By The Sword Part 8

Jack tapped him on the shoulder. He spun, a startled look in his face.

"You the fellow who lost something and wants it back?"

"Yes-yes. You are Repairman Jack?"

"Just Jack will do. Let's get a table."

As if on cue, a smiling, strawberry-blond waitress with an Irish accent appeared and asked if they wanted a table for two. Jack pointed to an empty one in the far corner of the front room with a good view of the entrance and easy access to the door to the kitchen.

She led them past the warped and scarred bar with its old-fas.h.i.+oned, four-legged, vinyl-topped stools. Two old-wood gables hung over the bottle racks on the wall, separated by a high shelf jammed with old empty bottles of all imaginable shapes and sizes. The front window said the place had been established in 1817. That might have been the last time those bottles had been dusted.

Jack seated himself in the corner near the huge ear mounted on the wall. He put his back against a three-sheet poster offering a graphic, organ-by-organ lesson on the ruinous effects of alcohol on the human body. The wall to his left sported portholes with either seascapes or stern-looking portrait faces gazing into the room.

Once they were seated, the guy removed his hat and placed it in his lap, revealing jet-black hair combed down over the left side of the forehead, all the way to the eyebrow. He appeared to be somewhere in his forties and had an ascetic look-hollow cheeks and intense dark eyes peering from deep orbits. Eyes that never quite made contact with Jack's. Before he adjusted his jacket cuffs, Jack caught a glimpse of a black tattoo above his right wrist-some sort of polygon.

"You know my name," Jack said. "Time to hear yours."

He dipped his head in a quick bow. "Nakanaori Ok.u.mo Slater."

"Whoa."

A quick smile. "I am called Naka."

"Naka it is. But Slater doesn't sound very j.a.panese."

"My father was American."

Jack couldn't detect any Caucasian in Naka's looks, so he either favored his mother's side-a lot-or his father was j.a.panese-American.

The strawberry-blond waitress came over, pad in hand, and handed them menus. When Jack ordered a pint draft Hoegaarden, she smiled.

"Hey, you p.r.o.nounced it right. Don't hear that too often. You Belgian?"

Jack smiled back. "No, Jerseyan."

When Naka ordered water, he found Jack and the waitress giving him looks.

"I do not drink spirits."

As the waitress sighed and walked away, W. C. Fields's warning wafted through Jack's brain: Never trust a man who doesn't drink Never trust a man who doesn't drink.

Jack picked up a menu. "The burgers here are outstanding."

"I do not eat flesh."

Jack looked at him. "I bet you don't get invited to too many parties, either."

"Parties?" He looked puzzled. "No."

"Yeah, well, neither do I. The Ear burger is really good."

The guy made a face. "You devour something's ear?"

"Only kidding."

But he wished someone in the place would find the cojones to list their big, eight-ounce sirloin burger as an Ear Burger. That would be too cool.

"I did not come here to eat. I came here to talk."

"I can do both-I'm a mult.i.tasker." Jack dropped the menu. No contest. He'd decided on the burger. "So tell me again how you found me-and name names this time."

"When an object was stolen-"

"From your home on Maui, I a.s.sume."

He nodded. "Yes. I own a plantation."

"What do you grow?"

He looked fl.u.s.tered. "Why do you wish to know?"

"Call me curious."

"Papaya, sugar cane, macadamia-"

"Okay. So the 'object' was stolen from your Maui plantation. What then?"

"I... I hired detective."

"Why not go to the cops?"

"I wish to be discreet."

"Because...?"

Naka hesitated, then sighed. "Because owners.h.i.+p would be, how shall I say, called into question if existence of object become public."

Knew it.

Couldn't report the theft of a stolen object.

"And your detective blew it, I a.s.sume."

He nodded. "He discover name of thief but thief escape on plane to New York."

Now the pieces were fitting.

Naka's water and Jack's Hoegaarden arrived. The brew had a thin half-slice of lemon floating in the foam. He was not a fan of witbieren, witbieren, but Hoegaarden was a treat if found on tap. Jack ordered the burger with cheese, bacon, and sauteed onions. Naka broke down and chose a salad. but Hoegaarden was a treat if found on tap. Jack ordered the burger with cheese, bacon, and sauteed onions. Naka broke down and chose a salad.

As the waitress bustled off, Jack sipped his brew. Good. A light lemony flavor, great for summer or when he didn't want to feel logged down. Not on tap in many places around the city. Another reason to seek out the Ear.

He noticed another Asian-this one too looked j.a.panese-come in and sit two tables away. He glanced at them once, then studied the menu.

Jack turned to Naka. "So, with the thief in New York you needed someone local."

Naka nodded. "Yes, but I have no idea where to turn. I was discussing my problem with artist I know-I buy his sculpture and we become friends. He say his consort used to live in New York and might be able to help."

First, "alas" from Gary. Now, "consort." What gives?

"What's this artist's name?"

"Moki."

"Never heard of him. How about his 'consort'? What's hers?"

"I do not know. I never meet her. We speak only on phone. She give me your name and how to reach you. She call you a ronin ronin and say I should not lie to you, that you are a good man who can be trusted but who can also be not nice at times." and say I should not lie to you, that you are a good man who can be trusted but who can also be not nice at times."

" 'Not nice'? She said that?"

"Yes. Her exact words."

Who the h.e.l.l...?

"You're taking her advice, of course."

"All I am telling you is true."

Jack put aside wondering about the mystery woman until later.

"Good. So, your detective at least learned the ident.i.ty of your thief."

Naka further averted his gaze. "Unfortunately, we have since learned that he was traveling under false ident.i.ty."

"Which was?"

"Eddie Cordero."

Jack leaned back. Why did that name sound familiar? He was sure he'd never heard it, but something about it set off a chime.

"So what did he steal?"

"A sword. A katana. I must have it back."

"And what's so special about this sword? What's it worth?"

"That is puzzle. It is terribly damaged and of no use or value to anyone but my family."

"And why's it valuable to you?"

"One might call it heirloom. It belonged to dear friend of my father. He is deceased and sword was all my father had left of him. When my father died he made me promise to keep sword in family. I must keep promise to my father."

Okay. Jack understood that. But odd the thief would take a worthless heirloom back to New York. Unless...

"Maybe it's worth more than you think."

Naka shook his head. "I think not." From an inside pocket in his suit jacket he pulled a pair of photos and handed them across the table. "See for yourself."

The first showed a long, slim sword, its naked, curved blade lying atop a wooden stand, cutting edge facing up. The long, tapered tang was exposed-someone had removed the handle. The blade looked strangely mottled. The next photo was closer in and slightly blurred, revealing the mottling as a random pattern of irregular holes in the steel. The cutting edge was perfectly preserved, but the rest was Swiss-cheesed.

"A samurai sword?"

"Yes," Naka said. "A katana."

"No offense, but it looks like a piece of junk."

"In very real sense, it is. But to my family it is priceless. Therefore it make no sense for someone to steal unless they mean to ransom back to us."

Jack looked again at the moth-eaten blade and agreed: no sense at all.

"And you've received no demand?"

"Nothing. And thief has fled islands."

This didn't make a whole lot of sense. Jack felt some key element was missing-or being withheld.

"Aren't some of these swords valuable?"

Naka nodded. "Nihont fas.h.i.+oned by ancient swordsmiths such as Masamune and Muramasa-especially those signed by Masamune-are rare and of most extreme value." fas.h.i.+oned by ancient swordsmiths such as Masamune and Muramasa-especially those signed by Masamune-are rare and of most extreme value."

Most of what Jack had just heard was meaningless.

"Nihont?"

"Only swords forged in j.a.pan can be called nihont nihont. Foreign-made imitations cannot."

"And I take it this blade isn't signed by Moonimalaya or whoever."

"No one. Especially not Masamune." He p.r.o.nounced the name with exaggerated clarity, as if speaking to a five-year-old. "A Masamune sword would never corrode as this one did."

Jack squinted at the photo and spotted a tiny figure carved into the steel of the tang: