the open fan to her chest, she paused in intricate poses to illustrate the beauty of the season, so many months away. Finally, she lowered the fan to the floor as the cherry blossoms broke free of their trees and fluttered to the ground in a dignified death.

  General Sakamoto stared with admiration, as if he were studying a new exhibit at a museum. Masaru looked on with beaming pride but Lieutenant Nakajima shot her a contemptuous glare so cold it prickled her skin.

  The dance concluded, Reiko bowed and knelt again. The General and Masaru glowed with approval. For most men, geisha were as potent as alcohol or opium, lulling them into the most susceptible stupor. She figured that only now could Masaru discuss his failure without shame choking him.

  “Another toast,” Masaru said, holding out his cup.

  Reiko took the hint. She grabbed the bottle and poured a shot for Masaru and the General.

  “To the Emperor!” Masaru toasted.

  “The Emperor!” Sakamoto repeated before they downed their shots.

  Masaru exhaled and added, “And to the New Japan! Inspector Aizawa only postponed our inevitable victory!”

  “Is this the police officer who arrested you in March?” Sakamoto asked.

  Masaru grimaced. “The same.” His long fingers wrapped around his katana handle. “He’s nothing more than a watchdog for the Diet and the zaibatsu.”

  “But he poses a great risk to our plan. What if he breaks your assassin?” Sakamoto asked, scratching his goatee.

  “Kuroki-san won’t confess. I chose him for his loyalty and strength,” Masaru insisted.

  “How did you come across this man?” General Sakamoto asked.

  “It was a month ago, after I reactivated the Kusanagi Society. I was selling my book on the street when he approached me. He’d been laid off and rejected for Army service, his lifelong dream.”

  “Is that so?” Sakamoto said, rubbing his chin.

  “Kuroki-san didn’t meet the Army’s physical requirements. I took pity on his situation and gave him the book for free. General, I’ve never seen such patriotism inside a man! Although unfit for military service, I drafted him into the Kusanagi Society. He passed out pamphlets and helped sell my book on the streets of Tokyo.”

  “He seems very devoted.”

  Masaru nodded. “When you ordered Baron Onishi’s assassination, I knew he was the perfect man to carry it out.”

  “Yet he failed…”

  Masaru swallowed and made no reply.

  “What’s worse, this Inspector Aizawa might connect the two of you,” the General said, wedging a Golden Bat between his lips. On instinct, Reiko leaned over and lit the cigarette with a match. After all, a dutiful geisha was always there to serve men.

  Masaru adjusted his glasses. “General, let me deal with Aizawa before he gets too close.”

  General Sakamoto shook his head. “Far too risky to kill a police inspector. Besides, he will be dealt with after we take power.”

  Masaru gave a twisted smile.


  “But that doesn’t solve our problem,” Sakamoto continued. “Baron Onishi will be on his guard now. And should he become prime minister, all hope is lost.”

  Masaru rubbed the back of his head, showing his humiliation.

  “Yes, of course, General. Forgive me for my earlier impudence. I’ll find another patriot to strike the Baron down.”

  Sakamoto took a long drag on his cigarette before saying, “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Zensei,” Nakajima broke in. “I will kill Baron Onishi!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nakajima’s announcement silenced the room for several moments until the General finally spoke.

  “Before we left the Diet,” Sakamoto said in between drags of his cigarette, “I arranged a meeting with Baron Onishi.”

  Masaru nodded along, dumbfounded.

  “The meeting will take place around 1700 hours tomorrow. Lieutenant Nakajima will be positioned in a window across from the Marunouchi Building, armed with a rifle. From there, he will have a clear shot when Onishi enters the west entrance.”

  Words finally escaped Masaru’s mouth. “But…how do you know he will go in there?”

  “Because it is the entrance closest to the Takano Bank office.”

  Disgust tightened Masaru’s face. “Isamu Takano?”

  General Sakamoto held up a stifling hand. “Tsuyoshi Inukai of the Seiyukai Party will be there too. Believe me, I do not wish to associate with these scheming foxes, but I will for the sake of the plan.”

  “General, perhaps killing Baron Onishi is unimportant,” Masaru said.

  Through the wisps of cigarette smoke, Sakamoto raised an eyebrow.

  “Even if he becomes prime minister, my Kusanagi Society can still cause an incident that will justify martial law and make you shogun. Then we can dispose of the Baron at our leisure,” Masaru said, punctuating his face-saving plan with a tap on his katana.

  Sakamoto shook his head. “Impossible. Our numbers are too small.”

  “But if you would allow me to hold rallies out in the open instead of selling my book in the back alleys of Tokyo I could—”

  “Enough!” Sakamoto roared, slapping his hand on the mat. “Baron Onishi must die before he becomes prime minister!”

  “Yes, of course, General,” Masaru said with a supplicating bow. “But what if Lieutenant Nakajima is…captured?”

  General Sakamoto took a final drag and stubbed out his Golden Bat. “If that happens, the Metropolitan Police have no jurisdiction over Army officers. He’ll be turned over to the Kempeitai, the Military Police—”

  “And the Kempeitai is controlled by the Army,” Masaru continued, nodding his understanding.

  “Regardless of what happens afterward, the Lieutenant has requested to be transferred to Manchuria,” Sakamoto said, slapping Nakajima on the back. “He’ll make a fine platoon commander.”

  A smirk cracked Lieutenant Nakajima’s glassy face. “It is my sacred duty to die for the Emperor, but I wish to fight for him first.”

  Masaru clapped his hands and turned to Reiko. “Another toast!”

  Of course, a toast for Japan’s future shogun. Aizawa would probably be interested in this turn of events but hadn’t she done enough already? Forcing a smile, Reiko poured three shots. Masaru was beaming, but there was concern behind his glasses; perhaps at losing his most die-hard follower to Manchuria? Or was it from losing face in front of the General? Probably both.

  General Sakamoto looked at ease, a man used to strategies and tactics going his way. As always, Lieutenant Nakajima was handsome, icy, and mechanical; like a ceremonial gun ready to be fired. And how did she look? Hopefully, the white face paint hid her worry.

  “To the New Japan!” Masaru raised his glass. “Banzai!”

  *****

  It was almost midnight when Aizawa arrived back in Ueno after completing his paperwork. The neighborhood was a far cry from the pleasure palaces of Yoshiwara or the government efficiency of Nagatacho. But here was where he’d grown up and chosen to remain. In better times, the neighborhood was home to working-class families; men who labored in factories and women who sewed in textile mills. Now they worked at whatever they could.

  But despite the hardship, a woman stood by a small box small box labeled “Relief for the Tohoku Famine.” That poor girl Yuki flashed in his mind. Several passersby stopped and gave whatever they could. Even in this misery, Tokyoites could still be generous.

  Aizawa dug deep into his pockets and tossed in a few coins. He turned the corner and entered his compact nagaya with an exhausted sigh. After changing into a kimono, Aizawa sat near his charcoal heater to warm up. He’d pawned whatever knickknacks he could part with, leaving a hollow, cave-like lounge.

  Only a low-lying table, an electric lamp, and a small family altar remained. Inside was a small statue of the Buddha, serene and merciful. He cast a gaze downward onto a framed photograph of his parents, his little sister Tokiko, and himself out for a stroll in Ueno Park. Although faded and wrinkled, it remained the only picture of the Aizawa family that had survived the Great Earthquake.

  Shame prodded him to light incense and pray for the souls for his family and all those who were lost on that warm September day. After finishing the ritual, Aizawa opened his copy of The New Japan, taken from the office. He scanned through it, searching for any clues to Ryusaki’s present whereabouts.

  The first half was a self-aggrandizing biography: a descendant of twenty generation of samurai, Masaru Ryusaki had spent his early youth intoxicated by decadent American culture and became a mobo, a modern boy.

  He’d even studied in San Francisco, drinking beer in speakeasies and writing essays about how Japan should adopt American-style democracy. But according to the book, his views changed when he returned to Tokyo in 1923, one week after the Great Earthquake. Upon seeing the smoldering ash that had been the Imperial capital, Masaru Ryusaki realized his sins and sobbed for hours.

  He was reborn as a stalwart patriot. When his parents died, Ryusaki was left with a small fortune and decided to go into politics. Joining the conservative Seiyukai Party, he was elected to the Diet in 1928. The book was littered with passages exposing the corruption he’d seen in the government, and Ryusaki even boasted about showing up to a session in full samurai armor, clutching his family sword as a subtle threat to his political rivals.

  It didn’t work. Ryusaki lost his seat in the 1930 election and shortly afterward, he’d written this drivel. The second half of the book was a political rant disguised as a manifesto. Unpatriotic politicians should be assassinated. Extravagant fortunes should be seized and redistributed to the poor. The book explained how the Meiji Restoration of 1868, which toppled the Tokugawa Shogunate and restored the Emperor to power, had allowed a clique of greedy and corrupt men to dominate politics. A modern-day Showa Restoration, named after the reigning Emperor, would abolish the corrupt and weak civilian government and install a new type of shogun to rule on behalf of His Majesty.

  Most disturbing was Ryusaki’s insistence on war. Japan, he argued, had to fight China for control of Manchuria, the Soviet Union for Siberia, France for Indochina, Britain for Singapore, and America for the entire Pacific Ocean.

  Each passage reminded Aizawa of the plot that had crawled out of Ryusaki’s mind months before. He snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the table. If Aizawa had to gamble, after Onishi’s assassination, Ryusaki would use his spy in the Army Ministry to declare martial law and install a new shogun just like what he’d attempted in March. As the old saying went, “Fall down seven times, stand up eight.” But Aizawa was just as determined. If this was going to be his last case, it would also be Ryusaki’s last plot.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Reiko opened her mouth with an enormous yawn and looked around. Sunlight trickled into Masaru’s machiya, and onto Masaru himself, who lay beside her. Although she didn’t remember much from last night, the meeting with General Sakamoto remained clear. But everything after that- th
e drinking games, songs, and stumbling through Asakusa with Masaru for late night sex- was hazy.

  She rose, stirring Masaru awake. After grabbing a nearby mirror, she stared at what looked like a geisha melting in the morning sun. Streams of white greasepaint had peeled off, and her shimada wig was about to wobble loose.

  “What time is it?” Masaru groaned.

  “Early,” Reiko said, setting the mirror aside. Even though this was Masaru’s place, her morning routine always included a little music. She shuffled over to the Sharp radio and clicked it on. “My Blue Heaven” poured out and filled the entire machiya like opium smoke.

  As Reiko hummed along, Masaru rose and joined her beside the radio. They stared at each other in silence, letting the melody speak for them. As if entranced, Masaru slid his arm around Reiko’s waist and took her arm. How many times had they danced to this tune over the past few months? He guided her for a few fox-trot steps until her legs strained against the kimono. Letting out a panicked cry, Reiko tumbled backward and hit the ground with a thump.

  Masaru sank to his knees and steadied her upright. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just embarrassed.” She laughed. “One day I’ll figure out how to fox-trot in a kimono.”

  Masaru smiled and helped her up. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said. “I wish you did that more often.”

  Masaru’s smile vanished and he turned the radio off. “I’ll need an alibi tonight,” he said. “When the assassination occurs.”

  Reiko gave a bitter sigh. “Why don’t you ask one of your followers to entertain you?”

  “Don’t be like that. The Police won’t question the sincerity of a woman.”

  Did that apply to poison women as well? It didn’t matter. Jazz had briefly resurrected the old Masaru. Perhaps a more potent injection would bring the mobo back to life.

  “All right then,” Reiko said. “Meet me at Harlem.”

  Masaru curled his upper lip. “Why there?”

  “Don’t play coy. It’s where we met.”