After confirming that all the students had left, Daimon Gorō checked the lock on the kendo hall, then made a quick round of the athletic equipment storeroom—just in case some unlucky soul had been locked inside.
With those tasks done, he returned to the staff changing room. He swapped out his "formal wear" as P.E. teacher Daimon Gorō—his tracksuit—for a business suit, then left the school.
In Japanese society, grabbing a drink after work was an important part of social life.
Refusing to attend these drinking gatherings often led to being ostracized at work. Sometimes it even affected job performance, as colleagues would be less willing to cooperate.
Naturally, Daimon Gorō wasn't one to buck the norm.
But tonight wasn't a staff get-together. He had a different appointment—with an old classmate he'd spoken to on the phone that afternoon.
Their meeting spot was Hokukaitei, a food cart stationed by the banks of the Edogawa River.
Back in those days, Tokyo's city management wasn't as strict. The lower levels of administration were mostly controlled by various neighborhood associations, chōnaikai, and yakuza groups.
Food carts were a common sight.
A skilled taishō would push a cart stocked with ingredients and equipped with a small gas stove. After parking at a roadside spot, they'd hang a noren—the short curtain signifying they were open for business—and the night's operation would begin.
Though the noren looked like half a curtain and wasn't actually meant to keep warmth in, it was a traditional sign that the shop was open.
At Hokukaitei's usual spot by the Edogawa, the wind could be quite strong. On this still-chilly late April evening, only those with a bit of grit would brave the breeze to enjoy the taishō's cooking.
Daimon Gorō found the cart, which was parked a little farther down than usual tonight, and lifted the noren.
The taishō glanced up at him. "Well, look who's here. It's been a while."
"Must be six months," Daimon replied, pulling over a stool. "Too cold here in winter. It's rough coming out then. I'll have the usual."
"Coming right up." The taishō replied casually as he began pulling ingredients from a storage box.
Continuing the conversation, he said, "Drinking with a view of the snow has its own charm. Young folks these days don't have much backbone."
Daimon, in his thirties, didn't take offense at being called a "youngster." After all, when he'd been just a rookie, this taishō—with that signature floral headband—had already been running this cart.
He'd once asked why the taishō had chosen such a windy, out-of-the-way spot for his business.
At the time, the taishō had looked out at the Edogawa flowing toward Tokyo Bay and said quietly, "The river is the road to the land of the dead. Late at night, when it's quiet, my students come to visit me here. They wear the red flowers I pinned to their chests when I sent them off... like they're scolding me. Scolding me for failing to see through the lies of those monsters in human skin. Scolding me for not hiding them away."
Back when Daimon was younger, he hadn't understood those words. Now... he didn't need to ask.
Running this humble cart by the river, in the biting wind, was likely the taishō's way of atoning—for once being a middle school teacher himself.
Still, after so many years, his skills had become exceptional. Hokukaitei had built up a loyal clientele like Daimon, and business was surprisingly good.
The scent of grilled fish wafted through the air, making Daimon's mouth water.
Leaning forward to watch the fish cook, he said, "I've got a student who might just become a true dragon among men."
"Is that so? Congratulations," the taishō replied calmly.
"But he's run into some trouble. Some real tests. I don't know if he'll make it through." Daimon took a sip of his drink.
The old man said in a low voice, "A dragon cannot be caged."
"I hope you're right," Daimon sighed.
Just then, Daimon's old friend, Patrol Chief Sayama, lifted the noren—a polite gesture, even though there wasn't really a door.
"Off work early today, Patrol Chief-san," the taishō greeted.
"Today's a bit special." Sayama glanced at Daimon. "Gorō, you're here."
"Hmph. And what's got you suddenly interested in one of my students?"
"Not me," Sayama said, signaling to the taishō. "The usual, please."
"Coming right up," the taishō replied.
"I've been reassigned—to the Organized Crime Countermeasures Division. You knew that, right?"
"Just heard."
"Your student—the one who beat Nishiyama Heita half to death—is on our department's radar. Nishiyama's a rising star in the yakuza. We expect his group to move up to a direct affiliate within a few years."
"That serious?" Daimon asked in surprise.
"Very. Nishiyama fought his way up. From shatei, to wakashu, to shateigashira, to wakagashira—every step paved with the blood of other yakuza."
"Sounds like he's racked up plenty of sins. Why not just arrest him?" Daimon frowned.
"The yakuza are crafty these days. Most of the time, they only rough people up—not kill. If they do kill, we can't find the evidence. Rarely even find the bodies."
Daimon clicked his tongue. "Dumped in Tokyo Bay in concrete pillars, huh."
"Exactly. But to dredge those up, we'd need boat captains, crew, right? And the yakuza grew out of dockworker unions."
"What about the Self-Defense Forces? The Coast Guard?"
"Upper brass is always trying to push them out of Tokyo Bay. You think we can ask for their help? Not likely." Sayama shook his head. "It's complicated. Everyone knows—if someone who crosses the yakuza suddenly disappears, they're probably in a concrete pillar in the bay. But even if police are allowed to dredge, they can't find skilled people who have the authority. And those who can dredge don't have the authority."
He sighed. "That's the reality. We have other ways to break cases—like finding the first crime scene, if they didn't clean it properly. But the prosecutors won't indict unless they're sure of a conviction. Japan's conviction rate is one hundred percent, after all. Best in the world!" he added, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"So we can only go after airtight cases. And the best evidence is a confession. But a boss? Of course he can find loyal underlings to take the fall."
He took a drink, a self-mocking smile on his face.
"Now—tell me about this student of yours."
(End of Chapter)