Tokyo Vice by Jake Adelstein Read Free Book Online Page A

time,” creates a strange but important bond that continues as long as you are in the company and often even after you leave. It’s comparable to the brotherhood ceremony for young yakuza, where sake cups are exchanged: a bond is created that will never break.
    I was extremely lucky. I had taken an instant liking to my future comrades when we first met at the
Yomiuri
swearing-in ceremony—and they seemed to like me back.
    Jun Yoshihara was twenty-two, two years younger than I, and looked like a pop idol. He was a graduate of Waseda University’s commerce department. (This is rare; though many Waseda grads enter the mass media, usually they’re from the journalism department.) He was tall, in good shape from playing soccer, and so pasty-faced that he looked Caucasian. For a short time we called him The Face, and that’s how I still think of him.
    Naoki Tsuji, “Frenchie,” was twenty-five, also a graduate of Waseda, also not from the journalism department but from French literature. Of the four of us, he was the most intelligent. He was also always immaculately coiffed, wore tailored suits, and was constantly reading some obscure Japanese novel or French masterpiece. He radiated sensitivity and good breeding.
    Of course, everything I’ve just described made him a terrible match for the
Yomiuri
and was probably why he became the subject of harassment by the older reporters, who found his very existence to be annoying. It’s likely that he would have flourished at the
Asahi
, but you never really know. In many ways it was like a cum laude of the Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism taking a job
at The Washington Times
. Today he is a successful writer, with four novels to his name.
    Yasushi Kouchi was nicknamed “Chappy,” though I can’t rememberwhy. He was twenty-four and had a degree in international relations from Tsukuba University. He was prematurely balding, which made him look older than he was, and had an extremely round face, making him appear Chinese (from a Japanese perspective). He was one of the most dependable people I have ever known, and his quick thinking saved me a number of times.
    We were an odd crew: The Face, Chappy, the Frenchman, and the Gaijin. But from day one we covered one another’s asses. There’s not much more you can ask or expect from your friends or colleagues at any workplace. And in my case, I found myself relying on their good graces very, very soon, when a minor incident could have ended my career prematurely.
    It was the night before we were to report to the office for our first official day on the job. A welcome party was held at a local
izakaya
pub, and even though I had a horrendous cold, I showed up. It would have been worse if I hadn’t.
    The whole staff was there: Hara, the station chief with the physique of a sumo wrestler, a laugh that was deep and jolly, an Italian suit, and a Rolex. He had a punch perm of sorts, glasses perched precariously on the nub of his nose, and hair that curled around his ears, making him look vaguely Hasidic.
    Ono, a reporter on loan to the Urawa office, was head of the team of prefectural police reporters, which made him the direct supervisor of us recruits. He was built like a smaller version of Hara, with eyes that looked as if they were slits cut into a pumpkin. Ono took great pride in being a shakaibu reporter, and within five minutes he had made it clear that he was not just an ordinary regional reporter; he wasn’t going to be stuck here in the boonies forever.
    Hayashi and Saito, the two editors. The latter had a regional dialect so thick you thought he was missing some teeth; he could be very supportive when sober. The former was short and sensitive about it, and famous for being a hard-driving, hard-drinking tyrant. Luckily for us, he was a happy drunk most of the time.
    Shimizu, the computer keyboarder, who had a mustache, yellow teeth, and no hair on the top of his head; apparently an indispensable fixture of the