Owl and the Japanese Circus (2 page)

That doesn’t mean my clients don’t go to extreme lengths to try and negotiate with me . . . another perk of staying off the grid.

I could see my weekend of Corona and World Quest exploits waving good-bye in the store’s mirrored glass. OK, deep breaths. There had to be a quick solution to this, preferably one that didn’t involve me getting paraded into the Japanese Circus or beaten to a pulp right where I stood.

“No insult to your boss, but my courier delivered his piece this
morning. If he has a concern or question about the documentation, he can call or email—Ow! What was that for?” I said. Dragon Tattoo had pinched my shoulder,
hard
. I couldn’t clench my fist.

“To help you understand the seriousness of Mr. Kurosawa’s request and help you make the right . . .
decision,
” he said, and smiled.

I winced. Somehow I doubted there was any decision here for me to make. I sure as hell don’t like being bullied though.

“Look, I have a strict policy on not meeting face-to-face . . .”

Dragon Tattoo slapped me right between my shoulder blades. My gum shot over the counter and into the register. I mouthed, “
Sorry
” to the kid, who looked like he was trying to decide whether to press the alarm or pull out a shotgun. I caught his eyes and just shook my head. The last thing I needed was a dead kid on my conscience. Hell, running is my go-to, and even I knew better than to run from these guys.

The kid glanced once more at Dragon Tattoo before ducking into the back room.

Smart kid.

Mr. Kurosawa’s goon lost no time steering me out and past the parking lot floodlights, while the other two fell in a few paces behind. I’d expected them to drop me in a car, but no, Mr. Kurosawa wasn’t a Vegas casino owner for nothing. I gave a low whistle as the helicopter blades whirred silently overhead. Big, black, and silent. Well, at least I knew why I hadn’t heard them arrive.

“You weren’t kidding when you said Mr. Kurosawa wanted to see me,” I said.

The goon smiled. “I am not prone to exaggeration, and Mr. Kurosawa does not like to waste time in business.” He opened the helicopter door and said something in Japanese to the other two goons before climbing in the front. The other two goons “helped” me into the back before sitting across from me, glaring. Way too close quarters for my liking. I nodded over at my Winnebago. “What about my van?” Captain was probably wondering where his dinner was and what the hell I was doing . . . if he was even up, that is.

Dragon Tattoo glanced out the window. “It will be safe for the duration of your meeting,” he said, as if my prized possession were an afterthought. It also begged the question, what would happen to it after our meeting? Best not to think that far ahead. I was already well out of my “experience to deal with” zone. And I doubt I could argue the value of an abandoned Winnebago with Kurosawa’s goons.

Shit. I hoped to hell they at least planned on giving me a ride back.

The engine started to rev and the chopper lifted. “Hey, what do I call you guys?” I said, raising my voice over the engines. Dragon Tattoo lifted an eyebrow at me over the back of his seat.

I shrugged. “Any name has gotta be better than goons one and two. For instance, I’ve been calling you Dragon Tattoo in my head for the last ten minutes.”

He almost smiled—on second thought, it could have just been an illusion caused by the tattoo. Another flurry of Japanese passed between my captors, then Dragon Tattoo said, “You may call me Oricho. My associates you may call ‘goon one’ and ‘goon two.’ ”

I rolled my eyes as the two across from me chuckled and tossed me a black hood. I pulled it over my head. I hate this espionage shit. That’s why I’m into antiquities. More money, and I get blindfolded a lot less.

I ran over my last acquisition run for Mr. Kurosawa to keep my mind off the buffeting helicopter—flying is worse when you can’t see. What the hell had gone wrong? I knew I’d sent him the right egg—I’d excavated it myself, right out from underneath the terra-cotta warrior dig. I’d even done the tomb translation myself, just to be sure I hadn’t been getting an ancient replica. Carbon dating, authenticated translation—I’d even had it run under an electron microscope to make sure the metal folding had matched. Hermes, a courier I used for my US deliveries, better not have scratched it during delivery. If that egg was so much as dented . . .

By the time I ran and reran the details through my head without finding a flaw, the helicopter dipped and bumped onto a tarmac.

Someone grabbed my arm and steered me down the steps. I couldn’t see a thing, so it wasn’t a surprise when I stumbled and landed three feet down, hard on my knees. Angry Japanese yelling later (Oricho, I think), I was helped back up—
gently
this time. From the wind and the distant roar of traffic, I guessed I was on a roof.

On the bright side, no one had hit me yet.

The hood came off. This roof had a small garden and what might have been picnic tables. It was hard to tell with next to no lights. I also didn’t have a chance to get a good look before I was maneuvered towards the one and only well-lit area: a pagoda-style doorway, intricately carved and painted in red and gold. I glanced at the surrounding buildings before I passed underneath to get my bearings. I could make out the Bellagio and the airport in the distance. I was on the Vegas strip.

“May I ask why they call you Owl?” Oricho said. I glanced over my shoulder. Goons one and two had disappeared. I must have looked confused at Oricho’s sudden conversational offering—he hadn’t said a damn word since the hood had gone on—because he added, “It seems a strange name for a thief.”

I lifted the rim of my hat. “Because I have such big eyes.”

An eyebrow arched on the tattooed side of his face. “Is that all?”

I shrugged. “That and I can turn my head around backwards. Does that count?” I deadpanned.

It earned me a trace of a smile before Oricho opened a wooden door carved in the same style as the pagoda. “After you.” I peered down a flight of poorly lit stairs. Keeping with the rest of the roof’s theme, the stairway was also wooden, and looked like it could belong in a mountain resort at the bottom of Fuji, not a Vegas casino.

“Jeez, you’d think your boss could afford to light this place,” I said, Oricho following close behind. When we reached the bottom step, a red lacquered door with the image of two entwined dragons in black ink blocked our way.

Oricho opened the door. I covered my mouth and stifled a cough as smoke billowed out. Oricho inclined his head, not quite a bow, but
close, and stepped to the side. “Mr. Kurosawa is through there,” he said and added, “good luck.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” I said, and took a deep breath before entering the smoke pit. I knew I’d done due diligence—dotted my i’s and crossed all my t’s. The goods I’d delivered were well worth my salary. Hell, Mr. Kurosawa had gotten a deal.

I just had to keep my wits about me. It’s not like I didn’t have bargaining room: Mr. Kurosawa had a penchant for ancient Japanese artifacts, and I’m a bitch to replace. Especially if he pushed me off the roof.

I stepped past Oricho into a high-ceilinged ballroom with red tiled floors. The door slammed shut behind me. As my eyes adjusted to the dim LED ceiling lights reflecting off the clouds of smoke, I realized I’d entered a private casino that brought to mind images of an evil, enchanted forest—only filled with slot machines instead of trees. Like most casinos, there were no windows, and I had a hard time making out the boundaries. But the maze of slot machines was what got me. Row upon row filled the ballroom, everything from late 1800s original Feys through to electronics. As far as modern antiques go, it was a good collection—eclectic and haphazard, but good.

I headed down the widest and most well-lit aisle. I noticed that the shelves lining the wall sported rows of Cho Han bamboo bowls, which were used in a feudal Japanese dice game. If they weren’t authentic, I’d eat my tool kit. There were so many of them that they obscured the walls, all but hiding the gold and black reliefs painted from ceiling to floor. Yet for all these machines, the room was silent—and empty. I shook my head and readjusted my cap. Well, at least Mr. Kurosawa had gone for original decor. I stifled another cough, wishing I had my gas mask. Ventilation, anyone?

The slot machines opened to a bar, complete with mirrored table and white leather couches that formed a plush alcove. A pretty Japanese woman wearing a kimono fashioned like a minidress and a loose
interpretation of Kabuki makeup made her way out from behind the bar, stilettos clicking against the floor in rapid succession. She offered me a plate of drinks without a word, or smile.

“Owl?” I heard Mr. Kurosawa say from the couches, his back towards me. I shot the woman a questioning look. She stepped aside. Taking that as permission, I grabbed a glass of champagne and slammed it back—damn right I needed a drink. Say what you will about tombs and ancient burial sites, a deserted casino outcreeps them any day of the week.

Ryuu Kurosawa, a Vegas mogul known for his Japanese Circus–themed casino, looked up from a white couch and smiled that business smile you come to expect from professional sharks. Not the ones who take your money, the ones that eat you while you’re still screaming. I sat down and noted his expensive suit, acutely aware how underdressed I was in my red flames hat, blue jeans, and hiking boots. I shrugged the sentiment off; it wasn’t like they’d given me the option to change.

“Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice,” he said in crisp American English. I’d spoken to him a few times on the phone and seen interviews on TV, and never once had I heard a trace of an accent or glimpsed a break in the Western businessman demeanor. In person though, the thing that struck me the most was how red and waxy his face was, dim lights or not. I shelved that little observation for later—it’s not every day you see something like that.

I crossed my hands to stop them from fidgeting and waited, and for half a second I wished I’d grabbed a second drink. Mr. Kurosawa’s smile didn’t falter as he waved the Kabuki fashion girl over. This time, instead of drinks, she was carrying a wooden box with a puzzle lid, which she deposited on the mirrored table before me.

I recognized the box—I’d packed Mr. Kurosawa’s egg inside it just this morning, before transferring the money into my offshore account and burning my trail. The trick lid had seemed appropriate, since Mr. Kurosawa is known for his love of puzzles. It’s the personal touches
and attention to detail that distinguish the professionals like me from the hacks.

Mr. Kurosawa removed the contents, an ancient silver egg, with his flushed, waxy red hand and placed it in front of me, the smile not faltering. Without a word I picked it up, carefully, and examined it. Everything looked in place. Smooth and etched with characters that hadn’t been used in at least five thousand years, the egg was already an artifact when the emperor buried it in his own personal mausoleum. I turned it over and checked the bottom where the gems were supposed to be. They were all there too. It was the same artifact I’d packed this morning. More importantly, it was still in perfect condition. The confusion on my face must have been obvious, because Mr. Kurosawa’s shark smile got a lot more vicious real fast.

“Miss Owl, please do not waste my time. Where is the rest of it?”

I did my best to hide my confusion and rolled the egg over in my hands, checking one more time for missing jewels. The metal was colder than it should have been; I remembered that little observation from the dig site. I’d noted it in my files as something you don’t see every day in ancient metals.

I handed him back his egg and shook my head. “Mr. Kurosawa, it’s all there, exactly as I excavated it from the emperor’s tomb.” I indicated the folders and documentation I’d sent along with the box, also on the Kabuki girl’s tray. “From initial excavation to delivery, everything is documented. If there’s a gem or piece missing, I’m sorry, but that was absolutely all there was at the site. Take a look at the photos and video footage. I’m thorough.”

He took the egg back and stared at me. I stifled a shiver. There was something sinister about the way his eyes fixed on my face. That and the way his waxy red skin reflected the casino light.

Memories of the dig rushed to the forefront of my mind: images, details, a misunderstanding with the Chinese authorities . . . as if someone was sifting through my thoughts, pulling and tweezing. As I narrowed in on Mr. Kurosawa’s face, I noticed how the pupils
had widened, eating up the whites until there was nothing left. An unpleasant thought occurred to me . . . really bad. Really, really bad. Of course, it’s only now I notice all the dragon imagery around the room.

The shock on my face, or on the surface of my thoughts, must have been transparent, because Mr. Kurosawa smiled. His teeth turned black before my eyes and extended into dagger-like points.

Ryuu, Kurosawa, even Dragon Tattoo’s name, Oricho . . . fuck, I’d been buying for a Japanese dragon.

And he didn’t like what I’d brought him.

Mr. Kurosawa laughed, low and guttural. “So you did not steal my treasure,” he said, as his eyes began to glow black and his skin turned bright red. “Lucky for you, little Owl. I eat thieves.”

As a rule, dragons aren’t very good at holding other forms. Mr. Kurosawa was holding the rest of his form pretty well, but I figured the only reason he hadn’t done the full dragon in front of me was the ten-thousand-dollar suit he was wearing. Dragons really love their treasure—more than eating humans, I hoped. I squirmed and couldn’t help myself from checking where the exits were. There weren’t any. Shit. If I got out of here alive, I’d have to look up whether there had been any interesting missing persons files around the casino. I could see the appeal to a dragon to set up shop here. No shortage of thieves with “dragon food” stamped on their foreheads in Vegas.

Mr. Kurosawa laughed, and smoke streamed from his nostrils. Well, at least he was enjoying himself. I held up my hands and chose my words very carefully. “My sincerest apologies, I didn’t mean to insult you with damaged goods, it was a complete accident on my part. You can keep the egg and I’ll even return my fee. I don’t want there to be any . . . bad feelings—”