A Bob Lee Swagger Boxed Set

by Stephen Hunter

  He knew without thinking it, he had to be the aggressor. He didn’t come to a conclusion, it was just there before him, as certain solutions to certain vexing problems had come to him in his last fight, against the little girl.

  He lunged left, but it was a feint, meant to drive back the one on the left. It worked. This fat boy stepped back for just a second. But seeing that move, the fellow on the right foolishly interpreted it as commitment, his heart filled with greed and visions of victory and reward, and he drove forward with the horizontal cut, the same crosswind Bob had used earlier. Bob knew it would come and pulled a move of his own devising, which was to thrust forward low, one knee plunging, the other back-kicking, flattening and lowering him. He felt the opponent’s sword roar by his hair, fluffing it, and he cut the man through the knee with a strike that felt slow and weak but that must have been strong and powerful, for it got through the one leg completely and the leg fell away to the right. The one-legged man hopped in screaming horror. Some things can’t be stopped, however, and the blow was too good: it continued, though much less forcefully, and bit halfway through the other leg, trapping itself for a second as the man fell.

  He was dead. A brilliant move against one opponent, it was a foolish one against two, for now the fat one, who’d done all the talking, had the advantage and surged forward, flowing smooth and soft like a beautiful river—from somewhere Bob noted that he was well schooled—to deliver the diagonally angled kesagiri issuing from above to split the crouching gaijin.

  I die, thought Bob, knowing that he was so far behind the curve he’d never make it, even if he felt his blade pull free. What happened next he saw clearly. Both his opponent and he had forgotten one thing: it didn’t matter to him because his center of gravity was so low and his supporting feet were so widely spaced, one before him and bent, the other stretched behind him and straight, but the venue in which they fought was slick with blood. Fat boy, on the other hand, had a high center of gravity, an unstable one in the slipperiness of the blood. He lost his footing, his sword wavered, oops, oof! omigosh! ulp! He struggled with his balance, the rhythm and timing of his cut utterly wrecked, and by the time he delivered it at about one-quarter speed, Bob got the blocking blade, even turned to take it on the mune of his sword, found the leverage in rising and pushed the enemy blade away and, finding himself in a nicely set-up shimo-baso, with the blade now back and the hilt forward, simply drove the hilt with a monstrous thud into the fat one’s face just below the eye. He fell like the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk, all dead weight, ker-splash in the blood, throwing splatter everywhere. With one hand he waved the sword and Bob hit it hard with the lower half of his own blade just above the tsuba and it flew away with a clatter. He leaned close, smelled breath, saw sweat and teeth and venting nostrils and fearful eyes, and hit the guy exactly where he’d hit him before with the hilt. It was a solid drive that echoed through his bones. The fat boy groaned and lay flat.

  Bob stood, breathing hard. He flicked the blood off his blade, heard it splatter against a wall. He realized he still gripped the saya. All his blows had been one-handed, against all doctrine.

  He turned and walked just a few feet to the amazingly contained old man.

  “Cut down,” said the old man. “Not just cut. Cutting no good. Blood, no death soon enough. Cut down!”

  Christ, Swagger thought, everybody’s a critic.

  “Better footwork. Feet all tangled,” said the hipster. “You fight two, no good. Go to dojo. Get sensei. Must learn. You lucky. You use up all luck this life and next life. No more luck for you. You must practice with sensei. Much work to do.”

  “You got that right,” said Bob. “I definitely was lucky. Now, old fellow, give me what I came for and I will get out of your way.”

  “Fat one not dead.”

  “I get that. I’ve got some words for him.”

  “Okay. Very nice sword here. Honor to work on. Highlight of life. I appreciate much. Here, let me finish sword.”

  He applied himself to it for another minute, held it to the light, pronounced it done, and put it into a red silk bag. It seemed to take him hours to tie the fucking thing, and Swagger saw that he had to do it just right.

  Finally, he handed it over.

  “No touch blade with stinky Merikan fingers.”

  “I understand that. You’ll be all right?”

  “Fine. I go stay with family in Sapporo.”

  “Can we drop you anywhere?”

  “No, I catch bus. It’s fine.”

  Bob turned. He walked to the supine form of the one survivor amid the carnage as the polisher Mr. Omote put on some slippers, got a coat on, and made ready to leave.

  Bob poked the live one, felt him stir, then groan. The eyes finally came open, blinked as he reacquainted himself with unpleasant memories of the last few minutes.

  He touched the wound under his eye, from which blood flowed. It had already started to puff and would soon grow to the size of a grapefruit.

  “Hey, you,” said Bob, “listen here or I will do some more cutting on you.”

  “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Why not, it’s fun.”

  “Oh, my face,” said the guy, who, Bob now saw, was about twenty-five or so. His mug issued blood, tears, and snot from a variety of damaged sites.

  “Pay attention. You have to deliver a message, all right?”

  “Sure, Joe.”

  “My name ain’t Joe, asshole. See this?” He brandished the red silk sword bag. “It’s the sword. It’s my sword, I have it back. Kondo Isami wants it bad. Fine, I’ll barter it to him. He has something I want. When I get it, I’ll give him the sword.”

  “I hear you.”

  “In three days, I’ll take a classified in the Japan Times personals column. It’ll be addressed to a ‘Yuki.’ It’ll be in alphabet code from The Nobility of Failure in English, not the Japanese translation. Got that?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A book, you moron. Way too hard for you. He’ll know what it is. Can you remember that?”

  “Sure, J—sir.”

  “Sir I like. The ad’ll give a location, a park probably. He’s to meet me at that park alone the following evening. He gives me what I want. I’ll give him what he wants.”

  “Sure,” said the fat yak. Then his eyes clouded over with puzzlement. “You want money? A pile of it?”

  “I don’t give a shit about money, clown-san.”

  “What you want, then?”

  “His head,” Bob said. “Tell him to bring it.”

  32

  KONDO

  Kondo was fascinated.

  “He said that? He actually said that?”

  “Yes. He did.”

  “Nii, tell me again. Tell me exactly.”

  “I asked him what he wanted from you. He said ‘His head. Tell him to bring it.’”

  “Cheeky fellow.”

  “He was, Oyabun.”

  They were in Nii’s apartment. A private nurse in 8-9-3 employ had stitched and bandaged Nii up, as his own fellows cleaned the sword polisher’s shop after dark, making sure the bodies and all the carnage on the floor—and the chopped leg—were neatly disposed of. Nii, stitched, swollen, returned to his own place, and a few other men of Shinsengumi lingered about, dark-eyed, dark-suited, wary. Kondo, however, was lit up by the situation. Something in it pleased him immensely. He could not keep a half smile off his face.

  “Describe him again, please.”

  “American. Tallish, not gigantic. When himself, composed. Not one for excitement. His eyes were very still. He knew where to look, how to move. He’d killed before. Blood, the ugliness of the cuts, none of that had any effect on him.”

  “Tell me again how he fought. Details this time, Nii. Tell me everything.”

  “He was shrewd. We were stupid.”

  “You were stupid, Nii.”

  “I was stupid. He smelled of drink. He was wild and loud and out of control. His hair was a mess.
He was any gaijin you see in Kabukicho, full of wild plans, knowing nothing. I was thinking how to get him out of there without incident, without the police becoming involved. I knew it would be difficult. I missed something.”

  “What?”

  “He picked the lock. I heard it lock yet in seconds he had penetrated it. He was an experienced man. I sat there, trying to remember whether or not we had locked it. Now I know we had.”

  “So he deceived you.”

  “With the drunk act, completely. It was brilliant. If he had announced himself at the door, he would have greeted six men, blades out, hearts strong. Instead he got close with his absurd drunken act. Then, in a flash, he was sober and deadly. He cut down the first two in one stroke, expertly delivered. His best cut of the fight, I think, though the cut he made on Kamiizumi was also excellent. Anyway, they were gone and lost in the first second, Johnny Hanzo in the next. Johnny Hanzo lost his head and charged and the gaijin quietly let him come, then pierced him in the second before Johnny could unleash a cut, and Johnny was gone. In less than three seconds three men were out of the fight.”

  Through the narration, Kondo sat quietly, in rapt concentration, as if he were working on serious visualization skills. He was seeing all this in the dark space before him.

  “So then there were three?”

  “Yes. And all three could not get around the old man on his platform. So Kashima and I went one way, and Kamiizumi the other.”

  “Kamiizumi was the best of you six. The oldest, the most experienced. He’d been in fights before.”

  “He was magnificent. I thought for certain he would achieve victory or cut the man so bad the victory would fall to us. But the gaijin anticipated his cut, took it, and used it to propel himself into flowing block, threw it off, then came through with something I’d never seen before, a kind of one-handed drive, amazingly fast. He had to anticipate which way Kamiizumi, blocked, would break. Perhaps it was just luck, but he hit Kamiizumi in the throat. Unbelievable. Such blood. It was—”

  “Did he watch him fall?”

  “No, Oyabun. Instead he turned immediately to face us as we came around the old man. He went under Kashima and cut him through the leg. He sundered it. That’s when I had him. His blade was momentarily trapped in Kashima’s second leg, because he didn’t anticipate getting through so easily and had lost a firm grip on the sword as it bit into the second leg. It was a blown cut, trapped, tying him up. But then Kashima toppled and his blade came free.”

  “You had him.”

  “I did. Him below, sword down, myself above, driving full strength toward my target, his neck. If you try for speed, you do not achieve speed.”

  “It must be no-try. Always, no-try.”

  “It was try. Too much try, Oyabun. I slipped, lost my footing, and when I was back in timing, he was ready; he took it, slipped it, and drove his hilt into my face.”

  “It wasn’t pretty.”

  “It wasn’t. The last was sheer improvisation on his part. Very sloppy. I think he was running out of energy.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Advanced. Not ancient. Oldish. Late forties, maybe early fifties, maybe older. Very brown from a lot of sun, as if permanently tanned. Thinning hair. His face never got passionate, except the last time he hit me. I think he enjoyed that.”

  “What a man. This is so wonderful. I can’t begin to tell you. I have never fought six. What were his strengths?”

  “Spirit. He was very hard of resolve. He was not scared, excited, scattered, angry, or anything. He was empty of everything except his professionalism.”

  “I like that.”

  “He was fast. He was very fast. His hands particularly. I will say, however, that he fought much better against one than against two. He easily defeated every single man he fought, he vanquished the first two with nukitsuke. He only faltered when the two of us moved in, where he made a mistake and I almost had him.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Oyabun, may I be permitted to commit seppuku now?”

  “No, no, no. There’s too much to do. I have nobody to spare as your second. We don’t have time now.”

  “I am so ashamed. I cannot face my parents’ ghosts, my friends, our other Shinsengumi. I can hardly face you.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. It would accomplish nothing. Plus, I’ve seen it and it hurts. It’s very messy. You may have to die, Nii, but at least let it mean something. Now look at Kamiizumi and the others. Their deaths were helpful. They exposed the strengths and the weaknesses of the man. They died well. You conveyed the information that they unearthed to me. It’s valuable information. If you had cut yourself after the fight and killed yourself, that information never would have reached me. What good would have been accomplished?”

  “I survive only to serve. When no longer needed, I will express my shame and try to get my honor back with the tanto.”

  “Yes, yes, if that’s what you want. You could also go off and get laid, and maybe that would be enough for you. Anyhow, Nii, listen to me. I am going to get a police artist. I want you to describe this gaijin to him very carefully. We will spread a net to catch this fresh fellow and get our sword back. We have to get him before the night of the exchange because if he controls the exchange, we’re at a great disadvantage. We don’t know who he represents, what his goal is. I can’t believe it’s simple kataki-uchi. Westerners don’t understand the concept of vendetta. Maybe Sicilians, but no others, not really. He’s playing an angle, and he could have snipers on the roofs, a team of fellow professionals. It’s too big a risk to run. I’d hate to go into that blindly.”

  Nii nodded solemnly. He tried to remember details, to assemble them in his mind so that he could assist, but he was aware that something wasn’t adding up. Then he saw what it was.

  “Oyabun?”

  “Yes, Nii,” said Kondo, who was already striding out to make his arrangements, even as he debated whether to tell the Shogun of this disturbing yet provocative development.

  “I’m sorry. I regret. I did not recognize.”

  “What?”

  “I realize now: I know who this gaijin is.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, Oyabun. I regret that I did not recognize him at the shop, but it was so out of context that I—”

  “Stick to the message, Nii.”

  “Yes, Oyabun. I once sat two seats behind him on the JR Narita express. I followed him from the Yanos’ to Narita the night we—”

  “That gaijin?”

  “Yes, Oyabun.”

  “That would be the gaijin who brought the sword in.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was with the Yanos.”

  “He stayed at their house for several days.”

  “He was close to them?”

  “Yes, now I recall. I watched from just across the street that last night. He hugged them all. I followed him to Narita and watched him check into the flight. I watched him pass security. That’s when I left to join you and we went to the Yanos’. With Kamiizumi, Johnny Hanzo, Kashima, and the others.”

  “He knew the Yanos,” Kondo said again, deliciously. “Then it is kataki-uchi! Oh, splendid.”

  “I suppose we could contact the inspector. He would know the name.”

  “We don’t need the name. Now I know how to catch the gaijin. I’ll reel him in and cut him down.”

  “And when it’s over, I can have my seppuku?”

  “Nii, you shouldn’t be so selfish. Think of your oyabun, not yourself. Find dignity and worth in service. Then, if you’ve been good, I’ll let you kill yourself. But as a treat, Nii, first I’m going to get you a nice little girl.”

  33

  ORDERS

  With your typical order of yakitori, you got four edible, even delicious skewers of meat and one so repugnant it was almost kind of funny. The smell of chicken cooked on an open fire filled the place. No Popeye’s ever smelled so good. At other tables men and women were lustily gobbling their food. Bob had
eaten the hearts, he’d eaten the meat, he’d eaten the gizzards, he’d eaten the other strange things, but he was left with the knees.

  Well, maybe they weren’t knees. Maybe they were elbows. Whatever, they were twisted little chunks of glistening sinew. Even the flames of Mama-san’s blazing fire behind the bar hadn’t blackened them. In truth, in the curves and folds of each there seemed to be some gobbet of protein, and maybe a truly hungry man would scrape it out and go to town, but he just didn’t have the heart. Instead, he looked across the smoky space, across the rude tables and floor, half-expecting Toshiro to come blasting in and start cutting people at any damn time, until he caught Mama-san’s eye, pointed to his empty plate, and somehow communicated the idea, Bring me another order, touched his empty Coke can to request more of that too. She nodded. He could have been in the fourteenth century, except for the Coke. He went back to the puzzle before him.

  He almost had it. He’d been scouting Tokyo by bike for a nice private place for his meet with Kondo and finally found just what the doctor ordered: he’d have the man travel to Asakusa and walk the street outside the shrine, where all the stalls were. For some reason, that zone closed early and went largely unpatrolled. He’d meet him there, in the street, and he wouldn’t jump until he was satisfied the man was alone, not trailing a crew of goons. He didn’t want to fight six again, or more likely thirty, for Kondo would travel with his specially chosen group.

  Now he worked on his code, primitive as it was, finding the right words in The Nobility of Failure, marking page number, paragraph, sentence, and word so that the message was shaping up to read “Dear Yuki, 233-2-4-3,” denoting page 233, second paragraph, fourth sentence, third word. It went on and on, gibberish if you didn’t know the key. Decoded, it would read “Asakusa, Temple Street, midnight tonight, alone.”

  He felt her before he saw her. She strode in manfully, as per her style, and sat down. He didn’t look up for the longest time.

  “I’m almost done with this. I think I’ve got it set up just right.”