Cajun Justice(84)

“Back in Louisiana,” Cain had explained, “they’re called book bags. For obvious reasons, you store your textbooks in ’em.”

“Here they are called randoseru,” Umiko had replied. “They are very expensive. They can cost as much as sixty thousand yen!”

Cain did the math in his head. “That’s a little more than seven hundred bucks!”

“Hai. That’s why many times grandparents will buy them. But the child will keep the same one from first to sixth grade. It used to be that boys would get black and girls would get red, but Japan is changing a little bit. You’ll see some girls get pink now, and some boys will choose brown or blue.”

Thinking of Umiko warmed Cain’s heart. I need to call her soon, he reminded himself.

Cain didn’t know the name of the street, only that Chief Alvarez had said all the Americans referred to it as Blue Street since all the signs were in blue. When Cain crossed the side street where the Nawlins restaurant was, fond memories of his date with Umiko flashed in his memory. He felt lucky that she had come into his life when she did.

He approached the bar that Chief Alvarez had suggested. The front entrance and wall were completely made of glass, and a dim red light from within illuminated the small place. Through the glass Cain could see a large wooden bar that formed an L shape and a familiar face sitting in the corner of the empty room.

Cain opened the door and joined Chief Alvarez at a back table. Alvarez handed him a heavy backpack. Cain unzipped it and carefully explored its contents without taking any of the items out.

The bartender, who wore a black vest over a white long-sleeve dress shirt, took their order.

“Two old-fashioneds,” Chief Alvarez said before turning to Cain. “You gotta try these. You’ll love ’em.”

“That’s fine,” Cain replied.

After the bartender brought them the drinks, Cain leaned in and asked, “What do you know about the yakuza?”

“We had one sailor—naive kid from Kansas or Kentucky. Maybe even Iowa. I can’t remember exactly where. But we called him Big Country. He got into a fight with one of them yakuza jokers at a bar in Tokyo. It was one of those places that was not friendly to the round eye, if you know what I mean. But Big Country thought nobody was going to tell him where he could and could not buy a drink.”

“Well?” Cain asked, eager to hear the rest of the story.

“The yakuza slashed him up real bad. It was horrible. NCIS got involved and tried to work with the Tokyo police, but they could never make any headway without the assistance of the Japanese police.”

“That seems to be a recurring theme,” Cain said. “The American embassy told me practically the same thing. I just don’t understand it. How can the yakuza operate with such impunity?”

“How in the hell would I know? I’m just a chief. That yakuza realm is a whole separate world, and I’m not part of it.”

“What happened to Big Country?”

“He wanted to cooperate with the investigation, but he was too afraid. They had stolen his ID and said they knew who he was, and that they’d come looking for him. They even said they had people in America that could find him.”

“Yakuza in America?” Alvarez nodded.

Cain looked at the time on his phone. “Thank you for the bag and the drink, but I gotta go. I’m meeting with Champ.”

“You want me to go with you?” Alvarez asked.

Cain shook his head. “He was adamant about me going alone. If I can’t handle a Stars and Stripes reporter, then going against the yakuza will be a disaster.”

“Oh, it’s gonna be a disaster. I promise you that.”

Cain tilted his head and squinted his eyes, not quite sure how to take the chief’s comment.

“For them, that is,” Chief Alvarez remarked with confidence.





Chapter 65



Cain walked toward the white multilevel building with a huge red banner that went from one side of the structure to the other advertising PACHINKO. The motion-sensored double doors slid open. The sound inside was deafening, a stark contrast to Japan’s normal adherence to tranquility. Well, this is certainly different! Cain thought. This is like a mini Vegas. Japanese men sat in endless rows of chairs that were arranged in front of brightly lit and multicolored machines. Through the heavy fog of cigarette smoke, Cain observed men furiously slapping the flippers and watching the metal balls flinging around inside the machine’s glassed chamber.

It should be easy to spot Champ in here, he reckoned. Yup, that’s gotta be the Cat. Cain walked toward the only non-Japanese in the place. Even if the man wasn’t American, he would have stood out. He wasn’t wearing a dark suit like the other patrons. Champ wore a fedora that matched the brown tweed waistcoat that he had on over his long-sleeve white button-up. Instead of a cigarette, a wooden pipe hung lazily from his mouth. Cain couldn’t help but smirk as he thought, The New York Times called and they’d like their star reporter from the 1930s back.

Cain sat in the empty chair next to Champ, put down his expeditionary bag, and started playing the machine in front of him. “What gives? You got a gambling addiction?”

“Every man has his vice.” Champ spoke quickly, as if he was in a rush. “For some, it’s alcohol and prostitutes.” He turned to look at Cain; perhaps he was alluding to how Cain had gotten fired from the Secret Service. “Maybe even religion. My vices are simple. I call them the trifecta.”