Cajun Justice(93)

“Where’s it at?” Cain interrupted. “The wake?”

“It’s in Kamakura. But security will be massive. They’re checking badges for everyone who attends. Let’s just say you stick out.”

“Like a nail?” Cain said, remembering the popular Japanese phrase.

“Oh, no,” Champ replied. “This is on a whole different level. The nail that sticks out”—he pointed to Cain—“gets sliced up in a thousand pieces and fed to the fish in Tokyo Bay.”

“That’s why you’ve just volunteered to be my eyes on the inside, then.”

“You make it sound like I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t. But if it makes you feel better, what would your grandfather choose to do?”

Champ thought about it for a second and nodded in agreement. “He’d earn a Pulitzer.”





Chapter 72



The Great Buddha, as the Americans called it, towered over everything else in the historic village of Kamakura. This bronze statue was over forty-three feet high and weighed more than 267,000 pounds. The sacred temple was a popular tourist destination, but police had blocked off the roads and diverted tour buses for Hayabusa’s wake. Several hundred visitors had gathered to pay their respects to the fallen yakuza member. The men wore black suits and ties over white shirts, and the women wore traditional black kimonos or subdued dresses, a few with beautiful pearls around their necks. They carried envelopes wrapped in black and silver string, which contained yen to present to the family of the deceased.

Champ adhered to the ritual of wearing a black suit to a funeral, but his was a three-piece with a pocket watch attached to a gold chain. As Champ walked toward the gate of the Kotoku-in temple, he saw a female competitor from the Japan Times.

“Cat, I am surprised to see you here,” the Osaka native said.

“You shouldn’t be. You know I go where the action is.”

“They let you leave the military base? I thought the Stars and Stripes put a leash on you.”

“Nobody puts this Cat on a leash.” Champ pointed to his chest. God, that woman gets under my skin. She wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass if she were from Tokyo. Champ had learned that sarcasm and edginess were much more common in Osaka than in Tokyo.

“What’s your story here?” She continued her probe. “Doesn’t your jurisdiction end in Yokosuka?”

He scowled. “I guess you didn’t see me on television this morning. Perhaps if they were paying you what I earn, you’d be able to afford cable.”

“I’m too busy writing the news to be in the news,” she quipped.

“We Americans have a little saying,” Champ replied. “Have your cake and eat it, too. That’s why I’m here.”

“Bon appétit.” She smiled.

A line of yakuza members serving as security guards blocked the entrance. They were checking everyone’s invitations.

“No American press,” a yakuza member said.

“Good, because I’m Canadian,” Champ lied, but he was used to thinking on his feet.

“Canada. United States. It is all the same.”

Champ reached into his inner jacket pocket and retrieved an ornately decorated piece of hard-stock paper the size of a postcard. “Here is my formal invitation.” He presented the document with both hands. “I am honored to be here to show my respect.” Nobody needs to know how I got this, he thought. Let’s just be thankful bribes work with the right people in Japan.

The yakuza members conversed in dialect, which was quite different from typical Japanese. It was spoken in a harsher tone, and slang was used much more frequently. Regardless, Champ was able to pick up about 80 percent of what they were saying.

“You may enter,” the guard said, and paused. “But you have to be escorted.”

“This is a wake, not a middle school dance.” Champ’s humor was lost on the hardened criminal.

“You must be searched also,” the guard ordered, and pointed to the messenger bag slung across Champ’s shoulder.

“It’s just my camera,” Champ replied. “A good reporter always has a pen, a pad of paper, and a reliable camera.”

The yakuza member gruffly pulled Champ’s bag off his shoulder and began inspecting the contents.

“Easy,” Champ cautioned. “That camera cost thousands of dollars. That’s why I keep it protected in American buffalo skin.”

The Japan Times reporter snickered as she passed easily through security. “Maybe I’ll see you on the other side. If not, I’ll send you a copy of my story.”

Champ mumbled under his breath before he was allowed access. Flanked by one of the stout yakuza members, he approached the several-hundred-year-old temple. He was in awe of the religious grounds. Perfectly manicured bonsai trees surrounded the compound, and a forest on a hill provided the backdrop. Where there were no tiles to walk on, loose gravel coated the ground. There were also several wells for water to pour over one’s hands to cleanse oneself.

The wake was attended predominantly by Japanese society, but a handful of prominent Western business owners were there. Champ, escorted by his chaperone, walked around trying to eavesdrop on the various conversations taking place among the guests. He overheard some of the yakuza members mention that the gang was going to an izakaya called Matchbox afterward to drink sake and celebrate Hayabusa’s life.