Damnation Street

  The bully boys were impressed, all right. Even the chucklehead frowned and nodded with grudging admiration. He opened his fist and slapped Bishop on the cheek—not hard—just a sort of token slap of condescending appreciation.

  Bishop smiled deep into the chucklehead's stupid eyes and kicked him hard in the shin.

  The chucklehead went down, screaming, rocking on his back, and clutching his leg in his two hands. Bishop sneered down at him. He could hear that bright metallic singing inside him like a sword blade whistling through the air.

  Or wait a minute—maybe it wasn't inside him. Maybe it was coming from somewhere to his left, along with another noise—a noise that sounded something like hwa hwoo hwee hwa.

  He looked in that direction and, sure enough, there was the Fu Manchu guy rushing at him, going hwa hwoo hwee and so on—and also wielding that goddamned Chinese broadsword Bishop had noticed on the wall.

  Well, this was a surprise. Not exactly the kind of confrontation he'd been looking for. In fact, the sight of that sword stunned Bishop so much, it slowed his reaction time. Meanwhile, the Fu Manchu guy came in low and fast. Gripping the broadsword's handle in one hand, he made the wide, curved silver blade spin and twirl through blurring crisscrosses and figure eights. "Hwa! Hwoo! Hwee!" he remarked again. And all the while, the black-and-red scarf flying from the sword's pommel flapped and spiraled, adding to Bishop's distraction.

  The approach took barely a second. Then, as Bishop stood more or less stupefied, the Fu Manchu guy brought the big sword around in a vicious arc and hit him with it alongside the head.

  He struck with the flat of the blade—this wasn't a killing situation yet. And at the last moment, Bishop did manage to twist his body, headfirst, to absorb some of the force of the blow. All the same, the thing smacked into him with brain-rattling force. He saw white sparkles and felt himself falling helplessly through the air, his leather jacket flying out of his hand as he went down. The next instant he hit the hardwood floor with a jolt that made his bones ache. But he took the shock on his shoulder and kept rolling, kept rolling, and was on his feet again in a defensive stance before he could even think about it.

  Now he found himself facing his attacker in a crouch, his arms up in front of him. Which wasn't going to help him much unless he happened to want his arms lopped off and mounted on a plaque. Which he didn't. And the Fu Manchu guy was still coming after him—Hwa! Hwee! Hwo!—a steady, unstoppable onslaught with the silver broadsword in his right hand singing through the air in dazzling patterns and the distracting scarf flashing now black, now scarlet, as it whipped and fluttered unnervingly out of sync with the rhythms of the blade.

  Bishop's face was stinging like ants were on it. His left eye was pouring tears, and his brain was still slow and numb from the blow of the sword. Around him the bully boys were clapping and whooping. And where the evil chucklehead had gotten to, he hadn't the foggiest fucking idea.

  But there was no time to think about any of that. The swordsman was on him. The blade was arcing up again, preparing for a second attack that could come at him high or low. All Bishop could manage to do was circle away. Keep the distance between them. Keep moving, circling, circling, staving off the moment when the Fu Manchu guy would strike again.

  "Hwa! Hwee! Hwoo!" the swordsman shouted, circling opposite Bishop.

  The other bully boys gathered around the two of them, shouting encouragement, clapping, moving as they moved. They loved this stuff. As the blade snaked out in a lashing circle under Bishop's nose, Bishop dodged back and felt one of the thugs put hands on him to shove him toward his opponent. The Fu Manchu guy saw this happen and instantly moved in for another strike.

  That turned out to be a break for Bishop. He pivoted, grabbed the gi of the thug who'd pushed him, spun him around in front of him. Blocked by his fellow bully boy, the Fu Manchu guy froze, mid-hwa! Bishop shoved the thug—a dim-witted redhead—straight into his attacker. It only slowed him for a second. The Fu Manchu guy caught the dimwit redhead's arm and hurled him aside.

  But by then Bishop had dashed away. The redhead had left a gap in the circle of bully boys. Bishop slipped through it and rushed for the wall. He grabbed the first samurai sword he could get his hands on and yanked it free of its mount. What he planned to do with it he wasn't sure, but it was better than his bare hands—it had to be. He swept it quickly from its sheath and tossed the sheath away. The blade gleamed bright, a shorter one—katana, that was the word! Well-balanced and with a full tang, set deep and solidly into the handle.

  None of which was any comfort. All he could remember from his casual study of samurai swordplay was some Zen bullshit about having No Mind and being One with the Blade. He figured he'd have No Mind in a big hurry if this crazy Asian fucker hit him in the head with his fucking broadsword again. And as for being One with the Blade—that was exactly what he was trying to avoid.

  But he seized the handle of the katana with both hands as he recalled you were supposed to. He held it up in front of him, pointing the blade at the Asian's eyes just as he would've done in a knife fight—that made it hard for his opponent to judge the distance of the point and also distracted him from the feints and movements of his body.

  As Bishop began to circle again, it came back to him what a natural weapon the samurai sword was, a comfortable extension of the hands and arms. A desperate little hope flared in him. The Fu Manchu guy was so busy putting on a show for his pals, so busy hwa-hwo-hweeing and swinging the sword in fancy eights and arcs, that if Bishop could stay focused, he might just have a chance to get in on him quick and drop him.

  He circled away cautiously, the samurai sword held out before him. The Fu Manchu guy came charging in, the broadsword dancing in the air. The bully boys catcalled. They caught the uncertainty in Bishop's stance and motions. They urged Fu to finish him off.

  "Slice him, slice and dice him!"

  "Cut him bad, baby!"

  "Make meat out of him!"

  Bishop forced the grinning, crowing thug faces into the soft blur of his outer attention. He watched the Fu Manchu guy, saw his eyes flare. The broadsword seemed to spiral out of flashing heights and sweep toward his shoulder, edge first. Bishop twisted his wrists, and his katana went horizontal. With a metallic shock, the two blades met. Bishop parried the broadsword, turning his body out of its deflected path. In the same movement, he brought the katana around and swung it low at Fu Man's kneecap. He hoped to hit just hard enough to slice the tendon. But the strike was met by the sweeping block of the broadsword. Another metallic sting and Bishop was pushed back. Fu Manchu stepped in with a direct thrust—a genuine thrust that would've opened Bishop's belly. Bishop was startled by its deadliness. The fight had turned serious, and only a hurried, almost panicked recovery—an inversion of the wrists that turned the katana nearly straight down—fended off the broadsword's point and gave him the chance to step back and away.

  Both men were in their stances again, both were circling. There was a little less hwa-hwa crap coming out of Fu Man now. He was breathing hard, and the arcs of the broadsword were slower and less ornate. That didn't mean he was easing up, though. Bishop could see the anger contorting his mouth. He knew that last reckless thrust had been powered by raw temper. And he knew the next attack would have the same mortal rage behind it, maybe worse. Even the shouts and jokes of the bully boys had dropped a key, had become guttural and murderous.

  This had gone too far. Bishop knew he had to end it quick or he'd go home with his head in his hands. The shock of the first onslaught had worn off. That weird killer cool of his was coming back. Even with his pulse pounding, even with his eyes fastened on the swinging broadsword, a feeling that could only be described as mirth was pumping out of the center of him, coursing through his veins. This was it. This was the finish of it, one way or the other.

  The Fu Man was gearing up for another attack. Looking for a weak spot. Sidestepping, swinging the silver blade, whipping the black-and-scarlet cloth poetically through t
he air. Bishop was still on the defensive, circling away, circling away, ready to fend off the strike and answer with a strike of his own. He knew he wasn't good enough with the sword to make an effective assault, but if he could get the Fu to commit himself...

  Then ... something ... the slightest shift of Fu Man's ferocious gaze. A glance over Bishop's shoulder as if someone was coming up behind him. Maybe it was a trick, but maybe...

  With a swift pivot of his arm, Bishop brought the katana crosswise at his own eye level. There—reflected in the gleaming steel—the furious features of the evil white chuckle-head were rushing straight at him.

  Bishop released the sword handle with his right hand and drove his elbow backward into the chucklehead's throat. He heard a liquid gurgle; a thud as the Denver-sized enforcer dropped to the hardwood.

  At the same moment, Fu Manchu came at him from the front. He feinted low, slipped Bishop's parry. Then he hoisted the broadsword high and brought it crashing down toward Bishop's skull.

  With a cry, Bishop spun to the side. He felt the cold wind on his face as the silver blade sliced down past him. He saw the wide front edge of it hit the floor, notching the shiny surface. The momentum of the strike brought the Fu Man forward. On the instant Bishop stepped on the blade, pinning it to the hardwood. He put his other foot on the blade above the first, scrambling straight up the edge of the sword toward his opponent's head.

  Fu Man straightened, trying to pull the broadsword free. The motion exposed the side of his neck.

  Bishop had him. With a rush of savage joy, he hammered the pommel of the katana into the thug's carotid artery. The Fu Man's eyes flew up and his body dropped down. He crumpled to the dojo floor as if he were made of string.

  It was over. Bishop dropped back, crouched low, turned round, pointing the katana's blade at the circle of leering faces all around him, face by ugly, murderous face. A slow, seething growl seemed to come from all the bully boys at once. Bishop answered them with a slow, seething growl of his own.

  He backed toward the door, that door he wanted on the far side of the room. From the corner of his eye, he saw his leather jacket on the floor. He swooped down and snapped it up, held it in his left hand, while his right kept the sword pointed at the bully boys.

  The bully boys edged toward him, growling. Growling, he backed away until he felt the door at his shoulder.

  Then he was through it, gone.

  20.

  The Frenchman looked up from his desk and saw a man with a sword framed in the doorway. At first he didn't believe what he was seeing. The man was a silhouette with the light of the hall behind him, and the Frenchman thought: No. But then the gunrunner narrowed his eyes, looked more closely. The man was holding a jacket over his shoulder with one hand, and the other hand held—yes, it was a sword, a long sword pointed slantwise at the floor.

  Oh, what now? the Frenchman thought.

  The man with the sword stepped into the little office and kicked the door shut behind him.

  "Call off your thugs," he said.

  "My...?"

  "Your black belts, your thugs. They're coming up the stairs behind me. Call them off."

  The Frenchman hesitated. He felt at a disadvantage. When the swordsman had entered, he'd been examining a picture on his computer screen. It was a photograph of a naked woman trussed in a network of complex and imaginative leather restraints while another naked woman sodomized her with an equally imaginative contraption designed for the purpose. The Frenchman's careful study of this image had left him in a state that would have detracted from the effect had he attempted to rise and greet his guest with any sort of imposing dignity. Also he was dressed in a purple paisley shirt and white jeans that were supposed to make him look youthful but that he knew only made his gnome-like figure pathetic, further impeding any effort he might make to be intimidating.

  So he stalled, hoping help would arrive from the dojo below. But the swordsman came straight at him. Stepped to the desk and casually laid the point of his weapon against the Frenchman's sagging gullet. The Frenchman could see the man's face now—bruised and reddened on one side—and he could see his eyes; he could see what sort of man he was. He knew the type well. You didn't try to bluff a man like this. You either killed him or you played along.

  "Call them. The fuck off," the swordsman repeated.

  With that, the door flew open again. One of the Frenchman's treasured musclemen—a massive slab of black flesh in a white gi—charged in over the threshold. Behind him, out in the hall, the rest of the karate gang seemed jumbled together, as if they were all trying to crowd in at once.

  The Frenchman thought fast, thought of every possible outcome. He felt the uncomfortable chill of the sword point beneath his Adam's apple. He lifted a hand, pressed the air down in front of him as if to say, Ssh-ssh-ssh.

  "It's all right," he said aloud. "Never mind."

  The black slab looked from his boss to the swordsman, from the swordsman back to his boss. The enormous faces behind his shoulders glared wildly with big white eyes.

  "Never mind," the Frenchman repeated. "Leave us alone now. It will be all right."

  Slowly, unhappily, the black man retreated, joining the general jumble of thugs. The group faded away down the hall as one, the black man pulling the door shut as they left.

  The Frenchman looked up at the swordsman with what he hoped was an ingratiating smile on his damp lips. "So. You see?" he said. "All is well."

  After a moment the swordsman nodded. With a sharp movement that made the Frenchman gasp, he snapped the weapon away from the gunrunner's throat. He took a step back and relaxed into the steel tubular chair in front of the desk.

  The Frenchman gave a Gallic shrug and let his right hand drift down toward the desk drawer in which he kept a Carpati .32, a very accurate little gun.

  "All is well," he said again soothingly.

  Bishop tossed his sword to the floor. It fell on the static-colored carpet with a muffled thud. His face hurt and his head hurt and he was out of breath from the fight downstairs, in no mood to fuck around. He glanced around quickly at the cramped, cluttered space, the catalogs and mail and garbage stacked along the walls, the high windows behind the scarred wooden desk, the pastel town houses of the Haight outside. Then his gaze settled on the Frenchman. What a gargoyle this guy was. And that comb-over—someone should've broken the good news to him about the buzz cut. On the other hand, judging by his looks, he was a man with no principles but money and fear. Which was exactly what Bishop was hoping for.

  So he got his breath steady and he said, "My name's Bishop. I'm here about a guy. A customer of yours."

  The Frenchman made a light gesture, a flutter of his left hand in the air. At the same time, his right hand casually pulled the desk drawer open, as if he was looking for some-thing—a handkerchief, maybe, to dry his lips with. "I have many customers. I couldn't possibly..."

  "Are you really gonna pull that thing?" Bishop interrupted in a tone of wonder. He massaged his face, trying to get the ache out of the place where the sword had hit him.

  The Frenchman jutted his misshapen face at him as if to say, Eh?

  "The gun in the drawer. Are you gonna pull it? Because if you are, I'm gonna shove it up your ass and blow your guts out, just so you know."

  The Frenchman's chin went up, went down. He shut the desk drawer. "In that case, on consideration, perhaps I will not," he said.

  "Good. Jesus. What're you, some kind of idiot?"

  "Well, one feels obligated to make the attempt, you know. Foolish, especially in a man my age, but there you are. The demands of custom and dignity are slow to die."

  "Adalian sent this guy," said Bishop, who couldn't have given less of a shit.

  "This..."

  "The customer I'm here about. Adalian sent him to you. He's a specialist."

  The gargoyle knew the man at once. Bishop could see it in his eyes. Still, he put on a little show of ignorance. A couple of Frenchy gestures with his clawlike
hands as if he were pulling the memory out of the air. Or Belgian gestures, or whatever they were. Then he started a whole point-of-honor routine. Which was a laugh.

  "You have to understand, my friend," he said. "A business like mine depends very much on discretion. If my customers can't rely on me to keep their various purchases confidential..."

  "I understand," said Bishop. "Forget it. I apologize for asking."

  "Truthfully?"

  "No, I was kidding. If you don't talk to me, I'm gonna put you in the hospital."

  "Ah. Very witty."

  "Thanks. And listen, I don't envy you. It's a clear-cut choice, but it's not an easy one. You talk to me, this specialist guy will kill you for sure, if he finds out and if he lives. But he might not find out. And he might not live. On the other hand, if you don't talk to me, I probably won't kill you. But I will fuck you up in a seriously painful and permanent way. And I'm sitting here right now and there's no chance I'm leaving. So you decide."

  The Frenchman thought about it. He swiveled back and forth slightly in his tattered green chair. He thought about the man whom Adalian had sent, the ghost with the mannequin eyes. He thought about the way the man's features had been impossible to describe even to himself, impossible to retain in his memory. The ghost man could return tomorrow and the Frenchman would not recognize him. He could walk through the door or approach him on the street or deliver a package to his house, and he would not know who he was until it was too late. It was not a reassuring thought.

  On the other hand, here was this man Bishop sitting here—sitting here, as he himself pointed out, right now. A lifetime of doing business with mercenaries, hit men, terrorists, and lunatics had given the Frenchman certain insights into their various characters. This Bishop, he thought, had a little bit of all of them in him. And when he said he would cause the Frenchman serious suffering, the Frenchman had no doubt he was telling the absolute truth.