If the Pulitzer folks awarded a prize for headlines, the Post would win every year.
He skimmed the page three article. It reported how tests had shown that even bacteria and mold spores had been killed. The consensus was some sort of toxin, but nobody knew what particular toxin. Whatever it was, this stuff killed everything.
Just then a vaguely Asian guy stepped in and looked around. He wore khaki slacks and a long-sleeve, blue-and-white-striped rugby shirt. As his gaze settled on Jack, he raised his eyebrows and pointed. Jack nodded.
The guy wound through the tables and offered his hand when he reached Jack's. "Nakanaori Slater. But you can call me—"
"Naka," Jack said, shaking his hand. Good grip. He pointed to the other chair. "Yeah, I know."
Close up now Jack could see the Caucasian influence in his skin tone and features. Unlike his predecessor, this guy looked like the genuine offspring of a Japanese and an American. He also looked older than his predecessor—Jack guessed a well-preserved sixty, or maybe younger—and a lot more relaxed. His black hair was streaked with gray, and he too wore it combed down over the left half of his forehead.
"Moki's friend must have told you," he said, smiling as he seated himself. "What else did she tell you?"
His smooth English said he'd been raised in an English-speaking household.
"Nothing. I have no idea who she is."
He frowned. "Then how—?"
"Let me tell you a story, see if it rings a bell. Four days ago, right here at this table, I met with an Asian dude who also called himself Nakanaori Slater. He gave me a middle name too but—"
"Okumo?" Slater's face lightened a few shades. "He said he was Nakanaori Okumo Slater?"
"Yeah. Quite a mouthful. So I was glad for the just-call-me-Naka part."
He looked baffled. "But I'm—"
The waitress arrived then. Older than the one last time. Jack ordered a Hoegaarden, then waited to see what Slater would do.
"A double Jack Daniel's on the rocks."
Jack realized in the case of Naka One he should have heeded W. C. Fields's warning about never trusting a man who doesn't drink. Naka Two drank Jack Daniel's before lunch. Did that earn extra trust points?
He caught Jack studying him. "I need a double after what you just told me."
"Don't have to explain to me."
"Describe this 'Naka,'" he said.
"Japanese—all Japanese from the look of him, though he said he had an American father." He pointed to the dippity-do over Slater's left forehead. "Same hairstyle too."
Slater lifted his hair, revealing the rest of his forehead. "Did he have this?"
Jack stared at what looked like a red wine stain spreading from his hairline almost to his eyebrow. He tried to picture Naka Slater Number One's face and couldn't recall ever getting a peek under the dip.
"Couldn't say."
"My dad called it the Slater Stain. All the Slater men have something like it." He released the handful of hair, letting it drop back into place. "He had it, and both my sons have it, though thankfully to a lesser degree than I." He leaned forward, his onyx eyes intent. "What else did he tell you?"
Jack gave him a condensed version: Heirloom katana blade stolen from his Maui plantation, traced to New York, woman living with artist friend gives him Jack's name, so Naka Slater comes to New York to hire Jack to find the blade.
Slater's face was even paler than before. "That's incredible! It's all true except that I'm Naka Slater, but I didn't get to New York until yesterday. He didn't happen to mention any scrolls, did he?"
"No, nothing about scrolls."
"A bunch of ancient scrolls my father and Matsuo confiscated from—"
" 'Confiscated.' I like that."
"Okay, stole. They were stolen from me along with the katana, and I've recovered neither. I don't care about the scrolls—have no idea what's on them and couldn't care less—but that katana…"
The drinks arrived. Even though he wasn't all that hungry after the earlier omelet, Jack ordered the burger with cheddar cheese and bacon. Couldn't pass up an Ear burger. Slater ordered the same.
Naka Two was starting out a lot easier to like than One.
As the waitress was leaving, he tapped her arm and rattled the ice in his near-empty glass. "Another of these?" He pointed to the barely sipped Hoegaarden but Jack shook his head.
Not yet.
Slater drained his sour mash and said, "Another Slater trait: a fondness for booze and a very efficient liver." He put down the glass and stared at Jack. "Now the all-important question: Did you find the blade?"
Jack gave a reluctant nod. Slater must have noticed the reluctance because he stiffened in his seat.
"Oh, God. Don't tell me—"
Jack nodded again.
He slammed his fist on the table. "Kokami!"
"Pardon?"
"A Hawaiian term of endearment. Any way of tracking it down?"
Leaving out the deaths and the yakuza and what he'd had to go through to get the sword, Jack told him about the attempted exchange, Naka One's attempt to kill him, the subsequent accident, and the disappearing sword.
Slater squeezed his eyes shut. "So, it's literally a dead end."
"Very literally. Very dead."
Slater's second JD arrived. As he scooped it up and sipped, Jack remembered something.
"Roll up your sleeves."
"Why?"
"The other Naka was younger, but otherwise copied you down to the hair comb. I wonder if his tattoo was part of that."
Slater showed Jack a pair of bare forearms. "I don't have any tattoos. As someone said, why decorate your body with drawings you wouldn't hang on your wall?"
"Okay. This other guy had some sort of hexagon or something tattooed above his left wrist."
Slater frowned as he pulled down his sleeves. "Hexagon? That's it? No dragons or hibiscus or carp or any of the usual Japanese design salad?"
"No." Jack tried to picture the dead man's arm. "Just a hollow hexagon with a bunch of crisscrossing lines. Like hatch marks." He glanced at Slater and found him staring at him. "What?"
"You're pulling my leg, right?"
"No."
He signaled to the waitress. "Can I borrow your pen?"
She handed it to him and he began scribbling on the butcher-paper tablecloth. When he'd finished, he pointed to it.
"Did it look anything like that?"
Jack looked. "Exactly."
"It can't be." He slammed the pen down. "Impossible."
"If you say so. But for curiosity's sake—let's just assume I'm not lying—what's it supposed to mean?"
Slater was silent a long time. Finally…
"Sorry. I'm not calling you a liar. It's just… that was one of the symbols used by an ancient Japanese cult of self-mutilating monks. They—"
"Whoa." A cult? Winslow had mentioned a cult. "And did you say self-mutilating?"
Slater nodded. "Well, not self-mutilating in the strictest sense. They mutilated each other."
"Swell."
"Once they'd gone through acolyte stages and reached the inner circles, they'd cut little flaps in their facial skin to hold a cloth mask in place, leaving only the eyes visible. Then they started giving up their senses, one at a time: sight, smell, taste, hearing, touch."
"Touch? How do you give up touch? Unless you cut off your skin."