Jack expected some lengthy rumination on Naka’s part. Instead he surprised him by giving a curt nod and saying, “Yes, it shall be done. I shall pay you cash.”
“Yes, you will. Although we accept Krugerrands as well.”
“When can you start looking?”
“As soon as I have the money.”
Jack had learned over the years that certain customers had to believe they were dealing with a no-nonsense, hard-ass mercenary. He sensed Naka-whatever Slater was one of those.
“I shall make call and someone shall deliver it to you within hour. Where—?”
“Right here will do fine.”
No sense in burning another meeting place.
“One last thing,” Jack added. “How did the break-in occur?”
Naka frowned. “I do not understand.”
“Was a door pried open or its lock picked? Was an alarm system bypassed? How did he gain entry?”
“Through bedroom window.”
“With you there?”
“No. Out to dinner.”
“No alarm?”
“Yes, for rest of house, but my wife like to sleep with open window. Our system bypass those windows.”
“No motion detectors?”
“In rest of house, yes, but he turn off alarm system from bedroom. I do not know how.”
Jack did. Inside info: a cleaning girl, or maybe even someone at the alarm company.
Good. This gave him an idea of the burglar’s skill set, always useful in tracking someone.
Naka rose and reached into his pocket. Jack waved him off.
“On me. I’ll be running a tab.” He pointed to the photos. “Got anything better than these?”
Naka shook his head. “Sorry. Those are best. My father never felt need of taking picture. He had sword in place of honor where he could see every day. Why take many picture?”
Made sense.
Naka put on his hat, bowed, and hustled out the door. Jack settled into finishing his burger, considering ordering another Hoegaarden and maybe even another burger, and thinking how this was the kind of fix-it Gia liked him to take.
Retrieving a decrepit old sword…really…how risky could that be?
7
Toru Akechi was sitting with his favorite student, Shiro Kobayashi, the fourth son of a fisherman in the Ishikawa prefecture, in one of the few rooms in the Order’s temple that had remained a classroom. Most others had been converted into dormitory-like quarters for the monks, acolytes, and guards. A few of the larger rooms had been renovated for Sightings and for surgery.
Tadasu burst in. Toru sensed restrained excitement in the man as he bowed.
“The mercenary has agreed to search for the katana, sensei.”
Toru regarded him through the eyeholes of his mask. Tadasu Fumihiro was forty-two, a former student. He had watched Tadasu grow since his teen years, mentoring him through the levels of the Kakureta Kao as it struggled back from extinction. He had earned the position of temple guard but showed promise of so much more, which was why Toru had selected him for a mission so critical to the future of the Order.
“You must stay close to this. The Order is depending on you to guarantee its future. If this man finds it…you know what must be done.”
“I do, sensei. I shall not fail.”
“I have faith in you. And good news for you. Shiro has located the final ingredient for the ekisu.”
After regaining the sacred scrolls, Toru had sent out the Order’s acolytes and any guards who could be spared—and who could show their faces—to scour the city for the ingredients to make the elixir that would create the Kuroikaze—the Black Wind.
Tadasu grinned and bowed to the acolyte half his age. “Most excellent!”
Shiro returned the bow. “I am honored to be of service.”
Tadasu’s hair was longer than Shiro’s, but the two were so similar they could have been father and son.
Tadasu said, “This means that the Order can once again wield the Kuroikaze!”
Toru hoped so. He knew of only one way to be sure.
“Yes. Even as we speak, the ekisu is being prepared in accordance with the instructions in the scrolls. We must test it as soon as possible. For that we will need a shoten. The two of you go, search the city. Find someone sickly, someone with low vitality, and—most important of all—someone who will not be missed.”
He followed the pair out of the classroom and returned to his quarters. He locked the door and removed the embroidered red silk mask from the folds of skin the surgeons had created in the four corners of his face. This had been done when he’d entered the Fifth Circle of the Kakureta Kao and took the Vow of the Hidden Face. No one ever again would see his face.
The Fifth Circle…where he had gained the folds and lost his testicles. A small price to pay, hardly a price at all, especially considering how long ago he had sworn off pleasures of the flesh.
As a sensei, he would not be allowed to progress beyond the Fifth Circle for many years to come. He needed all of his senses to be an effective teacher.
He stepped to the open window and let the breeze caress his face. Even though it carried a faint, sour tang of garbage, it felt refreshing. Yes, he’d made the vow, but sometimes he became weary of looking at the world through two eyeholes.
He stared across the flat lowlands and highways to the huge mounds of the Fresh Kills landfill surrounding the Order’s temple.
Temple…a term used loosely in this case. Toru had seen photos of the beautiful five-story pagoda in the heart of Tokyo that served as home to the Kakureta Kao until the World War II fire bombings. People high and low had feared and venerated the Order. And then it had been destroyed.
Even after all these years, the Order remained a mere shell of its former self. This old, boxy, two-story schoolhouse on condemned ground was all it could afford. The toxins supposedly had been cleared but still no one wanted to live here. But the Order cared naught about toxins, and the building’s bargain price was all their depleted coffers could afford.
How the mighty had fallen.
But the Kakureta Kao would regain its former status. The Seers said so. And they said that New York City was where its resurgence would begin.
Toru hated this barbaric country whose commercialism had reached across an ocean and tainted his homeland’s culture. But he believed the Seers. As did the Elders. And so here the Order would stay.
But the Seers had said the Kakureta Kao would not rise unless it regained the scrolls and the blade that had caused their downfall. The scrolls they had, but they must control the blade if they were ever to regain their ancient status.
8
Blume’s.
Dawn was in total heaven—six floors of paradise on Fifth Avenue. She’d spent the entire afternoon here. She’d never been able to afford Blume’s on her allowance and what she’d earned at the diner.
With Henry never far away, she’d touched, caressed, tried on, and bought—on Mr. Osala’s dime, of course. She’d even gone to the designer floor, intending to see how far she could push this free ride—to find the limit of Mr. Osala’s largesse. A sales clerk named Rolf had shown her around, but when she saw the prices, she’d lost her nerve.
The things she’d ordered would be delivered.
She also enjoyed the sidelong glances from the other shoppers at her pak chadar. Kind of cool, in a way, like playing hide and seek, or spying. She could see their expressions but they couldn’t see hers. She’d totally stuck her tongue out at a couple of old biddies and they hadn’t a clue.
Better fun was raising a ton of eyebrows when she’d picked out a skimpy scarlet teddiette and taken it to a dressing room. Not like she’d had any intention of trying it on, let alone buying it; she’d just wanted to set tongues a-wagging. And she had. She’d heard the sales desk buzzing as she headed for the changing area.
She dragged Henry up to Fifty-seventh for a late-afternoon snack—totally tricky with the veil.
Aft
er that Henry informed her that it was time to go.
Bummer.
As they waited for the car—Henry had been adamant about using it instead of a cab for the short trip—Dawn saw a scruffy-looking man pasting a Day-Glo orange flyer on a nearby wall. The bold black letters caught her eye.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?
She stepped closer and saw someone was offering a five-thousand-dollar reward. It listed an 800 number.
And then she saw the name: DAWN PICKERING.
And then she saw the picture: hers.
“Oh, my God!”
The guy turned and gave her a quick up-and-down inspection. He had scraggly hair and needed a shave. He squinted at her, scowling. A button in his shirt read, ASK ME ABOUT THE KICKER EVOLUTION.
“Yo. You mean, ‘Oh, my Allah,’ right?”
Fighting waves of shock and nausea, Dawn pointed a trembling finger at the flyer. “Wh-who’s looking for that girl?”
The guy’s eyes narrowed. “Why? You know her?”
With no thought on her part, a reply leaped from her lips. “No. No, of course not. It’s just…” Think, Dawn. “Was she…was she like kidnapped or something?”
“Or something. All we know is she’s gone. She’s out there alone and afraid and we want to help her.”
That sounded memorized. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“Why, the Kickers, of course.” He held up the back of his hand to show her the little stick figure tattooed on the thumb web. “We’re out here just doing our part.”
Dawn stifled a gasp. Jerry had had one of those.
“What are you going to do when you find her?”
“Return her to her home and protect her.”
“From what?”
“From anything that wants to hurt her and her baby.”
Her baby…
Dawn felt the sidewalk tilt under her. She swayed.
The guy stared at her, his expression suspicious. “You okay?” He reached toward her veil. “Let’s see what you look like under that.”
Suddenly he was sailing backward. He slammed against the fender of a parked car.
“You will not touch her, sir.” Henry’s voice.
The Kicker’s face twisted into a snarl, then relaxed into a sneer when he looked up and saw Henry.
“Not like I care ’bout no Mohammed-humping ho anyhow.”
Dawn would never have guessed Henry had such strength. He hid it well. As the Kicker started to turn away, Henry pointed to the stack of flyers in his backpack.
“May I have one of those?”
The man hesitated, squinting at them, then handed over half a dozen.
“Sure. Spread ’em around. The more people see ’em, the quicker we find her.”
Still dazed, Dawn felt Henry grip her arm and lead her to the car. He ushered her into the backseat, closed the door after her, and soon they were rolling.
Through the rear window she saw the Kicker writing something on the back of one of his flyers.
They headed east, then uptown on Madison. And everywhere she looked she saw the flyers. She’d taken passing notice of them on the way to the store, but flyers were so common around the city, especially around construction sites, that she’d paid them no mind. But now, knowing what they said, each flash of orange was a cramp in her gut.
Forcing herself to move, she leaned over the back of the front seat and retrieved one of the flyers. She stared at it.
Where had they got this picture? She didn’t remember it. It looked fairly recent, but before she’d lost the weight.
“Do you see?” Henry said. “This is why the Master does not want you out. Now do you understand?”
She waggled the flyer. “About these?”
“Yes. They mean far more than just one man is looking for you. There’s a whole network of people. And through these flyers and the reward they’re offering, they’re enlisting a host of allies. You simply cannot show your face in public.”
Dawn stared at the flyer. “I need to call this number.”
“I do not believe that would be wise.”
“Just stop at a pay phone. No one will know it’s me.” She had to call. She just had to. “Please, Henry.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then, without taking his eyes off the street, he offered a cell phone over his shoulder.
“Use this. It’s safe. But be very careful what you say.”
Her throat tightened at his unexpected gesture. “Thank you, Henry. You’re a friend. And I’ll be very careful.”
Her finger trembled as she punched in the number. A male voice answered on the second ring.
“Dawn hot line.”
Dawn hot line…oh, God.
“Hel—” She swallowed. “Hello? I’m calling about the girl on the flyer.”
“You think you’ve spotted her, right?” His tone was like, Yeah-yeah, tell me another one. “Where’d you see her?”
“You don’t sound like you believe me.”
He sighed. “Sorry. We’ve had so many false leads and—”
“Who are you people and why are you looking for her? I mean, you’re not the police, so—”
“We’re private, and we’ve taken an interest in her case…her disappearance. Have you seen Dawn? Do you know where she is?”
“Who’s in charge there? Who’s behind this?”
“He’s not here right now. But if you haven’t seen her, can you help us, give us any hint of where she might be?”
“I’m not saying another word until I speak to whoever’s behind this.”
“I’m sorry, he’s not available right now.”
“Is his name Jerry? Tell—”
A long-fingered hand snatched the phone away and snapped it shut.
“Quite enough,” Henry said. “I let you call for one reason: To make clear to you that your ex-lover is conducting a very organized hunt for you. Do you understand now?”
Ex-lover? If he only knew the rest of it.
“I understand.”
Did she ever.
9
“Still fighting chopsticks, I see,” Jack said.
The Isher Sports Shop was officially closed, its narrow, cluttered aisles dark except for the rearmost section where Abe perched on a stool behind the scarred counter. The air reeked of garlic from the take-out kimchi he was forking into his mouth.
He raised his free hand and waggled his stubby, chubby fingers.
“These look made for eating with sticks?”
“You could learn.”
“Why for I should learn? For westerners, chopsticks are an affectation. I don’t do affectations.”
No argument there, Jack thought, taking in Abe’s customary white half-sleeve shirt and black trousers, strained by his bulging belly and stained by the day’s parade of edibles.
“Well, for one thing, they might slow down your eating.”
“I should eat slow? Why?”
“Slow eaters tend to eat less.”
“You’re not going to start, are you?”
Jack shook his head. “Not tonight.”
He knew his own eating habits—except when Gia cooked for him—were anything but healthy. One of these days he’d get his cholesterol checked. But at least he was active. Abe spent most of his time on that stool, eating. Jack didn’t like to think of his closest friend as a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.
But he was getting tired of being a nag, especially since it hadn’t changed anything. The guy was fatter than ever, and didn’t seem to care. With his wife long dead, his daughter barely speaking to him…food and reading newspapers—usually simultaneously—were his joys in life.
Abe said, “And kimchi, I’ll have you know, is diet food. Fermented cabbage. More low-cal is hard to find.” He pushed the container toward Jack. “You want?”
Jack shook his head. The two burgers at the Ear would hold him the rest of the night.
“Thanks, no. I didn’t think any of the Korean places around here delivered.”
“I picked it up on my way back from the hospice.”
Jack knew why Abe had gone there.
“How’s the professor doing?”
Abe shook his head. “Not good. The chemo and radiation are slowing down the cancer, but his right side is still useless from the stroke.”
“And the numbers?”
A sigh. “Still with the numbers.”
Peter Buhmann, Ph.D., Abe’s old professor from his university days, had suffered a stroke last month while paging through the Compendium of Srem. Turned out to be a hemorrhage into a metastatic brain tumor from kidney cancer. The weirdest part was that he’d stopped speaking words and begun speaking numbers. Exclusively. And not random numbers—only primes multiplied by seven. Strange and sad, because the cancer was all through his body.
“How long?”
Another shrug. “Could be weeks, could be months.” He burped kimchi.
“And how long before that stuff hits your colon? I would like to be out of here before then.”
Abe smiled. “Why do you think I stock those NBC masks?”
“You’ll let me know if I need to run downstairs and grab one, won’t you?”
“Of course. But my guess is you didn’t come here at this hour to ask about the professor or tshepen me about what I eat and the way I eat it. Nu?”
Jack told him about his meeting with Naka Slater.
“So, a second-story man you’re looking for.”
“Seems like it. Used the name Eddie Cordero, which rings some sort of bell with me, but apparently it’s an aka.”
Abe frowned. “A bell for me too. Who, I wonder…?” He shrugged. “Maybe it will come. Meanwhile, we need to find a second-story ganef who was away for a while and has a tan maybe.”
“And looking to unload a rotted-out katana.”
Abe twirled his finger next to his head. “He’s a little farblondjet, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Damn, this was weird—but that made it interesting. “Anyway, you put out the word to your people, I’ll talk to mine.”
By the Sword Page 7