by Barry Lancet
“Well, the owner emailed me a photo earlier in the day. I’ll send it to your mobile as soon as we’re off.”
“Please,” I said.
At the dojo, the interior lights went out. “Listen, I have to go.”
“Right. My apologies for the ongoing madness.”
We disconnected and a moment later my phone hummed with an incoming photograph. The Sengai was brilliant.
The work was of the quality artists dream of painting, dealers dream of finding, and collectors dream of owning. It was all I could have hoped for and the best effort by the playful monk to come on the market in years.
Which reinforced the lost treasure theory. A Japanese diplomat would present nothing less than a top-notch piece to the Manchurian emperor. Even a bought-and-paid-for emperor.
Unfortunately, it was in the wind and pointing toward much more on the horizon.
But where? And what?
* * *
At ten minutes after eleven the kendo sensei exited the dojo, followed by his second-in-command. Both were in street clothes. The sensei waited patiently while his assistant locked up, then they bowed to each other and headed in opposite directions. Tanaka and Kiyama had gone home twenty minutes earlier.
I paid my bill, left the shop, and strolled across the road, then slipped into a narrow passage between the club and the futon shop next door. With less than twenty inches between the buildings, I was forced to turn sideways to inch by pipes and cantilevered air-conditioning units.
The window was still unlocked. I hoisted myself up, raised the windowpane, and let myself down with barely a sound. Pulling out an LED penlight four times more powerful than most flashlights, I headed toward Yoji’s locker.
I thumbed up Mari’s list on my phone, and with the slim LED tube between my lips turned the dial of the combination lock, starting with the son’s birthday. It didn’t work.
Was Yoji a romantic? I tried his wife’s birthday. Still no go. I fed in their anniversary date. Nothing. A loyal son? I keyed in both his parents’ birth dates and their anniversary, all numbers he should also know. The lock didn’t budge. Then I gave the far-too-obvious a spin—Yoji’s own birthday—and the shackle fell open.
Christ, Yoji, could you be more simple-minded? Or naive? Or were you a little more self-involved than you let on, with your neckties and fancy accessories?
The kendo lockers were tall to accommodate the swords. Yoji’s uniform sat neatly folded on the shelf above the slot for street shoes, with the helmet on top. The undergarments were absent, no doubt taken home to be washed.
Three swords were propped in the corners, two well used, a third recently purchased, its white bindings still sparkling. A broken shinai, battered and yellow with age, rested behind them. Little more than the handle and a portion of the blade remained. I guessed it had sentimental value. Maybe a souvenir from a hard-fought battle. A cluster of temple charms hung from its hilt.
On the walls of the locker were snapshots. Of his wife and son. Of his parents. Of an attractive woman I imagined to be a sister or a cousin. And center stage on the back wall was a print of a proud Yoji holding up a kendo trophy.
I removed all the photographs and slipped them into my shirt pocket, buttoning the flap. I dropped the temple charms into my pants pocket. When I did so, something inside the shaft of the sword fragment rattled. I brought it out and shook it. The rattle grew louder. I slid off the rubber-ringed sword guard encircling the end of the fractured blade and a key fell into my palm. I pocketed it, then poked around between the layers of clothing but found nothing else of interest.
I closed the locker and refastened the lock. The next instant I heard a click and the lights flickered on overhead. I looked down the aisle. A solitary man in a kendo helmet and a nylon mask underneath to hide his face blocked my path back to the window.
His sword was up and pointed at my head.
“Over here, pretty boy,” a voice said behind me.
I glanced the other way and saw two more men in the same guise.
I didn’t recognize the voice.
But I did recognize the damage their bamboo swords could do.
CHAPTER 18
GO where the violence is.
The first time I poke into Yoji’s life, out it comes. Not a good sign.
“Find what you were looking for?” the biggest of the pair said.
“No.”
At a glance I saw that none of the three had Tanaka’s flat nose or Kiyama’s longish face, shapes I could make out despite the headgear. These were guys I didn’t know.
“A guest who behaves dishonorably after we show him hospitality needs to learn respect,” he said.
The other two nodded.
“I apologize,” I said. “I’m on my way out now.”
“Did Nakamura-sensei treat you with disrespect?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did anyone in our club behave improperly?”
“I’m looking for the person who killed Miura.”
“Miura’s connection to this dojo is none of your business.”
“Was he popular?”
“None of your business.”
“Enemies?”
“You repay Nakamura-sensei’s kindness by violating the sanctity of his dojo and prying into our business?”
Our business. “If I’d asked to take a look inside the locker, would Nakamura-sensei have let me?”
“Not without clearing it with Mrs. Miura.”
“And she would have said no,” I answered before I realized what I was saying.
The speaker glanced at the solitary figure at the other end of the aisle, who seemed to be the leader.
“We’re in agreement there,” the headman said. “I’m thinking we should comfort a grieving widow.”
His voice was deep and steady and there was an unmistakable finality in its tone. A heavy silence crept over the proceedings. Any hope I had of escaping with an apology had vanished.
I heard shuffling, followed by a battle cry as the largest of the pair charged. His bamboo shinai rose and started on a downward arc. Trapped in a corridor of lockers and unable to evade the strike, I brought up my arm and took a stinging blow on the thickest part of the bone near the elbow.
Without protection a bamboo sword can cause internal bleeding, break small bones, or knock you unconscious, someone had once told me.
My attacker galloped by with the kendo follow-through he’d been taught. As I’d seen executed a couple hundred times in the bouts earlier tonight. At the end of the aisle, he stopped, pivoted, and positioned himself a half step behind the leader, who approved the foray with a curt nod.
These guys thought this was a game. They’d spent hundreds of hours practicing kata and waza routines, learning to target head, wrists, sides, and throat with deadly precision and demonic speed.
My arm throbbed. I looked at the spot where I’d been struck. It was starting to swell.
I looked at my opponents.
There was no sign they would be letting up anytime soon.
CHAPTER 19
THE leader gave the first swordsman the go-ahead nod and his follower readied himself to come at me again. Then the headman signaled the kendoka to my rear.
A two-man attack.
Still confined by walls of lockers, I prepared as best as I could. I spread my feet. I slid my right foot back for a better balance. I lifted my arms slightly. I shook out my hands and stretched my fingers. The first man yelled and sprang forward. His blade went up. Then behind me came a second high-decibel cry.
The only advantage I had against these guys was street. They were indoor duelists who had decided to take their training out for a spin. I’d had more than my share of scrimmages in the real world. After that though, the rest was downhill—they outnumbered me and their swords gave them four feet of extra reach.
The first man raced in, feet gliding smoothly over the floor, the tip of his weapon hypnotically bobbing left and right. As soon as he
committed to a path, I faked in the opposite direction. It didn’t deter him. He landed a jarring blow. I caught it once more with my forearm. Too late did I realize he’d cleverly targeted the same spot. The pain was magnified. A third crack to the same area and I wouldn’t be able to lift my arm.
Then, as before, he started to glide by.
I rammed him with my shoulder. His body crashed into the lockers. They clattered and swayed. As his mouth opened in surprise, I stomped on his instep with my shoe. Kendo is practiced barefoot in the dojo. Do that in real life and you’ll pay.
He howled and fell, dropping his sword.
From behind, the second man delivered a bone-crunching strike to my right shoulder. A wave of excruciating pain rolled through me and I collapsed to my knees, grabbing my collarbone with one hand and yanking the weapon from the felled swordsman with the other.
I staggered up as the first fighter began to crawl away. When he’d moved beyond my reach, he dragged himself upright. Unable to support his weight on both feet, he hobbled over to the far wall and leaned back against it. He was out of commission. One down, I thought. Unfortunately, he was the weakest of the three.
I turned toward the remaining two kendoka.
The second man gauged my mood through narrowed eyes, then rushed in, not giving me a chance to regroup. In the narrow valley of metal, I pushed the captured sword out and turned it sideways. With this strategy, I figured I could jam the lane and stop any incoming strike.
I was right—and then painfully wrong.
He lunged. I parried his first swing, running forward to meet him. Our blades slid down each other, and locked at the hilts. Good, I thought, until my opponent deftly rolled his wrists around the block and brought the edge of his blade down on the crown of my head with a resounding crack.
Son of a bitch. Swallowing the pain, I shot my knee into his stomach and he doubled over. I grabbed his helmeted head and flung it against the lockers, then plowed the heel of my hand into his solar plexus. He crumbled up, gasping for air.
Number Two wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.
I turned to the third man. “Four hits. I’m hurting. You’ve made your point. Let’s call it a night and leave it at that.”
He didn’t bother answering. He simply raised his sword.
CHAPTER 20
THE leader would be the toughest.
“All right, scumbag, take your shot,” I said in Japanese, projecting confidence and cockiness. I wanted to puncture his quiet self-assurance. A play that I’d successfully run many times before.
My gambit yielded a flicker of a smile. I glimpsed no pride. Nothing egotistical or maniacal. Nothing gloating or superior. Simple acceptance of my ploy for what it was.
Then he surged forward. I whipped up my sword. My final opponent feinted a body attack, pulled up when I countered, then neatly swatted my blade away and delivered a sharp shot to the side of my head, immediately backpedaling out of range. I’d been ready to tackle him as he slipped past, but having witnessed the fate of his friends he neatly avoided the trap.
He’d nailed me just above my right ear. My head was ringing and my eyes spun. I looked over at him. His sword was in the ready position, the tip pointed at a spot between my eyes. His lips spread in a grin under the black mask. Arrogant bastard. But he had reason to be.
My own weapon poised to attack, I stepped forward, probing the space between us. Our blades touched a few inches below the tips. He tapped mine. I’d seen this maneuver in the day’s matches. An initial feeling-out. I tapped back. His smile grew. Then his wrists firmed. I steeled myself. He tapped twice more, then slapped my weapon with such force that my wrists turned sideways, taking my shinai with them, and he rolled inside and connected with a second blistering blow to my right shoulder and again pulled back.
My shoulder burned, but I gritted my teeth and took advantage of his retreat to swoop in, my sword up and threatening. But the muscles in my twice-battered shoulder rebelled and I couldn’t fully lift my weapon. Screw it. I stormed in. I might have to take another pummeling to get inside the arc of his blade, but as soon as I did I could do some damage with my hands.
But he outthought me. Once more he backpedaled rapidly. He turned fluidly around the end of an aisle then down another lane of lockers. His shinai hovered overhead, ready to descend.
I stalked him, only a few paces behind, picking up speed and confidence as I went. His eyes tracked my progress, then suddenly his sword dropped briskly, pointed right at my throat. I stopped on a dime. Six inches from the end of his weapon. Jesus. He didn’t thrust, which he could have, but was more than willing to let me skewer myself on his sword tip if I couldn’t manage to stop in time. Contact would have crushed my throat and I would have choked to death in seconds.
This guy possessed a whole other level of skill.
I needed a new plan. But before I could devise one, he was on the move again. His sword rose and twisted in a quick half circle. I shifted mine to counter. My shoulder resisted, and his shinai hammered my other shoulder. I grunted in pain and backed up a few feet, both shoulders throbbing, my blade drooping. He pounced, slamming my weapon aside with lightning speed then pounding my rib cage with a scorching blow. I winced. I saw white light behind my eyes. I heard myself wheeze. The bamboo shaft was deadweight in my hand. I let it drop. When he drove at me the next time, I pivoted, turned my hips, and sent a sharp side kick at his approaching figure, wondering if my reach was long enough.
I never found out.
He drew up short, his weapon hovering, and when my foot snapped harmlessly at a target that didn’t materialize, he brought the edge of the shinai down hard on my fully extended leg, then swung it around and up and connected with a bone-rattling follow-up to my skull.
My knees buckled. My forehead crashed into the lockers and I hit the ground.
Just before I blacked out, I heard my first conquest say, “Do you think he got the message?”
In the leader’s voice I heard a sneer. “He more than got. He knows next time we won’t be so lenient.”
CHAPTER 21
I SLIPPED in and out of consciousness, a patchwork of impressions floating through my head. Hands hauled me up and dragged me half a block away, then dumped me unceremoniously in a back alley like yesterday’s sushi.
Like Yoji.
Had I stumbled onto his killers? Was I about to lose my life?
I wasn’t going to wait to find out. I roused myself and crawled several feet on my belly before everything went dark again.
* * *
Sometime later my hearing returned. Then my sight. I couldn’t stand, so I edged forward on my stomach.
Maybe I could find a place to hide. Between buildings. Under some shrubbery.
My progress was measured in inches.
I heard sirens. A patrol car rounded a corner up ahead, tires squealing. Headlights washed over me. Brakes hissed. Concerned voices approached.
Overhead, a policeman spoke. He sounded young. “Thought the caller was hallucinating when we got the report of a gaijin B and E, but here he is.”
The cop made it sound like I was a wild bear in from the wilderness.
I relaxed. Even ignorant help was better than no help at all.
“Defiling Nakamura-sensei’s place,” a second cop said. Older this time. Gravitas behind his words. “I studied with Sensei at the academy.”
Squinting into the darkness back the way I’d come, I could just make out three heads watching from the shadows.
“Do me a favor—” I croaked before my voice deserted me.
“Right, dirtbag. Anything for you,” the older cop said. He slammed his boot into my stomach.
His partner looked around hurriedly but said nothing.
“—call Shin’ichi Kato,” I wheezed.
The junior cop looked at his partner. “You hear that?”
“No. And don’t care.” He kicked me again.
The younger one cocked his head at me. “Isn’t th
at the inspector over at—”
“Could be all seven of the lucky gods, for all I care. Tonight, his luck’s run out.”
“He looks pretty badly beaten.”
“Of course he is. The kendo boys are going to lay into thieving scum. What I’d do if I didn’t wear the uniform.”
More blows came in. I curled up into a ball.
“That’s enough, Kondo-san.”
“Stop using my name, idiot,” Kondo said, punctuating every word with another kick.
“He passed out.”
“Not yet, he hasn’t.”
More jolts with the boot followed until I faded into black once more.
Then the yakuza came to visit.
DAY 3
HANDCUFFED
CHAPTER 22
SIR, you can’t be in here.”
“Outta my way,” a gruff voice snarled, and the attending nurse yelped and scooted off.
The familiar voice drew me out of a medically enhanced sleep. I heard a chair being dragged in my direction, then a heavy body dropped into it. The chair groaned under what sounded like considerable weight.
I took a mental swipe at the cobwebs of my drug-induced oblivion. I tried to open my eyes and failed.
“Goddamn meds,” I mumbled.
I heard a glass being dragged from the side table. The next instant water landed on my face.
“That help?” the voice said.
Oddly, it did. The cobwebs dissolved and the weight pinning my eyelids lifted. I found myself looking into a hard stony face with cold brown eyes. Impassive. Brutal. Callous. Anchored by a broad boxlike jaw. Below that, massive arms were crossed over a massive chest.
“Long time,” I said.
In the chair sat Tokyo no Tekken. The yaki enforcer topped out at six-four, two hundred and forty pounds. Big for an American, gargantuan for a Japanese. This was the man who’d thrown the water on me. And he was on my side.
At least for the moment.