Cutting Cords

by Mickie B. Ashling

  “Do you need some money?” I asked.

  “We have done business before, Sloan. Your word is good enough for me.”

  “Thank you.”

  He left the room as quickly as he’d appeared, and I turned to Cole. “Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?”

  Cole frowned and looked very upset. “It was disturbing as fuck.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to wonder if Noriko or someone in her family is behind this hoax.”

  “I’m glad that came out of your mouth and not mine,” I said flatly.

  “You were thinking it, weren’t you?”

  “Well, duh… as soon as Adachi said it couldn’t be Yakuza, my first thought was it might be the geisha contingency.”

  Cole buried his face in his hands and sighed despondently. “If my father were still alive, I’d strangle him with my own hands.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said.

  “Let’s get the hell out of this place,” Cole suggested. “I feel impotent sitting around here waiting and wondering what’ll happen next. I’ve tried not to obsess over the twins, because once I start thinking about them, I’ll lose it and stop being rational. Still, when it’s all said and done, I am their father, and I can’t help but wonder if they’re okay. Are they warm and well fed? Do these kidnappers know what to do with babies? Did they think to bring their favorite blankets and the right food? You can’t thrust a new brand of milk and not expect a reaction. Did these idiots ever think about that?”

  I sat down beside him on the bed, put my arm over his shoulder, and gave a firm squeeze. “Cole, you’ve been quite remarkable, all things considered. I would have lost it many times over since this started but for your steady resolve. Don’t start to unravel now that we’re so close.”

  “Having your support is the secret to my tranquility,” Cole admitted. He groped for my hand and held on tightly when he found it. The little bit of contact seemed to steady his frayed nerves. In a much calmer voice, he said, “I’d be lost without you, Sloan. Thanks for talking me into hiring Adachi. He seems extremely competent.”

  “Let’s hope he works fast.”

  “Right,” Cole said. He stood and pulled me up. “Come on,” he said, “I need to play Joe Tourist to get my mind off this damn mess. Are you up for a castle tour?”

  “No problem,” I said, reaching for my jacket. I shrugged it on, then helped Cole with his. I gave Freddie his usual hand signal, and we left the room.

  Chapter 15

  WE TOOK a cab to Nijo Castle, home of the first shogun of the Edo period. There was still time to join a guided tour, and I purchased two English audio guides to help us along. While we listened to the tapes and followed the small group through the intricate maze of buildings inside the castle, I could interject with descriptions of our surroundings for Cole’s benefit. We were back to our synchronized song and dance.

  Cole hung onto my arm as we toured, stopping occasionally for me to describe the woodwork or other interesting artifacts that caught my eye. I did my very best to paint pictures with my words so Cole could visualize everything, even though he’d seen photos of this palace before he went blind. It had been many years, though, and I was certain he could use a refresher. I was as thorough as I could be without sounding condescending.

  The castle itself was surrounded by stone walls and dried-up moats. Inside, there were several structures that were remarkably well preserved. Our guide, a sophisticated young woman who spoke passable English, said there were three areas inside the castle: the Honmaru, which was the primary circle of defense; the Ninomaru, a secondary circle; and the usual meticulously planned gardens encircling them both. We passed through a Chinese-style gate to the Ninomaru, where the castle’s main attraction, the Ninomaru Palace, was located. Cole kept nodding when I’d point out something he remembered, and we both smiled when our guide pointed out the tatami-covered floors and referred to them as nightingale floors because they squeaked and made noises similar to the bird’s cry.

  “Why did they choose this type of flooring?” someone in the group inquired.

  “Old-fashioned burglar alarm,” our guide explained. “They could hear an intruder approaching before it was too late.”

  Everyone laughed at this remark. Personally, I thought it would be simpler to line the corridors with sword-waving samurais, but that was just me being fanciful. Imagining a bunch of hot guys who looked like Cole and Keanu Reeves wasn’t a stretch, but my pornographic thoughts could only lead to trouble, so I shifted my attention to the tapestries depicting gory battle scenes instead.

  It was late in the afternoon when we completed the tour of the palace and the surrounding garden. The Honmaru area was off-limits to visitors, and Cole was disappointed but not at all surprised. It was the main circle of defense and the former site of a second palace and five-story castle keep. After it was destroyed by fire in the eighteenth century, it was never rebuilt. Instead, the site itself was chosen as the imperial residence while the royal family was in Kyoto, and a second palace was built. The royal family was in residence today, thus the extreme privacy and limited access.

  Despite this one letdown, Cole was extremely pleased that he’d had a chance to walk the halls of the official residence. After turning in the audio guides, we headed toward the street, debating our next move.

  “We can always go back to the hotel for dinner,” Cole said.

  “Since we’re being so touristy and we need the distraction, let’s go for broke.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I’ve never ridden in a rickshaw, have you?”

  “Do they even exist anymore?”

  For once I knew something about Japanese tradition Cole didn’t. Triumphantly, I said, “I saw some on our way over here.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Come on, let’s find out how to get one.”

  We went back to the palace entrance, and fortunately, Ms. Tour Guide was still hanging around and answering questions. She smiled broadly when I asked about the human-powered means of transportation.

  “Ah, yes.” She bobbed her head. “Ginrikisha is available in Kyoto but very expensive. Only tourist can afford.”

  “How much?” Cole and I asked at the same time.

  “Fifty dollar for scenic ride around town.”

  “That’s not bad,” Cole said. “Is there any way you can find one for us?”

  “I call my cousin,” she said, whipping out her smartphone. “He know everyone.”

  Sure enough, the cousin came through, and about twenty minutes later, we were greeted by a muscle-bound rickshaw driver. His cart was a two-seater with hardly any room for Freddie. I had to drape the large dog over our laps like a furry blanket so we could get going. Our driver was wearing a brown kimono-type jacket and a loincloth. I tried to avert my eyes, but it was hard to keep them away from those rounded globes that flexed so enticingly.

  Cole leaned over and whispered, “Is his ass on display?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You’re too quiet.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, it’s impossible to concentrate on the scenery with that in my line of vision.”

  Cole shook his head. “Behave yourself, Sloan, you’re engaged.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m not dead. You know I have a weakness for Asian men.”

  “Had….”

  I turned to him and realized he was really annoyed that I was ogling the driver. “Are you jealous?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Impulsively, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You still have a drool-worthy ass, if that’s any consolation.”

  He tried his best to keep the stony look, but I could tell he was flattered by my compliment. A corner of his mouth lifted, and two spots of color bloomed on his prominent cheekbones.

  “As a matter of fact,” I continued, licking my lips, “your ass hasn’t changed much since I first saw you walking down the hallway back in the day.”<
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  “Now you’re being crude,” he admonished, but a wide smile lit up his face.

  “Who, me?”

  “Yeah, you horndog.”

  “It’s been almost a week since I’ve had sex; do they have a male version of geisha?”

  “Save the boner for Captain America,” Cole snapped. “You’ll be seeing him soon enough.”

  “While we’re on the topic of whores,” I said, irritated by Cole’s reminder that I needed to put my libido on hold, “why not take a tour of the geisha district? Don’t you want to know where your children’s mother used to live?”

  “Not if you act like an asshole,” Cole growled.

  “Oh, lighten up, Cole. We’re doing this for research. Who knows? We might run into Mama-san while we’re having dinner.”

  “You wouldn’t know her if we fell into her bowl of miso soup. Hell, I don’t know what she looks like either.”

  “Didn’t Noriko show you any family pictures?”

  “Sloan….”

  “Oh fuck,” I said, huffing out an embarrassed laugh. “I totally forgot. When Trent and I first hooked up, I kept treating him like he was blind, and now I’m making the opposite mistake.”

  Cole snorted. “Get your partners straight.”

  “Sorry,” I repeated, feeling like a jerk. At least we weren’t in bed and I screamed out Trent’s name. That would have really sucked. Now why the hell did that come to mind? I really needed to get laid.

  “No worries. We can head over to the geisha district if you want to see it.”

  “I’d like that,” I said seriously. Cole said something to the driver, and he turned and headed in the opposite direction. The downside to this quaint ride was the constant jiggling as we navigated the bumpy streets. The vehicle wasn’t equipped with top-of-the-line struts, and it felt like we were inside a Cuisinart on the pulse setting. It wasn’t romantic or comfortable in the least bit, and I could understand how this mode of transport went the way of the dinosaur.

  The Gion district had been brought to the world stage after the filming of Memoirs of a Geisha. Frankly, I was underwhelmed by the tiny wooden structures that were crammed so tightly together they were practically on top of each other. Sure, there were colorful paper lanterns swinging enticingly through narrow vestibules, but I was so jaded by my experience with Noriko and her ilk that I couldn’t appreciate this for what it was worth. If I had never heard the word geisha before, I would probably have been able to see the charm and blot out the rest, but I’d never know for sure. At the moment, all I could pick out was the general seediness of the place.

  It made me sick to my stomach to think of Cole’s genes mingling with someone whose ancestors had plied their trade on these very streets. And yeah, I knew they weren’t prostitutes, but there must have been some exchange of body fluids for the women of the willow world to end up with a rich and powerful sponsor. Cole’s grandfather, the esteemed Hiro Fujiwara, had been the first one to dip his wick into the precious love box of the most famous geisha of his time. It had been that connection that had led Cole’s dad to Kyoto to find a surrogate. The fakakta plan had been a disaster from the very beginning, and I wasn’t surprised to find us in this current predicament. I was mum, though, knowing that sharing my thoughts would only irk Cole. Regardless of their past, he was annoyingly loyal to the mother of his children, and I had to respect that.

  After dismounting from our tiny vehicle, we walked around to enjoy the cool breeze, which helped to cool us off on the warm summer night. Freddie sniffed at bushes and bamboo fences, lifting his leg indiscriminately and pissing all over the place. A part of me thought I should be more concerned about where he was whizzing, but another part gave him a thumbs-up for doing exactly what I wished I could do.

  After Freddie was done, I led our small group toward a restaurant that looked reasonably inviting. As usual, there were dishes on display in a lighted box at the front entrance—plastic imitations of the different items on the menu serving as lures for the hungry traveler. It was helpful when one didn’t speak the language since pointing was universal. I described them to Cole to see if anything sounded appetizing.

  “I wouldn’t mind some sukiyaki.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve had that.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, prodding me with his elbow.

  “Hey,” I yelped at him. “Keep your sharp edges away from me.”

  “You wish,” he teased, poking me once more.

  We were shown to our table by a courteous waitress dressed in a colorful kimono, complete with fake cherry blossoms trailing down the side of her face. They were attached to a fancy gold clip embedded in her lacquered black hair. She bowed repeatedly and inched her way from our table without turning her back. The whole polite thing was starting to get old, and I was actually missing the snarky one-liners I’d come to love from my fellow New Yorkers.

  I asked for a bowl of water for Freddie and passed him a rawhide treat to hold him until we returned to the hotel. It would only be another hour, and he was used to waiting while Cole was at school. This would be no different.

  We were halfway through our meal when Freddie started growling. It was that same creepy growl I’d heard at the park, and my head snapped up to see if anything was out of the ordinary. I caught a quick glimpse of a tattooed arm parting the blue curtains between the dining area and the corridor leading to the kitchen. Standing slowly, I nudged the dog forward, warning Cole to stay at the table while I checked out the scene.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, alarm spiking in his voice.

  “I’m not sure, but I want you to sit here and wait for me.”

  He sighed so loudly I could smell his soy sauce-laced breath from where I was standing. “Can’t I come?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  He started to get up, and I pushed him down firmly. “I said no, Cole. Let me handle this.”

  “Be careful,” he said.

  Freddie led me quickly through the tight maze of tables, and he sprinted forward as soon as we cleared the curtained-off area. I ran straight into the heaving chest of my Chicago stalker. He looked pissed as hell, and most of his anger was directed at Freddie, who was barking and lunging at the guy, trying to tear out a piece of his throat. I tugged at Freddie’s harness, desperate to get the dog back to safety, but Chicago man had another plan. He yanked me forward and then used Freddie like a soccer ball, kicking him viciously in the mouth. The blow lifted him off his legs, and he flew back a few feet and landed on the stone floor with a soft plop. I cried out in horror, watching with growing alarm as Freddie lay in a crumpled heap. He was either dead or winded, because he hadn’t made a sound. Now I was well and truly pissed and began beating the bastard with my clenched fists, hoping to hurt him while help arrived, but the fucker must have been made of stone because he just glared at me, pulled back his arm, and smashed his fist directly into my right eye. There was an explosion of bright lights, and I was out before my head hit the concrete.

  Chapter 16

  THERE WAS no telling how long I’d been unconscious. It was the excruciating pain in my eye that woke me, jump-starting my battered body from comatose to alert in a matter of seconds. The only source of illumination in the small room was an old-fashioned kerosene lamp that hissed and sputtered as it tried to stay lit. It made everything look more sinister by casting elongated bluish shadows along the walls. There were no windows, so it was impossible to gauge the time. Suddenly, I remembered Freddie’s motionless body lying in a quiet heap and began to panic. Was he alive? And what of Cole? I looked around frantically to see if there was another body on the floor, but I was alone. Did they have him locked up in another room, or did they leave him at the restaurant wondering what in the hell had become of me? Cole would be desperate for answers, and if Freddie was dead or badly injured, how would he manage on his own? My heart started racing, and I was struggling to catch my breath as I pictured the scene.

  I tried to sit up and quick
ly realized my hands and feet were bound together, limiting my range of motion. All I could manage to do was wiggle around in circles like a trapped worm. I’d been dumped in a Japanese-style house, judging by the floor, which was the same tatami we’d seen at the palace. My right eye was glued shut. It throbbed like a motherfucker, and since I knew nothing about the anatomy of an eye and the effects of a direct hit, I tried not to dwell on the damage, hoping it was only temporary. Boxers were subjected to this sort of trauma all the time and lived to fight another day. I had to believe I would do the same.

  The first order of business was to figure out what the fuck I was dealing with. “Hey,” I screamed. “Who’s in charge?”

  The paper door swished open, and a tiny woman dressed in a blue-and-white kimono shuffled into the room. She was the last thing I’d expected—wizened with age, bald as a buzzard, and just as ugly. Her hands were linked together in a gnarled mess in front of her chest, and she examined me warily. I wasn’t sure if my mind was playing tricks on me or if seeing out of one eye changed proportions, but the thing in front of me couldn’t be taller than four and a half feet. She was bent over like a comma and must have been a hundred years old. If that didn’t beat all.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I asked in English, hoping she’d understand my tone if nothing else.

  She rattled off some shit in Japanese—a big waste of time because I didn’t understand a word. Even if I spoke a smattering, I’d be hard-pressed to comprehend her garble. The old crone was toothless on top of everything else, and trying to have a conversation without teeth was difficult in any language. Honestly, she looked like the walking dead, and it felt like I’d woken up in the middle of a bad dream or smack in the bowels of hell.

  “Get someone who speaks English,” I demanded. She couldn’t possibly have been the only person in the house. Where was the gorilla who’d knocked me out?

  She nattered on, interjecting her phrases with random cackles. All I could do was glare and hope to hell she’d go and get an interpreter. The door swished open again, and my Asian terminator showed up. He was as formidable up close as he was from a distance. I zeroed in on his hands, attached to hamlike forearms crossed over his chest, and noticed a few missing digits. Between that and the tattoos, I had to wonder if Adachi had been mistaken. This guy was the personification of Yakuza I’d seen on the Internet.