The Ongoing Diary of Casey Neal

Can Brash American Reporter Keep Secret?

(May 2020)

It is a Saturday night in May when the Kawaguchi Transmitters host the Niihama-shi Ghosts.   Everyone knows the stories of these two teams by now, that the Ghosts are built to win now, and the Transmitters … are not.  We will all go to the game together because the Transmitters are making a special event in Yuni Ichihara’s name.

I wear one of my old Duluth Warriors jerseys, and I meet Don-o at a bar just south of the ballpark beforehand. DK will be joining us soon, and we’ll meet Ichihara at the park itself.  As you might guess, he’s been a little busy with all the depositions and interviews and a stack of paperwork to get through.

The story that the press has been given is that Chief Inspector Yuni Ichihara single-handedly sleuthed out the whereabouts of Charlie Cooper and took him into custody as a result of a daring chase the wound up near KEK.  Other details.  The weird stuff, and the things that are harder to explain, things like the whereabouts of one Russian slug who I now know as Olaf Krovic, and things like the existence of alternate universes, were left out.

This means that Yuni Ichihara is, at this moment, the closest thing to a national hero there is.

I know how that feels, though.

It’s not all roses and sunshine, especially when you’ve got to dot Is and cross Ts, or whatever you have to do in kanji, just to make sure everything comes off like you want it to.

I’ve been looking forward to tonight because it will be the first time we’ve all been able to be together since the big collar.

So Don-o and I meet up first, just like we planned. We order a beer, but neither of us really drink it.  Mostly just eat edamame chips and chase them with a sip here and there.

“You gonna stay here?” I ask

Don-o shakes his head.  “Nah. Everything’s getting too big again.”

“Where will you go?”

He shrugs.  He’s rocking a green Hawaiian today.  Gives him the natural shaman look.  Kinda. “I hear they play a little baseball in Australia.  Or maybe Mexico.  We’ll see. “

“Think you might come to the States sometime?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t mind?”

I laugh hard enough that the guys at the table behind us jump.

“Are you kidding me?”

His beard crinkled.  It’s noticeably grayer this past week.

I want to ask him how it feels to be a “disruptor.”  How it feels to hold a gateway in space-time open like that, but I didn’t really know how to do it without sounding like a dork.

“You got a place to crash anywhere I live, Don-o.  Lifetime pass.”

“All right then,” he says.

“As long as you bring Annie, that is.”

“You always did like her more than me.”

“She’s got a better seat.”

Don-o grunted.

“Hell of a lot better than the seats in that piece of crap thing Ichihara drives.”

The fact that we both still talk about that car tells you how painful the ride was.  I think we’re scared for life.

A hand clasps my shoulder firmly, and I nearly jump out of my seat when I hear a drunken “Go Warriors!!!!!!” shouted in my ear.  It is a kid, maybe 22, Japanese.  He wears a ball cap with a Bulldozer logo on it.  “PEBA, PEBA, USA!” It’s clear he knows about as much English as I do Japanese, but I give him a thumbs up and he gives me the same, and then he walks on.

Don-o and I raise eyebrows at each other and then break out laughing.

DK joins us.  He’s walking with a cane now, but the docs think he’ll be fine before it’s all over.

Before long it’s time to get going.

#

By happenstance, I run into Mike Dunn as we’re entering the stadium.

He’s the man who ran the Niihama-shi Ghosts until this year.  Obviously, he left the squad in a pretty good place, as the Ghosts could easily wind up winning a Neo-Tokyo Cup this year.  Brian Kotler took over for him, though, and has had a sure hand in making moves that have made the Ghosts even more competitive this year.  Dunn was actually in transition out when all the stuff hit the fan.

I had met him at the Winter meetings a few seasons back, and we had a beer or two every few seasons it seems, So I shook his hand.

“Here to say thanks to Yuni?” I ask.

“You got it,” he replies.  “How about them Ghosts?”

“They’re doin’ pretty good without you. How’s life after life?”

“Strange,” he grins.

“Do you miss it any?”

“No, the whole Charlie thing kind of put the bummer on it for me.  Enjoyed dealing with him, but man, who could have expected that?  I’m just glad Brian (Kotler) was coming along in my shoes so fast.  Made it a lot easier to just divorce myself from the whole thing.”

I introduced him to Yuni.

They talked a bit about the league, how strange it was to see eight vs. the old twelve.  You know, cordial and simple.  They shook hands and I said my goodbyes to Dunn, and told him I hoped we could have another round at winter meetings in a few years. He winked, and gave me a wave.

#

Ichihara looks like a different man tonight.

He smiles all the time.  And not a fake smile, you know?  Not an expression that seems painted on for the bright lights and the big cameras.  Yuni Ichihara is relaxed.  He’s confident, and there’s a natural glow around him that radiates and seems to warm people across the entire section we’re sitting in.  He’s wearing a dark shirt with the emblem of the Japanese National Police Agency embroidered on the breast pocket. His boss is three rows down enjoying a steady stream of free beer.  Every five or ten minutes the man looks up at Yuni Ichihara and gives him a big grin.

Yes, Yuni Ichihara is more in the moment than I’ve seen him in the four months I’ve been in Japan.

The game, like all of them in the LRS, start with the singing of team songs, and then the throwing of the first pitch–an event performed today by a young model.  Then Kawaguchi takes the field, and we settle in to watch.  Don-o and DK are on seated on one row, Yuni and I one row up.

Transmitter GM Matt Higgins has provided the seats, of course, but unfortunately cannot attend.

Ichihara does not seem to mind.

“Did you know Mr. Higgins was first to point me to Charlie Cooper case?” he asks.

“No, I didn’t  know the specifics. Just that the PEBA board was looking at accounting reports and started asking questions.”

“Mr. Higgins himself was first to see the problem.”

I nodded and watched the warm-ups.

“He call me directly.”

That was interesting, but I didn’t say anything.  There was a ballpark of people around us, but it was loud and raucous with people chanting the Transmitter cheer.  So despite it all, I felt like we could talk without fear of discovery.

“I’ve got a couple questions, Yuni.  If you don’t mind?”

Ichihara looked around.  He took a deep breath of ballpark air, and apparently came to the same assessment as I had.

“How they say … shoot away?”

“I know we were in a different universe.”

“Yes, parallel,” Yuni said.

“A parallel universe.”

“That very important, because Dr. Incho tell that there could be very many universes.  Our two probably very closeby.”

“Okay,” I said.

“But I still don’t understand a lot of the “how” here.  I mean, what happened?  Why Irkutsk?  What’s with the Russians?  And,” I leaned in “what the heck was with the twelve Charlier Coopers?”

Ichihara leaned back and collected himself.  The fan’s voices rose as the game started.

“Remember all that is not real must be removed, and then all that is left is real.”

“Sure, Sherlock.  I get that.”

“I think hard on this for long time, and most sure I am correct that Russian physicist on other universe first to make the box to create portal.”

“You’re saying that Charlie Cooper came from this different universe?”

He smiled and patted my forearm. “American reporter need be patient. This very complex.  But, yes.  All Charlier Coopers come from different universe.  Many closeby universes, afterall.  Therefore very many Charlie Coopers.”

The cold shiver of a truth rolled over me then.  I understood lots of the concept behind multiple worlds–I suppose most everyone does now that science fiction isn’t a total slum anymore.  Quantum theory and Schrodinger’s Cat and all that.  Every decision spawns a new universe, wherein one Charlier goes one way and another goes another way.  Whatever.  But that idea made sense now.  Every universe had it’s own Charlie Cooper.

“And the Russians used the device to gather up all the Charlies?” I said.

“Very good, Casey.  Make detective of you, yet.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Russian mob often finds stooges to do their work, though.  And Russian mob like money.  Sports become big-time cash machines, so they get idea to use general managers to  siphon cash off deals.  Bad news for Charlie Coopers, though, that the physicist that made the box was tied to Russian mob in that world, too.”

“You mean?”

“Russian mob in other universe learn of invention, and use gate to put Charlie Coopers in GM positions.  Make money in our universe, take back to their universe.  More Charlie Coopers, more money.”

“So these things became like multi-universe ATMs?”

Yuni laughed hard.  “Yes, I like that.  I steal description for later.”

“It’s all yours,” I reply, and I looked hard at the Chief Inspector.  “That was some pretty heavy mental lifting, man.  How did you do it?”

“I owe it to you, Casey san.”

“Me?”

“You are one who noticed all other teams.”

“That’s right.  The teams that don’t exist.”

“Wrong, again.”

I smiled.  “Okay, they exist on other universes.”

“And what do you think it means that all logos fit on Charlie Cooper’s walls?”

“Holy crap.”

“Yes.  That right.”

“Charlie Coopers were stealing from sports leagues on other universes.”

“Yes.  Remove not real and what remains is real.  Logos exist, teams exist.  Real.  Just not here.  Your discovery give me final clue that other universe exist.”

I sat back, my head swimming. Then it was clear.  Ichihara had it completely figured out when we went to the other side.

“You blew it up,” I say, realizing exactly what he had done with his bomb.  “That box was the device.  That’s why you blew it up.”

“Stop all Charlie Coopers from crossing the universes again.  For now, anyway.”

I sat back, tingling all the way to my fingertips.

“You saved baseball everywhere.”

On the field men threw a baseball around the diamond, and delivered it back to the pitcher.  Fans screamed, and Music played.  In the seat below us, Don-o in his Hawaiian shirt talked to DK in his Homu-Ran! jersey. The air smelled of beer and grass.

Ichihara huffed and smiled. “Owe it all to you.”

#

“I suppose you’ll get a promotion out of this,” I said as the game moved to the later innings.

He laughed gently at first, and then harder, but silent.

“What?”

Yuni leaned over and whispered into my ear.  “Promotion.  No promotion. Not matter.”

I stared at him cautiously.  “What are you hiding from me, Mr, Ichihara?”

He smiled and watched a pitch.

“Should keep ball down,” he said, sounding more like Don-o every minute.  Then he looked at me.  “Can brash American reporter keep secret?”

“Depends, I suppose.

“Promotion.  No promotion not matter.  Tomorrow some in paper get their wish.”

I put my eyebrows together, not certain what he meant.

“Paper work done. Case ready.  All in lawyers hands.”

“What does that have to do with a promotion for you?”

He leaned in again, and said.  “Tomorrow I give resignation.”

I sat back, stunned.

Suddenly his whole demeanor made sense.  Yuni Ichihara was a changed man, a man who knew he was leaving.  I looked around the stands to see the crowd of people cheering and singing to their teams.  Being a member of a crowd in a Japanese game means you have certain responsibilities.

An announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker, and a stream of Japanese came forward in which the only words I caught were “Yuni Ichihara!”

Yuni stood up and waved.

And the crowd rose and cheered even harder, and they sang and they waved towels.

I swear to god I nearly cried.

Then they were done, and Yuni sat down and the game started again.

I could see emotion on Yuni’s face, too, so I gave him a batter.

“What are you going to do?” I finally said.

“Maybe teach baseball.”

“Be a coach?”

He smiled.  “Help make Japanese baseball better.”

#

The game came to its end.  The score mattered, but didn’t matter, the players mattered, but didn’t matter, the coaches mattered, but didn’t matter.

The fans, though.

They cheered and they moaned and they clutched each other with hits and walks. They called the beer vendors and they ate fried noodles and seaweed and potstickers and steamed gyoza in green sauces and brown sauces.

They mattered.

I’m watching this game in Japan and I’m thinking of my time here, and suddenly I know I’m done.

I’ve gotten what I came for.