the kids say. Get your game face on, bitch.”
He rubbed his mouth and smiled.
“Wes always said this moment would come. You’re a Heron. I expected one of ours at least.” Her gaze lingered on his open collar, the needlework. That she could read its fragment impressed him. “So, are you man or mouse? Friend or foe?”
The dizziness receded and Nanashi’s legs steadied. His instinct took over now: balls retracted, adrenaline flowed, higher brain functions reduced to static. Fear made an ecstatic of him. “I’m a rabbit, apparently.” His voice cracked. His gun was in his hand like magic. He moved past her into the living room, toward the main entrance, and gods it was a gorgeous home, opulent and cozy. He noted the decorative stones of a fountain, small busts of copper and bronze and jade, scarlet hangings and reed screens inlaid with onyx and gold calligraphy, bearskin rugs cast about haphazardly, and crossed polearms with tassels and pieces of samurai armor on stands and racks. So many wonderful things to kill with.
Muzaki had owned several such homes in Japan and others in the United States and Canada, and mistresses accompanied each. Truly a blessed man. Truly a cursed man.
Artificial fire flickered in the hearth. Rainbows of exotic fish shifted within tiered aquariums. These rainbows undulated across the woman and the dog as they silently watched him rush to drop the metallic drapes on the windows. The rainbow pattern splayed over the blinds, sealing off his glimpse of the front yard and the outer darkness that pressed just past the porch lights.
“Where are we?” he said.
“Near Yamagata,” she said.
Yamagata lay many kilometers north of where he’d left his companions minutes ago. Before the blinds dropped he’d gotten an impression of big rocks and trees and assumed the property lay beyond the city limits. Several feet away the oak finish of a wet bar shone like true love and abutting it a cherry-panel turntable emitted its classic rock music. He opened a drawer and fixed himself a tall glass of Okuhida, tossed it back and poured another for himself and a fresh glass for the lady. She accepted the drink without comment. Confidence restored, he stared at her and downed his liquor. Neither of them blinked.
The dog whined uneasily. Its teeth were daggers.
Sweat trickled into the seams of Nanashi’s forehead and seeped along his cheeks. He felt stirrings of power, the surging vitality of a gorilla, a shark, a tiger. Fire kindled in the center of him, his flesh tingled and tightened and his asshole contracted to a marble. The sweet-bitter tastes of adrenaline cut with vodka prickled his tongue. A ferocious recklessness built within him not unlike the approaching climax of a sex act. He yawned, not quite ready, not quite there, but close.
“Oh, I like you,” she said without sounding as if she really did.
“Muzaki-san said the same.” The player clunked and a new record began to spin. Hair of the Dog, by Nazareth. He threw back his head and laughed from the belly. A roar. He realized she’d been dancing in the nude to the classic rock of her homeland when he and the grotesque phantom of her husband intruded so dramatically. He’d seen her dance onscreen, an erotic Dance of the Seven Veils routine for her Mafioso husband that caused audiences and critics to salivate. The Academy tossed her an Oscar nomination as a reward.
A bell gonged, twice. The front door came off its hinges.
Nanashi knew the one in charge, a slim man with a shaved head and blond goatee by the name of Kada. Kada the Sadist, some muttered. Kada the Brave. Kada the Handsome. Kada, second son of the Chairman himself, so Kada the Favored. A playboy, even by yakuza standards. He’d tittered behind his hand when Nanashi lost a piece of his finger that fateful night long ago. Nanashi didn’t recognize the other five. Dead men but for the formalities.
Kada dressed in white. His minions wore black suits and slick sunglasses
He rubbed his mouth and smiled.
“Wes always said this moment would come. You’re a Heron. I expected one of ours at least.” Her gaze lingered on his open collar, the needlework. That she could read its fragment impressed him. “So, are you man or mouse? Friend or foe?”
The dizziness receded and Nanashi’s legs steadied. His instinct took over now: balls retracted, adrenaline flowed, higher brain functions reduced to static. Fear made an ecstatic of him. “I’m a rabbit, apparently.” His voice cracked. His gun was in his hand like magic. He moved past her into the living room, toward the main entrance, and gods it was a gorgeous home, opulent and cozy. He noted the decorative stones of a fountain, small busts of copper and bronze and jade, scarlet hangings and reed screens inlaid with onyx and gold calligraphy, bearskin rugs cast about haphazardly, and crossed polearms with tassels and pieces of samurai armor on stands and racks. So many wonderful things to kill with.
Muzaki had owned several such homes in Japan and others in the United States and Canada, and mistresses accompanied each. Truly a blessed man. Truly a cursed man.
Artificial fire flickered in the hearth. Rainbows of exotic fish shifted within tiered aquariums. These rainbows undulated across the woman and the dog as they silently watched him rush to drop the metallic drapes on the windows. The rainbow pattern splayed over the blinds, sealing off his glimpse of the front yard and the outer darkness that pressed just past the porch lights.
“Where are we?” he said.
“Near Yamagata,” she said.
Yamagata lay many kilometers north of where he’d left his companions minutes ago. Before the blinds dropped he’d gotten an impression of big rocks and trees and assumed the property lay beyond the city limits. Several feet away the oak finish of a wet bar shone like true love and abutting it a cherry-panel turntable emitted its classic rock music. He opened a drawer and fixed himself a tall glass of Okuhida, tossed it back and poured another for himself and a fresh glass for the lady. She accepted the drink without comment. Confidence restored, he stared at her and downed his liquor. Neither of them blinked.
The dog whined uneasily. Its teeth were daggers.
Sweat trickled into the seams of Nanashi’s forehead and seeped along his cheeks. He felt stirrings of power, the surging vitality of a gorilla, a shark, a tiger. Fire kindled in the center of him, his flesh tingled and tightened and his asshole contracted to a marble. The sweet-bitter tastes of adrenaline cut with vodka prickled his tongue. A ferocious recklessness built within him not unlike the approaching climax of a sex act. He yawned, not quite ready, not quite there, but close.
“Oh, I like you,” she said without sounding as if she really did.
“Muzaki-san said the same.” The player clunked and a new record began to spin. Hair of the Dog, by Nazareth. He threw back his head and laughed from the belly. A roar. He realized she’d been dancing in the nude to the classic rock of her homeland when he and the grotesque phantom of her husband intruded so dramatically. He’d seen her dance onscreen, an erotic Dance of the Seven Veils routine for her Mafioso husband that caused audiences and critics to salivate. The Academy tossed her an Oscar nomination as a reward.
A bell gonged, twice. The front door came off its hinges.
Nanashi knew the one in charge, a slim man with a shaved head and blond goatee by the name of Kada. Kada the Sadist, some muttered. Kada the Brave. Kada the Handsome. Kada, second son of the Chairman himself, so Kada the Favored. A playboy, even by yakuza standards. He’d tittered behind his hand when Nanashi lost a piece of his finger that fateful night long ago. Nanashi didn’t recognize the other five. Dead men but for the formalities.
Kada dressed in white. His minions wore black suits and slick sunglasses
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