Politicians, puffs and pubic wigs—Chapter 4

Detective Inspector Takashi Setoyama was a bungler. He owed his position in the Metropolitan Police force to his uncle, Masahiko Setoyama, the Justice Minister. At sixty-seven Masahiko Setoyama was the fifth eldest member of the Cabinet, but he had the libido of an eighteen-year-old. In fact, it was rumored that he had recently fathered twins to a young girl working as a hostess in a bar in the Akasaka district of Tokyo. A notorious braggart, the Justice Minister did nothing to quell the rumors. In fact, he had probably started them himself on one of the evenings he sat in the pub entertaining all those present with stories of his sexual exploits.

Stepping out into the street from the building that housed the adult video booths, Inspector Setoyama blew his nose with gusto and checked his hair in the reflection of a shop window. He was a policeman and he knew that surreptitious movements, just like the confidential stamp on a facsimile message, drew attention, so he coughed loudly and turned straight into the path of an old man riding a solid old bicycle. Seiichi Kou had one hand on the handle bars while he balanced a tray with bowls of piping hot Chinese noodles on his shoulder with the other.

The old man’s reactions were compatible with his age. He opened his mouth slowly and blinked just before he crashed into Setoyama. The noodle bowls flew off in four different directions. One of them landed upside down on the head of a plump, middle-aged lady who had just bent forward to use her pooper scooper to remove the heap her poodle had deposited on the sidewalk. The woman let out a piercing scream that terrified the poodle, causing it to bolt and drag her after it.

The old man closed his mouth and gritted his teeth when he hit the pavement and skidded though the malodorous canine excrement. The next time he opened his mouth, he spoke with a venom that would have made a cobra raise its eyebrows.

“Koozuka,” he snarled, which is Japanese for dilettante; it also means wanker. “Why don’t you look where you’re fucking going?”

Setoyama bowed in apology and bent down to help the old man to his feet.

“Take your filthy paws off me,” screamed the old man, even bolder now that he was attracting a crowd. “You’ve been in there beating off and I bet you haven’t even washed your stinking hands! Keep them off me, they smell like dog shit!”

Setoyama was furious. A small boy made an obscene gesture and pointed at him, causing the crowd to burst out laughing. A construction worker who was chewing on a toothpick called out, “Your flies are still open.”
Instinctively, Setoyama dropped his hands, in a defensive pose, to cover his flies. They were not open. The crowed laughed even more.”

“Somebody call a policeman,” shouted the old man. “I’ll teach this fucking pervert a lesson.”
“Can’t we settle this amicably?” whispered Setoyama.

“No we bloody well can’t,” snapped the old man. “You buggers are all the same. Why can’t you beat off in your own neighborhood? Afraid the neighbors might find out about you, eh? You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“Could I just have a private word with you?” pleaded Setoyama.

“No you fucking can not. Either you pay me for the noodles or I’ll have you locked up.”

“Of course I’ll pay you for the noodles” said Setoyama, relieved that he was going to get away without any further embarrassment. “Why didn’t you just say that at the beginning? How much do you want?” He reached for his wallet.

“Ten thousand yen,” answered the old man.

“Ten thousand yen? One bowl of noodles only costs five hundred, you thieving old bastard. I’ve a good mind to run you in for extortion,” said Setoyama flashing his identification.

“You’re a policeman?” said the old man sneering at Setoyama. “Well, what are you doing in a place like that? You should be closing them down, not subsidizing them. Then he stretched up on his toes and breathed a fetid, malicious threat into Setoyama’s face.

“I’ve got news for you, mate. You’re shit out. I’ll have your bollocks on a plate before you before you get back to the station. Masahiko Setoyama, the Minister of Justice, is an old friend of mine. When I tell him what you’ve been up to, he’ll be really pissed off, especially that a wanker like you has the same name as he does.

Setoyama winced. If his uncle Masa got to hear of this, he would be humiliated. His uncle claimed loudly and often that he had not had the need to masturbate since he was thirteen. If he heard about this, he would never let him live it down.

“You don’t understand,” said Setoyama.

“I don’t fucking understand?” echoed the old man. “Are you trying to say that I’m a cretin? Fuck you, wanker!”

There was something about the old man that suddenly seemed familiar to Setoyama. Then it dawned on him. And he almost groaned out loud. The old man was one of his uncle’s cronies who used to drop in from time to time to guzzle sake and swap smutty stories.

Setoyama gasped and prayed that the old man would not recognize him. He tried backing away, but the old man grabbed his lapels and stretched up into his face again.

“Where do you think you’re going, twat?” he snarled.

“Nowhere,” stammered Setoyama, feeling as if he were about to pee himself. “I was just stepping back for some fresh air.”

“Fresh fucking air? Are you trying to imply that you don’t like the smell around here, the smell that you and other fucking perverts helped to create? You wanker!”

Setoyama smiled weakly.

“Do you want a kick in the penkers?” the old man said.

“Penkers?” asked Setoyama.

“Yes, penkers, said the old man. “Call them what you want. Penkers, nuts, bollocks, goolies, balls, cobblers, knackers. It’s all the same. A kick in the penkers is the same as a kick in the cobblers. Get it?”

“Go on, grandpa,” shouted the small boy, “take a swing at his danglers.”

The old man grinned and let go of Setoyama. “Now, beat it,” he said. And don’t come around here again to beat off.

Setoyama scampered away, the coarse laughter stinging his ears.