Dear Gangster


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In September 1972, I had graduated from Walt Disney's school, the
California Institute of Art, or the CIA as we used to call it, and booked
passage to Yokohama Japan aboard the President Wilson, one of the last great
opulent ships still sailing transpacific voyages. I was twenty-two years old.
There were swimming pools, mahogany paneled walls, sand blasted glass doors,
and polished brass railings. The trip was sixteen days and there was a
typhoon at sea for four of those days, huge waves pounding the ship from both
sides, raising it out of the ocean like a toy where I could see the massive
propellers, each of which was at least twenty feet across, whining in
the air before crashing back into the sea. Ropes were strung down the
hallways for passengers to clutch as they made their way, green faced to their
rooms. Cutlery was held into place by prongs so that it wouldn't fly off the
table. Nearly everyone on board, seemed to be sick except the captain,
the doctor and myself all of whom ate together. It was Mr. Toad's wild
ride.

Originally my intent was to illustrate acupuncture manuals, but as that
deal fell through, I had a Japanese cultural Visa , and so was compelled to
study something cultural. I chose to study karate, and would continue to oil
paint, being influenced as were the Europeans a century earlier by
Japanese woodblock prints.

Finding a karate master was not easy, but my Japanese friend
recommended a style called Go-Ju-Ryu, a synthesis of hard and soft styles which he
felt would be most suitable. My master was reluctant to take on a foreign
student as he had never had one, and would not see me. Hours passed as I sat in
his garden, and when later he did appear, he asked me what I was willing to
sacrifice in order to study with him. My hair was coiled like serpents
to my shoulders, and my small finger had a nail which was over an inch long.
I used that fingernail like a dop to steady my hand while painting. I
broke off the nail and said that I was ready to begin. I still have that
finger nail in a small silver box. He agreed to teach me as a son, and said
that he would be harder on me than on the other students. Meanwhile my Japanese
girlfriend Midori helped me to sell my paintings, but it was a chance
meeting with the Yakuza, the Japanese gangsters which put some much
needed Yen in my pockets.

Every night I walked down to the sento, the public bath in my kimono
and wooden getta. The lane through the village of Hashimoto just south of
Kyoto was very narrow and the secretaries returning home from work each night
would walk single file pressed up against the stone wall just beyond
the snarling jaws of a huge dog. As I passed the construction office lost
in some dream, out of the shadows leapt a massive dog on a metal leash. I
couldn't move fast enough and he caught my kimono in his teeth, tearing
the back off. I ran inside the office, and my bare ass shone like the moon.
The girls inside couldn't restrain their laughter, and they called their
boss to tell him that a foreigner, the only foreigner living in Hashimoto just
had his ass torn up by his pet doggy, and furthermore, he was still here in
his office half naked. She began to laugh again and as she hung up the
phone, told me that the boss would be coming down soon and would be bringing
me a new kimono.

Masao Nishida, boss of the Sunakogawa brotherhood, as I was to find out
later, was a bull of a man with a deep growling voice which could be
heard from a great distance. He wore a crew cut and walked as if the very air
before him was his alone to breathe. The secretary gave him an account
of what had happened and he laughed so hard his eyes began to tear.
Nishida apologized and asked where I lived. I told him that a carpenter named
Takatani had given me a small house on the knoll to live in for as long
as I wanted. Nishida gave me a blue cotton kimono with white Japanese
characters written all over it. I pointed to my little house on the rise on the
hillside surrounded by bamboo groves behind which was a lake which was
filled, on sunny days with basking turtles. I changed into my new
kimono and continued on my way down the path to the public bath.

As I walked down the lane, I could feel the atmosphere suddenly change.
Beyond the graveyard on my left, with towering granite headstones
covered with moss, my formerly friendly neighbors began shutting their doors as
I passed by. One family whom I had spent the previous Christmas eve
drinking sake', with the father and son getting me so drunk they had to support
me and carry me home, also slammed their door in my face. Their young
daughter was my English student who I would teach sometimes in the afternoons
and get fed with a bowl of rice and eggs as they owned a small resturant. They
were peering out suspiciously at me through wooden shutters as if at a
stranger for the first time. What was going on?

Past the railroad tracks in the old section of town, where the very old
worn wooden buildings were once not so long ago, and perhaps still were,
whore houses from the Edo Period, I found my friend Yasuhiro. Before I could
say hello, he asked me where the hell I had gotten the kimono. I explained
the story and he told me that I should not wear that kimono outside on the
street because unknown to me, printed all over in bold white Japanese
characters was the name of a Yakuza gang, the Sunakogawa Gumi, as well
as Nishida's name. Nishida was the boss of a gangster family.

Whenever I went to the public bath there were always at least a half
dozen men bathing who were covered in the most beautiful and elaborate
tattoos. Their skin had bold designs of gigantic carp, red dragons, blue
chrysanthums, and goddesses. The uncolored skin shone white like the
border of a Persian rug. Many of the men had their entire backs covered as
well as the design continuing over the chest and in some cases, wrapped down
their thighs and buttocks. These men I later learned were members of
Nishida's gang.

The next day, a long black car parked outside of my little house and
Nishida came for a visit. I was completely surprised to see him and invited him
to come inside. He found me oil painting on canvas, surreal pictures of
traditional classic Japanese paintings, only changing them, bending
them, reinterpreting them. he asked how much I sold a painting for. I had
sold several paintings in the States, the last one going to a member of the
Max Factor family, Judith Factor Hilton, which helped me to afford the
ticket on the ship that had sailed me across the Pacific. My girl friend had sold
one painting for me to a coffee shop in Osaka for about 120,000 Yen. He
selected one painting that he evidently liked, one of a Japanese gesha with the
silk kimono falling off her shoulders, revealing a soft white back growing
prehistoric spines.

Suddenly my paintings began to sell before the paint had dried, and
Nishida had become my sponsor. In the days that followed, he gave me a car, a
ten year old "Bluebird" with a gasoline credit card. Although it is
difficult enough for a Japanese to get a drivers license with all the stringent
testing, it is much more difficult for a foreigner who could not even
read the rule book. With Nishida accompanying me to the drivers license
bureau however, I was issued a Japanese drivers license as soon as the instant
photo they took of me had come out of the camera. I had no driving
test, no written test, no test at all, and was handed a rule pamphlet which I
was unable to read, along with my new Japanese drivers license.

I became Nishida's companion, going with him to visit other bosses such
as one in Nara who had race horses, silk shirts with pearl buttons. He
took me to the movie studios in Kyoto, meeting top Japanese film stars who had
often known Nishida for years. Many of the sound sets had movies in progress
with beautiful Japanese women stripped naked, bound and tied with ropes
hanging from false rafters. Other sets were filming samurai movies with the
women in kimono and the men in lacquered hair pieces.

By now I had become a first degree black belt in karate and was
frequently called upon at his gambling parties to display my skill in breaking
stacks of rood tiles. I was actually offered a job to become Wakayama
Tomisaburo's valet, but couldn't because of my karate schedule which I practiced
everyday. Tomisaburo was a movie star who played gangsters, and through
Nishida, was obviously connected to the real ones.

Once I had gone to the Minamiza theater in Kyoto to watch Bando
Tomosaburo, one of the great kabuki actors perform the dance of the wisteria, or
Fujimusumei. At intermission, many of the crowd went to the lobby for
bento box lunches and sake'. I noticed a girl who was elegantly dressed in an
embroidered silk kimono with pearls and emeralds hanging in clusters
with a tortoise shell comb in her piled up hair. Her face was powdered snow
white and only her bottom lip was painted red like a delicate petal of a
flower. Her shoes were tiny like a child's painted black lacquer, red and gold
adding several inches to her height, with small bells ringing in the
hollows of her wooden heels.

Tsune Hisa was a maiko, an apprentice gesha, and she was one of the
most beautiful girls I had ever seen. Somehow I managed to get her phone
number and address as my Japanese had improved considerably. Tsune Hisa lived
in the Gion, the most exclusive geisha neighborhood in Kyoto. My repeated
phone calls were useless as the mamasan always hung up on me. Even my
friend's mother, who was quite influential and had one of the best sushi houses
in Kyoto couldn't get a foot in the door. Not even money could get me into
a fine geisha house in Kyoto without an invitation. Nobody, Japanese or
foreign could visit these rare and beautiful ladies unless one was a member of
a particular geisha house, or was the guest of a member. The only people
who were members were wealthy industrialists, politicians, or gangsters
which were often the same.

One telephone call from Nishida and the elegant mysteries of the
"Floating World" of the geisha house and of Miss Tsune Hisa were revealed. Nishida
and I made many forays into the secret confines of that geisha house over a
period of time, and I was completely captivated by her porcelain
beauty. We were entertained by her songs and poetry, her dance and by her grace in
feeding us exquisite delicacies, pouring our sake' and by her gentle
language which was different from the standard Japanese, and different
from the Kyoto dialect.

These visits cost Nishida about $3,000 per visit in 1974, and I was
much relieved when the mamasan invited me to visit Tsune Hisa for free in
exchange for teaching mamasan's young son English. I learned to be very
careful with Nishida's generosity. If I should but glance at a pair
of very expensive alligator shoes, he would go into the store and get them
for me.

When the American Karate team came to challenge our school in Japan, I
of course fought with my Japanese team. The Americans had great strength
but it seemed to me that their balance was all off. They relied on their size.
My Japanese team mates were all little guys who walked up the side of a
burly American and down the other, hitting him so fast that he would be on
the ground staring up, wondering what had happened to his center of
gravity.

One observation about Western men. Their strength is in the shoulder,
the arm and chest. They walk from the shoulder while a Japanese man will
walk from the hip. However big or small, all signals are sent from the solar
plexus. All one has to do is to observe the breath. No animal strikes
while inhaling. Once when we fought students from Dohshisha University in
Kyoto, They appeared formidable with their blood stained uniforms. My
opponent, although full contact was not allowed, smashed me in the face. I
actually saw stars. I looked over at my master expecting him to stop the match.
He did not. I faked my opponent, drew him in, and delivered a perfect kick
to the solar plexus, sending him upwards into the air. When he crashed on his
back, I believe he was clinically dead as his chest had to be pounded to
revive him.

I developed thick callouses on the tops of my feet from sitting on top
of them on the hard wooden floor. My picture appeared in the newspaper for
submerging myself, along with my school in an icy cold lake linking
arms in the middle of winter. Winter and summer training were spent at
Mampukuji Temple sitting zazen, between matches, being whacked by the monks with
a wooden paddle when my back would bend, waking up at four in the
morning, eating every grain of rice in my bowl, and fighting every day. Once we
were visited by Prince Tomohito, Emperor Hirohito's brother's son. I suppose
because I was the only foreigner, he wanted to sing a song with me.
Row, row row your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily ,
merrily, life is but a dream. And so it was. Bushido, the spirit of the warrior.
Being with Nishida was to be in Japan 300 years ago.

Everyday, for several years and seasons, I studied karate. In the
sweltering heat, with the cicada chirping in the maple trees, my once white
uniform began to grown mold, never having a chance to dry out or in winter
changing from my street cloths with snow on the window sills of my dojo, into my
uniform, my feet freezing on the cold wooden floor until I could get my
blood warm. I never caught a cold, or missed a day of practice. It was
during this time that I had first met Junko, another art student, who
was to become my wife.

In 1975, I returned to California and stayed in an old farm house
beside the ocean in Half Moon Bay. I had a huge wooden barn in which to paint set
out in a field and a horse named Wyoming who I would ride down the beach
dressed in a long moth eaten muskrat coat warmed against the fog.  I was in the
best physical condition in my life. Japan seemed a distant memory. It was
the return to America that produced culture shock. I had to figure out how
to travel, to make money, how to buy back my life from the social
obligation of bartering my time, the time of MY LIFE, to pay the rent. I had realized
very early that the economic system to which nearly everyone belonged,
allowed just enough money the keep you on the wheel, spinning away, without
ever having enough to jump off the wheel. This would not do. I needed to
travel, I needed to get off the perpetual wheel which kept the masses bound as
financial slaves to a system, a perfect system, from which they would
never escape. I needed to travel, I needed money to travel, but what could I
do? What was I really good at doing? Color, the light of my life, the only
thing I really understood. Painting was never going to provide enough to get
off the grindstone. Gems, that was the answer.

I enrolled in the Gemological Institute of America, and graduated in
1977. Some miracle of fate had Junko in attendance one class behind me. The
mathematics of recut formulas had me baffled, as math had always been a
language which I never could, never would understand, but the
identification of gems and minerals came naturally to me. The ascetics of a beautiful
stone, the slim variances of color which would constitute its value
came easily. Because of my oil painting from the age of thirteen, I had a
memory for color. After a very short career working for a jewelry store in San
Francisco, I again literally ran into Junko, knocking packages out of
her arms. We moved in together. Junko and her mother were building a
restaurant in San Francisco, a country style Robata Yaki restaurant called Fuki Ya,
which was to be the first of its kind in the United States. When she
received notice from immigration that she would be deported, and I
realized that I could really lose her, we got married. It was the best decision
in my life. The restaurant also gave me a stage to show the stones. I could
roll a three carat ruby across the table where customers were dining, and they
would say, "Wow, look at that". It was in the restaurant that I met a
couple of very shady characters from Florida who bankrolled me to go back to
Asia and buy rubies. I was able in a year, to pay them off, give each of us
an important ruby, and still have enough to go back to asia and buy on my
own. I developed clients in the States, and in Japan, for exotic stones,
gems which were one of a kind. Multi-colored sapphires, change of color
sapphires, thirty carat Burmese star sapphires, brilliant rubies, and
huge peridot. Sometimes when I would travel to Japan I would stop by and see
my dear friend Nishida.

Junko was in Japan visiting her family, the restaurant was doing very
well, we had been written up in Gourmet Magazine, I was in Thailand on a
buying trip when Junko's mother received a call from Nishida's wife Yoko.
Nishida was dead. It was thought that he had been murdered, a victim of a
poisoning. At his autopsy, the interior of his bones were blue, indicating I
understood cyanide. Immediately I returned to Japan. It was 1987. Junko had of
course met Nishida many times, but she would not go to the funeral with the
stigma of the yakuza. I wore her father's black suit.

I changed trains at Tambabashi and and noticed many people wearing
black who with me, boarded the train to Hashimoto. It was easy to find Nishida's
home as there was still only the same narrow lane up the hill from the train
station. All of the mourners, the people in black filed off at
Hashimoto, winding up the hill like a black ribbon. some of these people cast side
glances at me wondering if perhaps I had gotten off at the wrong
station. Their questions were answered when I removed my shoes at Nishida's
doorway and left them amongst a hundred others and was greeted by Nishida's
widow and children, some of whom I had known since their birth. I followed
the family through the entry way into a very large room covered with tatami
or woven straw mats where a hundred people knelt on silk pillows. I was
asked to sit near the monk, directly behind the family. The monk was kneeling
with his back to us in transparent green vestment covered with woven gold.
The family knelt ner me and the monk turned and began to recite from a long
narrow book. As he turned to face the family, I noticed that the altar
was covered with gold leaf and black lacquered dragons. Perfectly swollen
fruit were resting on the altar, gifts for Nishida's soul, and his
photograph, which was illuminated by small light bulbs. On top of the altar were
Nishida's brand of cigarettes and his wrist watch.

The envelops which everyone brought, including me, were stuffed with
money and stacked a foot high on the inside of the altar. The monk continued
to chant and everyone including the children began to fidget. My legs
having only a trickle of blood flowing into them for the past two hours tingle
if indeed there was any feeling left. The monk continued to chant as he
sprinkled incense on a red hot block of coal, then pinched another
before passing the blazing coal on a bronze tray to Nishida's wife, daughter
and two young sons. Next it was passed to me by Nishida's youngest son born
to him by his most beautiful mistress. I pinched two fingers full of amber
red incense and sprinkled on the coals. As the incense touched the coal, it
was vaporized into pungent sweet smoke. I passed the tray to those behind
me and continued to kneel.

The monk, whether he had finally come to the end of his incantations or
had noticed the increasing frequency of his need to clear his gravelly
throat, finally finished and gave a sign for everyone to file outdoors. The
bright sun seemed to mock us as the weary procession, draped in variations of
black, passed into the sunshine, down the familiar stone walled lane to
the graveyard. How often I had passed this way to the public bath, to the
train station everyday for karate practice at the temple, or to the noodle
stall, peering over the fence at the strange marble or granite markers, never
paying much attention. I never dreamed that I would be here at this
cemetery burying the remains of Nishida.

The tallest and most prominate stone marker in the cemetery was where
the monk paused and lit incense. Everyone stood in a large solemn circle
with their hands clasped and their heads lowered, fixed on the center like
magnets. The monk began to recite some more sutras and I took the
opportunity to look closer at the people in our circle of mourners.
There were not too many of the lower ranking kobun, although of course I
recognized some of the younger men who were drivers, answered
telephones or went on errands. Some of these kobun had driven me around when Nishida
ordered. Most of the men were bosses themselves of the other yakuza
families or committee members with their wives. Outside the cemetery in the lane
was ringed with policemen.

Two men were especially notable. One looked exactly the part for a
Japanes gangster movie. His hair was cut into a severe military crew cut with an
expensive pin stripped suit with wide lapels and gleaming black patent
leather shoes. But it was not his cloths, it was his face that made him
extraordinary. His ponderous series manner, the ease I imagined he felt
concerning decisions of great magnitude, decisions of life and death.
In his face was a tremendous inner power and confidence, though twisted into
a permanent grimace of incredulity, no movement was wasted. He was a
master of gesture and subtlety. He possessed the raw strength of the warrior as
well as the warrior's artistic sense. This man was handsome in a brutal,
terrible way. A polished gangster intellectual. With his hands folded over in
front of him, I noticed that he was missing the end of his smallest finger on
his left hand. Giri, the moral obligation to ones superiors. The payment of
a debt.

The other man was completely bald, powerfully built, solid, consumed
with self confidence. The small finger on his left hand was also missing but
was more noticeable because of the refracted light scintillating from the
icy diamond he wore tucked over the knuckle, framed in platinum, a reward
to himself, an atonement.

The old monk finished his recital and everyone moved together like a
shadow where there should be none, down the lane. Frantic drivers caught
behind the wheels of their small autos became trapped in the procession, wouldn't
dare honk their horns, but waited patiently to drive on until the last pair
of shoes again filled the doorway, and the last person turned into the
house and out of the street.

Inside the house, the large room covered in tatami mats where everyone
was formerly kneeling, was now set with rows of single black lacquered
tables covered with small plates of delicacies. Nishida's widow led me to my
table where I sat on a golden pillow across from the gleaming flesh headed
bald man who I noticed had gold teeth. He spoke to those around him,
smiling, proposing toasts, commanding everyone's attention within earshot. His
smile was not really a smile, but a baring of golden fangs. I imagined him as
the type who once resolved to clamp his jaw on a tender forearm, would be
loath to dislodge. Better to cut one's own arm off at the shoulder and have
a chance, however slim to escape. His own wounds you remember, he dressed
in diamonds.

He sat very comfortably, speaking with those nearest to him, having his
sake' poured  for him by each one who could reach him, and he emptied
each glass in succession. Tossing another one back, he lowered his glass to
the table and looked for the first time directly at me. I poured him a
glass of sake' to the rim of his transparent cup. Emptying his cup, he poured a
cup for me and I downed it with pleasure.

"Pardon me", I said in Japanese, "I am Richard from San Francisco. I
was Nishida's friend for many years. I regret his loss deeply".
"Yes, Richardosan, my name is Sugimoto, Su-gi-mo-to. I bought one of
your paintings which still hangs on the wall of my house".

Oh yeah, I remember, Sugimoto, the guy who had that gambling den behind
the steel door at the back of the coffee house. Nishida had brought me over
there years ago trying to teach me the card game of Hana Fude. I poured
another sake' for him. He downed it then looked across the table
directly at me, smiling that vise like metallic smile, exchanged sake' cups with me,
a symbolic act implying blood brotherhood. He poured for me and I for
him, and we drank simultaneously, sealing the bond.

Everyone eats and drinks and drinks some more. The plates were cleared
but the drinks continued. As the people began to leave, the remainder
congregate in one area giving the maids a chance to stack the tables and clear the
plates. Amongst the people who stayed wee Sugimoto and the other
powerhouse in pinstripes. Sugimoto formally introduces me to the other man,
Wadasan, telling him of my long friendship with Nishida. Nishida's widow, Yoko,
sat next to me and told the group that Nishida had helped me when I lived
in Hashimoto, but of all of the foreigners he had helped over the years,
only I had responded and come back to renew the friendship and remembered my
debt by giving him five fine Burmese sapphires.

Sugimoto and Wada were the heads of other gangster families which with
Nishida's family would assist each other in times of need. We continued
to drink and I could see the liquor having an effect. I wanted to leave
but when I found a pause to make a break, it began to rain. The rain turned
quickly into blinding showers. Sugimoto invited me to go out with him
and continue drinking. Naturally, I accepted.

I paid my final respects to Nishida's altar with his image, bowed to
the photo, then to the family, thanking them for inviting me. The two
bosses and I were driven to Sugimoto's office close to Yawata-Cho. As we pulled
up, the driver hopped out and opened the doors. Sugimoto asked me if I
remembered this place, and in a flash it came back to me. yes, I had been here
before. Nishida had taken me here once. The coffee shop with the sliding metal
window in the door like an old time speakeasy. Inside the hidden room
were dozens of tattooed men playing Hana Fude. I remember asking Nishida who
they were.
"They work for me", he said.
"What do they do?", I asked.
"Assassins", he answered.

Sugimoto and I with the others entered the front and sat in chairs
which were much too large. We had more to drink, and Sugimoto growled and
took a swing at an office boy, but missed him. The long black limo was parked
outside. We all got in and drove to a restaurant only three blocks away.
Of course everyone in the restaurant recognized Sugimoto and bowed in deep
respect or blunt fear until he had passed. Shedding our shoes at the
entrance, the women all clad in fine kimonos offered a welcome of the
most polished and polite Japanese. Sugimoto grunted a reply.

Upstairs we were seated in a very large private room with tatami mats
and silk pillows. The shoji screens were pulled back with a thundering
waterfall seen through cypress and maple trees. A full set of real ancient
samurai armor stood in the alcove which had all of the ferocity necessary to
inspire pure fear even with the warrior removed. Each man at the table had a
gesha to serve him food and drink.

After a few more rounds of drinks, eight younger yakuza came in and
knelt at the end of the room. Although sugimoto asked them to join us at our
table, they understood that they were not here to eat, but to be on hand. They
politely bowed, but they did not move. One man I remembered because
Nishida had told him to pose with me for photographs. He had an incredible
tattoos. In the photo, I sat in the middle wearing Nishida's own formal black
kimono with the symbol of the Sunakawa family crest, the double lightening
bolts on the sleeve. I was flanked by two yakuza facing forward revealing their
tattoos on their shoulders and chests. Behind me another yakuza stood
revealing the tattoos on his back. All three yakuza wore white
trousers, and I carried two swords, a long Katana, and a short wakizashi in my belt.

I mentioned casually to him that I remembered him, we had taken a photo
together, and asked him if he remembered me. "NO", he said, he didn't
remember me, and furthermore, he never posed for a picture with me. All
of us in the room were dressed in long sleeve white dress shirts, black
ties, black coats as befitted the occasion. I said that he was mistaken, he
did pose with me in a photo along with two other yakuza. Again he insisted
that I was wrong, he had never taken such a photo with me, and if he had, he
would certainly remember. I said that he was wrong, I remembered his
tattoos. On his left shoulder was a tattoo of Ama, the Japanese pearl
diver who is a half naked woman, and on his right shoulder was a green
dragon. When I said that, everyone knew I was correct as we were all fully
dressed and everyone knows everyone's else's tattoos. Sugimoto growled at him
because I remembered him, but he didn't remember me. I knew his tattoos because
I had a photo of the pose with him. Sugimoto continued to get angry at
his poor memory.

"What kind of yakuza are you, stupid with no memory", he shouted.
Everyone continued to drink but the mood was off. It was as if the entire
atmosphere had been sprayed with shit mist. Sugimoto was well drunk, having
finished off buckets of sake', and said something in guttural Japanese which I
could not understand. The younger yakuza jumped to his feet humiliated and
the room erupted into pandemonium.

One old man came and knelt beside me and explained that it had become
serious. Yakuaz business, not for the eyes of an outsider to see. He
bowed deeply and regretted that I must leave. Sugimoto was committed to a
drunken tirade, so I left the room and sat downstairs waiting for the cab which
had been called, as I sat on the stone steps and laced my shoes. upstairs I
heard loud yelling permiating the thin walls, reverberating into the
street but muffled by the waterfall, the dull sound of something striking
flesh as someone counted the strokes, ichi, ni, san..............

END