The Kaisho (56 page)

“I would if I had to,” Okami said dully. His heart was burning with the last of the effects of the alcohol and his need to see vengeance done.

The Colonel paused, turned toward Okami. They were beneath an ancient cherry. Enclosed within its ethereal, fragrant bower, they might have been gods on the summit of Mt. Fuji, discussing the fate of the mortals below them.

“You’re not the suicidal type. I know you better than that,” the Colonel said tartly. He shook his head again. “We have Alba and his stateside capo making inroads here—not merely in the American black market but also among your own Yakuza. The Mafia and the Yakuza in bed together is a daunting concept.
This
is our main problem. Willoughby’s scheme is merely part of a larger picture, one that we must bring into focus before we know which way to move.”

“I suppose this is the time for me to pay Alba a visit.”

“No,” the Colonel said. “I believe that would be a mistake. As yet, we cannot know who is our friend and who our foe.” They commenced walking again. The sun felt warm on their shoulders, and the early-morning breeze had died. The Colonel had to maintain silence while they passed a pair of armed soldiers. A child ran up to him, his arms heaped with cherry blossoms he had scooped off the grass. He threw his arms up, scattering the blossoms like snow. His laughter rang through the park as he scampered away.

“The prudent course of action now is to confront Johnny Leonforte,” the Colonel continued when it was safe. “From what you’ve been able to
gather, he seems to be the weak link in this chain. If so, he’ll be the easiest to crack.”

“It might take some kind of force.”

The Colonel’s face was solemn. “Okami-san, it is vital that we know what kind of a situation we are confronted with. The future of your country—and perhaps mine—hangs in the balance.”

Okami chose the time and the place with great care. He spent three days shadowing Johnny Leonforte so that he could get an idea of his routine. In the end, he decided to take him on his way to Faith Sawhill’s apartment.

Okami had discovered that, by and large, Leonforte kept his evenings clear because that was the time he did his most lucrative business. Okami watched from the shadows across the street as Leonforte pulled up in his motor-pool jeep.

Pressing once the flat hilt of his
wakizashi,
his long, slightly curved knife, which lay close against his belly, Okami headed quickly across the street.

“Johnny!” he called as he neared the other man.

Leonforte’s head turned so fast Okami could hear the vertebrae in his neck crack.

Leonforte’s eyes narrowed. “You! I told you—”

Okami’s right hand shot out, catching Leonforte a powerful blow in his solar plexus just where the major nerves bundled beneath the muscles.

“Aagh!”

Leonforte sounded as if he were gagging. He began to topple forward, but held on to the seat back with one hand, fumbled for his officer’s .45 with the other. Okami reached out serenely and squeezed a spot on his upper arm quite near the shoulder. Leonforte’s entire right side went numb.

Okami dragged him from the jeep, swept him into a narrow, windblown alley at the side of Sawhill’s apartment building. Propping him against the grimy ferroconcrete wall, he slapped Leonforte’s sagging face a couple of times until his eyes began to clear.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Okami said, kneeing him hard in the groin.

Now Leonforte began to retch in earnest. Okami stepped deftly away to avoid being spattered. He hauled Leonforte roughly farther down the alley, away from his own mess.

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“Go to hell!”

Okami cracked him so hard on the side of his head he heard bone splinter. Leonforte moaned, shook his head. Tears were standing out in the corners of his eyes. “I’ll kill you for this!” he hissed between bloody teeth.

“I can see you’re hungry for the chance.” Okami slapped Leonforte’s .45 into his hand, stepped back. He touched the hilt of his
wakizashi.
“Here it is.”

Despite the battering, Leonforte was fast. The muzzle of the .45 came up in a blur, Leonforte’s fingers squeezing the trigger. But Okami had already stepped within the perimeter of his defense, and the honed tip of the blade was pricking the skin of Leonforte’s throat.

“Do it,” Okami whispered. “Pull the trigger.”

Leonforte looked hard at Okami, as if just waking up from a dream. “What—” He swallowed hard. “What d’you want?”

“Tell me what Vincent Alba’s up to.”

Leonforte blinked. “Vinnie? What d’you mean? He’s a fuckin’ bodyguard.”

“Uh-uh. He’s here to see you don’t get into trouble.”

“You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, ace.” But Okami could see that Leonforte was thinking it through; he might be hotheaded and uncontrollable, but this was not a stupid man.

“Then Jack Donnough’s crazy, too, because he’s who I heard it from.”

“Madonna!” Leonforte exclaimed. Then he began to laugh. His body began to shake, his eyes to water. He spit blood, but he appeared beyond caring. He tried to catch his breath as the pain of the beating kicked in, but the laughter bubbled out all the faster. It built and built until it hung on the precipice of hysteria.

Okami slammed the heel of his hand into the bridge of Leonforte’s nose just to stop the sound. In disgust, he turned away from the unconscious man, went swiftly and silently out of the alley.

If Faith Sawhill was surprised to see Okami, you couldn’t tell by her face.

“Mr. Okami, won’t you come in?” she said, smiling as she opened the door to her apartment.

Okami stepped across the threshold, pushed the door shut behind him. Faith Sawhill was still in her military uniform. Okami looked at the major’s bars pinned to her epaulets, found himself astonished by her rank. But then everything about her astonished him.

“Would you care for a drink?” Faith asked him as she headed for the drop-leaf table. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a helluva day.” Her strong hands were deft as they went about their work. “At oh six hundred hours the general’s ulcers began bleeding, and now I think an amoeba’s involved. What a mess his insides are!”

She handed him a scotch, clinked rims, sipped hers. She curled up on the love seat, pushed her shoes off her feet.

He was aware of her sexual magnetism, her deliberate use of it. Then he centered himself, said, “Where’s the boss? Where’s Alba?”

Faith regarded him evenly. “Out.”

“I’ll wait.” Okami set aside his glass. The cold of the ice was chilling him. “I ran into Johnny downstairs. He didn’t look so good.”

Faith sat up straight. “What have you done?”

Did he detect the color of fear in her beautiful eyes? “I did what I had to do. Besides, Johnny was begging for a fight.”

Faith rose, looked over his shoulder to the door. “I hope to Christ you killed him, because if there’s an ounce of life left in him—”

At that moment, the door flew open and Johnny Leonforte, in a spray of blood and sweat, rushed into the room, .45 at the ready.

“Okami, you bastard, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”

Okami ceased to think. He allowed his body to respond to the deep-seated instinct for survival. In the mind-no-mind that was the essence of his martial training, he threw himself headlong behind the love seat where Faith stood, her attention for the moment on Leonforte.

“Johnny—”

“Shut up!” Leonforte cried. “What’re you two doing together? Plotting against me like you did with that fuckin’ spy Alba? Or just having a two-bit affair?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

“Either way, it’s at my expense!” He spat out words and saliva together like a madman. “Get outta the way, Faith, or I’ll plug you, too!”

Too late she tried to appease him. “Johnny, look at this reasonably... there’s nothing going on between Okami and me. If you’ll just calm down—”

“I’ll calm down,” Leonforte snarled as he squeezed the trigger. “when hell freezes over!”

Explosions—one! two! three!—ripped through the back of the love seat just as Okami pulled Faith down. One bullet slammed into her left thigh.

“Uhh!” she grunted through teeth clamped together in pain and shock.

Scrambling over her, Okami crawled the length of the love seat and took a quick look from behind his makeshift cover. Leonforte stood spread-legged, his arms rigidly in front of him in the classic marksman’s stance. He squeezed off a shot that ricocheted past Okami’s left ear so close it hurt.

“I know where you are, fuckers, and I’m going to blow your brains out!”

Okami had no doubt that Leonforte was going to make good on his threat. He had never thought about death, but now he was obliged to stare it in the face. He did not care for what he saw. He felt the blood pounding in his veins, the strong muscle of his heart contracting and expanding. He had life in the palm of his hand. He wanted to give nothing up, and he resolved that should he emerge from this alive, he would never again allow himself to be in such a position of weakness.

“Ready or not, here I come!”

Okami braced himself to move, for to remain behind the love seat would mean certain death.

At that moment, he heard the tangle of voices raised in anger. The explosion of shot, when it came, did not penetrate the back of the love seat.

He risked another peek, saw to his astonishment Leonforte slamming the butt of his gun into the bloody head of Vincent Alba. He had already put two bullets into Alba and was now battering him to his powerful knees.

Breaking cover, Okami whipped around the end of the love seat, launched himself at an oblique angle to where Leonforte stood. As Okami had guessed, Leonforte saw movement at the periphery of his vision. Busy in blood-heat, he was slow to react and, when he did, assumed Okami would head straight for him and broke off two shots in that direction.

That was enough time for Okami to change course from the oblique. As he leaped toward Leonforte, he saw the man swing his .45 around and knew that he would only get one chance. His
wakizashi
was out, leveled in a horizontal plane.

It sliced across Leonforte’s face into his chest at the moment he fired for the third time. Okami felt the force of the percussion as the blade hit Leonforte’s ribs, then slid between them.

Leonforte staggered, his eyes opened wide. His mouth dropped open, perhaps to utter a final epithet, but by that time his eyes were already rolling up and his legs lost their strength. He tripped over the bull-like form of his latest victim, one hand slipping across Alba’s crimson face as if it were a sheet of ice. He crashed backward into the liquor table, shattering bottles everywhere.

The cool astringency of the liquor combined with the cloying sweetness of death. Okami, bloodied, his knife in his hand, stood staring down at Leonforte. He tried to summon up any feeling of remorse but could not.

After a moment, he turned, made his way back to where Faith lay half under the overturned love seat. Okami put aside his
wakizashi,
lifted the love seat off her.

“How much blood?”

She meant how much had she lost. He went into the kitchen, found a thin towel, came back, and kneeling beside her, tied off the thigh just above the wound.

“Not enough.” He meant not enough to die.

“I can’t feel my leg.”

“Isn’t that to be expected?”

She looked up at him. “I don’t know. It’s not my field.” She tried to laugh. “I went all through the war and never saw a wound.”

“Some war.”

“Johnny?”

“Dead. But not before he killed Alba.”

“Oh, Christ,” she whispered. Her eyes closed and her lips moved. “Let me think.” Her eyes opened suddenly, and they seemed as red to him as the blood sprayed all over the room.

She licked her lips. “There’s a place I want you to take me.”

“I know where the Army hospital is.”

“No, not there.” She waited a moment, but when he made no reply, she added, “I don’t know whether I can trust you.”

“But I don’t believe you have a choice. We both need to get out of here before the cops or the MPs get here.”

He stuffed his knife into the waistband of his trousers, scooped her up in his arms. She was surprisingly light.

She directed him to the side entrance that led out onto the alley where he had confronted Leonforte, and it was a good thing he used it because from the shadows into which they emerged he could already see the reflections of the red and blue lights of cop cars and MP jeeps.

Okami turned, raced down to the far end of the alley, emerged into a street, turned left. Hurrying to his car, he unlocked it and bundled her in. He tried to ignore her gasps of pain. He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and they got out of there.

She told him to head west, toward the warehouses that lined that part of the Sumida River. A dilapidated neighborhood, it was suffering as much from neglect as from the ravages of the war. Far away, Tokyo was being rebuilt, but here the old prewar structures were still intact, rotting against the somnolent waters of the river.

With a voice made weak by pain and shock she directed him down a narrow street that dead-ended at the water. Much to his surprise, Okami discovered what appeared to be a private dwelling wedged between two long warehouses.

“Stop just there,” Faith whispered, indicating a spot outside the private dwelling. “Now leave me here.”

Okami sat with the engine idling. He looked out the window at the building, then back at Faith. She was slumped in the backseat, her eyes almost closed.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, Miss Sawhill. If I don’t help you inside, you’re not going to make it on your own.”

“You’ve done the Good Samaritan bit.” She struggled to a sitting position, but almost immediately fell against the door. Her hand fumbled with the handle.

Okami got out, opened her door, lifted her gently out of the car.

“You mustn’t be seen here,” Faith whispered. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and he could see her rapid, shallow breathing. He knew he had to get her inside right now. “It’s dangerous...”

He took her to the front door, hit it several short but powerful kicks. The resulting noise was like the boom of a kettle drum, and he realized that the door was made of metal, probably steel.