Bob poked the live one, felt him stir, then groan. The eyes finally came open, blinked as he reacquainted himself with unpleasant memories of the last few minutes.

He touched the wound under his eye, from which blood flowed. It had already started to puff and would soon grow to the size of a grapefruit.

“Hey, you,” said Bob, “listen here or I will do some more cutting on you.”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“Why not, it’s fun.”

“Oh, my face,” said the guy, who, Bob now saw, was about twenty-five or so. His mug issued blood, tears, and snot from a variety of damaged sites.

“Pay attention. You have to deliver a message, all right?”

“Sure, Joe.”

“My name ain’t Joe, asshole. See this?” He brandished the red silk sword bag. “It’s the sword. It’s my sword, I have it back. Kondo Isami wants it bad. Fine, I’ll barter it to him. He has something I want. When I get it, I’ll give him the sword.”

“I hear you.”

“In three days, I’ll take a classified in the Japan Times personals column. It’ll be addressed to a ‘Yuki.’ It’ll be in alphabet code from The Nobility of Failure in English, not the Japanese translation. Got that?”

“What’s that?”

“A book, you moron. Way too hard for you. He’ll know what it is. Can you remember that?”

“Sure, J-sir.”

“Sir I like. The ad’ll give a location, a park probably. He’s to meet me at that park alone the following evening. He gives me what I want. I’ll give him what he wants.”

“Sure,” said the fat yak. Then his eyes clouded over with puzzlement. “You want money? A pile of it?”

“I don’t give a shit about money, clown-san.”

“What you want, then?”

“His head,” Bob said. “Tell him to bring it.”

32

Kondo was fascinated.

“He said that? He actually said that?”

“Yes. He did.”

“Nii, tell me again. Tell me exactly.”

“I asked him what he wanted from you. He said ‘His head. Tell him to bring it.’”

“Cheeky fellow.”

“He was, Oyabun.”

They were in Nii’s apartment. A private nurse in 8-9-3 employ had stitched and bandaged Nii up, as his own fellows cleaned the sword polisher’s shop after dark, making sure the bodies and all the carnage on the floor-and the chopped leg-were neatly disposed of. Nii, stitched, swollen, returned to his own place, and a few other men of Shinsengumi lingered about, dark-eyed, dark-suited, wary. Kondo, however, was lit up by the situation. Something in it pleased him immensely. He could not keep a half smile off his face.

“Describe him again, please.”

“American. Tallish, not gigantic. When himself, composed. Not one for excitement. His eyes were very still. He knew where to look, how to move. He’d killed before. Blood, the ugliness of the cuts, none of that had any effect on him.”

“Tell me again how he fought. Details this time, Nii. Tell me everything.”

“He was shrewd. We were stupid.”

“You were stupid, Nii.”

“I was stupid. He smelled of drink. He was wild and loud and out of control. His hair was a mess. He was any gaijin you see in Kabukicho, full of wild plans, knowing nothing. I was thinking how to get him out of there without incident, without the police becoming involved. I knew it would be difficult. I missed something.”

“What?”

“He picked the lock. I heard it lock yet in seconds he had penetrated it. He was an experienced man. I sat there, trying to remember whether or not we had locked it. Now I know we had.”

“So he deceived you.”

“With the drunk act, completely. It was brilliant. If he had announced himself at the door, he would have greeted six men, blades out, hearts strong. Instead he got close with his absurd drunken act. Then, in a flash, he was sober and deadly. He cut down the first two in one stroke, expertly delivered. His best cut of the fight, I think, though the cut he made on Kamiizumi was also excellent. Anyway, they were gone and lost in the first second, Johnny Hanzo in the next. Johnny Hanzo lost his head and charged and the gaijin quietly let him come, then pierced him in the second before Johnny could unleash a cut, and Johnny was gone. In less than three seconds three men were out of the fight.”

Through the narration, Kondo sat quietly, in rapt concentration, as if he were working on serious visualization skills. He was seeing all this in the dark space before him.

“So then there were three?”

“Yes. And all three could not get around the old man on his platform. So Kashima and I went one way, and Kamiizumi the other.”

“Kamiizumi was the best of you six. The oldest, the most experienced. He’d been in fights before.”

“He was magnificent. I thought for certain he would achieve victory or cut the man so bad the victory would fall to us. But the gaijin anticipated his cut, took it, and used it to propel himself into flowing block, threw it off, then came through with something I’d never seen before, a kind of one-handed drive, amazingly fast. He had to anticipate which way Kamiizumi, blocked, would break. Perhaps it was just luck, but he hit Kamiizumi in the throat. Unbelievable. Such blood. It was-”

“Did he watch him fall?”

“No, Oyabun. Instead he turned immediately to face us as we came around the old man. He went under Kashima and cut him through the leg. He sundered it. That’s when I had him. His blade was momentarily trapped in Kashima’s second leg, because he didn’t anticipate getting through so easily and had lost a firm grip on the sword as it bit into the second leg. It was a blown cut, trapped, tying him up. But then Kashima toppled and his blade came free.”

“You had him.”

“I did. Him below, sword down, myself above, driving full strength toward my target, his neck. If you try for speed, you do not achieve speed.”

“It must be no-try. Always, no-try.”

“It was try. Too much try, Oyabun. I slipped, lost my footing, and when I was back in timing, he was ready; he took it, slipped it, and drove his hilt into my face.”

“It wasn’t pretty.”

“It wasn’t. The last was sheer improvisation on his part. Very sloppy. I think he was running out of energy.”

“How old was he?”

“Advanced. Not ancient. Oldish. Late forties, maybe early fifties, maybe older. Very brown from a lot of sun, as if permanently tanned. Thinning hair. His face never got passionate, except the last time he hit me. I think he enjoyed that.”

“What a man. This is so wonderful. I can’t begin to tell you. I have never fought six. What were his strengths?”

“Spirit. He was very hard of resolve. He was not scared, excited, scattered, angry, or anything. He was empty of everything except his professionalism.”

“I like that.”

“He was fast. He was very fast. His hands particularly. I will say, however, that he fought much better against one than against two. He easily defeated every single man he fought, he vanquished the first two with nukitsuke. He only faltered when the two of us moved in, where he made a mistake and I almost had him.”

“Excellent.”

“Oyabun, may I be permitted to commit seppuku now?”

“No, no, no. There’s too much to do. I have nobody to spare as your second. We don’t have time now.”

“I am so ashamed. I cannot face my parents’ ghosts, my friends, our other Shinsengumi. I can hardly face you.”

“Don’t be an idiot. It would accomplish nothing. Plus, I’ve seen it and it hurts. It’s very messy. You may have to die, Nii, but at least let it mean something. Now look at Kamiizumi and the others. Their deaths were helpful. They exposed the strengths and the weaknesses of the man. They died well. You conveyed the information that they unearthed to me. It’s valuable information. If you had cut yourself after the fight and killed yourself, that information never would have reached me. What good would have been accomplished?”