Yeah, Kick was zooming toward its two-millionth copy sold, with no signs of slowing. He was rich.
Hank glanced at the glowing face of his clock radio: 2:13 A.M. He pushed himself out of bed and wandered to his room’s single window. He looked out at the Lower East Side block, just off Allen Street, one story below.
Funny, he didn’t feel rich. Not living in this single room in the Septimus Lodge. But he had to keep up appearances, had to live like his peeps. Get into conspicuous consumption and he might lose them—and that meant losing their donations. He had a few whales giving big bucks to the Kicker clubs, but most donations were small. But they added up because there were so many of them.
Well, he was used to living lean. No biggie. He could hang out until the Change came and the Others arrived. Then he’d be rewarded. But there might be no change and no Others arriving if he didn’t help open the door. And to do that he needed the Key.
Had to find Dawn, damn it. Her baby was, as Daddy liked to say, the Key to the Future.
But what about that ratty sword? Where did that fit in?
He’d have to put that on the Kicker BOLO list.
2
Hideo Takita stood in Kaze Group’s Tokyo office looking down at the Marunouchi district’s gridlocked streets. Even in early afternoon—jammed.
He lifted his gaze beyond the skyscrapers to the Imperial Palace squatting low and graceful among its flanking gardens, but the sight of it offered no peace.
He wiped his sweating palms on the pants of his gray suit. A systems analyst such as Hideo was not invited to the office of Sasaki-san, the chairman of the board, simply for idle chatter. Idle was not a word one would associate with Kaze Group.
The reception area offered little reassurance—literally and figuratively. Bare walls of polished steel, black ceiling, gleaming floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the city. A brushed-steel desk and chair were the room’s only furnishings, and not meant for visitors. One must not be comfortable if one is idle at Kaze Group.
Kaze…a fitting name.
Although ostensibly a simple holding company, Kaze Group was more powerful than the largest of the keiretsus, the giant vertical and horizontal conglomerates that ruled Japanese business.
Formed shortly after World War II, it had slowly woven itself into the fabric of Japan’s economy. Today, through a web of dummy corporations, it owned controlling interest in Japan’s “Big Six” keiretsus and most of the major corporations. The keiretsus were like icebergs—their small, uppermost portion visible, the vast bulk looming hidden beneath the surface.
But what determined the path of icebergs through the sea? The currents. And what dictated the currents?
The wind.
Kaze.
Not satisfied with Japan alone, Kaze Group had branched out, extending its reach in all directions. Although it produced nothing itself, it had a hand in the manufacture of everything of importance produced around the globe.
“Takita-san?”
Hideo whirled and saw that the slight, business-suited receptionist had returned and was standing behind the desk. Hideo tried to look relaxed and confident as he approached.
“Sasaki-san will see me now?”
The receptionist’s lips twisted. Hideo realized with a spike of embarrassment that he was suppressing a laugh.
“You will not be seeing the chairman today.”
Hideo imagined him adding, nor any other day.
The receptionist handed Hideo a thumb-size flash drive.
“On this you will find scans of a shipping tube taken at Kahului Airport on Maui. In that tube you will see the image of a damaged katana. The item was checked through to Kennedy International in New York. The passenger’s name was listed as Eddie Cordero. That, however, is an alias. The chairman wishes you to go to New York and find that katana.” The receptionist gave him a knowing look. “If you deliver this katana to him, he will be most grateful.”
Hideo knew what that meant. But…
“The chairman wants me to find a damaged sword?”
“You question the chairman’s desire?”
“No, of course not. I did not mean that. I meant, why me? I have no special skills.”
“The chairman thinks you do, and the chairman is wise.” The receptionist paused, as if embarrassed, then added, “The chairman knows it is a difficult task. But he believes you will be especially diligent and expend extra effort because success will go a long way toward restoring your brother’s honor.”
Hideo hung his head. Yoshio, what happened to you? Who killed you? He looked up and nodded to the receptionist.
“I will go. I will find the chairman’s katana.”
“It is not the chairman’s, but he wishes it to be. However, it may not be the katana he wants. It must meet certain criteria, all of which will be explained on the drive.” The receptionist glanced at his watch. “Your flight leaves in two hours. You had better hurry.”
Hideo made a quick bow and started toward the door.
“Oh, and one more thing,” the receptionist said, “you will not be traveling alone.”
Hideo eyed him. “Oh? Who—?”
“Your three travel companions will meet you at the airport. They will be along to aid you should you need their sort of help. The chairman doesn’t want you to end up like your brother.”
Hideo shuddered. Neither did he.
3
“Well, what do you think?” Gia said.
Jack stared at the little wooden sculpture—although why it wasn’t called a carving, he had no idea. But nomenclature aside, he liked it. A lot.
“It’s beautiful.”
He looked at Gia. For a while she’d let her blond hair grow out, but last week she’d shown up with it cut short again. He liked it short, with its little unruly wings curving into the air.
She’d dragged him down to this SoHo art gallery, saying he just had to see the latest Sylvia. Jack had no idea what a Sylvia was, but he’d come along. And was glad he had.
According to the brochure, some artist who signed her work simply as “Sylvia” was famous for her faux bonsai trees, laser sculpted from a model of the real thing. And Jack could see why. Her latest was a mix of bonsai and topiary—a boxwood with a curved trunk, its roots snaking over a rock and into the soil of its pot. But the rock wasn’t a rock, the soil wasn’t soil, and the tray wasn’t clay. The whole thing was a solid block of laminated oak. Interesting enough, but the tiny boxwood leaves had been teased and coaxed and trimmed into the shape of a skyscraper. Jack knew that shape: the tapering spire, the scalloped crown, the eagle heads jutting from the uppermost setback. Of course their size didn’t allow the details of a bird’s head, but Jack knew what those tiny protruding branches represented.
Gia fixed him with her clear blue eyes. Her smile was dazzling. “Knowing how you love the Chrysler building, I figured this should be added to your must-see list.”
Jackwalked around its pedestal, leaning over the velvet ropes that kept him from getting too close. Someone—Sylvia?—had hand-painted it, mimicking its natural colors. The leaves and moss were green, the tray and clasped stone different shades of gray, the trunk left the natural shade of the original oak.
Jack stepped back. “From a distance it looks alive.”
“Isn’t it just fabulous?” said a soft male voice behind him.
Jack turned and saw a slim, middle-aged guy wearing a sailor shirt and white duck pants. His little name tag said GARY and his black hair was perfect.
“Fleet Week’s not quite here yet,” Jack said.
Gary grinned. “I know. I can’t wait. But as I said”—he gestured to the tree—“isn’t it fabulous?”
“Yeah. Fabulous.” A word misused and overused, but here it fit.
“And it doesn’t just look alive, it’s so very much alive in the way all true art lives. And best of all, it requires no pruning, no wiring, no watering, and yet it remains perfect. Forever.”
“I lik
e the low-maintenance idea. Always wanted a bonsai, but I have a brown thumb.”
“Maintenance is not an issue. This is a work of art, and so much more than a bonsai. This is a subtle melding of the man-made and the natural, a brilliant use of the latest in modern technology to preserve an ancient art form.”
Seemed like Gary had memorized the brochure.
“How much do you want for it?”
“It’s not a matter of how much I want,” he said, reaching into a pocket. “If I had my way it would stay on display here forever.” He pulled out a card and pen and scribbled. “But alas, that won’t pay the rent.”
Alas?
He handed Jack the card. He’d written a number on it.
Jack couldn’t help laughing. “Twenty thousand dollars?”
Gary cooled. “Each of Sylvia’s trees are fashioned in strictly limited editions of one hundred, signed and numbered by the artist herself.”
“And people actually pay twenty K apiece?”
“Each edition sells out almost immediately. Our gallery was consigned only one. We put it out this morning. It will be sold by closing.”
What a crazy world.
Just then a jewel-dripping thirty-something blonde strolled up, clutching the arm of her Armani’d, sixty-something sugar daddy.
“Oh, look, honey. Isn’t that a Sylvia? Alana has a Sylvia and I want one too. Can we get it?”
The words leaped from Jack’s mouth before he could stop them.
“I’ll take it.”
“Jack!” Gia said, giving him a wide-eyed stare.
“It’s only money.”
“Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got all this moolah socked away—you know that. For what? You won’t let me spend it on you and Vicky.” Spend it? He’d tried to give it all to her back in December when he thought he’d be leaving on a forever trip. “So I might as well blow it on something like this.”
“I can assure you it will only appreciate in value,” Gary said. “Some of Sylvia’s early trees are selling for triple what you’re paying.”
“See?” he said to Gia. “It’s an investment.” He turned to Gary. “You accept gold?”
“The AmEx Gold Card? Of course.”
That wasn’t what Jack had meant, but…
“Okay. Wrap her up to travel.”
“I suggest you let us deliver it. It’s very valuable and you don’t want to risk someone stealing it.”
Jack smiled, aware of the weight of the Glock 19 nestled in the small of his back. But it was Gia who spoke through a wry smile.
“Oh, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.”
4
“Nobody likes to hear of an artist hitting a big payday more than I,” Gia said. “But—”
“Speaking of art, what about yours?”
They were walking up Greene Street toward Houston, passing the grave of the Soho Kitchen & Bar. Whenever Jack had been in the neighborhood, he’d made a point of stopping in for a draft pint of Pilsner Urqell. Another goddamn boutique occupied the space now.
“I’m back to work—three dust jacket assignments and some paperbacks on the way.”
“Yeah, but that’s work done to order. That’s not you. What about the stuff you’re doing for yourself?”
She shook her head. “Told you: not happy with it.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
“When are you going to let me see it?”
A shrug. “Maybe never. I may just take them somewhere and burn them.”
Jack stopped and gripped her arm. “Don’t even joke about that. Anything by you is valuable to me.”
“Not these. Trust me, not these.”
“They can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, yes, they can. I don’t like them and I don’t want to show work I don’t like.”
“Even to me?”
“Especially to you.” She tapped the box under his arm. “Frugalman Jack, spending twenty thousand on a sculpted tree…I don’t know what to say.”
Obviously she wanted a change of topic, so he let it go. For now.
“I’ve been frugal because I’ve always wanted to be able to retire early.” He could have added, while I’m still alive, but didn’t.
“Granted, it’s a stunning piece of work, but twenty thousand?”
“Better than letting some bimbo blonde—”
“Ahem.”
“What?”
She pointed to her hair. “What color is this?”
Oh, hell.
“But you’re not a bimbo. And yours doesn’t come from a bottle.”
“It gets help from a bottle.”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, I didn’t want that…person to get her grubby mitts on it.”
Gia stopped and laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding! You spent twenty thousand just for spite?”
“Not spite. I may not be an artist”—he placed a hand over his heart—“but I have the soul of one.” He tapped the box under his arm. “And this—what’s the art-speak phrase?—this speaks to me.”
Gia demonstrated the unofficial ASL sign for Gag me with a spoon.
He put on his best offended expression. “Well, it does.”
Truth was, it had spoken to him by appealing to something deep within. He’d wanted it from the first instant he’d set eyes on it. He’d bought it not so much to save it from the bimbo as to possess it—to put it someplace where he’d see it every day.
“Really? And just what does it say?”
They’d reached Houston, the wide, bustling thoroughfare that linked the East and West Sides down here, the street responsible for SoHo’s name—south of Houston. Jack raised his free arm to flag a cab.
“As you can see, it’s all wrapped up at the moment, so I can’t hear it. But back in the gallery it said, ‘Please don’t let me go home with that bling-bedizened beotch.’ It really did.”
Gia laughed and leaned against him. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And I’d like to make love to you again sometime before I die.”
Uh-oh.
A cab lurched to a halt before them.
“You and me both.”
“Then why—?”
He handed her the box with the tree. “Take this back for me, will you?”
Concern tightened her features. “You’re not coming?”
“Got some bidness down here.”
She eased herself into the backseat of the cab and looked up at him.
“Is something wrong?”
“No…it’s just that I’ve become involved in a situation that could be dangerous to you.”
“Like what?”
“It’s too complicated to get into here and now.”
The cabby looked like a Hotel Rwanda bellhop. Jack handed him a twenty and said, “Sutton Square.”
The guy nodded. Did that mean he knew where it was? Too many cabbies didn’t know zilch about the city anymore. At least he had a GPS.
Gia was still looking up at him. “When, then?”
“When what?”
“When can we get into it?”
He leaned in and kissed her on the lips.
“Soon, Gia. Soon. I promise.”
“I’m back on the pill, if that’s what you’re worried about, and I’m never going off it again.”
That wasn’t it. Or maybe it was. He wished he knew.
“I’ll talk to you later.”
Then he closed the door and the cab took off. Gia’s puzzled face in the rear window felt like seppuku—without a second to deliver the coup de grâce.
5
It took Henry until two o’clock to track down what Dawn had requested. He finally returned with a box labeled with Arabic script.
“I suppose this would have been easy to find if I’d known where to look,” he said, handing her the box, “but I didn’t. I believe this is what you want.”
Dawn tore it open and found a larg
e blue silk scarf within. But not just any scarf. This one had a veil attached. She’d Googled Muslim clothing last night and came across this whack Muslima fashion site that featured something called a pak chadar. It had looked perfect. This morning Henry had gone in search of one.
She pulled it out and stepped into the powder room for a look. After draping it over her head and shoulders she checked herself in the mirror. Not bad. The color intensified the blue of her eyes. She pulled the top front lower to hide her blond hair, then draped the long end of the scarf over her opposite shoulder. Now for the final touch: the veil.
She stretched it across her nose and her lower face and fastened it on the other side.
Well, it was totally stupid looking but it did the job. The only things visible were her eyes. On the one-in-a-zillion chance Jerry saw her, he would so not recognize her. He’d think, there’s a weird, blue-eyed, white-bread Muslim chick, but that would be it.
But what if he recognized her eyes? Simple fix: sunglasses.
She hurried back to her room where she slipped on the wraparound Ray-Bans provided for sunbathing on the roof.
Another inspection, this time in the bedroom mirror, and wow—totally unrecognizable.
Am I smart or am I smart?
Her glee slipped into sad wonder when she remembered facts from her comparative religions course—aced like most of her courses—in social studies. Hundreds of millions of women around the world were totally forced to dress like this. What was wrong with seeing a woman’s face or hair? What sort of asshole came up with this bullshit? Could only be a guy, most likely one hung like a light switch. She didn’t know why women put up with it. Oh, yeah. Because if they didn’t they got stoned to death or something. Nice religion.
People said the world was getting totally crazy, but truth was, it had always been crazy—at least where women were concerned.
She ground her teeth. Mom had never talked feminism. She didn’t have to—she’d lived it. Completely self-sufficient, without a man or even a family to lean on, she’d built a life for herself and Dawn through sheer guts and determination.