By the Sword

  Hideo stepped away from the table, leaving the stage to the yakuza. In a very real way, it was a stage. For they were each playing a part, carefully worked out in advance.

  “In my country,” Kenji said in a matter-of-fact tone, “members of our organizations have a ritual known as yubitsume. When we offend a superior, or make a mistake that costs the organization, we make amends by yubitsume.”

  “Yeah? Well, you can bitsume my big black dick.”

  “The word means ‘finger cutting.’ We use a tanto—that is a certain kind of knife—and cut off the tip of a finger, usually the smallest, which we then send to our superior.”

  “I’ll bet he’s real tickled about that. What’s he do with it? Shove it up his ass?”

  Kenji didn’t miss a beat. “You have offended our superior by not honoring his simple request for information. Therefore we have decided to perform yubitsume on you.”

  Hideo knew how far outside true yakuza tradition this was, but Cooter-san would not know that.

  The man’s expression lost some of its belligerence.

  “Yeah?” He looked down at his left hand, where his little finger had been taped flat and straight along the arm of the chair. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Kenji gave his head a slow, solemn shake. “I do not know this ‘kidding.’ My associate will perform the yubitsume. We do not have a tanto available, so we have had to make do with what is available.”

  As if by magic, a meat cleaver appeared in Goro’s hand. He tested the edge with his thumb.

  “Oh, yeah,” Cooter-san said, his air of bravado returning. “Gotta admit you put on a good show with this finger business. But I notice all you guys got your pinkies. I’m supposed to believe you guys’ve never screwed up? That’s a laugh.”

  Goro frowned and shot Kenji a questioning look. Cooter-san’s English had been too rapid for him. Kenji translated.

  Goro smiled and tucked the cleaver under an armpit. He spread the fingers of his left hand. Then he grasped the tip of the fifth and pulled it off.

  Cooter-san’s shocked gasp echoed through the room.

  And then Ryo revealed his stump, and finally Kenji.

  As the still-smiling Goro grasped the cleaver again by its handle, Cooter-san began writhing and thrashing about in his chair.

  “Wait a minute! Wait-wait-wait a fucking minute!”

  The cleaver was all for show. All three of the yakuza carried tantos, but a meat cleaver caused a more visceral reaction—at least in Hideo. And, from the looks of it, in Cooter-san as well.

  Hideo had given strict orders not to harm the man, merely frighten him. He was sure the sight of the tattoos and the cleaver—and now the foreshortened fingers—along with Goro’s merciless black eyes would be more than enough.

  Hideo admitted to some qualms about putting the cleaver into Goro’s hands. He had a feral quality about him, a sense that violence lurked very close to the surface, no deeper than his tattoos. That increased the level of threat, but also increased the chances of Cooter-san suffering injury.

  Goro stepped forward and positioned the cleaver over the last joint on Cooter-san’s little finger.

  Kenji said, “I will give you until the count of three. One…”

  Goro smiled at Cooter-san and Hideo couldn’t remember a more chilling sight.

  “Two…”

  Still smiling, Goro raised the cleaver.

  “Th—”

  “All right, all right, all right! He lives in Jamaica!”

  Hideo’s burst of elation at Cooter-san’s capitulation died in midflash.

  “Jamaica? He lives in Jamaica?”

  “That’s what I said. Now get this guy away from me.”

  “Why did he leave the country?”

  Cooter-san laughed. “Leave the country? You dickwad! Jamaica, Queens!”

  Relief flooded Hideo. Queens…he knew where Queens was…and he would find this Jamaica in Queens.

  Cooter-san, defeated now, gave his friend’s street address without argument or further duress.

  As Hideo reached for his PDA to key in the data, he heard a thunk and a man’s scream. He looked up in time to see a small dark object tumble through the air, trailing a fine thread of blood. Goro’s hand darted out and caught it in midflight.

  Hideo looked at Cooter-san and saw him writhing in agony as blood flowed from the stub end of his little finger. His stomach turned.

  “What—what did you do?” he cried in Japanese.

  Goro gave him a flat look. “Yubitsume.”

  “You weren’t supposed to hurt him! I told you that!”

  “I know.”

  And then he popped the fingertip into his mouth and swallowed it whole.

  Hideo couldn’t believe his eyes. “What—?”

  Goro smiled and said, “So they can’t sew it back on.”

  “But you were not supposed to hurt him!”

  “He should not have informed on his friend.”

  Furious, confused, frustrated, Hideo turned to Kenji. “Stop his bleeding and return him to his home.”

  Then he hurried from the building. He did not want to be sick in front of the yakuza.

  10

  Hank couldn’t believe it, so he made Darryl say it again.

  “I found the bitch. She’s in the Milford Plaza.”

  “You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Hey, man, ain’t I been lookin at her face all day, every day for weeks?”

  Yeah, he had. Hank’s gut tingled with triumph, but he was afraid to celebrate. All along he’d put on a confident face, but in his heart he hadn’t truly believed he’d ever find her. The flyers had been a long shot but, ironically, in the end it had been one of his own Kickers who’d come through.

  If it was really her. He had to ask again.

  “No question in your mind?”

  “She looks thinner than in the picture, but it’s her. She was in that same Arab getup at first, and then she took it off. It’s her all right. Followed her on the C from SoHo to the Deuce, in and out of a Duane Reade, and into the Milford Plaza.”

  Milford Plaza? What was she doing there? No sign of her for weeks and weeks, and then she shows up in a theater-district tourist trap. What was going on?

  “She with that chauffeur you mentioned the other day?”

  “That’s the weird part. He was following her in and out of these stores like a bodyguard, like stink on shit, but then she comes tearing out of the last store and he’s nowhere to be seen. Almost like she was ditching him.”

  None of this made any sense. Had she had a falling-out with whoever had been hiding her?

  He realized it didn’t matter. She’d come out of hiding and gone to ground again. But now he knew where.

  “You’re sure she’s still there?”

  “I watched her check in—paid cash. Watched her take an elevator. I’m calling from the lobby where I can see the elevators. She ain’t come out.”

  “Good man, good man. Any chance you got her room number?”

  “Naw. Didn’t want to get too close. She seen me twice now.”

  Good old Darryl was smarter than he looked.

  Be nice to know the room number, but they didn’t need it. After all, not as if they could march in, bundle her up, and carry her out. No, they’d have to play a waiting game. She couldn’t hole up there forever. Sooner or later she’d have to hit the street. And then they’d have her.

  “Say,” Darryl said, “um, when do I get my reward?”

  “Soon as she’s in this building, standing right here in front of me. But for now you stay right where you are with your eyeballs glued to those elevators. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll send you some relief ASAP.” A question popped into his head. “Any idea what she bought in Duane’s?”

  He could sense Darryl’s shrug.

  “Dunno. Like in the hotel, I didn’t want to get too close, so I stayed across the street. She went in empty-hande
d and came out carrying a little white bag. Maybe she’s on the rag.”

  Hank wanted to say, She’s pregnant, you idiot, but bit it back. Darryl had done good work. No upside to insulting him.

  Still, he wondered what had been important enough to make her detour on the way to a new hiding place.

  And then he thought he knew.

  Of course.

  11

  Standing in the deepening dusk outside Gerrish’s apartment building, Tom O’Day punched his number into his cell phone and waited for him to pick up.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m here.”

  A sigh, then, “Okay.”

  Not a lot of enthusiasm there.

  The buzzer sounded, unlatching the door. Tom yanked it open and stepped inside. Halfway through the inner door he stopped.

  His nape was tingling. And why not? It should be. He was standing in the same building as the fucking Gaijin Masamune.

  He shook it off and headed for the elevator, cursing himself for being such a jerk when Gerrish called him the other day, offering the sword. He’d moved a little hot merch for him a couple of times in the past and now he was looking to unload the sword. When he’d described the condition, Tom had told him forget it—sell it for scrap metal.

  Idiot! How could he have been so fucking stupid?

  But how could he have known?

  So as soon as that guy Jack had left the store yesterday he’d looked back through his phone’s call history and found Gerrish’s number. He’d been calling him for two fucking days now. Finally he’d got through late this afternoon. Apparently the jerk hardly ever charged his phone.

  But worse: Gerrish was no longer in a selling mood. Said he’d changed his mind and wanted to keep it. At least he still had it. If he’d sold it to someone else…

  Tom didn’t want to think about that.

  After much wheedling—humiliating as all hell—he brought Gerrish around to the point where he’d allow him to examine the sword.

  When the door to 4D opened, Tom offered his hand.

  “Hugh, thanks so much. I really appreciate this.”

  Gerrish’s handshake was as limp as his tone. “Yeah, well, I hope you don’t think you can talk me into selling.”

  When he stepped through the door the tingle in his neck spread down his back. He was in the same room as the fucking Gaijin Masamune.

  “Like I told you on the phone, I just want to see it.” He’d worked up this story earlier in the day. “You said it was rusted out in spots, and that makes it pretty much worthless. But then I got to thinking that maybe it wasn’t rust. Maybe it was some kind of design in the steel that hadn’t been reported before. I need a look.”

  “Okay. You can look, you can touch, but you can’t have.”

  “Sure. Fine. But a few days ago you were itching to sell. What made you change your mind?”

  Gerrish’s expression wavered from resolute to uncertain. “I’m not really sure.”

  “You sound pretty sure.”

  “When I…when it came into my possession, I had a feeling it was special…that I could, you know, move it for some decent change.”

  “So you called me.”

  “Yeah, but you turned me down.”

  “That I did.” Schmuck that I am.

  “Turned out I was glad you did. Because the thing’s kinda been growing on me. I decided to keep it.”

  “Interesting. Where is it now?”

  Gerrish motioned Tom down the short hallway to the main room where he made a flourish toward the coffee table.

  “Ta-daaa!”

  Tom stopped and stared. The room could have been made of solid gold and lined with the proverbial seventy-two naked virgins. Who cared? Tom had eyes for only one thing.

  At first glance, with its Swiss-cheesed blade, it indeed looked like a piece of junk. As he bent and ran a finger along the random pattern of pocks and holes, every square millimeter of his skin began to tingle. He lifted it and rested it on his palms. These weren’t rusted out or eaten out—these had been melted out.

  He raised it and peeked through one of the holes. He experienced an instant of vertigo as he seemed to be standing on a low bridge looking out at a bustling city filled with rough-clad Asian men and kimonoed women. Then it all disappeared in a blinding flash as bright as the sun.

  He snatched the blade away from his face and stood blinking at the purple afterimage.

  “What’s the matter?” Gerrish said.

  Tom took another quick peek. This time all he saw was Gerrish.

  “Nothing.”

  He lowered the blade again for a closer look. The jihada—the steel of the cutting edge—was unmarred. The swordsmith must have concentrated the best steel there. The hamon—the temper line—undulated like a series of gentle waves on a placid lake.

  Tom moved down to the naked tang. This was where the swordsmith traditionally carved his mei—his signature. No signature here, only a Kanji symbol:

  This was it—the Gaijin Masamune. He was holding the fucking Gaijin Masamune.

  He noticed his hands starting to shake so he put it down. Not an easy thing to do. Maybe the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  “I—” He swallowed around a dry tongue. “I was right the first time out: It’s a piece of junk, good only for sentimental value.”

  “But it’s so sharp,” Gerrish said. “Watch this.”

  He stepped into the kitchen and returned with an apple. He lifted the sword by the tang and dropped the apple onto the upturned edge. A whole apple hit the blade. Two halves bounced onto the table.

  “Yeah. Sharp.”

  Tom wanted to say, What else would you expect from a Masamune blade, especially one tempered in ground-zero atomic fire? But he held his tongue. This asshole had no idea what he had. Cutting an apple—like using a CO2 laser to make a paper doll. Christ.

  He saw the smear of apple juice on the blade and wanted to scream at Gerrish to wipe it off.

  No way was he walking out of here without that blade. Like leaving a small child alone with a pedophile. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen.

  He pulled a Ziploc bag from his pocket.

  “Brought you a present. Since you’re gonna keep this piece of junk, it might as well have a handle—what the Japs call a tsuka.”

  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.