A smiling Naka Slater opened the door and stepped back, his eyes on the package in Jack’s hand.
“At last. The prodigal sword returns to the fold.”
Jack figured that mix of metaphors beat his own from the park yesterday, but didn’t congratulate him. Instead he added to the mix.
“Wrapped in a coat of many colors.” Closing the door behind him, Jack handed it over. “All yours.”
And good riddance.
But the Lady’s words haunted him…. it will be used for something momentous…
Was this chubby sixty-something plantation owner going to be the one to wield it? Hard to believe.
“How did you ever track it down?”
“Crack detective work.”
“And you didn’t have to buy it back? Because I’ll reimburse—”
“No need. Reasoned discourse carried the day.”
He carried it to the bed where he began to unwind the drop cloth.
“Would you believe this is the first time I’ve ever handled it? At least that I recall.”
“You mean it was sitting in your house and you were never tempted to play samurai with it?”
“Tempted like crazy. But it was displayed in a sealed glass case for just that reason.”
The grip end came free first.
“You’ve added a handle and a hilt.”
“Not me. Someone along the way.”
When he revealed the rest he grinned like a little boy with his first puppy.
“A scabbard too!”
As Slater grabbed the scabbard and pulled the blade free, Jack stepped back and slipped his hand to the Glock under the back of his loose T-shirt. He’d already played this scene once and had come away with a sliced-up shoulder. Not taking any chances this time.
Slater stayed bedside, however, swinging the blade back and forth. But as he swung it his smile faded to a frown, and then a grimace of distaste. He stopped swinging it and dropped it on the bed.
Jack stared at him. “This isn’t where you try to tell me that isn’t the right sword, is it?”
He shook his head. “No. I’d recognize those defects anywhere. But there’s something wrong with that thing.”
“Maybe the handle changes the balance or—”
“No-no. I mean something wrong inside it. The legends say that Masamune put a little of his gentle soul into each of his katana so that it would not be used for indiscriminate killing. It would sever an evil man’s head but not cut a passing butterfly.”
Buuuullshit…buuuullshit…
“So you’re saying it’s not a true Masamune?”
“I’m not enough of an expert to tell. Maybe it is, and maybe the Hiroshima bomb burned away whatever of Masamune was in there. I don’t know. But I do know I don’t want that thing in my house.”
“You kidding me? It’s been in your house all your life.”
“Yes, two houses and two countries. Maybe I touched the katana when I was little. Maybe a part of me recognizes the difference. I don’t like what it’s become. I don’t want it.” He sheathed the blade and held out the katana to Jack. “Here. You take it.”
“Hell no. What am I going to do with—?”
He grabbed the drop cloth, shoved it and the katana into Jack’s hands, then hurried to the dresser. He returned with an envelope and gave that to Jack as well.
“Here—the rest of your fee.” He then stepped to the door and opened it. “Please. Take it. Do whatever you want with it.”
Nonplussed, Jack stepped back into the hall. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. You did a wonderful job, but I’ve changed my mind. Are we square?”
“If you say so.”
“Then it’s a done deal. Thank you. Good-bye.”
He closed the door.
“Yeah. Good-bye.”
Jack looked down at the katana. Now what?