He sat on the couch, pushed the apple halves aside, and dumped the contents on to the table next to the sword. Two pieces of halved bamboo, a bamboo peg, a piece of cloth, and strips of tightly wound silk.
"You don't really—"
"Sure I do. My way of saying thanks for letting me see it, even if it is junk." He held up the two pieces of bamboo. "These make up the ho."
He fitted them around the tang, noting how they obscured the gaijin symbol. He shook his head in wonder, thinking, You could own this thing all your damn life and never know you had the fucking Gaijin Masamune.
He picked up the bamboo peg.
"This is the mekugi and it fits through the holes in the ho and the tang to hold everything together."
That done, he wrapped the red cloth around the ho and began winding the silk cord around the cloth in a crude approximation of the traditional diamond pattern tsuka-ito. Once the sword was his, he'd fashion a suitably magnificent tsuka. But for now, this was all he had time for. He'd even skipped installing a hilt—the round, ornate tsuba. He wouldn't need one for what he had planned.
Finally he was done. To his collector's eye the job looked like crap. But to Gerrish…
"Hey, you're really something." He reached for it. "Thanks a lot."
Tom shook his head. Holding the katana handle with two hands now, he rose and faced Gerrish, pointing the blade at his chest.
"I'm taking this."
Gerrish's expression hardened. "No way. That's mine, O'Day."
"We both know it's not, or you wouldn't have come to me to fence it."
Gerrish stepped forward, reaching, but backed off when Tom gave the blade a couple of back-and-forth swings.
"Uh-uh. Look, I'm not out to steal it. I'll give you a good price for it. A damn good price."
Gerrish's eyes narrowed. "So it's not as worthless as you said."
"It's junk, but it's unique junk. I want it for my collection."
"No—"
"Hughie, babes, listen to me." He briefly freed a hand from the grip to fish a wad of hundreds from his pocket. He tossed it on the table. "A thousand bucks. Yours."
"It's not for sale."
What was wrong with this jerk? He was a small-time burglar in a crummy apartment. A cool thousand in cash sitting before him for the taking and he was turning it down?
What gives?
"Look, one way or another I'm walking out the door with this katana. You try to stop me"—he swung the blade in a quick horizontal arc—"off with your head."
He smiled as he said it. A joke. But something happened during that swing. His already long arms seemed to stretch even farther of their own accord just as Gerrish took a step forward.
At first he thought nothing had happened. A bowel-wrenching near miss. Gerrish stopped cold, a puzzled look on his face. Then Tom noticed a thin red line appear across the front of his throat. Gerrish's hands fluttered like uncertain butterflies toward his neck just as the wound burst open and spewed blood in all directions.
Gerrish stood there with a dumbfounded expression, a human fire hydrant with a sprinkler cap, his mouth working but only bubbling gurgles issuing from the slash. He pressed his hands over the wound, trying to close it, trying to stanch the flow.
Tom backed away, his stomach threatening to toss up the Big Mac he'd gobbled on his way over. He glanced down at the blade. Not a drop of blood along the tip. The slice had been so clean he hadn't felt the slightest tug of resistance.
"Hey, man, I didn't mean…" The words clogged in his throat. What could he say?
He looked back at Gerrish and saw blood still spurting from between his fingers. He began to sway as his arms dropped and hung limp at his sides. Then he keeled over, tilting to his right in slow motion like a falling tree. He landed on his side, then flopped onto his back.
Tom dropped the katana and hurried over to him. Gerrish's eyes were fixed on the ceiling with a glazed, dead stare. Blood continued to pump weakly from his throat. Finally that stopped too.
Tom's knees weakened and he would have collapsed onto the body had his hand not found the arm of the sofa.
Oh man, oh shit, oh fuck, he'd killed him. Hadn't meant to. Almost seemed the blade had done it by itself. But here was Gerrish, horribly dead. And who was gonna believe it was an accident? Tom had already been through the system on possession of stolen property. He had a record. They'd say he was trying to steal the sword and Gerrish caught him. He was cooked, he was fried, he was—
Wait. Whoever found the body wouldn't know about the sword, and neither would the cops—not if the sword wasn't here when they arrived. No murder weapon—that would mess up the investigation. No one had seen him go into the apartment. If no one saw him go out…
But he couldn't simply stroll out of here carrying a katana. He stepped back to the front hall. Hadn't he seen—?
Yes. A short runner. Perfect. Now, if he could just remember everything he touched and wipe it down…
He just might be able to walk away from this.
12
Hideo watched the street while Kenji worked on the front door lock to Gerrish's apartment building. Goro and Ryo crowded around him, shielding his actions from passing eyes.
They had blindfolded Cooter-san and dropped him near a hospital, then gone back to the Kaze house to await darkness. He used the time to write up a report on Goro, detailing his disobedience. Goro would lose another joint on his little finger as a result.
When he'd finished he read it over and realized that the incident was as much a failure of command as a failure of discipline. He deleted it.
Hearing a grunt of satisfaction from Kenji, Hideo turned and saw the door swing open.
"Excellent work," he said as Kenji used a toothpick to jam the latch. "You three wait nearby. I will call you if I need you."
The three nodded and moved off as Hideo entered the vestibule.
He had decided to do this on his own. Not simply because he could not trust the yakuza to restrain themselves, but the mere sight of them would certainly frighten Gerrish. If the man would not open his door, how could Hideo persuade him to sell his katana?
And he would sell it. Whatever his asking price, Hideo would meet it. He had one hundred thousand in cash in his briefcase. He would bring more if need be. He didn't care. It wasn't his money. And Sasaki-san would pay anything. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred thousand—a mere pittance to the chairman. Not even an hour's interest on his holdings.
The elevator deposited him on the fourth floor. To his left, across the hall, he saw a door marked 4D.
The moment had arrived. Soon—perhaps tomorrow, if all went smoothly—he would be on his way back home with Sasaki-san's precious katana safely stowed in his luggage.
13
Jack came in through the fire escape. He'd donned a goth look for the night: sneakers, ripped jeans, a hoodie, and leather gloves—all black. He'd used a bump key on a back door of the adjoining building, come across the roof, and down the fire escape to what he figured to be 4D. Behind him, across a fairly broad alley, loomed the blank wall of the Tabernacle of Prayer.
The window opened into a darkened bedroom. It was locked but old and he easily popped the latch with the screwdriver he'd brought along for just such a purpose.
He eased up the sash and listened. Quiet as a coffin. No sign of life. Gerrish was probably out. This might prove easier than he'd expected.
He slipped into the bedroom and headed for the hall. Best-case scenario: He'd toss the place, find the katana, say sayonara, and be gone before Gerrish came back.
If he didn't find it, that could mean either that Gerrish had hidden it really well or, worse, sold it. In that case he'd have to settle in and wait for the man's return.
Jack stopped in the hallway, his senses tingling with alarm. Why? The place was dead. And then he recognized the smell.
Blood.
He pulled out a penlight and flashed it around until the beam found the corpse. Blood everywhere,
especially the corpse—its entire front was saturated with it.
He stepped closer and recognized Gerrish. His throat had been slashed. Looked like the work of a straight razor.
Or a katana.
Jack knew right then he wouldn't find the sword here. Could be a lot of reasons for Gerrish's offing, but Jack's gut told him it was the sword. Someone else had wanted it badly enough to kill for it—maybe even used it to do the deed.
Time to go.
He turned back to the bedroom and saw red-and-blue flashes through the window. He stuck his head out and saw a pair of NYPD cruisers in the alley, and four cops talking to a couple of kids.
Shit.
Three choices: Climb back to the roof now and risk being spotted, wait them out, or leave by the front door. The third offered more chances to be seen by one of the neighbors, but he needed out of this crime scene. Now.
If he put on a pair of shades and pulled up his hood, he figured he'd be all right. He was doing just that on his way to the front door, carefully avoiding the blood splatters, when he heard a knock. He looked up and saw the door starting to swing open.
A voice said, "Mister Gerrish?"
Who—?
Didn't matter. Couldn't be caught here. He spun and dashed back to the bedroom. He was about to dive out onto the fire escape when the window lit up, then faded.
A peek out showed the two kids cuffed and bent over a car hood. One of the cops was flashing his car's searchlight back and forth over the building's outer wall. Another was using his light on the Tabernacle. Jack didn't know what they were looking for but they'd sure as hell spot him if he tried to escape.
"Mister Gerrish?" the voice repeated from the front room.
Only one thing to do.
He backed into the bedroom closet, pulled his Glock, and closed the door—the damn hinges gave out a faint squeak. He measured his breathing and waited, hoping it was anyone but a cop.
Anyone but a cop.
14
Upon approaching, Hideo had noticed that the door to apartment 4D was unlatched. He'd knocked anyway but the door had swung open under the gentle impacts.
Only darkness within.
"Mister Gerrish?"
He pushed the door open wider.
"Mister Gerrish? Are you here?"
He was concluding that Gerrish-san had left without fully latching his door, when he heard a high-pitched whisper of sound from within. He stepped across the threshold and fumbled along the wall for a light switch. He found one and flipped it.
Hideo found himself in a short hallway looking into the apartment's front room. A dozen feet away a body lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. The sight drove him back against the door, slamming it shut. He dropped the briefcase and fumbled for his phone. He speed-dialed Kenji's number.
"Get up here now! All of you!"
He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and conjured visions of Omi-shima, the tranquil Inland Sea island he'd visited last summer. He needed to calm himself. He couldn't allow the yakuza to see him like this.
By the time they arrived, he was standing by the body, briefcase in hand, looking calm and composed, although his gut was churning with nausea at the smell of all that blood.
The yakuza, on the other hand, took everything in stride, with no more reaction than if they'd found a dead animal along the side of a road. If a stick had been lying nearby, he was sure one of them would have picked it up and poked the poor man.
Gerrish. No question in Hideo's mind, and confirmed when Kenji pulled the wallet from his pocket and checked his ID. He checked the throat wound that gaped like a second bloody mouth.
"A very sharp knife."
Hideo met his gaze—better than looking at that wound. "Or katana?"
He nodded. "Or katana. But you have shown me the X-ray. Such a rotted old blade could not have the edge to make this wound."
Hideo had a feeling it very well could. Sasaki-san was not a junk collector.
He felt his dream of heading home to Japan tomorrow shatter around him. The sword was gone. It had been used to kill its owner. He might never find it now.
Yet despite that leaden certainty, he could not leave without being sure he had turned over every rock in this garden of death.
"Search the place. Look everywhere—behind furniture, behind appliances, everywhere. Leave no corner uninspected."
15
Jack heard two voices chattering in what sounded like Japanese. Naka Slater, maybe? Didn't sound like him but, then again, he'd never heard him speak Japanese. What was he doing here? Had he—?
Footsteps approached, passing the bedroom door, heading for the kitchen. He heard furniture moving in the living room, and then someone stepped into the bedroom.
How the hell many were they?
He heard drawers being opened and slammed shut, heard the bed moved, the mattress pulled off. The closet would be next. Inevitable.
He raised the Glock, depressed the trigger safety, and waited.
Seconds later, as the door flew open, Jack thrust the muzzle against the forehead of a stocky Japanese guy in a dark suit.
"Not a word," he whispered.
Maybe the guy didn't understand English, maybe he didn't care. Whatever, he started shouting gibberish, and a heartbeat later two other young suits darted into the room with silenced pistols raised. The cold eyes sighting down on him behind those barrels said they wouldn't hesitate to shoot if they had the chance.
He'd seen enough Kitano movies to know what they were: yakuza.
But Jack had already ducked behind his prisoner and twisted him into a half nelson. He had the Glock's muzzle pressed against his lower spine.
"Hair trigger here," he said, grinding the muzzle against the big guy's back. "You know what that means?"
"I know what it means," said a voice from the doorway. Uzi-fire Japanese followed.
Christ, a fourth. How many more?
The new guy was older and wore a lighter suit—business gray. He looked upset.
The boss?
"Good," Jack said, hoping what followed would sound worse than dying. "Then know this too. I pull this trigger, your pal never walks again. He'll be piloting a three-wheel scooter around Tokyo the rest of his life."
The newcomer either translated or gave instructions.
"Also," Jack added, "mine's not silenced like yours. One shot will bring those cops running up from the alley."
The new guy glanced at the window and saw the flashes. His mouth tightened as he turned back to Jack.
"We want only the sword. We will pay you handsomely. Give it to me and you can go."
The sword? These guys wanted the sword too? That meant three parties looking for it. What did these guys want with it? Didn't strike him as the collecting types.
What had he got himself into now?
Never mind. Needed to figure out how best to play this. Dumb seemed a good way to go.
"What sword?"
"The one you stole from Mister Gerrish."
"Do I look like I have a sword on me?"
"But you must—"
"I don't. I came looking for Gerrish and found him dead, just like you did. Feel him. He's cold. I wouldn't still be hanging around if I'd killed him."
Jack didn't know if the body was really cold, but it had looked cold.
He gave Jack an odd look. "Do I know you? Have we met?"
Jack stared at him. Come to think of it, he looked kind of familiar.
"I don't think so."
He seemed to shake it off. "What was your business with Mister Gerrish, if not the sword?"
"Owes me money. Make that owed me money. Looks like I'm out my dough and you're out your sword."
He tightened his grip on his prisoner's neck and started pushing him toward his pals.
"Let's move this party down the road a piece. I'll let your guy go and you can watch me walk out the door without a sword, or even a bread knife."
The leader guy said someth
ing in Japanese and the three of them began backing away. Jack wished he knew what he'd said. Desperate, he tossed off the only Japanese he knew to throw them off balance—maybe.
"Arigato. Konichiwa. Kyu Sakamoto. Gojira. Gamera. Rodan."
When they were all out in the hall between the front room and the kitchen, Jack's prisoner began spewing angry Japanese.
The older suit protested but one of the younger pair shook his head and began speaking in English.
"We will move no farther." He raised his pistol and aimed it at Jack's eye where he peeked out from behind the thick neck. "We will dishonor our brother if we allow you to leave."
Funny, they didn't look like brothers.
"You want him crippled?"
"He will not live as a cripple."
Jack got the message. He sensed something building, something stupid and unnecessarily bloody and surely deadly.
"Okay. Let's be calm and figure what we can do here so we all go our way with our honor intact."
"You must release our brother and surrender to us."
Didn't like the sound of that.
"I don't think so."
The tension in the air increased. These crazies were going to start shooting, and if their brother went down in the crossfire, so be it.
The older guy obviously was against this and had been arguing in a placating tone. Suddenly his eyes met Jack's and bulged like a Bob Clampett character.
Now he was pointing and yammering in a high-pitched voice, repeating the word ronin over and over. But the two cold-eyed mooks weren't listening. Maybe he wasn't their boss.
Only thing to do was duck and let the big guy take the first shots, then shove him toward them and start blasting away.
Shit-shit-shit! What was the point? Everybody was going to lose. Every—
And then a sound, a high-pitched howl of rage from the front door as a big black guy came charging in with a raised baseball bat. Jack noticed a bloody bandage on his left little finger. He looked like an enraged grizzly and he had murder in his eyes.
What the—?
By the Sword rj-12 Page 14
