Coach pointed at Saigo and then at the short dagger behind him. The dosu, Coach said, was a prop that yakuza should only use if they were dealing with another yakuza or a common crook. It was something to bring to threaten an enemy with, and if the enemy didn’t give in, a yakuza could slash their opponent’s face with it.

  Also, “Try not to get your own face slashed up,” Coach advised. Many yakuza thought it was cool to have a scar on their face, because it showed they had had a fight with another yakuza. What Coach saw when he saw a yakuza with a slashed face was that the guy had been too slow to pull out his knife first. Some yakuza slashed their own faces so they would look more like a yakuza — more threatening.* “Your face is frightening enough as it is, though,” Coach said.

  [* The slashed face of the yakuza had become rather iconic over the years. Many Japanese still refer to the yakuza silently by touching their index finger to their right cheek and drawing a slash mark downward — to show where the scar should be.]

  Yakuza should dress well. Coach thought that if you projected success, you would become successful. He told Saigo to wear a good suit and to keep it pressed. He also needed to buy the best damn shoes he could find. A yakuza with dirty shoes didn’t pay attention to detail. Coach offered Saigo a cigarette from the crystal box on the table between them, and Saigo lit up, inhaling deeply. Coach then handed Saigo 40,000 yen and ordered him to buy better shoes, preferably ones without laces. They were in Japan. He couldn’t go around tying and untying his shoelaces all the time, or he’d block the door. Saigo was walking around in sneakers, and no yakuza bosses wore sneakers.

  As Saigo turned to leave, Coach reminded him that his knife was still stuck in the wall, and ordered Saigo to take it with him. Saigo came back to the knife and yanked. He had to struggle a bit to pull it out of the wall.

  As he stuffed it back into its holster, Coach said, very quietly, “If you buy any meth while you’re out, or shoot up, I’m not going to miss the next time I throw a knife at your head. I know how to throw a strike, and I know how to throw a ball that’ll knock your fat head off. If I throw a knife at your ear, I’ll slice it off.”

  This incident marked Saigo’s last major relapse. That same year, Hiroko was diagnosed with cancer. They had been together for about six years at this point. He bought her the best treatments he could afford. She was hospitalized frequently, so he would visit her every day, for at least ten to twenty minutes each time. The cancer treatment was supposed to be healing her, but it wasn’t. That was the harsh truth of many treatments for cancer at the time — you didn’t get better, but you did live longer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Coronation

  Saigo officially became the kobun (child) of Coach on June 7, 1998. The Yokosuka-Ikka had their official sakazuki cementing father-son ties and creating new relations. For Saigo, it was one of the pinnacles of his life. Coach was now the eighth-generation leader of the Yokosuka-ikka, and, of the over 1,000 members, he was one of only fifteen senior members who could drink directly from the cup of the oyabun, elevating him to the upper echelon of the Inagawa-kai. Saigo was an executive director on the Inagawa-kai board and was still serving as Coach’s secretary.

  During this time, he was also undergoing interferon treatment for his hepatitis C. He’d been diagnosed with it in 1997. He was told that you could get it through blood infections, usually by sharing needles. Whether it was his own meth use or bad hygiene at the tattoo parlor that caused it, he didn’t know, but he did know it could shorten your life span. The treatment was brutal; the side effects, significant. The treatment was making his hair fall out a little, but not too much. Interferon was expensive, but it was better than an early death.

  Hiroko was still in the hospital as well. Since her diagnosis, she would stay ten months inside the hospital, and come back home for two months, and then go back to the hospital.

  So while he felt elated to be attending the ceremony, he didn’t feel well physically or mentally.

  The lavish ceremony itself was held in the Kanagawa prefecture at an Inagawa-kai-owned event hall. Yoshio Tsunoda, the chairman of the board, presided over the ceremony. The participants, including Coach, were dressed in cream-colored hakama with the Inagawa crest on the front of the robe. All the others were in black suits with white shirts.

  The ceremony was primarily an in-house event, held in a sixty-tatami-mat hall. The walls were adorned with names of well-wishers, written vertically in Japanese cursive, with the individual’s name, rank, and group status clearly written out.

  A long white cloth, serving as a red carpet of sorts, divided the room. On both sides, square blue or red pillows were laid out for the guest to sit upon. Yamada was among the attendees, dressed traditionally in a hakama. There was also a large notice on the wall that the arrangement was shihoudouseki, meaning “the same (level of) seats in four directions.” Yakuza are very sensitive to rank, and it had to be clear that there was no pattern or meaning as to who sat where. This had to be done to ensure that no one felt slighted or disrespected. Otherwise, you might have Hishiyama feeling like he’d been called “Hishiyama-kun” because his seat was placed further from the altar than someone else.

  At the best-planned yakuza events, every seat was a good seat.

  The altar to Amaterasu Omikami was placed at the far end of the room against the wall. There were offerings of two madai fish, two bottles of sake in white porcelain bins, and fruits and vegetables, stacked upon each other or in elaborate displays, including a tower of apples that looked like they would fall over if anyone added a single extra apple. The ritual was conducted with great solemnity and with no talking among the 100 or so people assembled.

  It was a religious ritual, and while few people there understood what the ritual meant or why the altar was arranged as it was, they did understand that it was not a jovial occasion. Not until the banquet started.

  Saigo tried not to fall asleep as it was happening. Excitement was tinged with the sleepiness and fatigue that interferon treatment brings.

  The ceremony was moderated by Akira Otomo, an executive boss in another Inagawa-kai family outside the Yokosuka-ikka. In his opening remarks, he apologized in advance for any slip of the tongue or unintentional rudeness on his part while conducting the proceedings. These prefatory remarks were much like the safety instructions given by flight attendants before a plane lifts off — no one really listens but, in the interests of safety and for CYA purposes, they were absolutely necessary. No matter how many years the emcee has been in the yakuza, he will always say, “I’m new to this business, and please forgive my lack of eloquence and etiquette. Please lend me your ears and support until the end of the ceremony.”

  Otomo then introduced Coach, noting, “This is the man who will be your parent — the eighth-generation leader of the Inagawa-kai and the board director of the Inagawa-kai advisory committee.”

  The Inagawa-kai had several committees, like any corporation, and being a director of at least one was important for status and for rising in the organization. Saigo hoped to attain a position sometime soon. Coach closed his eyes and nodded, solemnly, as he was introduced.

  The emcee then introduced the Inagawa-kai members who would become the children of the oyabun, one by one. Of course, Inoue was there, his black hair now tinged with gray, looking very much like a Buddhist priest in his traditional Japanese garb. There was no order of introduction, but Saigo was towards the end of the group, and his eyes lit up when his name was called.

  The ritual had many honorary participants, including the official mediator, Tsunoda, who was the waka-gashira in the Inagawa-kai and the most senior representative at the event. If Yuko Inagawa himself had come, it would have been even more prestigious, but the big boss couldn’t make every ceremony. In events like this, the more people who had some sort of title and function in the event, the happier everyone was.

  The reading of all the names and honorees itself went on for twenty minutes. Finally, the ritual started, and in a few minutes a large cup of sake in a white porcelain cup, placed on a wooden cup-holder, was brought to Tsunoda, who inspected it and pronounced it “fine.” Then it was taken to Coach. He drank from the cup once, gritted his teeth, and returned the cup to the wooden holder, which was then taken back to the presiding Shinto priest. The Shinto priest and Coach made the required exchange of greetings.

  A purified bowl of sake was then divided into fifteen cups, brought before the intermediary, Tsunoda, who approved them, and then distributed to “the children.”

  In the video of the ceremony, made by an Inagawa-kai front company, the distribution of the sake cups is choreographed to mystical Japanese music that soars with drums and the sound of the Japanese flute. Each member sits in the seiza position as they adjust their legs and take their sake. The tattoos on Saigo’s arms are briefly visible as he reaches for the cup.

  The priest addressed them all. “I know that you have all spent years training in your profession. Therefore, no other remarks are needed. Please drink deeply from the sake cup in three sips and then place it within your pockets.”

  In unison, they all drank their cups dry, to a spattering of applause, and then wrapped the cups within white paper provided and tucked them deep into the inner chest pockets of their robes.

  They all turned to face their new oyabun and bowed deeply from a seated position, saying, “Yoroshiku onegai shimasu.”* Coach bowed back.

  [* This is a standard Japanese greeting that means anything and everything between “Please help me out” and “Nice to meet you.” ]

  It was done. Coach was now Saigo’s oyabun. He and Inoue were also now both direct kobun of the Coach. For a yakuza, Saigo thought, there could be nothing better than an oyabun who you truly felt loyal to. Coach had been a strict boss, and would always be a strict boss, but he had gotten Saigo off meth, had never given up on him, and Saigo felt he owed the man his life. He felt he owed Inoue as well. He thought of Inoue as his older brother, and without him he would have never joined the Inagawa-kai.

  If it hadn’t been for Coach, he would have been kicked out of the Inagawa-kai and ended up either in prison or dead — he was sure of it. It was one of the happiest days of his life.

  The banquet was held in the same hall, with a multitude of attractive women in kimonos pouring the beer or sake, and making small talk with the yakuza in attendance. For a few moments, Saigo thought of his first wife and the daughter he hadn’t seen in years. Would they be proud to see how far he’d risen? He didn’t think about it too much — it made everything taste bitter. He drank as little as possible. It wasn’t good for his liver, and it didn’t go well with interferon.

  As he was leaving the hall, Coach stopped him. He had some good news for Saigo. He was going to grant him more territory to watch over. More territory meant more money.

  The after-party was full of good food, and, again, attractive women in kimonos poured beer and sake for the men. He hoped Inoue would behave himself. When the man got drunk, he was amusing but uncontrollable. However, this time Inoue was well-behaved.

  It was an auspicious day indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ice-cream dreams

  The summer of 1998 was dominated by news of the poisoned-curry murders in Wakayama City. On July 25, at a summer festival, sixty-seven people who had eaten the curry suffered severe nausea and cramps. Most were taken to a nearby hospital.

  Four of them died: a sixty-four-year-old man, a fifty-four-year-old man, a sixteen-year-old girl, and a ten-year-old boy. At first, the local health office thought it was a case of food poisoning. Then the Wakayama Police Department did a forensic analysis of vomit left at the scene, and found that arsenic had been mixed into the curry. Someone had poisoned it.

  The incident put a damper on people’s enthusiasm for summer festivals and for curry in general. The Japanese are very fond of both. Curry was introduced to Japan before World War II, and was adapted to suit the Japanese palate. It was a household staple. Retro curry lasted forever in sealed vacuum packs. All you had to do was heat it up, open the package, and toss it on rice.

  But nobody wants to eat instant poison. Food companies refrained from airing curry commercials. Japan’s ubiquitous cooking shows dropped curry from the menu. Even the popular manga about a dysfunctional family in Urayasu-city (Urayasu Tekkin Kazoku) dropped a storyline that had curry prominently mentioned in it. It would be months before a suspect was even named in the media. To everyone’s surprise, the suspect turned out to be a rather portly woman with a history of insurance fraud.

  Saigo didn’t like curry. But he did like festivals.

  Festivals, as noted before, have always been a good source of revenue for tekiya, but the association of them with physical illness and death damaged their reputation. Even if no one was serving curry at the festivals, any little incident of food poisoning, funny-tasting food, and/or suspicious behavior was enough to start a news feeding frenzy. People were wary, and stayed away. This meant lower revenue in the form of kickbacks from the tekiya was going to be bad for everyone.

  The tekiya sold cheap toys, plastic samurai swords, candy cigarettes, balloons, and trinkets at festivals, but their real money came from the food stands: fried octopus chunks in batter (takoyaki), fried noodles, rice-balls, cotton candy, Japanese pizza (okonomiyaki), and curry rice.

  If they couldn’t sell their food and wares, Saigo couldn’t reasonably hope to get a cut of their earnings. He ran the festivals on his turf. The merchants, even if they were members of his own group, had to rent the space. The term for this type of renting was shobadai, a deliberately inverted form of the word bashodai (rental-space fees). It was a cozy arrangement that the poisoned-curry incident had made relatively unprofitable.

  But this year, Saigo was lucky enough to have a new place to try to make some money.

  Coach had given Saigo control of Zushi and Hayama, two prime beach areas in the Kamakura region. Zushi and Hayama had always been part of the Yokosuka-ikka’s turf. He needed to make sure it stayed that way.

  Kamakura had once been the capital of Japan, and was still blessed with a huge number of Buddhist temples, long-standing wooden buildings, corporate resort hotels, and some of the best beaches in Tokyo. However, even with all the tourists coming to visit each year, and with all the hotels and resorts, it wasn’t a great place to make money. The income was very seasonal, and the locals weren’t used to paying protection money. Nor were the local police very tolerant of yakuza asking the locals to pay up.

  Sooner or later, Saigo knew Coach would want a kickback on any money that Saigo’s group made from their turf, and if he wasn’t making any money, the new territories would be nothing more than a new financial drain.

  Saigo had already had to call in some favors and put ten of his men into an office in the area to make sure their presence was known. Those days, if you didn’t tend to your garden, the weeds — the weeds being the Yamaguchi-gumi — would quickly sprout up and take root. That would not do.

  In late June, he was driving towards the beach to get a report from his gang when he got caught in a massive traffic jam near Zushi, on the road along the beach.

  As he was sitting in the car, thirsty, hungry, hot, and angry, he noticed a kid in opposing traffic happily eating an ice-cream cone. Chocolate ice-cream. It looked damn good.

  As he gazed across the ocean of cars in front of him, moving at a snail’s pace, it flashed on him: ice-cream. He could sell ice-cream to people caught in traffic jams. Maybe drinks, too. Possibly beer. People would buy. He would have a captive market.

  He had his lieutenants locate an ice-cream wholesaler and gather ten motorcycles and riders. The plan was for them to carry the ice-cream in cooler boxes on the motorcycles, and have the riders carry the ice-cream to the cars stuck in the traffic jam. The coolers would also contain cans of soda, water, and beer.

  There was some resistance. When he gathered the troops in their makeshift office in Zushi, and had them sit down in the deck chairs assembled in the mostly empty room, the reaction was an overwhelming silence.

  The newly designated ice-cream vendors were mostly former motorcycle gang members. Most of them had never worked an honest day in their lives, but that was okay. They had driving skills. You had to be able to drive well to weave in and out of the traffic — it moved suddenly and unpredictably.

  Selling things on the streets was a time-honored yakuza tradition. And Saigo thought it was probably illegal to do it, so that was even better. Granted this contradicted his belief that his crew should be on top of the law to find and utilize the loopholes, but sometimes people contradict themselves. His group would probably have to have a license, and they wouldn’t bother to get it. After putting some thought into it, he also decided that — in principle — they wouldn’t sell cans of beer where there was only one person riding. That would encourage drunk driving. Even yakuza don’t like drunk drivers.

  The problem was where to store the ice-cream. There was a meatpacking plant on his new turf, and Saigo convinced the owner to let him store the ice-cream there. And that went well at first.

  The riders would check into the plant in the morning, load up on ice-cream and drinks, and sell their goods to the drivers of cars stuck in the endless traffic jams along the 10 kilometers between Zushi and Hayama city.

  They would slide into the traffic, come up to the side of the cars, gently tap on the windows, and ask the drivers if they cared for some ice-cream. Hanzawa was especially good at this. He liked weaving in and out of traffic. And he was a surprisingly good salesman. Saigo had instructed all of his men to be exceedingly polite and to be careful not to make their words sound like a shakedown. It went surprisingly smoothly.

  The problem was that by storing the ice-cream among the frozen flesh, it absorbed some of the smell and taste of meat, and people complained about it.