It was well known among the international law enforcement community that the yakuza – with the exception of the Yamaguchi-gumi, Japan’s largest organized crime family – were involved in drug trafficking. Many yakuza clans dealt primarily in amphetamines and heroin. And each treated the details of their smuggling operations and delivery routes as highly-guarded trade secrets. Giving away such information was punishable by death.
Some days, the only clues Mashima gleaned were from passport stamps indicating the person had traveled extensively between Bangkok and Manila, or Saipan and Honolulu. If those travelers were serving as mules by smuggling heroin, Mashima hoped to catch them red-handed. But given the massive quantities of white powder reaching the streets of America, he knew the transportation methods involved something much larger – tankers, freighters, private aircraft capable of flying over oceans.
Mashima also prided himself on his ability to pick out undercover American agents arriving on his island. Though these visitors attempted to blend in with the tourists, to Mashima they stood out like sharks amid a school of parrot fish. Despite their flip flops and flowered shirts, their hyper-alert eyes always gave them away.
The brief altercation between the Customs officer and the two yakuza had not escaped Hannah’s attention. She quickly determined the local cop with Japanese facial features, who had interceded during the heated moment, was not a yakuza fan, unless he was putting on a show for someone else’s benefit. He had shown no fear. The extensive burn scars covering the left side of his face gave him a menacing look, but the undamaged side was pleasant and kind, handsome even.
Hannah sensed the police officer had immediately pegged her and Carrington as something other than tourists. By the time they reached the Customs officer, Mashima had returned to his observation post, which left him in the shade of the building canopy with his back pressed against the wall of cool cement. The detective lit a Dunhill cigarette and watched as Hannah and Carrington allowed the Customs officer to inspect their suitcases and carry-on bags. Moments later, another Customs official stamped the passport of Argentine citizen Mariel Becker and recorded the arrival of U.S. resident Jake Marson. Welcome to Saipan.
Mashima followed them at a distance as they stepped into the sun-bleached street, the harsh light reflecting off the white coral pavement. Just outside the airport’s main building, three taxi drivers rested against the front fenders of their battered American sedans and awaited passengers. Mashima already knew from their entry cards that Becker and Marson – names he suspected were false — were staying at the Chalan Kanoa Beach Hotel. The place was not among the island’s luxury resorts. It was nearly ten miles from the commercial stretch in Garapan near Micro Beach where most of the hotels, casinos and other tourist attractions were located. Garapan was where the tourists flocked to gamble and perhaps indulge in Saipan’s prospering sex trade. Mashima assumed the two visitors had chosen Chalan Kanoa because the hamlet would allow more privacy. He made a note to speak with the hotel owner.
7
Peacock in a Cage
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
March 1990
When Tanaka returned to his Saipan home perched on a bluff overlooking the sea, he found Hiraku seated on the couch. As soon as she saw him, the young woman folded her arms across her small breasts and pouted.
“Where is my Uncle Yoshi? I want to talk to him.”
Tanaka shrugged. “Nobody has seen him. Perhaps he has run off with a saseko, or maybe a case of sake.”
“He wouldn’t leave without telling me. Something has happened to him. He has been gone almost two weeks.”
The young woman wore bright pink shorts and a florescent green sleeveless top, which provided a glimpse of the intricate tattoos that flowed like sleeves from her shoulders to her wrists. Her glossy black hair was punk styled, spiked in a few places with streaks of orange and blue. She was barefoot, which caused Tanaka to stop, as he always did, to admire the peacock feather tattoo that adorned her left foot.
Hiraku stood but kept her arms defiantly crossed, a scowl on her face. “I want to return to Tokyo. You can’t just keep me here.”
Tanaka offered an amused grin. “Sit down,” he said, though atypically it was more a request than a command. “Until we find Yoshi, it’s best that you remain here.”
“So I’m a prisoner.”
“You are my guest.”
“If I’m your guest, then I want to leave. Now. If you don’t let me go, I’m going to call the police.”
Tanaka smiled, exposing his large and perfectly straight white teeth. Slowly he approached Hiraku, reached around and roughly grasped her buttocks with both hands, lifting her so that she was pressed against him.
“Get your hands off me,” she said, beating her fists into his shoulders. “They call you a snake, but you’re really a pig.”
Tanaka laughed gregariously as he set her down. He could still feel the warmth of her bottom on his fingertips where he’d massaged the soft skin. It made him recall the first time he’d ever seen her six years previous. She was barely fifteen and appeared at his Tokyo apartment door early one morning, carrying what she described as a very important package from her so-called Uncle Yoshi. Tanaka had been expecting the delivery but not the girl. He invited her inside but she declined, saying she was already late for school. He remembered how sexy she looked in her navy blue blazer, white blouse, short plaid skirt and buckle shoes, the uniform of her private girls’ school.
Although he’d occasionally seen her with Yoshi after that, it wasn’t until her eighteenth birthday party at a Tokyo restaurant that he first noticed the peacock feather tattoo on her foot. The tattoo details were exquisite. Perfect artistry.
Tanaka knew by the design quality that Yoshi had created it. He had been so taken by the tattoo that he’d asked Hiraku to remove her sandal so that he might fully admire it. Hiraku had blushed. The moment was awkward, but Tanaka was a powerful yakuza boss. His requests were really orders in disguise. So Hiraku slipped her foot from the sandal and gently twirled her ankle. Tanaka had to stop himself from reaching out and kissing it.
Yoshi had invited five of Hiraku’s girlfriends to celebrate her birthday in the Ginza. The mood at the table was festive, all of them drinking plum wine, sake and beer, and nibbling on trays laden with sashimi, yakitori, tempura, sukiyaki, and even a stack of cheeseburgers with French fries – the latter a special request from Hiraku.
Tanaka had brought along two younger yakuza — handsome fun seekers, unlike other kobun in his crime family who practiced looking stern and fierce but offered little joy. He was infatuated with Hiraku and hoped to share some moments with her alone. As such, he had pre-arranged to receive a phone call during the birthday celebration regarding an emergency at The Lucky Carp casino and hotel on Saipan. The caller was instructed to say it was a delicate matter involving a prostitute seriously injured by a customer and a situation that only Yoshi, as the most-recognized co-owner of the establishment, could handle. According to Tanaka, the Saipan police were already threatening to shut down The Lucky Carp. Hundreds of thousands of dollars potentially would be lost from nightly gambling proceeds, prostitution, and routine money laundering until the problem was resolved.