Ten Thousand and One Cigarettes
Sometimes I’m surprised at how often I find myself right back where I started.
“Here’s a box of the finest tobacco money can buy,” I said when Sekiguchi opened the door, lifting up the DUTY FREE bag. He was surprised to see me—after all, I wasn’t even supposed to be in Japan. He didn’t seem to mind much, either. I showed up unannounced at his house around five in the afternoon in January 2006; he was the only one home—and at a decent hour, which was rare.
He did a sort of double-take and then yelled, “Jake! Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year! I thought I’d hand-deliver this year’s New Year’s card.” I handed it to him. There we were, all of us on the card, goofy pictures of Beni and Ray, my son. Sunao and I looked at peace in the photo as well. We had put greetings in both Japanese and English on the card. It was probably one of the first times in years I’d actually been able to sit down and make a proper card.
Sekiguchi was amused at our six-sided faux Japanese house in the photos.
“Thanks for the card, but have you ever heard of stamps? Or is this something you barbarians in the Midwest don’t know about? Come on in. The wife and kids are out shopping, they’ll be back in an hour.”
I took off my shoes in the entrance, lined them up facing toward the door, and stepped into the house, saying the obligatory Japanese phrase “Ojama shimasu” (I will honorably now bother you).
As I hung up my umbrella on the coat rack, he looked at my feet.
“Your socks don’t match today. I’m assuming that Sunao and the kids are back in America, right?”
I laughed. As usual, his detective skills were top notch.
He thanked me for the carton of cigarettes. They weren’t his brand, but they were Premium Mild Sevens—limited edition kind of things. He pulled out an ashtray that was remarkably clean.
He took out a pack and looked at it longingly, shrugged his shoulders, and opened it. I retrieved my pack, the clove cigarettes. He lit mine for me, and I lit his for him.
Sekiguchi wrinkled his face a little at the smell of the clove tobacco, “Those things smell like incense every time. You know … I’m not dead yet.” He inhaled deeply on his own coffin nail.
“What does that mean?”
“Weren’t you a little monk once? Incense is for funerals. You don’t have to smoke one now; you can light one for me then. No need to rush. You’ll have a chance soon enough.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m home early because I had chemo yesterday. I was too sick to work. I go in almost every day, though. What else am I going to do? Play golf? The doctors say I’ve got a year, maybe two years left.”
Sekiguchi’s cancer had spread. It had started in his appendix, of all places, and metastasized quickly. There had been a period when it had seemed as though he might have been cured, but it was still there festering away out of reach and beyond detection. When they caught it the second time, it was way too late.
If Sekiguchi had been Tadamasa Goto, the powerful gangster, he would have been getting the best medical care in the world. Several doctors would have been analyzing his charts, checking his vitals, and mapping his progress every day, every night. He’d have a hospital suite to himself at Tokyo University Hospital. But he wasn’t Tadamasa Goto, he was just a low-ranking cop who’d never made it past sergeant, and he didn’t have much money.
He couldn’t afford to stay home and get better. He had to go to work every day. The cost of not dying was expensive, even in Japan.
“You know, I finally quit smoking. A little late but I did.”
“Sorry. Shouldn’t have brought these.”
“Nahh, one last smoke with you. Seems like a good thing to do. Even with these shitty premium cigarettes. Maybe I’ll smoke one of yours.”
“Be my guest.” I offered him one.
He took it in his fingers, tapped it gently on the table, looked it up and down, lit it—twice; they’re hard to light—and inhaled.
“Sweet. I can feel that nicotine burst. Not bad, not bad at all. Now, while I’m smoking this thing, bring me up to date. You better have a good reason for being back in Japan, or I’m going to have to kick your ass—something I never thought I’d have to do. I don’t think coming back so soon is a good idea.”
He was right. He was almost always right. He’d been right when we’d been sitting at the hotel in Shinjuku having such a lovely talk with Goto’s ambassadors a few months before. A lot had changed since then. I had officially resigned from the Yomiuri Shinbun in November 2005, about a month after Goto’s emissaries had made their threats.
In my mind, the Goto article was going to be my last scoop, my graduation thesis. It hadn’t worked out, and I didn’t plan to stick around for one more article that I couldn’t see getting published in the first place. The Yomiuri let me take most of my unused vacation time and sent me on my way. I had liked working for the Yomiuri, but by the start of 2005 the human trafficking stories had taken their toll, and my unpleaseant meeting with Goto’s enforcers was enough to send me packing. The Yomiuri was very understanding during the whole process and let me stay in the company insurance plan even after I left.
After resigning, I returned home to the Midwest. I had enrolled in an LSAT preparation course and was getting ready for law school. I was diligently trying to make the transition to a new way of life. No cigarettes. No drinking until three in the morning. No friends calling after midnight. No yakuza cops or strippers or prostitutes to hang out with. Nothing more dangerous around than a lawn mower.
And then I got an e-mail from a good buddy, Ken, who used to work for the CIA. The U.S. State Department was sponsoring a massive study of human trafficking in Japan. He said he had recommended me for the job and wanted to know if I was interested. I read the e-mail several times.
I thought about it. I had cleared up things with Goto, ostensibly. I had a peace treaty of sorts. I wouldn’t want to bring my family, though. I didn’t trust those guys. The job sounded good; the remuneration not bad. It could do some good in the world. I might be able to do a lot more with the proper funding. However, taking the job would put me right back into the world of depravity that I had left behind.
I thought about my plans for law school. I thought about my promises to Sunao. And then, without consulting anyone, I replied, “Yes. I’d love to take the job.”
I felt as if it would be wrong to say no. It felt like a duty and an obligation. Maybe I should have seen it as a temptation instead.
And so, before the year even ended, I found myself back in Japan, revisiting the same places I’d spent so much time before. I needed to see Sekiguchi. I think I wanted his approval more than his advice.
I brought him up to date. He was satisfied with my answers.
“You have a friend who used to be CIA? Always thought there was a little more to you than your goofy appearance. But every time I talk to you, I think ‘probably not.’ Well, it’s good work to be doing. And it’s important. And the pay sounds good. You’re going to keep the family in the States while you do this, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Because it’s dangerous stuff you’re doing. Let me tell you something about reporting about the yakuza. You can write all you want about their gang wars, their tattoos, their sexual exploits, but when you start looking into how they really make their money, what companies they own—you’re walking into scary territory. And make no mistake, human trafficking is a source of revenue for these guys. Child porn. Prostitution. Anything where the profits are high. It’s all about the money with these guys now, and that kind of reporting threatens to screw up their business.”
I had a question. I wanted to know if my “truce” with Goto would hold.
“I’m pretty sure he knows you quit the Yomiuri. Correction. I’m definitely sure he knows. So as far as he’s concerned, you’re an ex-reporter. What you’re doing now, as long as he doesn’t know about it, is fine. But you should be extra careful. Tokyo is his turf. You’ll be walking around his playground without permission. If you’re going to ask around for that report, be very, very careful. Be careful who you call, who you meet, what you say. Got it?”
I nodded that I understood. Sekiguchi didn’t look so good, and I didn’t want to add to his worries. While we were chatting, Mrs. Sekiguchi came home and so did the girls, both of them now in their teens with crazy haircuts. It was hard to compute.
They both gave me a hug, and we chatted for a while. Mrs. Sekiguchi made us all yakisoba and then massaged Sekiguchi’s legs, which were as stiff as boards, some kind of side effect from the chemotherapy. He had me knock on them; it was just like hitting wood.
I stayed for an hour and then called a taxi. Sekiguchi walked me to the door himself and motioned for his wife and the kids to stay back. It wasn’t the usual all-family bye-bye.
It was pitch-black in Konan, and the only area of light was the wide circle in front of the porch. It was like looking into space from where we stood. Sekiguchi-san gave me back the carton of cigarettes and the opened pack, saying, “Thanks, but this is enough for a while. I appreciate the thought.”
“Understood. I wish I could do something more.”
He shook his head and waved his hands as if to say, Not needed.
“Jake, I’ve known you for a decade now. Pretty amazing, huh? You’ve come a long way since you were a naive little cub reporter. I’m proud to know you. I think you’re doing the right thing, but you better know where you’re going with this, okay? Watch your back. And look out for the people you care for. You start looking into this sexual slavery thing—I forget the fancy word—you’ll step on a lot of toes. Sometimes people step back. You keep in touch.”
He patted me hard on the shoulder, waited for me to get into the taxi, and waved good-bye. He made a gentle bow as I was about to take off, and the kids and Mrs. Sekiguchi came out to the porch and waved.
I appreciated the sentiment, but I was no longer a newbie reporter who didn’t know the difference between purse snatching and armed robbery. I knew what I was doing. At least I thought I did.