THE SCOOP
Being with a paper like this certainly has its perks. In my case, for example, I am often offered FREE cafe lattes. And I know at least one guy who used to work at Tokyo YY and recently started his own T&A mag, who used to get FREE sample lap dances in most of the strip clubs — just so he would write favorable articles. “Art Hoffmann, I hate you! From whatever kitchen table you might be publishing your stupid little “Being A Hulk,” know this: You are a moron!”
But the real fun working with a paper like this is having the opportunity to scoop earth-shattering stories — stories that will be picked up by the wire services in no time, and will be copied and plagiarized by smaller local and international papers. Many such scoops come from alert freelance reporters who sell their stories to the highest bidder. However, on the night the fire broke loose in the noodle ghetto along the tracks next to Shinjuku station, I was lucky enough to chance upon a veteran investigative reporter who offered me a pre-auction deal (cash in hand).
“Do you want to buy a story?” inquired the reporter, a man dressed in black. “It’s real scoop!” I was baffled. But before I could ask ‘how much,’ the grizzled ninja quipped, “OK, if you’re not interested, I’ll sell it to someone else.” This sure gave me goose pimples. Me, here, standing in this dimly-lit bar in the heart of Kabukicho at two o’clock in the morning, on the verge of landing a scoop for my paper, but with the threat of it being sold to the competition right UNDER MY NOSE?
‘What’s the story about?’ I pressed, trying to think HARD, trying to buy some time. ‘Is it about the MAFIA, perhaps? Or the GOVERNMENT?’ Images of a politician being entertained in a nearby no-pants karaoke bar suddenly flitted through my mind.
“This is none of your no-panty crap. It’s much bigger than that. But if you don’t want to move your paper up a few leagues, forget it. The New York Time’s got plenty of moolah. I just offered it to you because you’re here.”
Now he got me. I was hooked. I needed this story, and I needed it bad.
“Come with me,” the ninja beckoned. “I’m going back there. It’s dangerous, alright. We could get arrested. We could even get DEPORTED! No need to come with me, if you’re a chicken. I’ve already breached the security perimeter twice tonight. And I’m going back in!”
‘Are you talking about the fire then?’
“Exactly. Earlier today I had an arson expert from the U.S. embassy, an old CIA/FBI/IRS man, check it out. Based on my judgment and his expertise I counted six different sources of fire. Tomorrow all the newspapers will report it was an accident. But really it was arson.”
‘How do you know what the papers will be saying in the morning?’
“We’re not talking about some piece of Saitama. We’re talking about the most expensive piece of real estate in the whole world. The insurance companies will all turn a blind eye and declare it an accident. The government started the fire!”
‘How do you know?’
“Listen, if you want your paper to keep on trawling crap, stay here.”
When we reached the security perimeter, we gave the situation a hard look.
I quickly found a weak spot where I could sneak into the still-smoldering cluster of noodle shops — undetected by the dozens of firefighters, secret police and other government agents. But as hard as I looked, I could only find a single source of fire. The ninja had somehow disappeared. After about 30 minutes I managed to slip out undetected with nothing more than blackened hands and a few groundless rumors to base my scoop on.
Irmgard Vonn