by Laird Barron
Table of Contents
Part One The Night Birds
Part Two The Maze of Knives
Bonus Material
MAN WITH NO NAME
By
Laird Barron
JournalStone
San Francisco
Copyright © 2014 Man with No Name originally appeared in A Mountain Walked, Centipede Press.
Copyright © 2013 "Blood & Stardust" originally appeared in The Mad Scientist's Guide to World Domination, Tor Books
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
JournalStone
www.journalstone.com
The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
ISBN: 978-1-942712-86-2 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-942712-87-9 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016930759
Printed in the United States of America
JournalStone rev. date: March 18, 2016
Cover Art and Design: Rob Grom
Photo Credits - tattoo: Shutterstock – Man: Istock
Author Photograph courtesy of Henry Stampfel
Man with No Name
FOR JESSICA
Part One
The Night Birds
Nanashi dreamed he lay upon a reed mat in a strange place, dreaming of flying through darkness. Wind pushed in against the walls; it masked the cries of night birds. People had come with him, although he couldn’t remember who. Childhood friends, business associates, it was unclear. He woke within the dream to splashing, the gurgle of water through pipes, and sat upright, convulsed with fear. The others were gone. He walked from the room and along a narrow corridor lit by a yellow glow. A breeze ruffled paper streamers and caught his vaporous breath. He was naked and he carried a revolver in his left hand.
At the end of the hallway was an arch, and through the arch the air dimmed from yellow to an undersea green. The splashing grew loud. He crossed over into a chamber hewn from rock. The chamber oozed steam -- the steam wormed its way into his nose and tasted of copper and smog. Condensation dripped from the rugged ceiling into a large, deep pool. Paper lanterns bobbed on the water. This was an old and sacred place.
An attractive foreign woman, pale and blonde, stood in the way. Her kimono glowed silver and blue and white as the light shifted. Her blue and black flecked eyes were not downcast; they focused sharply upon Nanashi’s face. Her lips were painted red or black. She shook her head once in warning and stepped aside, was absorbed by the shadows of the cave.
A thick, powerful man squatted at the edge of the pool, his hairy back to Nanashi. His shoulders bunched and flexed, deformed in their pronounced development, and Nanashi thought for a moment of a washerwoman he’d seen at a riverbank, patiently wringing her laundry. Clothes had been flung everywhere, cast off with apparent abandon. He recognized the fancy jackets and designer shoes. They belonged to his brothers in arms, the members of his clan.
The man began to whistle. His position concealed his work, but there was no mistaking the fact he gripped someone’s jittering ankle, inverting it above the water while pressing down with his opposite hand. The splashing and thrashing weakened. Nanashi swung his head to the left, and saw then a sodden white mound of disjointed limbs, still quivering. He raised the pistol with impossible slowness, as though gravity had tripled.
The man looked over his shoulder. His face was the Devil’s. “You’re awake.”
Nanashi pulled the trigger again and again. Impotent sparks shot from the barrel. The revolver didn’t kick; it made no sound. Of course it had no effect.
* * *
Nanashi never made it home from closing down the disco with clan brothers Amida and Haru. He wasn’t drinking anything stronger than coffee; his chore for the evening being that of watchdog and shepherd to his comrades. A waiter hurried to their table and informed them of a call, carefully ignoring the unconscious party girls, the wasteland of overturned bottles and shot glasses. Nanashi made his way to the house phone. Older Brother Koma was on the other end. He said they were to meet at The Palace of the Sunfish in an hour. He hung up.
"Screw him," said Amida upon hearing of the summons. He spoke without opening his eyes.
"I need another drink. Nanashi, ask the guy to bring me a beer, okay?" Haru slumped on a couch, a snoring girl in a wrinkled dress flopped across his chest. Haru did not sound as if he needed another beer.
Nanashi wanted to call Yuki, but was afraid to wake her. She worked the nightshift as a cocktail waitress at another club. He imagined her fumbling around the apartment, sluggish with exhaustion, leaving a trail of shoes, hose, her skirt and panties hanging from a chair; he saw her through the frosted glass of the shower, lathering herself, then in bed, damp hair over her cheek as daylight crept through the blinds. She slept naked.
He sighed and herded his associates out of the club, ignoring their clamoring and protestations. Long ago, Nanashi learned to "do as Family say." It was that simple. He’d only argued against the wisdom of his elders once. They made Nanashi chop off his little finger at the second knuckle as a reminder. One down, one to go, joked Uncle Kojima. He had kept Nanashi's pinky in a jar of formaldehyde with those of other transgressors. A floating white garden.
And as for Nanashi, the boys hustled him across town to Doctor Yee's office and had him fitted for a nice, snug prosthetic. He tapped his fake pinky against the rim of his glass of tea, dropped it in the pocket of his nightshirt when he slept. Chewed it when he was bored.
Sworn Father Kojima was dead and Nanashi couldn’t bring himself to wax sentimental. Too bad new boss, Uncle Yutaka, was an even bigger prick than the old boss.
* * *
While their fellow gangsters waited around the lobby of The Palace of the Sunfish, Koma took Nanashi and Amida to meet with Uncle Yutaka in the Gold Room. It was evidently a momentous occasion for Koma. He'd been surlier than normal. Sweat poured from him and a blister swelled on his lip; a sure sign of nerves. Everyone must be on their best behavior when Father arrived! Uncle Yutaka was number three in the Heron syndicate. Only the Chairman, their esteemed Father Akima, and his major domo were more powerful and they left everything up to Yutaka these days. Nanashi once heard Koma was afraid Uncle Yutaka didn't like him. From what Nanashi knew of Uncle Yutaka, he figured Koma's fear was reasonable.
Uncle Yutaka was old and fat. He wore amber-tinted shooting glasses and an ice water-blue suit from the 1960s. Heavily influenced by the James Bond movies of that era, he'd bankrolled a series of straight to video Tokyo and Hong Kong spy flicks, had established himself as a poor man's Albert Broccoli. His teeth were made of porcelain and his shaky hands were spackled with liver spots. He'd been to the hospital for three heart operations in the past five years. Haru claimed their uncle's heart was monitored by a pacemaker, but nobody knew for certain.
Uncle Yutaka enjoyed foreign cigarettes. He especially preferred Camels and Pall Malls, Benson & Hedges, and vintage brands like Lucky Strike. Everybody brought him cigarettes when they returned from travels abroad; it had become a mino
r contest between the brothers of the Heron to see whose exotic smokes Uncle would favor during his weekly audiences at the Palace of the Sunfish. Uncle smoked palm out and vented the exhaust from the sides of his mouth. Yutaka's tinted glasses pointed dead ahead and fooled most of the gang, but Nanashi caught Uncle watching him from the corners of his eyes. Uncle's eyes were yellow and pink and small like the eyes of a Komodo.
Nanashi hadn't been following the conversation, he never did; instead, he'd rolled up his sleeve and stuck his arm into the fish tank, patiently attempting to snag one of the snappers creeping in its depths. The weight of Uncle Yutaka's cold, reptilian appraisal made him nervous and fidgety. He churned the water and the fish scattered.
"No, no, Uncle. He's just a bit…distractible, is all." Koma stood at Uncle Yutaka's shoulder. His head was large and it sat directly on the wide collar of his canary-yellow suit. Uncle Yutaka was seated at his customary table with his cronies Ichiban and Akio, both of whom were old and withered, too shrunken for their antique suits and fedoras. They were sipping scotch and smoking lots of cigarettes. The air around them was blue and foul and made them seem to float. "He's an orphan. Uncle Kojima got him from -- Brother Amida, where did we find Nanashi?
"Kyoto," Amida said. "Drunk behind a garbage can." He casually guarded the entrance to the Gold Room. He was tall and lean and dressed in a sharp red blazer with cool black shades hanging from the breast pocket.
Koma said, "He used to drink a lot. A lot, a lot. He's much better now."
“Nanashi? What the shit kind of name is that?”
“It’s just what everyone calls him,” Koma said.
Nanashi’s photo identification and birth certificate called him something else. However, those papers had been forged by yakuza agents in the government. Nanashi himself had purposefully buried his true name. His memories of childhood and youth prior to the blurred darkness of a years-long drunk were fragmentary and best forgotten.
Uncle Yutaka grunted. Smoke curled from his nostrils. "Kojima recruited him? Why on earth?" he said, as if it had never occurred to him before that moment.
"Who knows?" Koma said. "Uncle Kojima was inscrutable."
"Huh," Uncle Yutaka said. “Koma, I need to speak with you.” That was the hint to clear out, so everyone except for Koma immediately filed from the room.
They stood around smoking and comparing cell phones until Koma rejoined them a few minutes later. He said, "We've been ordered to pick up Muzaki. We'll do it tomorrow at the Fighting Dog."
“THE Muzaki? The wrestler?” Haru’s eyes bulged.
“Don’t get so excited. He’s a has-been.”
“Muzaki belongs to the Dragon. Why are we screwing with him?”
“Because Uncle says so, that’s why.”
“Yeah, but what for?”
“The guns we lost. The truck hijackings in the north. The plunger up that one brother’s ass at the train station last year.”
“The Dragons were behind all that? So, we take their mascot for revenge.”
“Not revenge,” Koma said. “Leverage. The Dragon repays us, or else. I think those assholes value him a great deal.”
“Well, he’s famous,” Amida said, not that it needed saying. “And his nightclubs are excellent. Muzaki is a very respectable businessman. The Americans love him.”
“He’s American as far as I’m concerned,” Haru said.
“Fuck them. I don’t care. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
"Does the Chairman know about this?" Nanashi had his suspicions on that score. The Yokohama bosses weren’t supposed to do anything on this kind of scale the old men in Tokyo didn’t approve first.
"It's between Heron and Dragon. Nobody in Tokyo needs to know nothing."
* * *
Koma swung by Nanashi's place the next morning in the long cobalt Cadillac his father shipped from Detroit as a coming of age present. Koma wore a lemon suit and a fancy wide-brimmed lemon hat that scraped the roof of the cab. Amida and Haru were in the backseat looking bored. As Koma drove, he mentioned a couple of brothers would meet them at the gym in a second car. Nanashi asked who Koma had called in. Koma said he hadn't called anybody, it was Uncle Nobukazu's order. Mizo and Jiki would be waiting at the gym in the second car was all Koma knew.
Mizo and Jiki? Nanashi shook his head in disgust. The Terrible Two were crazy. They were liable to do anything and answered to no one except Uncle Yutaka or Uncle Nobukazu, the latter of whom had rescued the men from an institution for the criminally deranged. Nanashi didn't trust Uncle Nobukazu's judgment. It was commonly known he’d acquired syphilis from some party girl and it was busily eating his brain.
Some speculated that Mizo and Jiki were twins, although Amida laconically pointed out that, “everybody with Down Syndrome looked alike” and no one could argue the point.
Nanashi lighted a cigarette and tried not to worry. He started to roll down the window, but the cab was already cloudy with blue smoke, so he didn't bother. He stared at the passing shop fronts as they declined and aged and gave way to impoverished warehouses and garages and self storage buildings.
Jiki and Mizo waited across the street from the gym in a parking lot. Both of them were fairly large and vaguely retarded. They eschewed the handsome suits of their more conservative yakuza brethren, or even the audacious pimp-suit stylings of new wave gangsters like Koma and his ilk, preferring pastel cargo pants and baggy, sleeveless tee shirts from Hong Kong outlet malls. Loose, formless clothing was just the thing for impromptu gang fights and scaling fences when fleeing the law. Nobody bothered to give them shit for violating the dress code.
Koma cruised alongside the duo, who were methodically thrashing a pair of high school kids. Everyone climbed out of the Cadillac and stood around to watch the action.
“Good morning, brothers,” Mizo said as he cheerfully pressed his foot on the neck of a struggling youth. Jiki had thrown another boy facedown across the hood of the Honda. This kid wasn't moving, although he groaned occasionally. Jiki paused his search of the kid's pockets to wave at Koma. Nanashi guessed the kids were local dealers. Several foil packets and baggies were lined up on the hood, evidently confiscated by Jiki and Mizo.
“Yo,” Mizo said to Nanashi and grinned. His mouth was crammed with silver braces. He worshipped at the altars of American hip-hop and gangster rap. “Hey, Nanashi, how's that sweet sister of yours, huh?”
Nanashi looked at him. He'd broken Mizo's foot when the hoodlum first joined the clan. Nanashi still drank at that point in his career and Mizo unwisely shot off his mouth. So Nanashi stomped his instep and then threw him over the balcony of the club they were partying at. It was a lazy attempt at a killing and Nanashi was much better when he so wished. Lucky for Mizo, the balcony was only a few feet above some hedges. He screeched and wailed all the way to the hospital. Everybody made fun of him for months until he got out of the cast and stopped limping.
“What the hell are you doing with these punks?” Koma said to Mizo. “Quit screwing the dog. We've got serious business.”
“Very serious business,” Jiki said. His laughter emerged as maniacal wheezing. As stupid as Jiki was, it could be difficult to tell if he was mocking Koma or agreeing with him. He slapped his victim on the buttocks and told him to get going. The kid was off like a shot.
Mizo sighed theatrically and took his foot off the neck of the other kid and let him run away. “Look at what those assholes tried to do! Look at this shit! They were trying to shortchange us. You don't mess with the yakuza. We had to beat them up.” He swept the drug paraphernalia into his upended baseball cap and tossed the works into the Honda. “Okay. Ready to go.”
“Is he here?” Nanashi said to Koma.
“Who? Muzaki?”
“Yeah.”
“He's here. We got a guy inside. He called me on the way to your place. We're good, no need to worry.”
The Fighting Dog was a house made of concrete blocks and sheet metal decorated by slashes of red and pur
ple spray paint. The gym lay partially sunken beneath street level and despite its mean exterior and lousy accommodations, it remained one of the preeminent training facilities in the whole of Japan. Like the analogue four star hotels which hosted statesmen, movie stars, and emperors, in its forty years of history the Fighting Dog had served as training ground for scores of champion wrestlers, boxers, and martial artists. Nanashi thought it was definitely the kind of place where one might get one's ass kicked without much ceremony.
Muzaki was simply Muzaki, like Madonna and Sting. His legal name was Wesley Hallecker, born in Chicago in 1947. His father was an American businessman, his mother the youngest daughter of a doctor who’d maintained a practice in Kobe. Muzaki lived between the US and Japan until he graduated from Penn State. He eventually settled in Yokohama and became one of Japan's great wrestlers. Ever the crowd favorite for his phenomenal prowess and superhuman might, he’d also shrewdly concocted a personal mythology, a backstory that was the precursor to modern professional storylines in professional wrestling that included comic book personas with elaborately cartoonish biographies. Muzaki’s own heroic tale claimed that he’d survived a shipwreck in the South Seas as a toddler and was subsequently raised by a lost tribe that ruled a chain of small, uncharted islands. This tribe allegedly practiced black magic and shrunk the heads of its enemies after drinking their blood and devouring their hearts. Muzaki was trained as a slayer of beasts and his exploits in the south were much celebrated until he was captured by men on a passing whaler and returned to civilization whereupon the government spent much time and effort rehabilitating him.
