Ogikubo Izakaya "Sugi no Ki" ~The Defeated's Revenge Score~ - The black-market doctor in Shinjuku

Three days had passed since that night. Jack's warning, Mueller's request, the one-legged operative—three points kept spinning in Seiichi's head, refusing to form a line. Seiichi wiped the counter with a cloth, watching them without yet seeing the pattern. Steam rose from the oden pot and dissolved white into the September night. The noren curtain swayed. It was Tadokoro who entered. A general practitioner in his mid-fifties with a clinic on the south exit street of Ogikubo. He came here three or four times a month. Usually he'd sit on the raised threshold, drink a cup of local sake, grumble about his troubles, and leave. But tonight his complexion was different. Pale. His mouth was set in a tight line. The moment he sat at the counter's edge, he glanced quickly around. There were only two factory workers in the raised seating area. "Sugiyama-san, could we talk for a moment?" Seiichi silently set down a warmed sake bottle. Tadokoro began speaking without touching the drink. One of his patients was in critical condition. A man in his forties, treated for pneumonia with penicillin. Not legitimate product on the market, but something obtained through black market channels in Shinjuku. The patient himself had procured it through illegal routes, and Tadokoro had prescribed it. It didn't work. More than that—the symptoms worsened. When the components were analyzed, it wasn't penicillin at all. Something else had been mixed in. "It's counterfeit. Counterfeit penicillin is being mixed into supplies flowing through black market channels meant for the former Allied nations. It might not just be my patient." The Resident Enemy Alien Control Act—enacted in 1951—restricted both residential areas and employment for those of former enemy nation origin. Yet there was demand for medicine. Foreign residents who couldn't easily access legitimate medical institutions sought black market drugs. Exploiting that gap, substandard products were flowing in. Seiichi met Tadokoro's eyes. He understood the weight of what was being said. But. "I'm dealing with another case right now." "I know. But..." Tadokoro pulled a small notebook from his pocket and spoke a name. Seiichi's hand stopped. Before he quit being a detective, he'd once been helped by an old craftsman. The man had silently taken care of the aftermath of someone Seiichi had cornered during an investigation. Without asking for payment. It was the name of that old man's son. "...I'll move tomorrow." Tadokoro bowed deeply. As Seiichi headed to the raised seating area to take additional orders from the workers, he let out a single sigh in his chest. ＊ Just past noon the next day, Seiichi boarded the Chuo Line in civilian clothes. Twelve minutes from Ogikubo to Shinjuku. The face of the city visible through the train windows changed. Ogikubo's residential streets, Nakano's shopping district, and then Shinjuku—stepping out of the station, the very air felt different. Higher density of people, more complex smells. Food, exhaust, and something sweet and chemical-like all mixed together. Walking twelve minutes from the east exit brought him to the edge of Kabukicho. There was a section locally derided as "Little America." A block where those of former enemy nation origin lived densely packed. Fifteen years since America split into three, this alley had remained here all that time. The Defeated Nation Citizen Management Officials—Interior Ministry officials who supervised and managed resident foreigners—made their rounds most often at 2 PM and 6 PM. Seiichi arrived at 1:30. Though plainclothes collaborators might be mixed in. He walked while checking the gazes around him. Looking like a tourist was easiest. Arms uncrossed, unhurried, pretending to examine shop signs while moving deeper in. He circled around to the back of the bar where his target was—"Red Fox." Son in the Turkish hat. A Korean-origin black market intermediary with wide connections in this area. Former OSS—a man from the American Strategic Services during World War II who'd been making a living buying and selling information since the war's end. Seiichi had handled one case involving Son back during his detective days. Son was smoking against the wall of the back alley. A faded Turkish hat. Eyes narrow, a face that always seemed to be smiling, but the eyes never smiled. The moment he saw Seiichi, his expression vanished. "Sugiyama-san. It's been a while. I heard you quit being a detective." "I came to buy today. Sell it to me." Seiichi pressed a pack of cigarettes and several folded thousand-yen notes into Son's hand. He wanted to know the source of the penicillin being diverted in Shinjuku. That was all. Son was silent. He lit a cigarette. He exhaled smoke. "I don't know." "You know. That's why you're quiet." Seiichi lowered his voice. He spoke of something from four years ago. The contents of cargo Son had been transporting, and where it had flowed. Seiichi still had records in his notebook. Things that hadn't come to light. The smile faded completely from Son's face. "...A foreigner with a prosthetic leg. White. English speaker." That man was providing the funds. The relay point for the shipment was a back storage room of a foreign language bookstore in Shinjuku. He didn't give the store's name, but there weren't many foreign language bookstores dealing in English books and serving resident foreigners in Shinjuku. Seiichi turned his back without thanking him. As he tried to exit the alley, footsteps multiplied behind him. Not one person. Two. Their pace matched his. (Tailing.) Seiichi didn't slow his pace. He avoided the road leading to the main street, turning into the shopping district's crowd. Toward the crowds, always toward the crowds. He slipped past food stalls, blended into the throng. At the second corner, he looked back. The sense of pursuit had faded. In a moment of relief, his hand touched the low wall at the alley's exit. He had momentum. The skin of his palm scraped against the wall's corner. A slow, hot sensation. Blood was seeping. It wasn't a serious wound. Seiichi clenched his fist and kept walking. ＊ Used bookstore "Bookhouse O'Brien." Twelve minutes on foot from Shinjuku Station's east exit, first floor of a mixed-use building. Through the grimy glass, the spines of foreign language books stacked to the ceiling were visible. English, German, French—political and history books unavailable in Japan were mixed together. Ostensibly a used bookstore, but information was bought and sold out back. Seiichi had known this for some time. Pushing open the door, the smell of paper and dust struck his nose. Jack was organizing foreign language books at a table in the back. Thinning chestnut-colored crew cut, muddy-colored eyes. An old burn scar on his left hand visible between book spines. The moment he saw Seiichi through his thick glasses, his hands stopped. "What are you doing here?" "Your store's back storage is being used as a relay point for penicillin. That's the information I picked up." Jack's face changed. Anger came first. His fist struck the desk, the sound echoing in the cramped shop. "Who told you? Who? Where did someone get that story from—" "You don't need to answer." Seiichi met Jack's eyes. Jack didn't speak words of denial. His complexion had changed. Pale. That was the answer. "If you keep sniffing around, it's not just my position that collapses. Something much bigger falls apart." His voice was low, hoarse. Not a threat. A voice genuinely afraid. Something caught in Seiichi's mind. This man wasn't lying. But he was moving while holding something back. His connection to the one-legged operative. The money flow of the penicillin. The true nature of the "big thing" he said would collapse. The points kept multiplying. The line still wasn't visible. Seiichi turned on his heel. As his hand reached the door, he looked back. "Tell me what you're trying to protect. I'll listen." Jack didn't answer. Only his back showed both severity and something bitter at once. ＊ Sugi no Ki opened at five. Shortly after Seiichi left, Misako came in carrying a flower basket. Soft brown natural waves falling to her shoulders, large pale green eyes in a calmer shade than usual. This week's flowers were white chrysanthemums and autumn balloon flowers. It was this woman's habit to choose flowers reading slightly ahead of the season. "I added balloon flowers today. They'll be at their best in just a little while." As Seiichi reached out to take them, the noren curtain swayed roughly. It was Jack. He'd followed Seiichi. His coat barely straightened, he sat at the counter and looked at Seiichi. "Continue the conversation. How far has that information spread? I can't have you moving around with it." His voice was loud. Misako's expression froze. She drew the flower basket closer to her chest, stepping back half a pace. Jack's rough angry voice echoed through the small shop. Seiichi gestured to Jack, then turned to Misako. "Things are a bit dangerous tonight. Go home first." Misako nodded, then her eyes stopped on Seiichi's right hand. The back of his hand placed on the counter—scraped skin. Still reddish, though drying. Without a word, Misako pulled out her own handkerchief. "Before you say it's nothing serious, wait a moment." Before Seiichi could speak, Misako's fingers touched the scrape. The white handkerchief quietly absorbed the blood. Not too firm, not too gentle—exactly the right pressure. Seiichi said nothing. He tried to speak, but words wouldn't come. Jack clicked his tongue and turned his gaze to the book spines. Misako folded the handkerchief and pressed it into Seiichi's hand. "I'll come again." With only that, she passed through the noren and left. Seiichi watched her departing figure. The handkerchief remained in his hand. White, smelling of flowers. He gripped it once, then put it away under the counter. "You've got it rough too." Jack muttered it quietly. Seiichi didn't answer. He warmed sake and set a cup before Jack. ＊ All the regular customers had left by late night. Seiichi picked up the phone in the back of the shop. He connected with a former colleague from his detective days, a man well-versed in Ginza's underworld dealings. The matter of the ring Mueller had requested. Someone dealing in used goods and antiques around Ginza with connections to foreigners. The answer came quickly. A man named Kuroda. Using an antique dealer as his front, he was well-versed in the loopholes of the Resident Enemy Alien Control Act's registration procedures. He continued black market dealings with foreigners by bribing management officials, and he'd even planted information providers within the management office itself. His self-defense tactic was quickly reporting anyone who approached him to the authorities. Seiichi hung up the phone. He lit a cigarette. Smoke rose toward the ceiling. If he approached Kuroda directly, he risked being listed by the management office on suspicion of illegal contact with foreigners. Since he'd accepted Mueller's request, he had to approach Kuroda. But moving meant stepping into a trap. Where to start unraveling? Seiichi set the cigarette in the ashtray and opened the closet in the back of the shop. He pulled out an old wooden toolbox. Remnants from his detective days. A broken fountain pen, a worn notebook, old surveillance records—they held weight in his hands. At the bottom of the box, a single photograph was visible. He didn't take it out. Only looked. A young woman and a small girl. Both smiling. In the faded photograph, smiling. He couldn't protect them. He hadn't meant to put it into words. Yet it sank in the depths of his chest, voiceless. Patients suffering from counterfeit penicillin. Whatever lay behind Mueller's request. The "big thing" Jack wouldn't speak of. And today, the two shadows that had tailed him through the all

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Episode 2

Name: Ogikubo Izakaya "Sugi no Ki" ~The Defeated's Revenge Score~
Author: Novelia

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