The Art of Arrow Cutting Read online

  “No.”

  “There’s a copy on the shelf there. Don’t drool on the autograph.”

  Mage glanced at the library, which seemed to be the only chaos in the room. The copy of Ronin, in a Ziploc bag, shared a shelf with Musashi’s The Book of Five Rings, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, The Encyclopedia of American Crime, The Dinosaur Heresies, several Swamp Thing and Sandman trade paperbacks, ten volumes of The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, dozens of half-inch-thick Japanese comics, and a French-English dictionary.

  “French?” Mage asked.

  “For sure. I speak Spanish too—comes in useful around here—and Japanese, of course. Plus some Korean and a smattering of half a dozen other languages, enough to get by in. That was the downfall of the ninja, y’know. They were perfect spies in a one-language culture, but when the Europeans came, the ninja didn’t know what they were stealing. You want some tea?”

  So. What’re you going to do now?”

  “Huh? I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never been good at planning ahead.”

  Takumo was sitting comfortably in a lotus position, his eyes closed, his face impassive. “Even if she’s here, man, you’ll never find her. The city’s too big, and I don’t just mean crowded, I mean big, dig? Like imagine if you’d dropped Manhattan from low earth orbit and let it splatter over the landscape; that kind of big, but messier. So where’re you going next?”

  “I don’t know. Back to Nevada, I guess, assuming I live so long.”

  “You can stay here for a couple of days if you like. We should be safe. There’s a good alarm on the door, and security screens on the windows—I went on a heavy paranoia trip a year back, all on behalf of my lady, who split a few weeks later.” He nodded in the direction of a photo on the bookshelf.

  “She’s lovely. What’s her name?”

  “Mike—Californian for Mika. Nisei Japanese. She came to me for taijutsu lessons and moved in. And out.” Takumo’s face remained neutral, though there was an edge in his voice. “But the place is secure,” he continued, with a very slight stress on the noun. “And I’ve hidden a few gimmicks here and there. I know I should have some trapdoors and secret passages too, but the landlady wouldn’t take it too well. Will you be okay on the floor? It never gets that cold here.”

  Mage nodded. “Thanks.”

  “It’s cool,” replied Takumo, still staring into some inner universe. “So, have you finished that roll of film? I’d like to see this mysterious Amanda.”

  10

  Slings and Arrows

  Takumo rose late, spent half an hour sparring with the wooden dummy and the rest of the morning meditating, then showered and dressed. “I’ve got to go and collect my bike. I don’t like leaving it in the carport when I’m out of town, and I have a friend with an empty garage. You can come with me if you like, but you probably won’t get back before the weekend. All the buses spend their time driving past the county court so the drivers can see themselves on the news.”

  “All the buses?”

  “Okay, both the buses.”

  Mage laughed. “What sort of bike?”

  “Kawasaki Ninja,” Takumo replied, grinning. “I’ll be back before sunset.” He donned a leather jacket, boots and gloves, and a helmet with a tinted visor. Black-clad from head to toe, he resembled a very tough shadow. “If you need to go anywhere, lock the door on your way out; you shouldn’t have any trouble getting back in.”

  Tamenaga looked up from the printout, his face carefully neutral. “You’re certain of these figures?”

  Lamm nodded. He rarely spoke to people, not even to his boss; he was a hacker, not a talker. Tamenaga returned his attention to the printout. “Good work.”

  “Easy.”

  “I may need you again tonight.”

  “Sure,” Lamm replied, walking out. Tamenaga stared at the figures for another moment, then reached for the scrambler phone.

  “Get me my daughter.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  He put the receiver down and allowed himself the luxury of a smile. A few seconds later the phone rang.

  “Haruko?”

  “Hai?”

  “Pyramus is going to get the contract; the Senate should pass it next week. I’ll start forcing their stock down immediately; begin buying all you can when it hits two twenty three. If you don’t have a thirty-one-percent share when they close Monday, call me and I’ll do something to delay the bill.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “No, not at the moment. How’s Nakatani doing?”

  “No problems yet, but I don’t think his heart’s in it.”

  Haruko carefully kept any hint of reproach out of her voice. Nakatani may have lacked the instincts that made a good casino manager, but she was aware of his usefulness to the Tamenaga family. She suspected he would have been opposed to having Tony Higuchi killed; the murder may have been justified as a face-saving measure, but it was a bad business decision, and to Shota Nakatani, business was sacrosanct. In that regard, at least, he and Haruko were well suited to each other.

  “Higuchi will be difficult to replace,” her father conceded.

  “Yes,” Haruko agreed softly. The gambler had been a capable lover when he could be persuaded to stay at home —skilled, uninhibited, reasonably considerate, and almost as good as he thought he was—and she hadn’t gotten laid since the night of the funeral. She wondered how good a lover Nakatani might be. His American wife had divorced him three or four years ago now, and she knew he hadn’t been patronizing any of the Sunrise’s professionals or her father’s enslaved karayuki.

  “Have you any suggestions?” asked Tamenaga.

  “What? No … no, I don’t know of anybody.”

  “None of the pit bosses?”

  “Possibly …” said Haruko dubiously.

  Tamenaga grunted. “I’ll see if I can find somebody. I’ll call again tomorrow.” He hung up and reached for the remote. The television was, as always, set to the stock-market channel; Tamenaga stared at the screen for a few seconds, then reached inside his kimono to touch the loop of braided black hair he wore around his neck.

  The slight regret he felt for having had his son-in-law killed was nothing compared to his genuine dismay when the Sharmon woman had stolen Higuchi’s focus and escaped. The gambler’s street smarts and instincts had been useful to his business, but Amanda was a fellow mathematician, a fellow prodigy, perhaps potentially even his own equal, and easily worth a dozen Tony Higuchis … but Haruko would never understand that.

  Takumo returned at five, and the evening passed without event except for a minor argument about the ethics of vegetarianism. They watched The Crow on HBO and a late-night showing of The Man with the X-Ray Eyes. Mage fell asleep three minutes after Elvira’s introduction. Takumo draped his sleeping bag over him without waking him and turned the volume down, then watched the movie to the end, quietly performing one-handed push-ups during the commercials. Mage woke briefly when Takumo turned the television off. “Wha— ?”

  “Good night.”

  Mage shook his head and began undressing. He was about to remove the key from around his neck, then reconsidered. His last thought before falling asleep was that he hadn’t called Carol since before arriving in Calgary and he’d better let her know where he was.

  They were awakened by a peremptory knock on the door. Mage glanced at the clock on the wall, blinked, then realized that the numbers ran counterclockwise. He wondered whether that was meant to represent Japanese left-handedness or Hollywood perversity and decided that he didn’t need to know that badly, not at a quarter to eight. The knock sounded again and he groped for his pants, but Takumo was already halfway to the door, walking quickly but silently across the tatami. He peered through the peephole, shrugged slightly and opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

  “Charles Takumo?” The voice was muffled, but it was unmistakably a cop’s. Mage scrambled into his pants.

  “I have that honor, yes.”

 
“May we come in?”

  Takumo hesitated, then nodded. “If you will excuse me; as you may observe, I am not dressed. One moment, please.” He shut the door quietly, then turned to Mage.

  “Real cops?” whispered Mage.

  “They look real enough,” said Takumo, his expression grim.

  He walked into the bedroom and returned to the door a moment later wearing a black kimono with a startled-looking dragon on the back. He stopped at the door and murmured to Mage, “Sorry there’s no fire escape …” before sliding the chain across.

  “Thank you,” he said without moving from the doorway. “Excuse me, but do you have a warrant? If not, would you mind removing your shoes? They scuff the tatami.”

  The cops glanced at each other. “No, we don’t have a warrant,” said the elder. “We just want to ask you a few questions, and we’d rather do it inside than out. Is that okay?”

  Takumo glanced at their feet and then, impassively, at their faces. After a few seconds, the elder cop swore and bent down to untie his shoes. The younger watched Takumo carefully, apparently expecting him to kick his partner in the face.

  By the time they entered, shoes in hand, Mage was fully dressed and packed. “You’d better hurry,” Takumo told him casually. “You’ll miss the bus. Now …”

  The ruse failed. The elder cop smiled slightly and asked, “Michelangelo Magistrale?” He pronounced it Majistrail, and Mage was about to correct him—and then realized that he’d taken the bait.

  “Yes,” he replied wearily. “I’m Magistrale. What do you want?”

  “Just a few questions.” The cop looked from one to the other.

  Takumo stepped cautiously toward the kitchen. “I was just about to make some tea. Would you—”

  The younger cop rolled his eyes; the elder smiled. “Going somewhere, Mr. Magistrale?” He pronounced it almost correctly.

  Mage shrugged. “Nevada,” he replied. “I have family there.”

  “Just passing through, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “From Canada, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Calgary?”

  “I spent a night—no, two nights—in Calgary, yes. What—”

  “Do you know this girl?” The cop handed over a grainy, badly lit head-and-shoulders shot, probably a passport photo greatly enlarged; it showed what might have been a younger Amanda, with much shorter hair.

  “It’s hard to tell,” said Mage noncommittally. “The photographer should be, uh … who is she?”

  “Her name’s Amanda Sharmon.”

  “I’ve met her,” he replied neutrally.

  “In Calgary?”

  “No, as a matter of fact. Before I went to Calgary.”

  The cop turned to Takumo and tossed the photo to him. Takumo caught it neatly. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I don’t recognize her. Who is she?”

  The cop ignored him and addressed Mage again. “You want to come down to the station, or you want me to arrest you? I will if I have to.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Murder,” replied the cop flatly. “Okay?” He turned to Takumo. “Thanks for the offer. The tea, I mean. Maybe some other time.”

  The smog was thick and gray, reducing visibility to one or two blocks; Mage stared at the pale, pearly disc of the sun without discomfort for several seconds before realizing that it wasn’t the moon.

  “So, are you planning to leave town today or something?” the taller cop asked. Mage remained silent. “‘cause if you are, we may have to arrest you. Just in case.”

  “Am I entitled to a lawyer?”

  The cop rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Y’know, that’s a good question. I know you are if we actually arrest you, but … you know the answer to that one, Harry?” The younger cop, concentrating on the road, merely grunted. “Harry here’s studying law. D’you have a lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “Never needed one?”

  “No.”

  The cop nodded. “Well, I don’t think you’re entitled to a P.D., they’re pretty damn busy, but I’ll ask the captain for you. I wouldn’t sweat it, though. It’s just questions.”

  “But if I get the answers wrong, I’m under arrest?” asked Mage.

  “Something like that, yeah,” the cop replied, not unkindly. “So, you’re from New York?”

  “Yeah. Brooklyn.”

  “Been here before?”

  “Only passing through.” He glanced out the window. There were more pedestrians than he’d expected; he’d been told no one ever walked in L.A. Maybe they were homeless.

  “What were you doing in Canada?”

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “In Calgary?”

  “No.”

  “Relax.” The cop glanced in the mirror and smiled. “Whaddaya got to worry about, anyway?”

  When was the last time you saw Amanda Sharmon?”

  Mage rolled his eyes and then closed them; there was nothing in the interrogation room worth looking at. “The first, last and only time was in Totem Rock, Canada, on Tuesday, October nineteenth.”

  “Where’s Totem Rock?”

  “A few hours south and east of Calgary. I don’t know what province—Alberta or Saskatchewan, I guess—and it isn’t on a lot of maps. Ask Greyhound; they got me there.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “Why? Was she sick?”

  Mage shook his head. “No. Just lonely.”

  “Her name?”

  “Carol Lancaster. Sixty-six Maple Street.”

  “Addr—” The lieutenant shut his mouth with a slight snap. Mage guessed his age at between twenty-six and thirty, his ambition grandiose, his patience limited. “Phone number?”

  Mage reached into his pocket with exaggerated slowness and withdrew his address book. “May I see that?” asked the lieutenant. Mage opened his eyes and handed it over with a slight shrug. The lieutenant opened the book to “S,” was disappointed and flipped a few pages back to “L.”

  “Try ‘C.’ I don’t bother much with surnames.”

  Mage waited while the lieutenant copied down the number, opened the book to “A,” grunted, and then handed it back. “We have statements that you asked about Amanda Sharmon at the hospital, the university, and the youth hostel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Mage shrugged.

  “Was she lonely too?” the lieutenant asked sarcastically.

  “Anyone who has to ask a stranger for bus fare to the hospital isn’t exactly overburdened with friends,” Mage replied heavily. The lieutenant flushed slightly. “And she was also sick—or so everyone’s told me. She didn’t look sick.”

  “What was wrong with her?”

  “A friend of hers told me she had leukemia; I don’t know whether that was true or not. No one else would tell me anything.”

  “Uh-huh. Why did you go to Calgary, Mr. Magistrale?”

  Mage decided not to mention the gunman. “To visit Amanda.”

  “Did Miss Lancaster know this?”

  “Ms. Lancaster—she’s divorced—and no.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “A nurse at the hospital says you implied that you were Amanda Sharmon’s fiancé.”

  “I didn’t intend to; she must have misunderstood me.” Suddenly Mage’s nerve failed—cops, red tape and the threat of jail scared him far more than guns or ghosts, and the LAPD was not renowned for gentleness—and he blurted out, “Look, I could help you a whole lot more if you’d just tell me what the hell is going on! The cop who picked me up said there’d been a murder. Is Amanda dead?”

  The lieutenant ignored him. “Where were you on the night of the twenty-second? That’s Friday last.”

  Mage took a deep, slow breath. “In Calgary.”

  “Where in Calgary?”

  “In Amanda’s old apartment; I don’t remember the address. You can check with her housemate, Jenny Holdri
dge. If you haven’t already.”

  “I haven’t checked with anybody. All I have is the file that the Calgary police passed on to us. They’re the ones who want you extradited, but I won’t do it unless we can see just cause. I presume you don’t want to go back to Canada just yet? You left rather quickly.”

  “I’d exhausted my options.”

  “What?”

  “For finding Amanda. No one seemed to know where she was.”

  “You hadn’t arranged to meet her?”

  “I’d said I might come to the hospital.”

  “You still haven’t told me why.”

  Mage shrugged. “Whim, I guess.”

  “Whim?”

  “I didn’t have any plans, a job, anywhere else to go. She was attractive, and photogenic, and friendly; I’d never been to Calgary—” He stopped; the lieutenant looked as though he’d never indulged a whim in his upwardly mobile life. Changing tack, without any real hope that it would work, Mage added, “And she needed help. A friend.”

  The lieutenant looked at him skeptically, then shrugged. “Okay, Mr. Magistrale. I am formally placing you under arrest pending your extradition to Calgary. You have the right to remain silent …”

  Takumo unzipped the pocket of Mage’s jacket and pulled out the blond wig. He stared at it for several seconds, then walked into the bedroom and stuffed it into a drawer with his movie souvenirs. If all else failed, he could tell the cops that he’d worn it when doubling for an actress.

  He wondered why he was protecting Mage after only three days’ acquaintance. He was still wondering when the cops—the same pair—knocked on the door again. The elder showed him the warrant and let him read it, while Harry carried the backpack and camera case down to the car.

  “The jacket there—that’s his as well?”

  “Yes.”

  The cop nodded. “Anything else?”

  Takumo glanced around the room and shook his head. “He traveled light.”