CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Driving Mr Baseball — how to be a yakuza

Driving Coach around Tokyo was like being in a crash course on how to be a yakuza boss. For the first few weeks, Saigo lived in Coach’s house. He learned to bow properly, greet people, exchange business cards, and shut up. At 3.30 am, he would wake up, get dressed, warm up or cool down the Mercedes, and pick up Coach and take him to play golf.

Coach played golf with doctors, lawyers, prosecutors, heads of national newspapers, politicians, industry magnates, and other yakuza. Saigo slept in the car. Sometimes, Coach bet on the golf games, and he’d come back humming a little tune.

After golf, Coach would usually play mah jong in Tokyo. The venues would vary. Sometimes he’d play in hotels; sometimes, in the offices of listed companies. He would spend the afternoon visiting businesses that he ran, or that were paying tribute money to him or the organization. Sometimes, he’d go to the park and play Shogi (Japanese chess) with an old friend.

Coach was also constantly going to secret gambling events. After most of them, he would sit in the back of the car and count his money. He’d flip through it rapidly once, and then count one bill at a time at rapid speed. The sa-sa-sa sound of the money being counted was a pleasant sound for Saigo, because he knew that Coach would probably give him some extra money. He almost always did.

Coach would often attend giriba (yakuza events), such as funeral services, succession ceremonies, weddings, and Inagawa-kai committee meetings. So Saigo would drive Coach to those events. The standard apparel was a black suit, a white shirt, and a dark necktie. It was all that Saigo wore for months.

If there was nothing special happening, Saigo would eat dinner at Coach’s place with Coach, Coach’s wife, and other young members of Coach’s group. Sometimes, Saigo’s girlfriend would host dinner at his house. It had been about four years since Hiroko had moved in, and although Saigo had vowed to never marry again, they were pretty much married. He considered her his wife.

There was a family dinner almost every night. Saigo and the other senior gang members would usually gather at Coach’s house, and Coach’s wife would cook them all dinner. She was a good cook, and her evening dinners created a family-like atmosphere in the group; while Coach had no children, Saigo was as close as it came to being his eldest son.

Saigo would occasionally check in with Yamada, but the Saigo-gumi was out of his hands as long as he was serving as Coach’s driver. He was eventually given the temporary title of Coach’s secretary.

Being made the secretary of the boss above you in yakuza world is a promotion. It gives you access to meeting people way above your pay grade. It allows you to learn by example. The downside is that you don’t have the time to manage your organization yourself, and you have to trust everything to your subordinates. However, it’s a powerful stepping-stone to eventually occupying the position your boss now holds.

Among other yakuza organizations, the system is different, but within the Inagawa-kai, that was what the Japanese would call the “elite corps.” The word “secretary” does not have the negative connotation it has in Western society. Many secretaries of politicians later become politicians in the Diet themselves. And in both cases, not only do you get to meet different people in this position, but the “constituents” get to know you.

He was paid 700,000 yen a month, but was expected to pay for gasoline and tolls out of his own pocket. His salary wasn’t quite enough to cover the bills, because the Mercedes ate gasoline at a tremendous pace.

Saigo couldn’t ask for more money, because that would be rude, but he figured out how to get Coach to pay for his basic expenses. Saigo would wait until Coach was in the car, and drive up to the toll booth. He’d order a month’s worth of toll tickets and then fumble for his wallet. Inevitably, Coach would, in a gesture of generosity, pull out the money himself, and say, “Saigo, I’ll get this.”

Saigo would apologize and say thank you, over and over, until Coach waved his hand as if to say, “No big deal.”

Sometimes, Coach would forget to even pay Saigo his monthly salary. The only way for Saigo to remind him would be for him to say, as they were about to drive somewhere, “I don’t have any money for gasoline, boss.” The timing was important. He didn’t want to say this too soon or too late.

Saigo couldn’t actually refer to his job as “work.” If he referred to the job that way, Coach would get really angry and yell at him about who he thought he was. Saigo wasn’t a salaryman, and he wasn’t commuting to an office.

Saigo was a yakuza. To Coach, that didn’t constitute work.

Tokyo was a labyrinth of dead ends, one-way streets, and addresses that followed no logical order. The city had been designed to be impenetrable, like a maze. Instead of taking the chance to rebuild the city in some order after the war, General Headquarters and the government of Japan allowed Tokyo to respawn as a gigantic, uncontrolled architectural cancer. Even when you had an address such as Gokudo-ku 1-2-4, it didn’t help much. You might find your way to Gokudo-ku 2-1-2 and think it would be right next to Gokudo-ku 1. Unfortunately, the two areas might be blocks away from each other, with no indication of whether to go north, south, east, or west. (If this explanation seems confusing to you, come to Tokyo and walk around. Then you’ll understand how difficult it is to understand.)

Saigo didn’t know Tokyo very well, and he was forbidden to use a car navigation system. Coach was suspicious of all new technology. He also gave terrible directions. When Saigo asked for guidance, Coach would always tell him to go straight ahead.

Even if Saigo asked him three times, Coach would say the same thing.

Sometimes, after giving directions, he’d have a long phone conversation and then look up to see they were in the middle of a rice field. He’d shake his head and say to Saigo, “You’re a rare one. How far do you think straight ahead means?”

There were times when Saigo knew the right way to get there, and Coach did not. So, for example, Coach would tell Saigo to turn left, and Saigo would try to convince his boss otherwise, but he would be obliged to turn left and would end up getting lost. Then Coach would get angry with him. He thought that if Saigo had known Coach was wrong, he should have said so directly, and not turned left.

The alternative would have been to ignore Coach and not take the left turn, but if they had ended up getting lost, Coach would have been even angrier. Whichever way Saigo turned, there was often no way for him to win.

Saigo would often have to park the car, get out, and look for clues to find his destination. This would, of course, infuriate Coach, who’d demand that he be more prepared the next time and use a map.

Saigo accepted Coach’s criticism, even though Coach usually didn’t tell Saigo where they were going until they got in the car.

Of course, there were times he wanted to look at a map as soon as Coach told him the location, but when he opened the map, Coach would tell him to put it away and listen to his instructions. But if Coach wasn’t on the phone, he was reading a book. He read a lot of military history and non-fiction books about war. He never allowed music in the car, because it disturbed his reading. Of course, when he became immersed in his reading, he’d stop giving directions, and, once again, they’d end up in a rice field on the outskirts of Tokyo. It happened so many times that every time Saigo drove through a rice field, he began to experience a sensation of déjà vu.

Sometimes, Coach would get impatient with Saigo’s driving and insist on taking control of the car himself. Since he was poor at handling the gears and the left-handed steering wheels on foreign cars, he would drive very slowly or veer dangerously to the right. When he drove slowly, cars would pile up behind them.

Once, on the way to mah jong, Coach caused such a huge traffic jam that the police came by and shouted over their loudspeakers for him to maintain the minimum driving speed on the freeway.

Sometimes, Coach would speed up suddenly or reverse without warning. Saigo would end up holding the strap trying not to get car sick. Other times, Coach would make Saigo stop in the middle of a highway or on a mountaintop, and tell him to get out of the car. The reasons would never be clear. Maybe Coach was going to see a woman, or maybe he just wanted to be alone. Sometimes, he’d hand Saigo 30,000 yen for a taxi fare. Sometimes, he’d forget to give Saigo the taxi fare.

One time, Saigo had to climb down the bottom of the freeway, and jump from the overpass, approximately 1 meter to the ground, to get to a place where he could call a taxi from. Once, he was dumped on the outskirts of Tokyo with only a couple of hundred yen in his pocket. It took him three hours to walk to a train station.

The mountains, the freeway, an underpass, a tunnel — he’d never know where he might suddenly find himself ejected from the car. It happened so often that he learned to keep a few extra 10,000-yen bills hidden in his wallet, just so he could get home.

Coach would occasionally complain about Saigo’s driving. On the way to a golf tournament in the summer of 1995, Coach became gradually irritated as it came closer and closer to the starting time of the event. He kicked Saigo’s seat. He thought Saigo had been a bosozoku — what happened? Saigo felt his face flushing, and his hands getting tight on the wheel. He revved up the engine, and told Coach to put his seatbelt on.

It was 4.00 am, and the traffic was light. Saigo was driving a Mercedes Benz S-600. It handled well. The gas tank was full.

Within forty-five seconds, Saigo had the car moving at 200 kilometers an hour. The speed meter made clicking sounds as he drove it past its capacity. Coach initially appeared calm. He held his book in one hand while he read. But when Saigo sped, Coach held on to the passenger strap near the door, desperately trying not to sway. His book fell to the floor, and the sound of the wind and engine drowned out his voice. “Saigo. Enough. I get it. Slow down. We’re good.”

Saigo slowly applied the brakes until they were once again at the upper edges of the speed limit.

Coach went back to his book. They arrived fifteen minutes earlier than projected. When Coach stepped out of the car, he smiled, and told Saigo he had done a good job. “At least you can do one thing right.”

Saigo’s time as Coach’s secretary was also a painful period of drug rehabilitation. Coach was constantly checking Saigo for needle marks, and staring at him in the eyes to see if he showed signs of being high. If Saigo drank too much water or downed a bottle of Coca-Cola thirstily, Coach would ask him if he was doing meth again.

Saigo would deny it, and Coach would blow on his fist, as if to warm it up, and then punch him in the head, adding, “If I even think you’re doing shabu, the next punch is right in your face.”

Saigo would rub his head and nod.

There was something fatherly in Coach’s punches. They said, I’m not truly mad at you, but this is the only way you’re going to learn. He never punched with too much force — but it did sting.

Coach was a firm believer in the Japanese sayings karada de oboeru (remember with your body) and tatakinaosu (beat or hit something with enough force to repair it or fix it). It’s a term often used to justify corporal punishment in schools. When yakuza do it to their peers to get them back on the straight and narrow, it’s a crime. In fact, it’s also a crime when civilians do it, but is rarely punished — especially if the victims are family members: wives and children.

Coach believed that an occasional punch punctuated his verbal lessons better than a shout, and made them easier for Saigo to remember.

One day, while they were in the driveway of Coach’s house, Coach gave Saigo an envelope full of cash. He poked one of Saigo’s needle-mark scars, and told him to get his name tattooed right there, so every time Saigo thought about shooting up, he’d see Coach’s name.

Saigo was wary of getting the tattoo. He didn’t even have his girlfriend’s name tattooed on his arm. Coach grabbed Saigo’s arm, and smacked the area so hard that it stung. “I’m not your girlfriend!” he yelled, then laughed at his own comment. Coach really liked Hiroko, probably more than he liked Saigo. But Saigo’s oyabun was supposed to be more important to him than his girlfriend.

As Coach saw that Saigo was staying sober, he saw to it that Saigo was promoted within the organization and that the Saigo-gumi was moved underneath Coach’s group. This was a big deal. Coach was now the waka-gashira in the Yokosuka-ikka. He had lived through the days when the Inagawa-kai and the other yakuza groups were constantly at war, when being a bodyguard meant you were a walking pincushion.

Back in those days, Coach never knew when he was going to be called into action. He was expected to lay down his life without time to prepare.

Coach believed that Saigo should think of driving as part of his yakuza training. Coach considered cars to be great weapons, because they were gigantic blunt instruments and the penalties for using them were a lot less than for using a gun. During a gang war, you could get in your car, wait for the opposition to show up, and just drive into them. When the cops came, you could make up a story about how it had been an accident. Coach was clear that Saigo shouldn’t do this if there were civilians anywhere around.

Coach thought yakuza should never use guns. Guns misfire, and they kill innocent people. They draw unwanted attention. Still, one man with a gun could do more damage than a few guys with baseball bats. Even Coach, as convinced as he was that guns would be the undoing of the yakuza, wasn’t always consistently opposed to their use. Coach reminisced about this to Saigo while driving home from a general meeting in November 1994.

Suddenly, Coach told Saigo to stop the car. Saigo had the feeling he’d just stepped on a land mine. He pulled the car over to the side of the road where there was a wide shoulder, and got out. They were in Atami on the Tomei Expressway. It was nearly dusk. There was a guardrail, and Saigo looked down to see the violent ocean waves splashing against the cliffs. In the distance, he could see Japan’s loftiest peak, Mount Fuji, looking as if it was rising from the deep waters.

He opened Coach’s door, and half-expected him to slap him in the face, but Coach did no such thing. He motioned for Saigo to follow him. They stood together and looked at Mount Fuji in the distance; the sound of the waves was all he heard.

“Saigo, have a cigarette. Let’s talk.”

Saigo took out his Short Hopes, fumbling for his lighter. To his surprise, Coach pulled out a gold-plated lighter and handed it to him. Of course, Coach didn’t light the cigarette for Saigo. That would have been too much.

The business of being a yakuza used to be about fighting, Coach said. Fighting for turf, fighting for protection money, fighting because they were being insulted, fighting because they imagined they were being insulted. But fighting was no longer the order of the day. Why? Because gang fights were bad for business. But there would still be times when yakuza would have to fight.

Coach ordered Saigo to never start a fight, but if someone fought with him, he should make sure to finish it. “Don’t pull back. You grab your men, your swords, your daggers, your baseball bats, your wooden sword, and you raid the enemy’s place and beat the crap out of them.” Maybe they’d have guns, but he shouldn’t let that stop him.

Saigo nodded, but felt he had to protest. He considered guns a necessary evil. He understood what Coach was saying, but if Saigo and his crew showed up to a gun fight with swords, they were going to get seriously fucked up.

“Then you get fucked up,” Coach said.

That was the business. Yakuza should go into battle like goddamn kamikaze. Only one person wins a real fight, Coach said. That’s the guy who’s not afraid to die. The one who is already dead in his heart.

Coach thought guns were for cowards. A person pulls a trigger, and they’re far away. They aren’t up close, and that’s why people mistakenly shoot the wrong man. They don’t see who they’re hitting. If the yakuza kept using guns, the police would really start gunning for them. The Coach was sure it would happen. Even then, Japan had a zero-tolerance policy for guns. They didn’t want to be like the United States, and have innocent bystanders being shot to death.

If Saigo ever had to make a hit, he should go up to the guy, call him by his name, and make damn sure it was the right person. “You don’t just take aim and fire. That’s not how it’s done.”

Saigo thought to himself that Coach’s views on the rules of gang-war conduct were out of date. Maybe the old man just didn’t understand that technology had improved. Guns were more accurate; swords were hard to get, and hard to use. One man with a gun could take out three men with a sword — any sane man would want the gun.

It would be years later before Saigo realized how prescient the boss really was.