Losing Masks

by Nicholas Metelsky

  “I wasn't allowed to cook. Can you believe it?” She said as if she was about to cry.

  Had I not known her well enough, I'd have believed her act.

  “'The masters shan't,' that's what these wicked women told me. What if I want to?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Ask them really nicely.”

  “I can't,” she sighed sadly.

  “Then accept it. There should be only one master in the kitchen, and if they say 'no’, then it means 'no.'“

  We were going to leave after breakfast, so when he was done devouring his food, Rymov went to get the car from the garage. We finished our food slowly and thanked the women, after which we walked to the mansion gates, where the car was waiting for us.

  “Where to?” The Russian Vasya asked when we finally got into the Porsche.

  “To the house of the legless.”

  “Boss! When are you going to stop?”

  “Not until the end of your days, whitey. Some suspicious characters were noticed by your father's house. Get it? Next time, you have to think before you do anything, and I'll remind you on occasion to make sure you follow the rule.”

  Taro didn't even answer, trying to digest the new information.

  “Should we tell the guys?” Rymov asked. “We could leave a couple of people with him.”

  “I have. In addition to the guards his father has. That'll be enough for now,” I said pondering and scratching my chin. “I'll figure it out later. So take us to Taro first, then we'll drop off Akemi, and then go to the club. I still have to hire the instructors today.”

  After turning in Taro to Sugishima, I took Akemi to her hotel, where I dropped her off with Mouse. With a clear conscience and a sigh of relief, I called the former lieutenant Takaki and set the time. The meeting was scheduled at the club. When we arrived in the Swallow, Funtik, Kazuki, and Goro, were there, not counting the guards. Even Madame Natasha was out and about with Shotgun. I found that out later because when we walked in, the first person we saw was Vasya-chan. Sitting at the bar, he non-nonchalantly sipped some green substance from a tall transparent glass. After seeing us, he got up, walked up to Rymov, and without saying a word, patted him on the shoulder. Russian Vasya's response was mutual. After that, he just headed to the bar, and I saw Goro approaching. Frankly, I was impressed. It looked like they were communicating via telekinesis—when one was done with his duty, the other one took the post.

  “Hi, boss,” I was greeted cheerfully. “How was your social event?”

  “As usual. It could have been better. Or worse too, I suppose. How are you doing here? I see you started drinking early today.”

  “It seems like it,” he said, looking back at the glass on the bar counter, from which Rymov decided to take a sip right that moment. “He shouldn't have done that.”

  Judging by the way Rymov spit it out, Goro was right.

  “I was intrigued by the strange color. I thought it was something exotic.”

  “What did it turn out to be?” I asked.

  “Pure alcohol,” after some deliberating, he added, “with dill.”

  “It looks like you can stomach that better than he can,” I winced.

  “Nah, my first attempt ended the same way. I had nothing better to do, so I took up the challenge. But I failed too.”

  “Freaking drunk, can you even drive now?”

  “No trust, boss. It's my shift. I only had three sips in the last two hours. I'm as sober as a judge. I had nothing but juice.”

  I gave him a suspicious look and went to get dressed. Twenty-five minutes later, the guards reported on the intercom that Takaki Sae had arrived. I had just gotten out of the shower at that moment, so I asked them to tell him to wait ten minutes.

  Takaki was sitting at one of the tables of the central hall with a facial expression that read “Is that even possible?” He was looking at the glass with that same green murky stuff.

  “Good morning, Takaki. I see that Vasya-chan played a joke on you, too.”

  “Good morning, Sakurai-san,” he greeted me, glanced at the glass and continued. “I made arrangements with the old men. They'll be waiting for you in the coffee shop that's not too far from here.”

  He looked at his watch and added.

  “Actually, they're already waiting. I got a bit held up on my way here.”

  “Okay, let's go then. We can't make the elderly wait.”

  Perhaps it was my experience, but the first thing that came to my mind when I saw the old men sitting at one of the tables in the coffee shop was that their masks weren't very good. Scrawny old men, hunching their backs, chatting about their old man things, but at the same time, military tact and combat experience were giving them away. The old guard is what they are called. They might have served longer than I'd lived in both worlds together.

  “Good day,” I greeted them, bowing. “Sakurai Shinji. Do you mind if I take a seat?”

  “These youngsters. All they want to do is sit,” the old man on the right of me grumbled. “As if their legs are going to fall off if they stand next to seniors.”

  “Khm, khm,” Takaki coughed expressively.

  “What's up, Taki-chan? Got a cold?” The one on the left chuckled. “Look, Torenchi, someone must think that we have to spring to attention like some yearlings just because they offer us a job.”

  That's a funny nickname that this old man has—"foxhole.” I wonder what he did to earn that? I wonder if he liked sitting in trenches?

  “I think you're right, Kikku.”

  Yep, and his friend, nicknamed “kick,” chased him out of there.

  “It looks like the young people have forgotten that we live pretty well with our pensions. Thank gods, they respect veterans in this country.”

  I rubbed my nose.

  “Did you see that, Takaki? Oh, the times! Oh, the morals! It used to be appropriate to introduce yourself before starting a conversation.”

  “You're not exactly right, Sakurai-san. Old men have always been the same,” the former lieutenant noted philosophically.

  “Just as arrogant and rude?” I said, staring at the ceiling. “You're right. Oh well.”

  “The boy has character,” Torenchi noted.

  “He should have been in our training way back when,” Kikku said. “They'd have quickly straightened him out.”

  “I already finished my training, dear veterans. I highly doubt that you could teach me anything else.”

  After my words, the old men just looked me over, chuckling. Torenchi-Foxhole, slightly changed his position, and Kikku-Kick leaned back in his chair. Seemingly relaxed and not threatening, this position is very good for jumping up and knocking the chair from under you. The chair was most likely not for me but my companion. I doubt that they took me seriously. That wasn't what spiked my curiosity though. I wondered why they acted that way.

  Did they want to come off like big shots? Or had they decided to turn down my offer? Judging by the fact that they came to the meeting, after all, they were trying to talk up their value. In any case, I had no intention of being a whipping boy. Therefore, in response to their actions, I shifted my weight while smiling at the same time.

  “The boy has something about him, Kikku,” said the man on the right.

  “I guess we'll have to listen to what he has to say, Torenchi.”

  “He can tell us after he takes the seat, of course,” Torenchi added, gesturing to the empty chair.

  I finally made a deal with the old men. I was even offered to meet a military engineer, who could help plan out and design the base. It’s not for nothing they say that he who has a tongue in his head may find his way anywhere. But I didn’t really have time to deal with an engineer on top of everything else. Taro was up to his neck, too, but missing out on a good connection wasn’t in my plans.

  Takaki could be the third party to deal with the old men when it came to negotiations and finances. My trusted people in Shidotamoru had enough things to do wit
hout that. That's why all big shots have a jack of all trades and a personal assistant as well. This was a good example of when I needed both such people. The only trusted person for this role I could think of was Funtik. However, besides having a different specialization, he was on probation.

  Perhaps, I could ask the Koyamas if they have someone in mind. I mean someone for the role of the engineer, and even for building a security service base on my property. Why not? That’s a good idea. The main thing is to organize it in a way to keep this person from knowing too much. That's a plan for the future plan. First, I have to find this hypothetical assistant.

  I got into the car and stretched: it was nice that the size of the car and my body size allowed that.

  Where should I go next?

  The shooting range had to be canceled again as if it was doomed. Randomly showing up there wasn’t worth it. You never knew who was going to be there. Actually, how else would I know who and when was going to be there? I could also go to the armory, but it wasn’t a big deal if I didn’t. I still had a week. The club should have enough in stock for the time being. We could provide armor for twenty people or so.

  Hm. Perhaps, I should go there. Funny, the day has just started, and I already have nothing to do.

  I couldn't hire a secretary due to the shortage of staff. Before I became more well-known, I'd have to struggle with this. Even afterwards, maybe. I should probably stop at home and see if any of the older Koyama came back, so I could talk to them about an assistant. It wouldn't hurt to bring up the house with the garage.

  “Go home, Vas. We gotta make an appearance before the guards. Otherwise, Kagami-san will be worried.”

  Chapter 4

  “Good afternoon, Herr Schmidt,” I said to the old man behind the counter. “It's good to see you again.”

  Gernot Schmidt was the owner of a small, as it looked on the outside, gun shop in northeast Tokyo. Apart from the fact that it was owned by a German, the store differed from the others by having a small shooting range in the basement and a terrific choice of weapons available for purchase. They truly had a great selection there. The Schmidt bloodline had been engaged in the arms trade for more than a century, and, without an aristocratic status, their family was well known and respected in certain circles. Unlike his other relatives, Gernot Schmidt was engaged in retail sales, specializing in various rarities and novelties. He got into business in Japan during the Second World War, when he was sent here by his father to expand sales markets. Unlike his relatives in other countries, he never returned home. This, of course, does not mean that he has not been home since then, but his main place of residence was here.

  “Ah-ah, young Sakurai. Long time no see, young man. It's been... four months now? Yes, I have not heard my native language in four months,” the old man greeted me with a smile. For inexplicable reasons he always treated me warmly, almost like a grandson.

  “You'll excuse me, Herr Schmidt, I was buried with work. Here,” I handed him a small package. “This is my apology. The real ‘Dento no Aji’, straight from the plantations of the Aketi clan. You know that I'm not really a tea or coffee guy, so I got it especially for you.”

  The old man was a real tea connoisseur, so this 100-gram bag, which was very difficult to get—especially for someone who is not an aristo—was truly appreciated.

  “Terrific,” he said, carefully taking the bag from me. “I'm amazed at your connections, young man.”

  “It was pure luck. My neighbors, as it turned out, are some cunning people.”

  “So they just gave you such a rarity?” He asked, deliberating where he should store the tea, probably thinking that keeping such a treasure in the guest room was not safe. “Momoji!”

  “Koyama,” I shrugged. “They have this tea in such quantities... I don't even know ... I've seen a 70 oz can at their place.”

  “Koyama?” He paused for a moment. “Ahem. Yep. It's quite possible.”

  Finally, the guy who had been summoned to watch the counter came out, and we went inside. Schmidt was still holding on to the bag of tea.

  While he went into the kitchen, I was sitting in the room that could be called his office, because a couple of sofas, tables and dismantled weapons that were scattered around the room could slightly resemble the office of an arms dealer. Grabbing a catalog of weapons from his desk and sitting on one of the sofas, I occupied myself while waiting for the old man. It wasn't a regular catalog. It was a limited edition print made specifically for arms dealers. It was printed under the patronage of the Schmidt family and, basically, for the Schmidt family only. I had a few copies at the club that I had wheedled out of the old German. In addition to the list of weapons and price charts relative to different countries, there was a lot of interesting information that wasn’t very obvious. For example, I was curious to learn at what temperature which weapon misfires, see various degrees of contamination, and read a ballistic comparison and recoil statistics. Ergonomics, various tests, even a mini story of product creation and history. In short, the magazine was great! For knowledgeable people, of course.

  Returning with a tray and looking sideways at me, the German put the tray on the table that stood in the middle of the room, pushing away parts of the half disassembled Bulgarian Shipka—the famous submachine gun.

  “It's a new edition, isn't it?” I asked, lifting the catalog a little.

  “It's the latest. I got it just the other day,” he shook his head from side to side. “I ordered a couple of them, possibly feeling that you'd stop by.”

  “Cool,” I said, flipping through the pages.

  Then, looking up at him I said quite unexpectedly, “I'm sure your family could easily get a coat of arms. Why don't you have one yet?”

  “You're asking interesting questions, young man,” he said, taking a saucer with a cup and sitting down on the second sofa. “The thing is that aristocrats have an excellent memory. And the Schmidt family had a coat of arms once already.”

  I smelled trouble.

  “We don't have to talk about it if it bothers you,” I said, hoping to hear more.

  “Well, two hundred years have passed,” he replied, taking a sip of tea. “Once, there was a coat of arms, and then there was none. One of my ancestors sold weapons to the wrong person, and it became known. For that reason, my family was banned from the clan and our coat of arms was revoked. The head of the clan had the full right to do so, both technically and morally.”

  Oh, I don't like this. I'm twice banned myself, after all. Well once, but it doesn't make a difference. Damn it, so much for satisfying my curiosity. Putting aside the catalog, I reached for my cup.

  “So, once a bloodline is banished and deprived of a coat of arms, it becomes problematic to get a new one?”

  “If we had immediately disassociated ourselves from the head of the bloodline, who was the guilty one, then we wouldn't have had to leave the clan. We would have been watched for a couple of decades, to see how we survived the lack of the coat. After that, they would have waited another five years... But the former head turned out to be a man of steel, keeping the reins of government, and after his death, everything became meaningless. I don't know what he was counting on, but what happened was meant to happen.”

  Thank you, Lord, for my paranoia and for not throwing away my parents' note. God damn it, it turns out that my coat of arms is postponed indefinitely. And yes, it turns out my parents are not such bastards. After the exile from the clan and depravation of the coat of arms, they immediately abandoned me, so that in the future, their child would have a chance. But, damn it, did they have to shove this freaking note into the sleeve of my jacket? On a weekend! Buttheads. People were probably wondering what was up with these Sakurai—leaving the child behind without giving up their rights. What do I do now? I'll probably have to take a different name when I reach the legal age. Alright, I'll make it somehow. Now I gotta say something because the pause has been too long.

  “So, it turns out, he screwed your bloo
dline for many centuries ahead?”

  “So he did,” he nodded his head affirmatively. “Here, you have seppuku and stuff, but in Europe,” he said with a bitter grin, emphasizing the last word, “everyone craves personal power. If it were not for the traditions that have developed over millennia, it's terrible to think about what kind of massacre there would have been. That's why I do not like staying at home for a long time. Although we do not belong to the aristocracy, we can still feel it. It's so much calmer here. Maybe a country with a minimum presence of Virtuosos can manage to remain one of the great powers. Well, okay, let's not talk about sad things, tell me about what has happened in your life over the last four months.”

  “Oh,” I took another sip. “Mmm.”

  “How informative,” the old man answered me.

  “Little has changed. I still manage the company. Although… I visited two receptions in one evening and now I own Yamashita Corp, and am preparing for a war.”

  “Wars are bad, young man,” he pondered for a couple of seconds and added, “When you have to participate in them. It’s bad for you and your loved ones.”

  “Yeah, but what can you do? Everyone wants to offend little Sakurai.”

  “Are you still beating yourself up because of your height?” Schmidt was clearly amazed.

  “Old man, I never worried about that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. Sorry.”

  “Oldie, why is everyone so sure that I care about my height?” I sighed. “Never mind. Nothing new with you I take it?”

  “Even less than with you,” the German grunted. “Trading here and there. I sent my grandson to school in his homeland. For a year. I want him to feel the difference. Here's the new catalog with all the novelties. Trust me, you wanna see this. Another attempt of my compatriots to come up with a plasma weapon.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “We can go check it out as soon as we finish this great drink.”

  We finished our tea in fifteen minutes, during which I briefly told him what had happened to me over the last month. The old man was aware that I was doing some business with the underworld, but he didn't know any details. He's actually given me a few tips on the topic. One was in Tokyo, the other—in Oyama, a city north of the capital. Although, as far as I knew, he tried to stay away from criminal activities unless something tempting came up. Much like most arms dealers.