The noodle vendor looked up at him and grinned. Brook nodded and grinned back.
He continued walking.
In the next slivered second he was throwing himself violently to one side. The stocky man with the towel twisted about his head rushed by.
That was when Brook saw the overgrown icepick in the man’s fist.
He had no time to thank his stars, his sixth sense, and his reflexes. The lunge had been close, too close. The man would not catch him unprepared a second time.
He dropped into a half crouch, balancing, and waited. He had very little time to wait. The man was extraordinarily quick. In the light from the lantern on the cart Brook saw the Japanese face clearly. It was hard and brown and might have been hacked from driftwood. The man held his weapon knife-fighter style, thumb and forefinger in a controlling grip where the haft met the blade. He had whirled at the end of his rush and was on his way back in almost the same motion.
He’s a fool, Brook thought, for all his experience. He should have waited for an opening. He expects to catch me off balance.
Brook pivoted and sucked his belly in like Benny’s toreador. The blade flashed past a half-inch from his belt. He caught the man’s knife arm with his left hand, wedged his shoulder into the man’s armpit, and heaved. The man shot forward under his own momentum. The blade fell to the pavement.
But he was back up and charging even as Brook reached for it. Brook had to grapple with him.
One part of him heard windows sliding open and excited Japanese voices.
The little guy knew a lot. With skillful locks and arm maneuvers he kept Brook tied up, unable to throw a chop. He tried the obvious tricks, kicking around Brook’s ankle to trip him, trying to stamp on his instep; and one or two that were not so obvious, like knuckle-jabbing at pressure points on the neck, elbow, torso. The battered wooden face straining against Brook had a weapon of its own, an overwhelming smell of garlic. It bothered Brook more than the rest of him.
Brook kneed him. It was not well done; it only sent the Japanese reeling back. But it gave Brook the split second he needed to scoop up the stabbing weapon. When he straightened the little man was backing away. For a moment the Japanese went into a crouch and began a circling movement. But it died after a short arc, and he stood still.
“Now we answer questions,” Brook said. “Who are you? Who sent you to kill me?”
The man stared back. If he was afraid, he did not show it, or perhaps his face could no longer show anything. He was backed against his cart.
“You understand English,” Brook said. “I know you do. Who sent you?”
The man grinned. Brook was not deceived. A Japanese grin did not necessarily indicate humor or friendliness. This man grinned like a hyena.
“Okay,” Brook said. “We’ll play it by your rules.”
He gripped the blade ready to lunge, heard something behind him, and spun around. What he saw almost made him laugh. There were two Orientals dressed like the noodle vendor but with surgical masks tied around their mouths and noses — straight out of a psychedelic turn-on. One of the newcomers stood a little forward of the other; he held what looked like a spray can of bug-killer in his hand.
The can hissed and a milky mist enveloped Brook’s face. The mist grew, and the street, the world, began to move in slow circles. Space-monster colors glowed. Then Brook heard a very highpitched buzz, like the sound of a microscopic bee. It seemed far away and it seemed in the very core of his head.
Then there was nothing.
Chapter 7
At first Brook thought it was the lantern on the noodle cart floating before his eyes. Then his focus sharpened and he began to understand that it was a flashlight. It moved to one side and a sober-faced young Japanese in a policeman’s hat was staring down at him.
“Good morning,” Brook said. For the life of him he could not think of anything else to say.
“You... okay... sir?” The policeman’s English was painful.
“I think.” Brook rose, reeling, and the policeman put out a hand. Then Brook saw the black-and-white police sedan, red roof-light flashing, and a second policeman by the door. “How did you happen to be here, Officer?”
“Somebody call. They say big fight in street.”
“Did you get them?”
“No understand.”
“The men who attacked me.”
The policeman shook his head. “We find you. No men.”
“They must have taken off when they heard your car.” Brook shook his head; it was full of mush. It also ached, and his throat and nose were bitter-sweet with something.
The policeman had dug out a notebook. “You tell what happen, please.”
“Three men jumped me. After my wallet, I guess. One of them knocked me out, then I suppose you came along.” And you’re Mrs. Brook’s luckiest little boy.
“Ah, so.” The policeman wrote. “Name. Identi-fi-cation. Must have, please. Then we go police station.”
It could have been worse. He got into the police car.
Brook had to tell his story five times at the stationhouse. He kept it fundamental. He had been walking along the street after visiting a friend, looking for a taxi, when three men jumped him from the shadows in the dark street. They were undoubtedly robbers. He had fought them off for a while — this had apparently been confirmed by the residents of a nearby private house who had witnessed the fight — and then in some way unclear to him, possibly a karate blow, he had been rendered unconscious. And what was the name of the friend he had been visiting at that hour of the morning? Well, to tell the truth, it had been a young lady. They glanced at one another wisely. These Americans! These Japanese girls! Who was the young lady? Where did she live? Brook looked abashed. He didn’t know her name, he was ashamed to say. As for where she lived, it was somewhere in that neighborhood, but he had walked along so many streets and taken so many turns it would be impossible to find it again — all the houses looked alike to him. Ah, so. Where then had he met the young lady? Brook looked bashful. In a bar downtown. Which bar? He shrugged; he hadn’t the faintest idea. There were hundreds of bars downtown, and he was new to Tokyo. He was here on a business trip from the States, and the crazyquilt of streets were a big mystery to him.
It was well into the morning before they let him go, two or three of the officials still looking unconvinced. But it was a story they couldn’t possibly check, so Brook was unconcerned. He was told to notify them promptly if he should change his hotel address, and as he left he heard a heated gabble of Japanese which made him grin.
He went back to the hotel.
There was no message from Benny Lopez.
He showered, shaved the blue sheen off his jaws, slugged an inch and a half of Scotch down neat, and went to bed naked. Just before he rolled over and plunged into sleep he set his alarm for 3 P.M.
When he went back downstairs he found Benny’s message.
Brook snapped a picture of the swans in the moat of the Emperor’s palace. Every tourist in the park took pictures of the swans, the tower-like gatehouses with their curved gables, and the graceful Nijiubashi Bridge. It was a clear sunny day and the park was full of foreigners and Japanese. Nobody paid any attention to him.
A powerful little man with a bag of peanuts strolled toward him, followed by a retinue of pigeons. Today Benny was dressed in his American clothes. It seemed to Brook more of a disguise than the costume in which Benny, with his Aztec face, chose to pass for a Japanese.
Lopez came to a halt at the edge of the moat. “Hi. Has it been fun?”
“Up yours,” Brook said. “How about you?”