Illustration by Claudio Munoz

“IN THE old days,” laments the retired mobster, with a broad smile, slicked hair and a heavily tattooed body, “the yakuza served a useful purpose in society to solve civil disputes and keep the streets clean.” He draws on his cigarette, the stub of an amputated little finger visible in his beefy hand. “Now”, he goes on, “it has lost its samurai spirit to moneymaking.”

Or perhaps, the yakuza—Japan's organised-crime groups that date from the 17th century—are getting squeezed. For most of the post-war period they operated openly: tolerated by the public, used by politicians and protected by police. Crime will happen anyway, went the argument, so better to know whom to call when it crosses the line. In the 1950s ministers and industrialists relied on the mobsters and nationalist groups to quash unions and socialists. The gangs upheld classic Japanese virtues of manliness and loyalty—and paid for mistakes by slicing off one of their fingers in atonement.

But this orderly way of life is fraying. The floundering economy has eaten into revenue from traditional activities that required muscle, such as gambling, prostitution and loan-sharking. To compensate, the groups have ploughed into financial fraud, stock manipulation and cybercrime, giving rise to a new generation of gangster-nerds, more interested in business than blackmail. Still, the yakuza boasts 84,000 members (of whom half are “part-timers”) and is estimated to haul in as much as ¥2 trillion (around $21 billion) annually.

Moreover, the public has become slightly less accepting after bouts of mob violence, traditionally hidden, that claimed innocent lives. On February 20th around 160 people from Tokyo's Akasaka district sought a court injunction to bar Inagawa-kai, a big crime syndicate, from occupying an office building, arguing that it might bring violence to the area. In August residents of the city of Kurume sought a similar injunction against a local gang.

A 1992 anti-mob law clearly defined illegal behaviour and penalised companies with yakuza ties. It also established a non-profit group called the National Centre for the Elimination of Boryokudan (crime syndicates), to advise companies on avoiding the yakuza and rally citizens to complain, as in the recent suits. But the law is not all that it seems. The nationwide centres it created, grumble both senior police and racketeers, provide lucrative sinecures for retired police officers. This recalls amakudari, or “descent from heaven”—the practice of rewarding government officials with cushy, post-retirement jobs in the area of their official responsibility.

Companies are “encouraged” to donate to the centres, and to hire retired officers to help them comply with the law. Owners of pachinko-parlours (venues for a popular sort of pinball) and others now hire security firms using former policemen. Having yakuza at the door invites trouble with the law. So companies are, in effect, paying off the cops rather than the mob.

Many bars and restaurants still prefer the yakuza to the police for handling troublesome customers. The service is better. Still, the breakdown of the traditional order irks the former crime boss. Pondering the changes, he uses the word natsukashii (nostalgia), as the smoke from his cigarette wafts into nothingness.