“Nope. Did some work for ’em once, didn’t like it.”

“Who taught you the sword?”

“Toshiro Mifune.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“Pal, I ain’t here to play twenty questions.”

“What was Philip Yano to you?”

“A good man with a good family who never deserved what he got.”

“He was nothing. There are more important things than one obscure family living on a government pension and investments.”

“I would say, He was everything. I would say, Cut the shit, let’s get cracking. The longer I stand here, the more I feel like breaking your neck.”

“I spent some time in America. You remind me of a football team captain who ended up a fireman. Stupid, loud, aggressive, but brave. He died on nine/eleven when the tower went down on him.”

“It makes me sick that a creep like you even knew him.”

“Yes, he was a hero, as you are. But in a different way. His was samurai’s courage, rash and emotional and caught up in the moment. That I understand. You’ve had weeks to think this over, to consider, to find reasons not to act. Yet you persevere. What drives you on this bizarre personal mission that can end in nothing but disaster for you? I suppose you’ve rationalized it elaborately. Really, I’m curious. Why? Why?”

“On,” said Bob.

“On,” scoffed the man. “You can know nothing of on. Obligation. It’s a Japanese concept, endlessly convoluted and twisted. It’s meaningless to any American.”

“I think I get it pretty well.”

“Impossible,” he said. “I went to an American high school. I had a year at an American university. I know America. No American could feel on.”

“Ask your pals at the polisher’s how serious I am. They’d know.”

“You had the advantage of complete surprise. So possibly the feat is less impressive than you imagine.”

“Sir, I really don’t give a fuck whether you’re impressed or not. I want the child.”

“I want the sword.”

“You can see that I don’t have it.”

“Where is it?”

“When I get the child in one hand, I’ll cut your head off with it with the other, and that’s when you’ll know where it is.”

Kondo reached in his pocket and pulled out a cellular phone.

“Two days from now, at five thirty a.m., you will receive a phone call on that phone. You will be given a route. You will proceed. I believe you have a motorcycle? I’d wait for the call near the Imperial Palace. That’s centrally located. At five forty a.m. you will get another call. It will direct you to turn. This will continue for a bit until you arrive at a certain destination at around six a.m., though you will have to run some stoplights. But you’d better run those stoplights. If you are late I will cut one of the child’s fingers off. Each minute, one finger. When I run out of fingers, toes. Then there’ll be nothing trivial to cut, so I’ll cut limbs. She’ll probably bleed to death before I get all four off, but if not, I’ll take out each eye, her nose, and her tongue. It means nothing to me. So you had better be on time.”

“I am really going to enjoy taking your head.”

“You bring the sword. I will release the child when I have the sword. The initiative is mine, I control the transaction. You may leave with the child. Later I’ll call you on the cellular and set up another appointment. We will settle our business.”

“It sucks, of course. You could have sixty men there with AKs.”

“I could. But if you don’t agree, I’ll start cutting the child right now. You doubt it? Look over there.” He indicated and Bob saw, fifty yards away, a large man with a bruised, bandaged face-Bob remembered clocking him hard, twice, at the polisher’s-and Bob saw Miko. The big man had his hands on her shoulders. She looked scared and wan. Her controller turned his hand, and the light caught the blade of a tanto held intimately against her delicate throat. There was also something about his hand, some sexual electricity. You could see he enjoyed the closeness, her smell, her helplessness.

“That boy will cut her in a second. He is true yakuza, living for obedience to his oyabun.”

The obscenity of the large, strong young man holding the bright blade against the terrified little girl and enjoying it so much filled Swagger with rage. But rage was not helpful.

“I’m impressed with how strong you are against little girls,” he said. “That’s quite a trick, but we’ll see how you do with someone with a sharper sword and faster reflexes. My guess is I’ll see fear in your eyes before I cut you down.”

“We’ll see you in a while, gaijin. Bring Beheader of Kira.”

“I’ll be there. And when I’m done with you, I’ll donate Beheader of Kondo to a museum.”

36

They drove back across Tokyo in a giant black car. Miko sat in the back-on the floor, actually-between the two giant monsters. The two men said nothing to each other or to her. She just sat there, feeling the start and stop of the car in traffic.

She had recognized the Tin Man, the man from the good memories even if she wasn’t sure what they were, what they meant. This time, he looked at her with such sadness in his eyes, and as she watched, the sadness flashed to rage, then went calm again. But she had caught it, that moment of rage, and somehow from that she took some hope. He knew, somehow. He was on her side. He would save her. But then the two giant monsters roughly returned her to the car, calling her only “Little Girl,” never her name, as if she was the unwanted stepchild. And she drove back to the house, the room.

The giant monster dragged her out of the vehicle. In a kind of courtyard, she caught a brief flash of fresh air. The courtyard was walled, somewhere in the city, and she could hear the sounds of traffic, see apartment buildings off in one direction. She had the impression of many men. They seemed to lounge everywhere, young men without women, all in black suits, all somehow tough or ready to fight. They scared her, as they gambled or joked or looked at magazines, or boisterously shoved each other around. She knew they were some kind of army.

The giant monster took her upstairs to a white room. She knew it well. It contained a bed and a television set. There were no toys or books or dolls. The windows were painted white. There was a bathroom attached. Three times a day, she was brought food, usually by one of the angry young men or by the giant monster with the swollen face who was her primary keeper. It was always takeout food, hamburger from McDonald’s or fish cakes, or pork cutlets wrapped in paper bags, or some such, a Coke in a cardboard cup. An hour later, wordlessly, someone would return, unlock the door, and take the garbage out. Meanwhile, she just sat and watched the television, or sat in the whiteness thinking and remembering, or sat in the whiteness crying.

“Little Girl,” said the Monster, “you know the rules. You stay here. You obey. If you do not obey, I will punish you. I believe in punishment. Your parents did not punish you hard enough. I will punish you severely. Do you understand?”

“How long-”

“Be quiet! Little Girl, ask no questions. You need to know nothing. Be a good little girl or we will have to punish you.”

Then he locked her in her room.

“Nii, come here,” said Kondo.

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“How’s the eye?”

“It’s fine.”

“What did you think of him this time?”

“Without a sword, he’s just another man, Oyabun.”

“He seemed calm. That impressed me. He had a moment when he saw the child and his eyes flared. He felt rage. But then he controlled it. He knew that if he tried anything, you would have cut the child’s throat.”

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“Nii, you would have cut the child’s throat, right?”

“Yes, Oyabun.”

“Sometimes I worry, Nii. Of them all, I trust you the most. These fellows are hard and tough and will obey and fight, even the new ones. But your job, Nii, that is the hardest. I cannot believe the gaijin won’t try something. And it may be that you will have to kill the child. You must be samurai. You must be Shinsengumi. You must be Eight-Nine-Three. You must be all will and no heart.”