I turned a MRR column written in Japan into a contribution for this Tabb-edited book, published in 2013.
You may still be able to get the whole book on Amazon, last I looked $5.99.
My Life In Crime,
A True Story
by Mykel Board
[Note: Words in italics were originally spoken in Japanese. I've
translated for mono-lingual readers. Also all names and places
have been changed... to protect my ass.]
I'm on the lamb from Singapore. Skipped out on a gum-chewing
charge. My second rap. Already caught leaving the men's without
flushing. They'd throw the book at me this time. Off to Tokyo,
first time in eight years. Trying to lay low.
Monday Morning 9:00 AM
I'm crashing with my pal Toshi. We know each other from the old days. Working the Nova beat, getting a little flash in
Roppongi, small time stuff. He's hole up in Nakano now. Tiny pad, with his Canuk girlfriend. He's got a necktie, golf and manga
gig. Straight stuff, 14 hour days, typical front. But beneath
that black suit, is the same ole Toshi.
He's laying' low... or trying' to. He's got half a dozen
offenses and the rap sheet grows. Putting garbage out the wrong
day, not paying NHK. The guy just can't keep clean.
Me, I got time to kill. Just hang out, wait till Singapore
blows over like the next typhoon.
"Yo Mykel," says Toshi, "while I'm gone the house is yours.
I gotta play Salaryman. That means I'll be home at ten tonight.
Probably drunk as a frog. There's an extra bike outside, if you
want it. I got it from the trash."
Ah Japan, best garbage in the world. Last time I lived here
I furnished my crib from it. Stereo, TV, washing machine. I knew
when big garbage day was.
10:00 AM
The trash bike, leaning against a wall in front of Toshi's
house, needs a bell and a lock. I borrow a screwdriver from
Toshi's stash. A 22 caliber Phillips head. Small, but it packs a
wallop. I put it in my shoulder bag and head to the bike store.
Costs me a cool grand (in yen). But I got that bike spiffed to
the max.
It ain't easy going, though. After a short ride, a sinking
feeling crawls up between my legs. No air in the tires.
OK, I figure. I'm cool. The worst I can do is play guilty. I
got nothing to hide, right? I'm just an ordinary gaijin out for a
ride, right?
So, I peddle up to the lion's den. Local copbox. I put on my
humble face and ask the grey-haired fuzzer hanging outside the
door.
"Excuse me Mr. Policeman," I say, "Could you tell me where I
can find a bicycle store? I need some air in my tires."
The old tin badger smiles, like I'm the most innocent guy in
the world.
"You don't need a bicycle shop," he says, "I'll get you
something."
He goes into the copbox and comes out with a handpump... and
another cop. This one's mean. About forty five, head shaped like
a piece of toast. Officious, looks like he's itching' for a boost
to detective. Maybe on the soapland beat. Now he's got me.
He's looking me over real careful. His hands behind his
back, he rises to the balls of his feet then slowly lowers
himself.
"You speak Japanese?" he asks.
"Some," I answer. My first mistake.
"This your bike?" he asks.
"No," I answer, "I borrowed it from a friend."
"What's your friend's name?" he asks.
"Toshio Watanabe." I answer. My second mistake.
The cop kneels, squats like he's doing number two in a
Yamanote john. He examines some faded white kanji painted on the
front fender.
"There's a name here," he says, "and it ain't Watanabe."
"Watanabe's my friend," I tell him, "I think he found the
bicycle in the garbage."
"This is Japan," he says. "It is forbidden to take bicycles
from the garbage. You will come with me, right?"
By this time, the copbox is empty. There are four of 'em.
Standing on the street. I'm circled. To my left is a young cop. A
rookie, about 20, baby-faced with a hint of acne on both cheeks.
To his left, is the old man who tried to help me in the first
place. In front of me is Toasthead. Behind me is the bike, now
the evidence. The only way out is to blast through. I wouldn't
make it to the next Doutor.
The mean cop speaks into his shoulder. There's a strap there
with a small walkie-talkie. I don't understand what he's saying,
except for a whole lot of numbers.
Suddenly, a fuzzmobile pulls up, lights flashing. I feel a
pain in my right arm. Toasthead has me, his right hand gripping
me tightly around the upper arm. He opens the car door and pushes
me.
"Get in." he says.
I slide in, across the seat. The young cop sits next to me
and closes the door. Toasthead gets in next to the driver. He
turns around to the rookie.
"Watch him." says Toasthead.
"Yessir!" answers the rookie, looking at me, trying to
squint seriously.
We're off. Blazing around corners, siren blaring. Locals
looking through the window, spotting my gaijin whiskers, and
scurrying away in fear.
11:30 AM
At the stationhouse, Toasthead opens his door. The rookie
opens his door. I try to open mine. It's locked.
"Get out the other side." says Toasthead.
I slide across the seat and leave the car. Toasthead walks
over to me. He walks stiffly now, as if his kneejoints are
locking up on him.
"It's your job to watch him," he says to the rookie. "If he
gives you any trouble, hold him like this."
Toasthead grabs my right arm and pulls it behind me. Using
his right hand, he bends my wrist forward. He puts his left hand
on my elbow, forcing it the wrong way, against the joint. I
collapse forward in pain.
"Yessir." says the rookie, but he doesn't touch me.
Toasthead has let me go now. We're approaching the station
door. Suddenly, he begins to dance. First he hops on one leg,
shaking the other in the air. Then he hops on the other leg,
shaking the first. As he's doing this, he grimaces. It doesn't
take long to figure out what the problem is. I reach for my
wallet.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
From my wallet, next to the condoms, I remove a bubble pack
of Immodium.
"Here," I offer, "It's for diarrhea. Works in a few
minutes." The cop tries to maintain his composure through his
grimace,
"I don't take drugs from criminals." he says.
I'm marched into the Nakano bureau. All heads turn. "Book
him. Bicycle theft-- first degree."
Toasthead is off. I'm now sitting at a huge table, made up
of several smaller tables. There's half a dozen similar tables in
the room. Next to me is an older desk officer. Somewhat chubby,
he's got greying temples and laughlines around his eyes.
"Does anyone here speak English?" asks the desk officer.
"You, Suzuki?"
"Sorry sir," answers Suzuki. "I studied it in junior high
school, but I forgot everything."
"He speaks Japanese," says the young cop assigned to guard
me, "at least a little bit."
The desk cop pulls up a chair and sits on the other side of
me. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a packet of
Sevens.
"You want a cigarette?" he asks. "Are you hungry?"
Jeezus! They're playing good-cop bad cop. Here they are, all
the others watching. Just like TV!
"So, you teach English," He says, "We need English teachers
here. We learned English in highschool but forgot."
"I'll be glad to arrange for lessons," I say in English.
"Just let me go home and get my books."
"No can do." he answers, also in English.
Leaning back, he lets out a huge belly laugh, slapping the
table.
"You funny guy." he says to me.
Bad Cop returns. "What's so funny?" he asks.
No answer.
"You frisk him yet?" He looks at me, "Stand up."
I stand up.
The rookie pats my back and pants legs. "Nothing sir." he
says.
"That's no frisk," says Bad Cop, walking over to me.
"Empty your pockets," he says.
I pull out my wallet, scraps of paper with phone numbers on
them, a comb, and about 250 in yen coins. The bad cop takes the
yen coins and counts.
"Two hundred fifty," he says, "You'll get that back."
Then he pats me down. Starting with my shoulders, downward.
Working each side, he makes sure to get in a hefty pat between
the legs. I gasp.
"Nothing there, right?" he says.
"Yeah nothing." I say, in English.
"What?" he says.
"Right." I say.
After the frisk comes the bag check. He opens my shoulder
bag and looks through it, pulling out the small screwdriver.
"A dangerous weapon." he says, "Why are you carrying a
dangerous weapon?"
"I needed it to put the lock and bell on." I tell him.
"On the bike you stole." he says. "You admit putting a new
lock and bell on that bike?"
"I put both on." I say. "But I didn't steal that bike. It
came from the garbage."
During this conversation, another cop goes to the phone.
He's checking the bike's ownership. I can't understand much,
except "no owner" and "five years ago."
My attention returns to the desk as Good Cop starts going
through my wallet. He pulls out the Immodium.
"Drugs?" he asks, "You carry weapons and drugs?"
Bad Cop comes to my rescue.
"It's okay," he says, "he offered it to me. For my stomach."
The desk sergeant grunts and stuff everything back into my
wallet.
"Now take off your shoes." says Bad Cop.
While I unlace, it's time for the guard change. A whole new
cop crew twirls their nightsticks into the office. I'm the Show
and Tell.
No one looks at me directly, but I hear the mumbling.
"Foreigner" "Looks dangerous," "Bicycle," "Bicycle, that all?"
"Maybe drugs-- and a dangerous weapon."
There are forms and more forms to fill out.
"You will write," says Bad Cop, "You must say, `I hope the
police will return this bicycle back to its rightful owner.'"
There's more: Sign here. Put your name there. Your friend's
address there...
I'm getting writer's cramp. No one talks to me for awhile. I
just sit there, writing.
Bad Cop speaks to Good Cop. I don't understand but Good Cop
opens a drawer pulls out a Polaroid.
"We take pictures now," says Bad Cop, in English. "You
stand. Follow."
Together we go out into the hall. There's the bicycle, tires
still needing air. Bad Cop motions for me to stand in front of
the bike. He snaps a picture of the two of us.
"Now point to the lock." he says, "and look at the camera."
I do and he snaps another picture.
"Now we check out your story." he says.
1:00 PM
Back in the police car. This time Bad Cop drives. Next to
him another office, just on duty holds a map. I'm in the back.
Watching that I don't make a run for it, is the rookie who hasn't
said a word to me.
"Left up ahead," says Map Man to Bad Cop.
We're in Toshi's neighborhood. Heading right for his house.
We park in front. Bad Cop lets me out of the car. Putting the
vice grip on my left arm, he parades me through the street to the
front of the house.
Toshi's neighbor, a middle-aged housewife, wearing a
housecoat and straw hat, is on a ladder up against her house.
She's washing the windows as Bad Cop marches me past, to the wall
in front of Toshi's house.
"Show me where you allegedly removed this bicycle from," he
says.
I point to where the bike was parked.
"Watch him," says Bad Cop to the rookie. He returns to the
car and comes back with a leather bag. It's the camera.
"Now point to the spot where the bicycle was," he says.
I point to the wall.
"Keep pointing and look at the camera." he says.
I do. He snaps a picture.
By now, the entire neighborhood's peeping through their
blinds. The woman next door has stopped washing. She stares at us
from the ladder. The old man across the street watches wide-eyed
through his open window.
Bad Cop turns to the woman on the ladder.
"We're investigating here." he says, "Have you ever seen a
bicycle parked against this wall?"
"Yes officer," she says. "It was there every day, until
today."
Then the cop turns to the man across the street.
"And you sir," he says, "have you seen a bicycle parked
here?"
"Yes, officer." As he answers his hands shake. "It was there
for a long time. I don't know about it, though. I don't know
anything."
As each stoolie spills the beans, Bad Cop takes careful
notes in a little leather-covered pad.
Then it's first hand. Crime work. You need to get your hands
dirty. Kneeling, Bad Cop examines the ground in front of the
wall. He runs his naked hand though the soil, lifting it, letting
it drift through his fingers. He grunts. Then we head for the car
and back to the station.
1:30 PM
By now, there's a dossier. Maybe they called Interpol. Found
out about the Singapore rap. There's a manilla folder, with a
dozen sheets of paper. A xerox of my passport. The pages I
signed. My picture pointing toward the bicycle and lock. Another
one of me pointing toward the brick wall. There's more: the
screw-driver, lying on the table, viciously set next to my
shoulder bag.
"You look worried." says Bad Cop. "Don't worry. You will be
able to leave today..." He leans toward me, his wide flat nose is
no more than a fist-width away from my Jewish one, "Only, you
won't leave alone."
"But my friend won't be back until ten!" I say.
"I don't want to wait until ten." he says, "Call someone
else."
"I don't know anyone else." I say.
"You do and you will." he says.
The only other person I know in town is young innocent,
Akiko Tada. She's a former student. A Disney fan, with Mickey
Mouse embroidered on every piece of clothing. She's a lamb. The
kind of girl dad would warn about me.
My boss at the school would just love it if I called her to
bail me out. I don't.
"Empty your pockets," says Bad Cop "I want to make sure
you're not hiding anything."
"But you already checked me," I said, "How could I be hiding
anything?"
"You don't know anyone else in Tokyo, right?" says the cop.
I give him Akiko's cellphone number. He dials it. I listen
to his half of the conversation.
"Miss Tada?....My name is Matsumoto. I'm with the Nakano
branch of the Tokyo police department... Yes, I'm sure I have the
right number. We are holding someone who says he's a friend of
yours, Mykel Board... No, he is not injured. We have him on
criminal charges... not in jail... in order to release him we
need you to fill out some papers.... yes, today... you're in
Chiba?... An hour and a half, that's fine. Please come up to the
fifth floor. We will wait for you.... Good bye."
5:30 PM
Akiko shows up. Mickey Mouse peeks out from under her open
sweater. Entering the room, she glances at me then looks at the
floor. Good Cop stands up and motions for her to come over to our
table. He offers her a cup of coffee.
"No thank you," she says.
Bad Cop asks her for ID.
"You really twenty-four?" he asks.
She nods.
Then, there's paper work. Three or four sheets. Name,
address, employer, relationship to the accused. The kit and
caboodle. She signs and stamps it all. Her hanko puts her
reputation on the line. I don't have a stamp.
"You have no hanko" says Bad Cop, "use a fingerprint."
He takes an inkpad from the desk drawer. I press my finger
into it and then onto the paper.
"You can go now," says Bad Cop, "but you will return at
eleven o'clock tomorrow, right?"
"Right." I say.
"And Miss Tada will also come. You should include Mr.
Watanabe. There are questions I want to ask him."
The cops give us their names. We need them to be allowed
back into the building. Good Cop is Muramoto. Bad Cop is
Matsumoto.
10:30 AM Wednesday.
I show up early. I want to make a good impression. Show 'em
I'm sincere. Not the kind to skip out.
I walk in the front entrance and show the guard the cops'
names. He sends me up to the fifth floor. There, in the office,
Matsumoto stands looking out the window, his hands behind his
back. I recognize him from the shape of this head. He continues
to look out the window as I enter. He sees my reflection, but
doesn't look at me.
"Sit down," he says. "You will wait."
10:50 AM
"They're late, right?" says Bad Cop.
"Late?" I say, "They were supposed to be here at eleven.
It's ten fifty!"
"Nnnnn," says Bad Cop, "Late, right? RIGHT?"
"Right." I answer.
10:55 AM
Akiko shows up.
10:59 AM
Toshi shows up
11:00 AM
"I'm glad you could all come here," says Matsumoto, "We have
a serious situation here. This man has been found with someone
else's property. He was also carrying a dangerous weapon."
He points to Akiko.
"You," he says, "have sacrificed your job and your personal
integrity for this man. I hope you know what you're doing."
Akiko nods, smiles and swallows.
He turns to Toshi.
"And you," he says, "you have befriended this man, and acted
in a way that could also cause you criminal trouble."
Toshio nods, trying his best to look serious.
"Why did you have that bicycle?" Matsumoto asks Toshi.
"I just moved into the house," he says. "It was there when I
arrived."
Matsumoto nods, apparently satisfied.
"Could I have the papers please?" he asks Muramoto.
Muramoto takes the now thicker file from his desk. Matsumoto
pulls out the papers with the Polaroids pasted on them. He passes
them to Toshio.
"You see," he says, "We have evidence."
Next comes more paper signing. A half-dozen sheets. Each
signed by the arresting officer and cosigned by Akiko, with her
hanko stamped in the appropriate places.
"Now you sign," says Matsumoto, "you have no hanko, right?"
"Right," I say,
He takes an inkpad from the drawer and makes a pointing
sign. "You will use your finger as a hanko."
I press my finger onto the stamp pad and then in the right
places on the forms.
Now, Matsumoto has a long conversation with Akiko. I don't
understand most of it. There's something about a "Jyoushinsho,"
the paper I just signed.
"You studied English," Matsumoto says to Akiko. "He was your
teacher. Explain to him-- in English."
"Mykel," she says, "this policeman want me to say you that
you sign a apology letter. You say you sorry for the thing you
did. You promise to not do it again, and know if you get in
trouble next time, the police will not be so good. And you thanks
them for being so nice and not take you to court. You
understand?"
"I understand," I say.
"He understand!" says Matsumoto.
"He understand!" says Muramoto.
There are smiles all around.
12:30PM
"You come with me now." says Matsumoto.
This is it. The jig is up. Brass knuckles or a sap, maybe
the rubber hose. They're going to have to show me who's boss.
We go down a narrow back staircase. One floor. Two floors.
Three floors. We pass the first floor and enter a winding
corridor into the basement.
"Wait here." says Matsumoto.
Leaving me alone he walks into another room. I hear voices.
Then I hear. "Come in now."
There's a camera on a tripod. A young man with a crewcut
stands behind it. Across the room me is large screen. Near the
screen is an easel with a sliding set of numbers on it. Guiding
me, with his Vulcan death grip around my arm, Matsumoto pushes
toward the screen. Then, he lowers the numbers so they're under
my chin. Mug shots.
"Look at the camera," says Matsumoto. The crewcut guy snaps
a photo. Then he speaks.
"Now look at number one." he says, pointing to a spot on the
wall where someone wrote a '1' on a small piece of paper. He
snaps another picture: 3/4 face.
"Now look at number two." he says. Profile.
After the mugshots come the fingerprints, three sets, plus
two palm prints. As my digits are pressed one by one in the ink
and on paper, the portly fingerprint officer asks for my name and
other vitals.
"Profession?" he asks.
"English teacher." says Matsumoto.
"English teacher? We don't see many of them in here." he
says.
"Anyone can commit a crime, right?" says Matsumoto.
"Right." says the fingerprint man.
After the prints, I wash up in the sink and head back out
into the hall with Matsumoto.
There: the two of us alone. He stands me up against the
wall. Looking at the bulge in my pants (my wallet, I was NOT
happy to see him), he asks, "What's in your pants?"
"My wallet," I answer.
"Let me see," he says.
I'm furious. Here I am, being fingerprinted and mugshot for
taking a bicycle out of the garbage. I've already been frisked
twice. That's it! I lose control.
I pull my pocket inside out. I empty the other one. A piece
of gum and some lint. Throw them on the floor. I empty my coat
pocket, my shirt pocket. Throwing the contents helter skelter
over the floor. My hands shake in anger as I start to untie my
shoes.
"Stop!" he says, "That's enough... You know, you're lucky."
I say nothing.
"In America, the cops are bad. They kill you." he makes a
gun motion with his thumb and index finger. "But Japanese cops
are nice, right?"
I say nothing.
"RIGHT????" he says.
"Right." I answer.
-end-
