Confessions of a Yakuza Read Online Free Page A

about three times altogether. At first I thought I’d really fallen for her, but then I suddenly took against her. For some reason or other she started turning me off, and I stopped going. Just like that.
    I’ve known a lot of women in my life, but the thing about the professionals was that they were fairly cut-and-dried—they didn’t come chasing after you when you got tired of them. So they were convenient if you were just out for a good time.
    That reminds me of something else. The owner of a cheap teahouse like that was also a kind of police informer. There were two quite separate sides to his business, the legal and the undercover, so if the cops wanted to get awkward they could make it impossible for him to carry on. So whatever he did, he had to take care to make up to the local policeman. When it got to around lunchtime, he’d get the maid to make a bowl of pork on rice or something and have it ready. Then the cop would drop in with an official “wanted” notice in his hand to ask if anyone “answering that description” had been there.
    “Well, officer—hard at it as usual,” the proprietor would start. “Now, let me see ... no, I’m afraid I haven’t seen anyone like this around. But anyway, you must be tired, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea at least?”
    He’d pour him what was supposed to be tea out of his little teapot. But it would be saké—he’d have a pot full of saké ready for such occasions, you see. They’d be at the back of the shop, so it would look like tea to the other customers. Then he’d produce a meal.
    The copper would say “I really shouldn’t let you do this,” or something of the kind, but he’d dig in just the same, with a satisfied look on his face. Then, when he’d finished, he’d say “Well, then, if anybody suspicious drops in, let me know at once, will you?” And he’d take himself off.
    The owner was actually rather proud of his connection with the police. Sometimes he’d appoint himself a sort of private detective, and make reports to them.
    “If you ask me, officer,” he’d say, “this man who’s always coming to see Oharu at our place acts a bit suspicious. Something tells me he’s got a pile of money he didn’t come by honestly. Perhaps you’d better keep an eye on him.”
    “I see...,” the policeman would say. “Well, then, the next time he turns up, have the maid let me know immediately.”
    Then, the next time the man appeared, the teahouse owner would secretly send someone to inform the police. Of course, they’d never barge in on the man while he was actually with a woman. They wouldn’t arrest him inside the shop, either. They’d wait till he’d left and gone far enough for it not to cause trouble for the teahouse, and for the man not to realize that the owner had snitched on him, then they’d hail him: “Hey, you—come over here a minute, will you?”
    They’d go through everything he had on him. And they’d ask him his address, his job, how much he earned, the names of the people he went around with—far more detail than with a routine checkup on someone’s background. So if a man was up to anything at all fishy, they’d be onto it in no time. Personally I was never caught at the teahouse itself, but I was often stopped for questioning in the street, so I know from experience just what the local cops were like.
    Things didn’t last long, as I said, with the woman at the teahouse, and only a month or so after that I took up with someone called Oyone. There are some things in connection with her that I’m not likely to forget in a hurry, so I’d better tell you about it....
    Next to my uncle’s firm lived a carpenter called Kyuzo. He was a regular at the dice games in the coal yard. His missus was a dark little woman with slanting eyes who was always on the go. She worked as though she was desperate—maybe if she’d given herself a break, the thought of her husband’s bad habits would have been too much