Thieves who work alone are known as ichimaimono (one sheet of individual). Some are completely independent of larcenous attendants; others have sturdy gang affiliations but do breaking and entering on their own. Thieves who work in pairs are classed as nimaimono (two sheets of individual), in threes, sanmaimono (three sheets of individual), and in foursomes, yonmaimono (four sheets of individual).
• Aitsu wa shgai ichimaimono de ts'tten dakara, mattaku hen na yatsu da ze! He's real weird; he's been a loner all along.
• Shigoto wa nimaimono de yaru ni koshita kot' n yo! You've gotta be at least a twosome to carry off a job well! (kot' is Tokyo slang for koto wa)
• Ore-tachi mo sanmaimono de hajimete nagai koto naru n. It's been ages since we started working as a threesome.
• Ore-tachi no nawabari ni ano yonmaimono ga shima tsukur to shiteru rashii ze! It looks like those four guys are trying to move in on our territory.
Groups that work under the umbrella of a gang report directly to the kaoyaku (face function), who is also lovingly referred to as the kataoya (“one parent,” as in one-parent family). This parent is like a department manager in a bona fide firm: he hires and fires executives and maneuvers them profitably from one job to the next. When the ringleader happens to be a younger man, mischievous executives might refer to him behind his back as anigao (brother face). In his presence, however, heads are brusquely bowed and he is meekly addressed as aniki (older brother). When sneak thieves work in packs, social and professional hierarchy plays a star role. The man in charge is dotama, a name the street crowd claims developed from atama (head). The dotama is the brain of the pack. He might not personally break the lock, smash the window, or climb the drainpipe, but he makes the on-location decisions, orchestrating each movement of the burglary. In rougher packs the leader is the konatruki, a Korean gang word for “ruffian” which has acquired on Tokyo's modern streets a whiff of bravura and daredevilry. Important jobs that promise a high yield in loot are handled by larger sneak-thieving groups that come equipped with specialized watchmen, lockbreakers, computerized-alarm dismantlers, and a vault cracker or two.
Partners in crime refer to each other as hikiai (those who pull against each other), tsute (connections), dshi (kindred spirits), gui and guhi (lopped-off versions of tagui, “peer”), hbai (comrade), and more affectionately as kydai (brothers) which, for security, is often inverted to the less comprehensible daiky. Cruder bands of thieves, however, opt for heftier appellations. A favorite is the Korean expression chie, which is often distorted to a more feral chiy or chiy. The general rule with this set of words is: the harsher the expression, the warmer the criminal bond. Busuke (plug ugly), fushiyaburi (joint breaker), hiru (leech), and hine (stale) are often used with great cordiality by one leathery tough to another.
• Nan da yo? Orera no hikiai wa anna chatchii doa mo akeraren'n da ze? What the fuck? Our buddy can't even open a simple door like this?
• Orera wa dshi kamo shiren ga, aitsu wa dmo mushi ga sukan. We might be partners, but somehow I just don't like the guy.
• Oi! Oi k-chan! Chotto soko de chiy to hikkakete kuru wa! Yo! Hey old woman! I'm just going out for a bit with the gang!
• Oi, busuke yo! Katai koto iwazu ni—m ippai tsukiae yo! C'mon butt-face, cut the crap and let's have another drink!
• Oi tanomu ze! Omae ore no fushiyaburi ja n ka? Kane kashite kure yo! C'mon man, you're my partner, man! Lend me the money!
• saka no hine ichiban tayori ni naru ze. Our most reliable men are the guys from Osaka.
Another important part of respectable sneak-thieving gangs are the assistants, usually younger men who do dirty work like terikiri (“burning and cutting,” or blowtorching locks) and kaminari (“thunderbolt,” or making entry holes in roofs). These assistants are called tobakiri (den cutters) and ashi (legs), and are usually studying hard to become full-fledged professionals themselves. The youngest in the group, who is kept busy carrying tool bags and loot, is the hidarisode (left sleeve). He keeps out of the way, trotting behind the experienced elder of the group, the migisode (right sleeve), and drinks in as much technique as circumstances allow.
In a class of his own, the gang's lookout stands inconspicuously at gates, ducking into apartment house entrances or waiting in the getaway car, his hand on the ignition key. The lookouts of old whistled at the first sign of danger and were often masters at imitating tremulous bird calls; today's professionals, however, beep, page, and even ring up the gang on cellular phones. Over the years thousands of thief clans, large and small, have invented throngs of inspired cognomens for their watchmen. The lookouts' job was to keep their eyes peeled, what the Japanese call “stretched.” Gan o haru (he is stretching his eyes) came to mean “he's keeping lookout for us,” as did toibaru (he is stretching far). The men themselves became ganhari (eye stretchers), toibari (far stretchers), and then kenshi (see masters), tmi (far lookers), banmen (watching faces), and higemi (“mustache watchers,” or cop watchers). Some gangs even billed them with the dashing title yariban (spear guard). As the lookout men made it their job to peek over walls, peer through partitions, and spy over fences and railings, they came to be known as takanyd (tall giants). Another favorite has been otenkinagashi (the weather flows). Like a weatherman, the lookout watches for the slightest change in the atmosphere.
The most popular criminal word for watchmen of the sixties and seventies was tachiko (standing child), an expression which, to the plunderers' chagrin, was then swiped by the red-light crowd, to be used as a jocularword for prostitute. The thieves quickly flushed tachiko from their vocabularies.
Breaking into a Tokyo Mansion
A mansion has been chosen, the neighborhood inspected, and the date and time of the break-in set. The final word from the boss is: Yoshi! Mimai ni iku to shiy! “That's it! We'll definitely pay that respectful visit.” Those who will go on this visit gather in a process dubbed by gang jargon as wa ni naru (becoming a ring). A sophisticated group will hold a board meeting to discuss the delicate technicalities of the project. Here each crook has the opportunity to bring his or her expertise to the table in what is defined as ueshita o tsukeru (up and down together). Sipping tea, the group will verbally climb up the mansion's walls, down its drainpipes, across railings, and over roofs. In some clans this is called tanka o tsukusu (trying all the doors).
Then the looters leave the discussion table and begin arranging their tool bags, polishing their jiggers and oiling their widgets. The solemn act of dropping the tools one by one into the bag is called netabai (from neta hai, “the seeds enter”). The careful thief will chose staple instruments like yji (lock picks), rakkupari (lock jiggers), dosu (wrench knives), geri (jaggers), sori (blades, from kamisori, “razor”), and a set of nezumi (“mice,” or master keys). When the bags are ready, the time for fumitsukeru (attaching the steps) has come. Last minute phone calls are made, precautionary guns might be loaded, and, should they run into a domestic animal on the job, pork cutlets laced with cyanide are wrapped up in aluminium foil. These meat packages are wittily known as either shisankin (monetary contributions) or tsukaimono (wrapped gifts).
Arriving on the scene, the thieves hastily do suzume (sparrow), a quick check of surrounding streets and alleys for police patrols. If