He'd decided on the alley next to Julio's. It was convenient, he was familiar with it, and meeting there wouldn't necessarily connect him to the bar.
After cutting the call, he stood in his front room staring at the rolled-up rug lying on his round oak table. It seemed to call to him.
Shrugging, he unwrapped it and took a two-handed grip on the handle. He knew next to nothing about swords, but the katana's balance was so perfect it seemed to want to move of its own accord. He carried it to the center of the room where he lurched into an improvised sword kata that probably looked a lot more like John Belushi than Toshiro Mifune.
He felt a twinge of regret that he'd called Naka Slater. It felt good in his hands, so good that he didn't want to set it down. Heirloom or not, collector's item or not, object of murderous desire or not, he wanted this on his wall, not some rich plantation owner's. He could give back the advance…
He forced himself to put down the sword, telling himself not to start down that slippery slope. He'd made a deal to find and return it. He'd accomplished the first half, now to complete the job.
He stared down at the sword where it lay on the dirty old rug. Something entrancing about the pattern of holes in its blade. Almost hypnotizing.
What the hell.
He picked it up and began swinging it again.
"He has the katana, sensei!" The familiar voice was bursting with joy. "He will deliver it tonight!"
Only a supreme effort of will prevented Toru from leaping to his feet and shouting Banzai! For once the meaning would be literal—possession of the katana guaranteed the Kakureta Kao a thousand years.
But the Order did not yet possess it.
Controlling his voice, Toru said, "You have done well, but two tasks remain: Take possession of the katana, and see that no one can connect you or the Order to it."
"Yes, sensei."
Toru studied the younger man through the eyeholes of his silk mask.
"You have been trained in the fighting arts, and you are so proficient that you have trained others. But you have never used them for anything like this. Are you capable of killing?" He raised a hand as Tadasu opened his mouth. "Think well on this. It is crucial. If you are not sure, I will send someone along to see it is done."
His dark eyes flashed. "I will need no help, sensei. I can do this."
Toru studied his determined expression for a few heartbeats, then nodded.
"I believe that you can and that you will."
He bowed. "It will be an honor to so serve the Order."
Darryl checked his watch—4:40. Man, he was tired. Had to give it up and catch some Z's. Needed to be rested for the red-eye shift at midnight.
Okay. Give it another twenty and quit at five, grab a couple of brews and hit the hay.
He watched a cab pull up, saw the door open and a gal get out. Seemed the right age, short brown hair, shades. He was about to write her off when he took another look. Something familiar about those shades. Just like the ones Dawn had been wearing—he knew 'cause he'd got a couple of close looks when he'd seen her in that Arab getup. He took a closer look at her face and—
Fuck me! It's her!
He watched in shock as she kept her head down and hurried inside. He shook it off and checked the cab as it passed, memorizing its number. Then he hurried over to the van. He was going to give the guys inside a bit of pure hell. And then who did he see standing there, leaning in the window, but Hank himself.
Perfect.
Hank smiled at him as he came up to the van.
"Hey, Darryl. What's—?"
"She got out!" He pointed to the guys in the van. "She got past them! Me too!"
Hank's smile vanished. "What are you talking about?"
"I just saw her get out of a cab and go inside."
"Bullshit!" said one of the guys in the van—Darryl didn't know his name. "We been watching like hawks."
"Yeah? Well, your hawks need glasses because I just saw her. Lucky for us she was going back in. But that means she was out, 'cause you can't go in 'less you been out."
"You're crazy!" said another one of the van guys.
"Whoa! Whoa!" Hank said. He was staring at Darryl. "You're sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure. You were right about her changing her hair color, Hank. But she cut it too. It's short now—kinda spiky and dykey, if you know what I'm saying."
Hank looked worried. In fact his face had gone dead white. "How'd she look?"
"I just told you."
"No, I mean her health. Did she look well?"
What was he getting at?
"How so?"
"I mean, did she look like she'd just had surgery or something?"
"No. She was moving pretty good."
He looked relieved. "Okay. But where could she have gone?"
"I've got the cab number, if that's of any use."
Hank laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Darryl, my man, you're invaluable!"
Darryl felt a warm glow envelop him. Hank Thompson thought he was invaluable. How great was that?
He shrugged. "Just trying to help the evolution."
"Well, you're doing a great job." He pulled a small notepad from one pocket and a ballpoint from another. "Here. Write it down. I'll have Menck grease the driver's palm with a few bucks and we'll know where she came from."
Darryl wondered why that was so important and what Hank was worried about, and then it hit: the baby. Was he worried she'd gone out and had an abortion?