Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

Shinjuku, Keio Plaza Hotel.

The 170-meter twin towers stood tall in the winter rain.

47th Floor. Executive Lounge.

Heavy soundproof doors sealed out the wind and rain. The room was carpeted in two-inch-thick handmade Persian wool. Amber light and the mellow scent of vintage cognac filled the air. A jazz pianist tapped the keys softly.

In a deep red leather booth by the window, Matsuura, president of Matsuura Construction, slumped into the sofa. His custom shirt was a mass of wrinkles. His sterling silver cufflinks were gone, sleeves shoved to his elbows. His tie lay discarded on the marble coffee table.

Three empty Macallan bottles littered the table. Matsuura gripped the fourth, tipped the neck to his cracked lips, and drank. Pale gold whiskey ran down his chin and soaked his collar.

”Two billion... Chiba Bank...” His voice was a wet, rattling wheeze.

His bloodshot eyes were locked on the city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Seven of those flickering towers were his construction sites.

Thirty years. From a mason in Kansai to the top of Minato Ward. Then the market dropped in the last five minutes of trading, and his empire vanished.

He felt like a toad at the bottom of a mud pit. The whole financial system was a sick joke.

The mahogany double doors stirred.

Two men, soaked through, tried to enter the lounge.

The maître d’ in white gloves stepped in front of them, smile cold and rigid. ”Gentlemen. This area is for executive floor guests only. Do you have a reservation?” His eyes flicked over Katayama’s bleeding hand and Kudo’s mud-caked shoes.

Katayama leaned against the frame, breathing shallowly. Kudo’s fingers curled uselessly in his pockets.

”Let them in!”

Matsuura’s roar ripped through the jazz.

He lurched up from the booth, snatched his black American Express Centurion card from the table, and hurled it across the room.

Clatter.

The card hit the marble and slid to the maître d’s shoes.

”I’ve booked the lounge for the day!” Matsuura shoved past the stunned maître d’. He stared at Kudo’s mud and Katayama’s ruined fingers, and a morbid glee lit his eyes.

”Come! Come in!” Matsuura’s laugh was shrill and cracked. ”Let’s see what fresh scraps this meat grinder spit out today!”

He grabbed Kudo’s sleeve and hauled both men to the window booth.

Kudo and Katayama collapsed onto the leather. The softness made their overstrung nerves blank out for a second.

Matsuura bellowed at a waiter. ”Wine! Macallan! Ice! And get bandages for the kid’s hand!”

The waiter brought a tray, hands shaking.

Katayama took the gauze with his left hand, gritted his teeth, and wrapped his shattered fingers. Blood soaked the white instantly, turning it dark red.

Matsuura seized a fresh bottle, skipped the glass, and drank straight from it. Whiskey ran down his chin into his shirt.

”Drink! Everyone drink!” He slammed the bottle onto the marble. The glass base cracked against the stone with a heavy thud.

He grabbed two empty tumblers, filled them with whiskey, and shoved them at the men.

Kudo lifted his glass with both hands. He was so cold his teeth chattered against the rim. Clatter. The liquor burned down his throat.

Katayama downed his in one. The alcohol put a feverish flush on his face.

Matsuura sank back into the sofa, eyes fixed on the city. ”Two billion... those bastards at Chiba Bank...” His breath rattled.

He flung a thick arm toward the window. ”See those cranes? Seven sites. All mine. Matsuura Construction. Thirty years as a mason. Kansai to Minato. I’ve built buildings. Drank lakes of liquor!”

His face twisted with rage and despair. ”Last five minutes. Margin call. Forced liquidation. Five hundred million yen—gone. No sound. Tomorrow morning, the court puts seals on my door!”

Katayama leaned back and gave a hollow, nihilistic smile. ”You were the bagholder, old man.”

His voice was weak but laced with the arrogance of a top finance student. ”When the market crashed, implied volatility went insane. The market makers killed the interface. Physical liquidity dried up. Your five hundred million didn’t save anything. It went straight into Wall Street’s pockets.” He flicked a metal lighter onto the table with his left hand.

Matsuura froze. Then he lunged, grabbing Katayama’s muddy baseball jacket and yanking him half off the sofa. ”You brat! What do you know!” Spittle hit Katayama’s face. ”You read a few books and think you understand the market? Who broke your fingers?!”

”Hehehehe... I only embezzled five million...”

A choked sob cut through Matsuura’s rage.

Kudo covered his face. Tears and mud seeped between his fingers. ”I worked till eleven every night... I just wanted a decent apartment in Minato... Nine AM tomorrow, audit finds the hole... It’s over...”

Matsuura paused. He dropped Katayama, who fell back coughing. ”Five million?” He stared at Kudo like he was an alien. Then he threw his head back and howled with laughter.

”Hahahaha! Five million yen?!” He slammed the table until tears ran down his face. ”I spend more on one bottle at a Ginza club! You’re gonna die over five million?!”

Kudo stopped shaking. He raised his filthy, tear-streaked face. Shame and alcohol burned his cheeks red.

”What’s wrong with five million...” His voice shook. He grabbed his glass and threw the rest of the whiskey in his own face. ”I scammed my relatives’ retirement money! I’m worth less than a dog! You owe two billion... think you’ll look better when you hit the pavement?!”

Katayama watched the meek salaryman snap. He clutched his stomach and laughed with him, coughing between bursts. ”Hahahaha! We’re all trash! Trash! Tra—cough cough cough.”

”Cough cough... He’s right, old man.” Katayama waved his bloodied gauze-wrapped hand. ”Two-billion corpse, five-million corpse—same size crater on the asphalt. Yakuza won’t even look twice.”

Matsuura’s laughter died.

He stared at them: a mud-soaked clerk, a fingerless college kid. The class gap meant nothing now.

Thirty years of grinding, and this rainy night put him right next to them. The absurdity choked him.

”Damn it...” He grabbed the bottle and drank again. Whiskey ran into his open collar.

Bang.

He dropped the empty bottle onto the carpet.

”All the same! All scraps with the plug pulled!” Matsuura spread his arms and yanked Kudo and Katayama in by their necks. Alcohol, mud, and blood filled the space between them.

”Since we’re all going to hell...” Matsuura grinned, teeth stained with liquor, eyes wild with abandon. ”Let’s go! Top floor. Presidential suite!”

Kudo choked and kicked the carpet. ”Let go... what for...”

”To drink the most expensive wine! Order the most expensive women!” Matsuura cut him off and dragged them up. He pointed at the blurred neon sea outside. ”You—poor bastard can’t buy an apartment. And you—virgin’s never touched a girl. Before you die, I’ll show you the top of Tokyo!”

Outside, winter rain streaked the glass curtain wall. The jazz bass line echoed in the lounge, covering the sound of three men dragging each other across the wool carpet.