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."
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 something 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—?
The three of them whirled. The two gunners hesitated half a second, then began firing. Without thinking, Jack pushed his prisoner toward the melee, tripping him along the way, and ducked back into the bedroom.
As he dove for the window a phut-phut-phut-phut sound echoed behind him. He heard something heavy thump to the floor back there, and still the phut-phut barrage continued. He hauled himself onto the fire escape and began climbing as fast as he could. Screw the noise, screw the cops, he had to make the roof before Tojo and company reached the window.
"Stop!" Hideo shouted. "Stop now!"
Finally they listened and stepped away from Cooter-san's bullet-riddled body. They began loading fresh magazines into their pistols.