Originally posted November 14, 2010
((This story started off as an experiment on a few fronts. It represents the first time I wrote a story with Yukiko as a focus, an attempt to incorporate live dialog I captured in chat in the middle of a narrative, and a try at writing a story according to the tenants of a Kabuki play. Wikipedia describes that structure...
Chief among these is the concept of jo-ha-kyū (序破急), which states that dramatic pacing should start slow, speed up, and end quickly. The concept, elaborated on at length by master Noh playwright Zeami, governs not only the actions of the actors, but also the structure of the play as well as the structure of scenes and plays within a day-long program.
Nearly every full-length play occupies five acts. The first corresponds to jo, an auspicious and slow opening which introduces the audience to the characters and the plot. The next three acts correspond to ha, speeding events up, culminating almost always in a great moment of drama or tragedy in the third act and possibly a battle in the second and/or fourth acts. The final act, corresponding to kyu, is almost always short, providing a quick and satisfying conclusion.
As I write this entry, I haven't finished the story. We'll have to see how it goes.))
The grey hair man checked his watch before sliding his thick, black rimmed glasses up his nose. He would need to hurry to catch the last train back to Tokyo. "I fear I have overstayed my welcome," he said in polite Japanese. "Nonsense," Mr. Watanabe replied from his seat on a lavish recliner nearby. "It's early still. My driver will see you home." The old man pulled down the sleeve of his robe, covering the fading tattoos that ran down his arms and up to his wrists. "I insist."
The vice cop bowed awkwardly, seated on the expensive leather couch. He reached out to fill the older man's glass. Johnnie Walker, Blue Label. The old man honored him by returning the favor. "It has been too long since I've seen you, Negishi-kun," Mr. Watanabe mentioned casually. "We should do this more often. When I lived in Tokyo, I would expect you every week."
Mr. Negishi raised his glass in a toast, took a sip then settled back in to the comforts of the leather. Those visits were a long time ago. The two would meet to discuss the vice beat, exchanging tips and gossip, and arranging raids. The police liked to give the Yakuza at least a day's notice before showing up at an office to execute a search. The gangsters would offer the locations and best time to pick up suspects and fall guys. A gunfight in public would embarrass them all.
The aging policeman's eyes traveled to the framed declaration on the opposite wall. He tapped out a cigarette, offering it to the oyabun. Mr. Watanabe shook his head while sliding an ashtray closer to his guest across the low wooden table next to them both. "You know," Mr. Negishi mused, "in the Tokyo office they've added 'do not consort with law enforcement.'"
His host nodded. "Only criminals do not want to talk with the police." The older man looked up to the code, the instructions that guided most of his life. The dark, black ink expressly forbade:
1. The use or selling of drugs
2. Theft
3. Robbery
4. Indecent acts and anything shameful under the chivalrous way
"Chivalrous," Watanabe grunted. "These young punks have forgotten chivalry. In the old days, if the Yakuza blackmailed you, it was because you did something wrong. You must pay a fine for your misbehavior." He belched. "It is not longer my concern, eh? I am retired," he pointed towards his guest. "How long do you have?"
"Two months," Mr. Negishi replied, his lips turning up into a smile. "It will be nice to spend some time with my grandchildren." The policeman looked up at the code one more time. Not only had the younger members of the Yakuza forgotten chivalry, they discovered brutality. He pulled on his cigarette as his memory filled with images of bruised faces and mutilated bodies. Once revered community protectors had degenerated into common street thugs, fueled by drugs, robbery, and indecent acts. Retirement could not come soon enough.
"My granddaughter lives in America, now," Mr. Watanabe said. "She goes to university in Millennium City. Straight A's in engineering," he beamed, "and she still visits regularly. My wife and I are planning something special for Coming of Age Day. Yuki-chan turned 20 last month."
"Really?" Mr. Negishi exclaimed. "The little girl who would try to sneak into your study while we would meet? She is 20 now? She sounds very talented." Mr. Watanabe nodded his head as he took a drink. "It is better she avoid this," the oyabun thought aloud. "She does not need words on a wall to instruct her." The frail man tapped his sunken chest. "She is guided by the code of her own heart. When I go on," he gestured, waving his hand towards the great unknown, "Yuki-chan will be free to live her own life."
His face impassive, Mr. Negishi refilled his host's glass and listened to Mr. Watanabe's stories of his half breed granddaughter. Bloodshed and violence would fill the days after Mr. Watanabe's death. Other oyabuns, chinpira, and other punks would strike to settle old scores, unfettered by the old man's charisma and power. The police would have to act, unable to negotiate with a criminal organization who would no longer talk with them. The vice cop looked at his failing old friend and prayed silently Watanabe would make it another two months.
-
Chance looked over the tablets spread out across the island in his kitchen, trying to find a pattern; trying to find another pattern. He didn't like the one starting to emerge.
Mr. Mori, a friend at the PSIA, Japan's equivalent of the FBI and CIA rolled into one organization, had tipped him off a few months ago to the presence of a Japanese terrorist and assassin in Millennium City. The Harrier and Shiroi Hana had arrested Shinju Kato as she attempted to buy explosives from one of the West Side's many gangs. The woman fought with a skilled feints and deceptions, bringing to mind the kitsunetsuki of Japanese folklore. The fox spirit seemed strong in both Kato's verbal barbs and fluent strikes.
Kato had escaped during her repatriation to Japan.
She would not find any arms or explosives here. The Harrier and Shiroi Hana had scoured the West Side shutting down the arms trade everywhere they found it. It would return in time, but Kitsunetsuki would not find a source of guns or bombs inside the city limits. There were plenty of other cities to choose from and based on these reports from Japanese Customs, she found what she needed in LA, Chicago, and New York.
Chance started typing his report to Mr. Mori, certain of the connecting dots. Factions of organized crime in Japan were gathering arms. It could mean only one thing. The Yakuza were gearing for war.
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