impromptu meeting with the organization’s oyabun. If the Yamaguchi-gumi were inclined, there was too much opportunity to plan an ambush.
Akira leaped out and rounded Hisayuki’s armored LS 600h L sedan and waved away the hotel doorman. Hisayuki preferred to have his own driver open his door to avoid any unwanted surprises. Behind came the third car with its additional host of bodyguards.
The move from vehicle to inside the hotel happened in seconds. Inside, Hisayuki was formally greeted by the general manager and guided to a private elevator, whisking him, his saiko-komon, and two of his most trusted lieutenants up to the penthouse floor, where they were escorted into a private dining room. There Hisayuki was greeted by his Yamaguchi-gumi equivalent, Oyabun Hiroshi Fukazawa. He too was accompanied by his saiko-komon, a slight bespectacled man by the name of Tokutaro Kudo, who, by his diminutive size, made his boss appear to be a giant.
Actually, Hiroshi was big. Although not a giant, he was almost a head taller than Hisayuki, with a broad, serious face. He was dressed as nattily as his guest, in 34
elegant European business attire.
Besides the two principles and their respectful saiko-komons and two personal bodyguards, the other people in the room included a hotel manager, a waiter, and a chef. The chef, outfitted in spotless white with a tall, highly starched toque, was standing patiently in the middle of a U-shaped dining table with a built-in grill. The table was at the far end of the narrow room near the window.
Out the window stretched a dramatic sweeping view of Osaka Bay with the Port of Kobe in the foreground.
After the typical, ritualized greeting and exchange of business cards, Hiroshi gestured for his two guests to take seats in the seating area near the room’s entrance, just beyond the private lavatory. As Hisayuki stepped over to one of the chairs, he could not help but take note that Hiroshi did not make a point of bowing slightly lower than he, which was traditional, since Hisayuki was clearly the more senior in age. Hisayuki wondered if the slight was deliberate or accidental, and if deliberate, if it was a sign of disrespect or merely a subtle statement that Hiroshi did not consider himself bound by the same old Yakuza cultural rules.
“This is a most pleasant surprise, Ishii-san,” Hiroshi said once the four men were seated and had ordered their personal favorite brand of Scotch whiskey. The four bodyguards faded to opposite sides of the room, glaring at one another.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us under such short notice, Fukazawa-san,”
Hisayuki said with yet another slight bow.
“It is good to see you looking so well. It has been too long since we were together, my friend.”
“It was more than a year. We should not be so lax. It is, after all, less than fifty miles that separates us.”
The pleasantries continued until the waiter brought out their respective scotches.
When the waiter withdrew, the tone changed. It wasn’t marked, but it was real.
“What is it that we can do for the oyabun of the Aizukotetsu-kai?” Hiroshi asked with a more clipped style and impatient tone than he had used earlier.
Hisayuki cleared his throat and hesitated as if he’d waited until that very moment to decide what it was he wanted to say. “Several days ago—three, to be exact—I was called to Tokyo to meet with Daijin Kenichi Fujiwara-san.”
“The vice minister Fujiwara?” Hiroshi questioned with muted surprise. He shot a quick glance toward his saiko-komon and got a slight shrug of the man’s 35
shoulders in return, suggesting that he was equally surprised. A government meeting at the ministerial level with a Yakuza oyabun was something akin to a blue moon.
“Exactly! The vice minister of Economy, Trade, and Industry,” Hisayuki said. He leaned forward and made direct eye contact with his host. He knew he had the man’s full attention. “The vice minister told
Akira leaped out and rounded Hisayuki’s armored LS 600h L sedan and waved away the hotel doorman. Hisayuki preferred to have his own driver open his door to avoid any unwanted surprises. Behind came the third car with its additional host of bodyguards.
The move from vehicle to inside the hotel happened in seconds. Inside, Hisayuki was formally greeted by the general manager and guided to a private elevator, whisking him, his saiko-komon, and two of his most trusted lieutenants up to the penthouse floor, where they were escorted into a private dining room. There Hisayuki was greeted by his Yamaguchi-gumi equivalent, Oyabun Hiroshi Fukazawa. He too was accompanied by his saiko-komon, a slight bespectacled man by the name of Tokutaro Kudo, who, by his diminutive size, made his boss appear to be a giant.
Actually, Hiroshi was big. Although not a giant, he was almost a head taller than Hisayuki, with a broad, serious face. He was dressed as nattily as his guest, in 34
elegant European business attire.
Besides the two principles and their respectful saiko-komons and two personal bodyguards, the other people in the room included a hotel manager, a waiter, and a chef. The chef, outfitted in spotless white with a tall, highly starched toque, was standing patiently in the middle of a U-shaped dining table with a built-in grill. The table was at the far end of the narrow room near the window.
Out the window stretched a dramatic sweeping view of Osaka Bay with the Port of Kobe in the foreground.
After the typical, ritualized greeting and exchange of business cards, Hiroshi gestured for his two guests to take seats in the seating area near the room’s entrance, just beyond the private lavatory. As Hisayuki stepped over to one of the chairs, he could not help but take note that Hiroshi did not make a point of bowing slightly lower than he, which was traditional, since Hisayuki was clearly the more senior in age. Hisayuki wondered if the slight was deliberate or accidental, and if deliberate, if it was a sign of disrespect or merely a subtle statement that Hiroshi did not consider himself bound by the same old Yakuza cultural rules.
“This is a most pleasant surprise, Ishii-san,” Hiroshi said once the four men were seated and had ordered their personal favorite brand of Scotch whiskey. The four bodyguards faded to opposite sides of the room, glaring at one another.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us under such short notice, Fukazawa-san,”
Hisayuki said with yet another slight bow.
“It is good to see you looking so well. It has been too long since we were together, my friend.”
“It was more than a year. We should not be so lax. It is, after all, less than fifty miles that separates us.”
The pleasantries continued until the waiter brought out their respective scotches.
When the waiter withdrew, the tone changed. It wasn’t marked, but it was real.
“What is it that we can do for the oyabun of the Aizukotetsu-kai?” Hiroshi asked with a more clipped style and impatient tone than he had used earlier.
Hisayuki cleared his throat and hesitated as if he’d waited until that very moment to decide what it was he wanted to say. “Several days ago—three, to be exact—I was called to Tokyo to meet with Daijin Kenichi Fujiwara-san.”
“The vice minister Fujiwara?” Hiroshi questioned with muted surprise. He shot a quick glance toward his saiko-komon and got a slight shrug of the man’s 35
shoulders in return, suggesting that he was equally surprised. A government meeting at the ministerial level with a Yakuza oyabun was something akin to a blue moon.
“Exactly! The vice minister of Economy, Trade, and Industry,” Hisayuki said. He leaned forward and made direct eye contact with his host. He knew he had the man’s full attention. “The vice minister told
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