Cooter-san, defeated now, gave his friend's street address without argument or further duress.

    As Hideo reached for his PDA to key in the data, he heard a thunk and a man's scream. He looked up in time to see a small dark object tumble through the air, trailing a fine thread of blood. Goro's hand darted out and caught it in midflight.

    Hideo looked at Cooter-san and saw him writhing in agony as blood flowed from the stub end of his little finger. His stomach turned.

    "What—what did you do?" he cried in Japanese.

    Goro gave him a flat look. "Yubitsume."

    "You weren't supposed to hurt him! I told you that!"

    "I know."

    And then he popped the fingertip into his mouth and swallowed it whole.

    Hideo couldn't believe his eyes. "What—?"

    Goro smiled and said, "So they can't sew it back on."

    "But you were not supposed to hurt him!"

    "He should not have informed on his friend."

    Furious, confused, frustrated, Hideo turned to Kenji. "Stop his bleeding and return him to his home."

    Then he hurried from the building. He did not want to be sick in front of the yakuza.

    Hank couldn't believe it, so he made Darryl say it again.

    "I found the bitch. She's in the Milford Plaza."

    "You're sure? You're absolutely sure?"

    "Hey, man, ain't I been lookin at her face all day, every day for weeks?"

    Yeah, he had. Hank's gut tingled with triumph, but he was afraid to celebrate. All along he'd put on a confident face, but in his heart he hadn't truly believed he'd ever find her. The flyers had been a long shot but, ironically, in the end it had been one of his own Kickers who'd come through.

    If it was really her. He had to ask again.

    "No question in your mind?"

    "She looks thinner than in the picture, but it's her. She was in that same Arab getup at first, and then she took it off. It's her all right. Followed her on the C from SoHo to the Deuce, in and out of a Duane Reade, and into the Milford Plaza."

    Milford Plaza? What was she doing there? No sign of her for weeks and weeks, and then she shows up in a theater-district tourist trap. What was going on?

    "She with that chauffeur you mentioned the other day?"

    "That's the weird part. He was following her in and out of these stores like a bodyguard, like stink on shit, but then she comes tearing out of the last store and he's nowhere to be seen. Almost like she was ditching him."

    None of this made any sense. Had she had a falling-out with whoever had been hiding her?

    He realized it didn't matter. She'd come out of hiding and gone to ground again. But now he knew where.

    "You're sure she's still there?"

    "I watched her check in—paid cash. Watched her take an elevator. I'm calling from the lobby where I can see the elevators. She ain't come out."

    "Good man, good man. Any chance you got her room number?"

    "Naw. Didn't want to get too close. She seen me twice now."

    Good old Darryl was smarter than he looked.

    Be nice to know the room number, but they didn't need it. After all, not as if they could march in, bundle her up, and carry her out. No, they'd have to play a waiting game. She couldn't hole up there forever. Sooner or later she'd have to hit the street. And then they'd have her.

    "Say," Darryl said, "um, when do I get my reward?"

    "Soon as she's in this building, standing right here in front of me. But for now you stay right where you are with your eyeballs glued to those elevators. Got it?"

    "Got it."

    "I'll send you some relief ASAP." A question popped into his head. "Any idea what she bought in Duane's?"

    He could sense Darryl's shrug.

    "Dunno. Like in the hotel, I didn't want to get too close, so I stayed across the street. She went in empty-handed and came out carrying a little white bag. Maybe she's on the rag."

    Hank wanted to say, She's pregnant, you idiot, but bit it back. Darryl had done good work. No upside to insulting him.

    Still, he wondered what had been important enough to make her detour on the way to a new hiding place.

    And then he thought he knew.

    Of course.

    Standing in the deepening dusk outside Gerrish's apartment building, Tom O'Day punched his number into his cell phone and waited for him to pick up.

    "Hello?"

    "I'm here."

    A sigh, then, "Okay."

    Not a lot of enthusiasm there.

    The buzzer sounded, unlatching the door. Tom yanked it open and stepped inside. Halfway through the inner door he stopped.

    His nape was tingling. And why not? It should be. He was standing in the same building as the fucking Gaijin Masamune.

    He shook it off and headed for the elevator, cursing himself for being such a jerk when Gerrish called him the other day, offering the sword. He'd moved a little hot merch for him a couple of times in the past and now he was looking to unload the sword. When he'd described the condition, Tom had told him forget it—sell it for scrap metal.

    Idiot! How could he have been so fucking stupid?

    But how could he have known?

    So as soon as that guy Jack had left the store yesterday he'd looked back through his phone's call history and found Gerrish's number. He'd been calling him for two fucking days now. Finally he'd got through late this afternoon. Apparently the jerk hardly ever charged his phone.

    But worse: Gerrish was no longer in a selling mood. Said he'd changed his mind and wanted to keep it. At least he still had it. If he'd sold it to someone else…

    Tom didn't want to think about that.

    After much wheedling—humiliating as all hell—he brought Gerrish around to the point where he'd allow him to examine the sword.

    When the door to 4D opened, Tom offered his hand.

    "Hugh, thanks so much. I really appreciate this."

    Gerrish's handshake was as limp as his tone. "Yeah, well, I hope you don't think you can talk me into selling."

    When he stepped through the door the tingle in his neck spread down his back. He was in the same room as the fucking Gaijin Masamune.

    "Like I told you on the phone, I just want to see it." He'd worked up this story earlier in the day. "You said it was rusted out in spots, and that makes it pretty much worthless. But then I got to thinking that maybe it wasn't rust. Maybe it was some kind of design in the steel that hadn't been reported before. I need a look."

    "Okay. You can look, you can touch, but you can't have."

    "Sure. Fine. But a few days ago you were itching to sell. What made you change your mind?"

    Gerrish's expression wavered from resolute to uncertain. "I'm not really sure."

    "You sound pretty sure."

    "When I… when it came into my possession, I had a feeling it was special… that I could, you know, move it for some decent change."

    "So you called me."

    "Yeah, but you turned me down."

    "That I did." Schmuck that I am.

    "Turned out I was glad you did. Because the thing's kinda been growing on me. I decided to keep it."

    "Interesting. Where is it now?"

    Gerrish motioned Tom down the short hallway to the main room where he made a flourish toward the coffee table.

    "Ta-daaa!"

    Tom stopped and stared. The room could have been made of solid gold and lined with the proverbial seventy-two naked virgins. Who cared? Tom had eyes for only one thing.