Police and Yakuza in Tokyo, Japan

For the New Year’s period we all moved to the centre; the regular police were on holiday and so we could get away with such a blatant presence.

It has to be said that the Japanese police were not an impressive bunch. Apparently they catch the majority of their criminals by sitting and waiting. Finally the guilt of having broken the social contract is enough for the offender to crack and he eventually hands himself in. Another case solved.

Most of the time though they seemed to busy themselves with jumping out in ambush on people riding their bicycles and demanding to see their bike papers. It was comical to watch them in such full blown investigations when a hundred metres away the Yakuza ran gambling and prostitution joints. When they saw us selling in the street they would walk up and say:

“No way. No.”

“What, sorry?”

“Hmm, you speak Japanese?”

“What? Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Uh.. close! close!”

“Oh – close! Okay, okay.”

We’d slowly begin to take off the lights, one by one, carefully wrapping up the leads. If they were still waiting we’d then close down the boxes (leaving all the bracelets in order) and turn off the generator. In the unlikely event that they were being tough and still supervised out close-down we’d wheel away our stuff and take a coffee for ten minutes. Then we’d set up again, pronto.

When they returned an hour or two later they simply couldn’t believe we were still there. Did the gaijin know no laws? Had we not died of shame the first time around? Was there no end to our depravity? There was clearly nothing else for it but to pull out all the stops and play hard ball. They made us fill out a form. It read:

‘I am sorry to have caused a disruption in the street and blocked traffic. I promised never to do it again and I agree to be punished if I am caught doing so.’ It was for parking offences.

I must have filled out that form 25 times. I liked to think that in some government office the paperwork was building up and detectives were shaking their heads in wonder as the pile grew bigger and bigger.

On the few times that they brought a sargeant down to deal with me they couldn’t get over the fact that I was English, not Israeli. That much they knew, that the whole operation was being run by Israelis and run by a mysterious mastermind called ‘Johnny’. Everyone in Tokyo from customers to cops to Yakuza seemed to believe in this all-powerful figure named ‘Johnny’ who was responsible for half the illegal business in the city.

There were limits to how far we could push things though. If we didn’t show respect then eventually they could make a case against us as we risked a fine and three months jail. As it was over the ten day Christmas period I was closed down 41 times but still made over a hundred bucks a day.

Eli had been pushing his luck for sometime now with his exuberant antics and left Japan right after New Year. The following day the a special squad of police turned up with handcuffs out to arrest him but found instead in his place a small, Hungarian man who also worked for Sagi.

“The expression on their faces was priceless.” He told me.

On the other side of the coin were the Yakuza. In general they came round once a month in order to collect their tariff and that was all we saw of them. In theory they were at the other end of a telephone line if we had problems. Most of us preferred to have as little to do with them as possible. They were not your average meek Japanese.

The Yakuza have an honour system where when someone in the organisation fucks up he is expected to show his shame by cutting off a segment of one of his fingers. The tradition comes from the days of sword fighting where for each cut the warrior’s grip would become weaker and he’d be ever more dependant upon his master whom he had shamed. He must do it himself and it makes a every easy way to recognize the gangsters.

One guy showed up drunk at my stall one night making a nuisance of himself. He clearly had no intention of buying anything but kept trying things on and joking around. I was getting a little pissed until he said to me:

“I am businessman, too!” Holding up his left hand with two missing fingers. Yes, sir. No, sir. How many bags full, sir? I suggested he go and talk to ‘Johnny’.

Dudu told me how he’d seen a young Yakuza guy go from having 9 and a half fingers to 3 in the space of six months.

“I wanted to tell him to change jobs.” He said.

Then there was the story I’d heard about Sagi making a deal with an elderly Yakuza boss for new territory. Sagi paid up in advance but wanted him: ‘Don’t fuck me’. The Yakuza responded by silently laying his hands upon the table. There was not a single finger missing. He had not fucked up in all his life.

Our only protection was the cell phone. We couldn’t leave our stalls and so this was the only we could get in touch with Sagi or Dud who could then send our Yakuza to resolve things. I hated to imagine what that might entail. I nearly found out when a local Yakuza passed my stall one day and demanded a watch at half-price. It was obvious from the way he carried himself who he was so I apologised profusely and said there was nothing I could do.

“Half price!” He yelled again.

“I’ll just call Johnny!” I suggested. Sagi picked up and I explained what was going on

“Okay, Tom. You want to give him the watch half price or you want me to call our Yakuza to sort it out?”

“Shit, I don’t know. I don’t want to make any enemies.”

“The motherfucker. Let me talk to him.” I proffered the phone to the motherfucker in question but he just grunted and walked away. I guess he didn’t want to find out who was at the other end of the line.