“Well, well… You’ve had a rather trying day, haven’t you?”
The guy who showed up at the arranged meeting spot was a youngish, mild-looking man.
Light brown hair, round glasses. He was dressed like your typical bank clerk. His Japanese was so fluent that at first I thought he was Japanese, but a good look at his face told me he wasn’t, not by a long shot.
The middle-aged policeman had made a call, then just pointed this place out to me. “You’ll meet a man here; ask him for help. You won’t need an interpreter,” he’d said, and that was all. I remembered that he’d had a really complicated expression on his face.
“You were lucky. The sergeant who took your complaint was Paul Noah; he’s an acquaintance of mine. If he hadn’t been the one to help you, you probably would have had to throw in the towel.”
From the way he was using phrases like “throw in the towel,” it was obvious that the man’s Japanese was pretty advanced. His pronunciation sounded completely natural, too. …As a matter of fact, compared to your average modern person, there was something a bit old-fashioned about it.
“I heard what happened. The ones who stole your bag were probably Bobby’s gang. They’re mischievous scamps who’ve been fooling around in this area recently.”
…Did something like that qualify as “mischief”?
There was something really shady about this guy. He was probably some kind of detective, but he had this atmosphere about him that seemed to say he wasn’t on the level.
Even so, it was reassuring just to be able to talk to somebody who spoke my language.
…That thought didn’t last long.
“How about it? For…say, a tenth of the value of your stolen belongings, I’ll ‘negotiate’ with them and have your bag returned to you, just as it was.”
…Oh, I see. Looks like this guy’s the ringleader of this gang of thieves. In exchange for only getting 10 percent of the profit, he can keep the fuss to a minimum, and he won’t have to bother exchanging the goods for cash.
Still, I thought, 10 percent was a lot better than it could’ve been. I agreed, although I was careful not to trust the guy while doing so.
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
With that, the man began leading me off somewhere.
He wasn’t going to cut out my organs and sell them, was he? The concern did cross my mind, and I decided to yell for help and make a run for it if he tried taking me anywhere that seemed even a little dicey.
By the way: If you get killed and they sell off your organs, does it technically count as human trafficking?
While I was thinking about pointless stuff like that, he led me to a bar on the corner of a wide avenue.
The sign had a picture of a beehive on it. There was a string of letters inside the picture, but I couldn’t read them, so for the sake of convenience I’ll call it the Beehive Place.
Inside, the air bore the sweet smell of honey. Compared to the outside, the interior looked pretty roomy. It might have been more accurate to call it a classy restaurant, rather than a bar.
He’d better not be planning to rip me off. Thinking this and looking around, I did see some guys who didn’t seem quite legit, but since I also saw old people, couples, and families with kids, I relaxed a bit.
My guide went to the back, exchanging a few words with another guy. The new man nodded silently, then stood and left the place without taking his stuff with him. He didn’t even pay his check.
“I filled him in on the situation. He’s gone to reclaim it. The locals know those kids’ faces, you see. I doubt it will take long to find them.”
Nice act. I know you’re in on it, too. …I didn’t say this out loud, of course.
“Well, why don’t we talk a bit while we’re waiting?”
It was a genuine invitation, but I had no idea what to talk about. For starters, then, I asked him why his Japanese was so good.
“Ah, that. One of the men at the top of my organization is Japanese… His name is Yaguruma-san; he taught me quite a lot. That said, I picked up modern speech patterns from movies and Japanese comics.”
Organization. Did that mean he really was Mafia or something? Now that I’d come this far, I was feeling numb and reckless, and I didn’t care if he was Mafia—or anything else, for that matter—so I flat-out asked him.
“No, not Mafia. We’re generally viewed as the same thing, but… We’re called the Camorra. Do you know it?”
I’d never heard the word before.
“The Mafia is from Sicily, in Italy. Their organization began as armed groups of guards in rural districts… Vigilante corps, as it were. The Camorra is also from Italy, but it started in Naples. They say the syndicate was formed inside a jail, but even I’m not clear on the details.”
Started in prison. Hearing that alone made me think this Camorra group sounded nastier than the Mafia, but I kept that to myself.
“I act as the contaiuolo, the treasurer, for my organization. It’s rather like being a bookkeeper… In the Mafia, an accountant does the job.”
They sounded pretty much the same to me.
“Ha-ha… Well, that’s because everything’s lumped together as ‘the mafia’ these days. The drug mafia, the Chinese mafia, the Russian mafia, the smuggling mafia… But in Naples, it’s the Camorra that’s mainstream. That said, ours is a rogue group: Not only were we created in America, we have no direct ties to Naples.”