God, I miss her.
She shook off the melancholy and hurried back into the great room where Henry waited.
“Okay. What do you think?”
He nodded. “Even your own mother wouldn’t recog—oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” She was getting out of here and nothing was going to bring her down. But Henry’s expression turned grave. “Really, Henry, it’s all right. You don’t have to—”
“It’s not that,” he said. “I believe I’m having second thoughts.”
“About what?”
“About letting you leave the apartment.”
Dawn stiffened and thought her heart had stopped. No! He couldn’t change his mind now. Not when she was so totally mad stoked about getting out.
“You can’t be serious.”
“The Master would be quite upset if he found out. I’ll lose my job. Or worse.”
Worse?
“He’s so never going to find out. Not from me, at least. And you’re not going to tell him. So…?”
“There is Gilda.”
“Today’s her afternoon off. No way she can know.”
“Still, I should check with the Master first.”
No-no-no! That downer bastard would totally say no.
“But you can’t find him. And anyway, no one’s gonna know. Please, Henry, please. I’m dying here and we’ve got a perfect solution worked out. Come on, Henry. Please!”
The word hung between them, then Henry sighed and shrugged.
“But only for a little while—a very little while. I do not want Gilda to come home to an empty apartment. She will be very upset.”
“Deal. Anything you say, just get me out of here.” She wanted to be on the move before he changed his mind again. “Let’s go.”
He gestured to her legs. “That doesn’t look very Muslimish.”
She looked down at her bare legs and tight training shorts.
“Christ.”
“He’s not part of this equation.”
Dawn had to laugh, and looked to see if Henry was smiling. But no. Deadpan as ever.
She rushed back to her room for something a little more modest.
6
Jack stood in a doorway of the Wyeth building near the western end of Spring Street, catty-corner from the Ear Inn’s block, just a couple of hundred yards from where SoHo morphed into TriBeCa. He held a lit cigarette and pretended to be an exiled smoker—a ubiquitous fixture around the city—as he watched the entrance to the Ear.
Not the easiest place to find. It sat—quite literally—over the eastern end of the Holland Tunnel. The unlit neon sign jutting over the sidewalk was no help during the day. If you squinted you could see that the tubing said BAR and nothing else. A different story at night when it was lit: They’d blacked out the right half of the “B,” enabling the sign to proclaim the place’s name.
But in daylight you had to be standing before the front window to see the discreet EAR INN on the glass. Used to be a fisherman’s hang back in the nineteenth century, right on the waterfront—not much west of the Ear back then but the Hudson River. Now the Hudson lay on the far side of the concrete lanes of the West Side Highway.
Midafternoon was a traditionally slow time for bars—the lunchers gone, the happy-hour crowd yet to arrive—and the Ear was no exception. Though only a couple of blocks from Hudson Street, this dead-end warehouse area, dominated by a huge UPS depot, was about as far in spirit from touristy as imaginable. No weary shoppers passing by and stopping in for a cold one. You had to know about the Ear and come looking for it.
At a few minutes to three a taxi pulled to a stop before the door and out stepped a slim Asian in a black suit, white shirt, striped tie, and fedora. Could have been Kurosawa’s undertaker.
He stood looking at the Ear’s front window, then turned back to the taxi and said something to the driver. Jack figured he was asking if this was really the place. Finally he forked over some cash and stepped toward the door. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he pushed inside.
Jack waited a few more minutes to see if anyone followed him in, but the street remained clear. He crushed out his cigarette and headed for the Ear.
Inside he found the guy standing alone near the front end of the half-occupied bar, looking around with a confused expression. He stood out among this half hipster, half middle-manager crowd like a Hasid at a Taliban wedding.
Jack tapped him on the shoulder. He spun, a startled look in his face.
“You the fellow who lost something and wants it back?”
“Yes-yes. You are Repairman Jack?”
“Just Jack will do. Let’s get a table.”
As if on cue, a smiling, strawberry-blond waitress with an Irish accent appeared and asked if they wanted a table for two. Jack pointed to an empty one in the far corner of the front room with a good view of the entrance and easy access to the door to the kitchen.
She led them past the warped and scarred bar with its old-fashioned, four-legged, vinyl-topped stools. Two old-wood gables hung over the bottle racks on the wall, separated by a high shelf jammed with old empty bottles of all imaginable shapes and sizes. The front window said the place had been established in 1817. That might have been the last time those bottles had been dusted.
Jack seated himself in the corner near the huge ear mounted on the wall. He put his back against a three-sheet poster offering a graphic, organ-by-organ lesson on the ruinous effects of alcohol on the human body. The wall to his left sported portholes with either seascapes or stern-looking portrait faces gazing into the room.
Once they were seated, the guy removed his hat and placed it in his lap, revealing jet-black hair combed down over the left side of the forehead, all the way to the eyebrow. He appeared to be somewhere in his forties and had an ascetic look—hollow cheeks and intense dark eyes peering from deep orbits. Eyes that never quite made contact with Jack’s. Before he adjusted his jacket cuffs, Jack caught a glimpse of a black tattoo above his right wrist—some sort of polygon.
“You know my name,” Jack said. “Time to hear yours.”
He dipped his head in a quick bow. “Nakanaori Okumo Slater.”
“Whoa.”
A quick smile. “I am called Naka.”
“Naka it is. But Slater doesn’t sound very Japanese.”
“My father was American.”
Jack couldn’t detect any Caucasian in Naka’s looks, so he either favored his mother’s side—a lot—or his father was Japanese-American.
The strawberry-blond waitress came over, pad in hand, and handed them menus. When Jack ordered a pint draft Hoegaarden, she smiled.
“Hey, you pronounced it right. Don’t hear that too often. You Belgian?”
Jack smiled back. “No, Jerseyan.”
When Naka ordered water, he found Jack and the waitress giving him looks.
“I do not drink spirits.”
As the waitress sighed and walked away, W. C. Fields’s warning wafted through Jack’s brain: Never trust a man who doesn’t drink.
Jack picked up a menu. “The burgers here are outstanding.”
“I do not eat flesh.”
Jack looked at him. “I bet you don’t get invited to too many parties, either.”
“Parties?” He looked puzzled. “No.”
“Yeah, well, neither do I. The Ear burger is really good.”
The guy made a face. “You devour something’s ear?”
“Only kidding.”
But he wished someone in the place would find the cojones to list their big, eight-ounce sirloin burger as an Ear Burger. That would be too cool.
“I did not come here to eat. I came here to talk.”
“I can do both—I’m a multitasker.” Jack dropped the menu. No contest. He’d decided on the burger. “So tell me again how you found me—and name names this time.”
“When an object was stolen—”
“From your home on Maui, I assume.”
He nodded. ??
?Yes. I own a plantation.”
“What do you grow?”
He looked flustered. “Why do you wish to know?”
“Call me curious.”
“Papaya, sugar cane, macadamia—”
“Okay. So the ‘object’ was stolen from your Maui plantation. What then?”
“I…I hired detective.”
“Why not go to the cops?”
“I wish to be discreet.”
“Because…?”
Naka hesitated, then sighed. “Because ownership would be, how shall I say, called into question if existence of object become public.”
Knew it.
Couldn’t report the theft of a stolen object.
“And your detective blew it, I assume.”
He nodded. “He discover name of thief but thief escape on plane to New York.”
Now the pieces were fitting.
Naka’s water and Jack’s Hoegaarden arrived. The brew had a thin half-slice of lemon floating in the foam. He was not a fan of witbieren, but Hoegaarden was a treat if found on tap. Jack ordered the burger with cheese, bacon, and sautéed onions. Naka broke down and chose a salad.
As the waitress bustled off, Jack sipped his brew. Good. A light lemony flavor, great for summer or when he didn’t want to feel logged down. Not on tap in many places around the city. Another reason to seek out the Ear.
He noticed another Asian—this one too looked Japanese—come in and sit two tables away. He glanced at them once, then studied the menu.
Jack turned to Naka. “So, with the thief in New York you needed someone local.”
Naka nodded. “Yes, but I have no idea where to turn. I was discussing my problem with artist I know—I buy his sculpture and we become friends. He say his consort used to live in New York and might be able to help.”
First, “alas” from Gary. Now, “consort.” What gives?
“What’s this artist’s name?”
“Moki.”
“Never heard of him. How about his ‘consort’? What’s hers?”
“I do not know. I never meet her. We speak only on phone. She give me your name and how to reach you. She call you a ronin and say I should not lie to you, that you are a good man who can be trusted but who can also be not nice at times.”
“‘Not nice’? She said that?”
“Yes. Her exact words.”
Who the hell…?
“You’re taking her advice, of course.”
“All I am telling you is true.”
Jack put aside wondering about the mystery woman until later.
“Good. So, your detective at least learned the identity of your thief.”
Naka further averted his gaze. “Unfortunately, we have since learned that he was traveling under false identity.”
“Which was?”
“Eddie Cordero.”
Jack leaned back. Why did that name sound familiar? He was sure he’d never heard it, but something about it set off a chime.
“So what did he steal?”
“A sword. A katana. I must have it back.”
“And what’s so special about this sword? What’s it worth?”
“That is puzzle. It is terribly damaged and of no use or value to anyone but my family.”
“And why’s it valuable to you?”
“One might call it heirloom. It belonged to dear friend of my father. He is deceased and sword was all my father had left of him. When my father died he made me promise to keep sword in family. I must keep promise to my father.”
Okay. Jack understood that. But odd the thief would take a worthless heirloom back to New York. Unless…
“Maybe it’s worth more than you think.”
Naka shook his head. “I think not.” From an inside pocket in his suit jacket he pulled a pair of photos and handed them across the table. “See for yourself.”
The first showed a long, slim sword, its naked, curved blade lying atop a wooden stand, cutting edge facing up. The long, tapered tang was exposed—someone had removed the handle. The blade looked strangely mottled. The next photo was closer in and slightly blurred, revealing the mottling as a random pattern of irregular holes in the steel. The cutting edge was perfectly preserved, but the rest was Swiss-cheesed.
“A samurai sword?”
“Yes,” Naka said. “A katana.”
“No offense, but it looks like a piece of junk.”
“In very real sense, it is. But to my family it is priceless. Therefore it make no sense for someone to steal unless they mean to ransom back to us.”
Jack looked again at the moth-eaten blade and agreed: no sense at all.
“And you’ve received no demand?”
“Nothing. And thief has fled islands.”
This didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Jack felt some key element was missing—or being withheld.
“Aren’t some of these swords valuable?”
Naka nodded. “Nihont fashioned by ancient swordsmiths such as Masamune and Muramasa—especially those signed by Masamune—are rare and of most extreme value.”
Most of what Jack had just heard was meaningless.
“Nihonto-?”
“Only swords forged in Japan can be called nihonto-. Foreign-made imitations cannot.”
“And I take it this blade isn’t signed by Moonimalaya or whoever.”
“No one. Especially not Masamune.” He pronounced the name with exaggerated clarity, as if speaking to a five-year-old. “A Masamune sword would never corrode as this one did.”
Jack squinted at the photo and spotted a tiny figure carved into the steel of the tang:
He turned the photo toward Naka and pointed. “Someone’s signed something there.”
Naka glanced at it and nodded. “Yes. The two characters separately mean ‘outside’ and ‘person.’ Together they mean ‘foreigner.’”
That tripped a memory.
“Oh. Gaijin.”
Naka blinked. “You know this word?”
“I know a few words. Arigato and all that.”
In truth he’d picked up “gaijin” reading Clavell’s Shogun, but no need to let this guy know.
Naka pointed to the engraving and looked at him directly for the first time. “Does this mean anything to you?”
Jack shrugged. “Only that I’d be a gaijin in your country just as you are in mine.”
“Yes.” Naka sounded relieved and averted his gaze again. “That is what it should mean.”
What’s that all about? Jack wondered.
He decided to push a little.
“So if I want to get this sword back for you, all I have to do is go around asking about a rotted-out blade with gaijin written on the hasp.”
Naka’s seat jump was almost comical.
“No-no-no! You must not. Such inquiries could reach wrong ears.”
“So it is valuable.”
“No. It is not. As I tell you, original owner might hear. It would want back.”
“It?”
“A museum in Japan.”
Good. He could handle a museum. Jack didn’t want some kind of Zatichi coming after him.
The food arrived then. The burger came open-face style. Jack assembled it and took a big chomp—heaven—while Naka started to poke at his salad.
After a couple of bites, Jack forced himself to speak. He would much rather have wallowed in the ground sirloin until it was gone.
“And why would this sword have been in a museum?”
“Because it is old. It was but minor part of much larger collection, but if museum hear, it will want back.”
“Gotcha.”
Naka looked at him again, a plea in his eyes. “You can do this?”
“I can only promise to try.”
“No. You must succeed! Moki’s consort said—”
“I don’t know who this lady is, but if she said I could guarantee success, she’s wrong. No guarantees in this business.”
Naka was silent a moment, then nodded. “That is fai
r, I suppose. I am glad you are being honest with me.” Another pause, then, “What is your fee?”
Jack was tempted to pull a Gary: Write down the dollar amount and hand it to him. But he didn’t have cards, so he pulled out a pen and wrote it on the white butcher paper that served as a tablecloth here.
Naka blinked. “That is very much money for no guarantee.”
Yeah, it was stiff. Jack had upped his price since the Dawn Pickering job. His intention was to cut back. One way to do that was to be very choosy about the fix-its he took on. The other was to price himself out of certain markets.
This Naka guy owned a plantation on Maui. He could afford Jack’s price, no sweat.
“Didn’t your artist friend Moki’s ‘consort’ tell you that?”
“I asked but she did not know.”
Not know? That meant she wasn’t a former customer. A puzzlement.
“Well, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Half up front, and the rest when I deliver the goods.”
“And if you do not? What happen to first half?”
“That stays with me.”
“But how am I to know you have not simply taken my money and done nothing?”
Instead of answering, Jack took another bite of the burger and chewed at a slow, deliberate pace. Something about this guy bugged him. Maybe because he sensed Naka was giving him only part of the story. Then again, he couldn’t expect full disclosure from someone who wanted him to steal back a stolen object.
As for the job itself, it could prove relatively easy if the thief was trying to sell the sword, but damn near impossible if he intended to keep it for himself.
Jack had set the photos on the table. He took another bite and studied the close-up of the ruined blade.
Who’d pay for a piece of junk like that?
Finally he swallowed and said, “It’s called trust. You have a reference—granted, it’s from a woman neither of us knows, but you trusted the source enough to get in touch with me.”
“Yes, but—”
Jack held up a hand. “No buts. You either trust me or you don’t. You know my price, so you either come across or you don’t. I don’t bargain, haggle, dicker. Make up your mind.”
Naka sighed. “I do not see that I have much choice.”
“Of course you do. You’re dealing with maybe the last vestige of the free market, which means you can walk out the door you came in with no hard feelings—at least on my part.”