Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 11/01/10 Page 12

  “How is that possible? The curse is real enough. You convinced me of that.”

  “How is any of it possible?” Oda looked off into space. “Perhaps we are mistaken in thinking that objects themselves can be possessed by evil. Perhaps the curse does not come from within the sword, but from within us.”

  “Within us.” Lockhart felt the truth of it. It made him want to cry.

  Oda smiled. “I am returning to Japan, to bring the sword back. From now on, it will be locked in a museum behind shatterproof glass, where it can do no harm. It will never again fall into private hands.”

  “Good-bye, Doctor. And thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  The day they released him, Elaine was withdrawn and quiet. She helped him into the passenger’s side of her car, but said very little. She pulled out into traffic and Lockhart mentally waved sayonara to the hospital.

  “You saved my life,” he said as they came to a halt at a red light.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Elaine . . . how was it that you were there, of all places, when I needed you most?”

  She clenched her jaw and hesitated before replying. “I was following you, Andy. I convinced myself you were having an affair—don’t say anything—and I wanted to find out for sure. So I followed you from work to Dr. Oda’s apartment, and from there to Dell’Isola’s. I was parked across the street, and was going to tail you after you came out. It was only when I heard the gun go off that I came running.”

  Lockhart had blushed during Elaine’s confession. He touched her shoulder. “It’s all right, Elaine. I guess I haven’t been the husband I should be. But all that has changed.”

  “I read that book about the samurai you brought home,” she said a little too brightly. “It was very instructive.”

  “Was it,” he said. It was obvious that her emotional wounds were still a little raw. He could tolerate the change in subject for now.

  “Yes, and I also talked a lot with that nice Dr. Oda,” she said. “He told me all about what you two were doing.”

  “I know it sounds crazy—”

  “No, it was very interesting. Oh, look, we’re home.”

  She assisted him out of the car and supported him all the way to the front door. Once inside, she helped him park himself on the davenport and went to make coffee.

  “Those bad dreams have stopped too,” she called from the kitchen. “Now that I know what they were.”

  “What?”

  She returned holding a steaming cup. “They were memories, Andy. Of the battle of Sekigahara, fought in the mountain mist, where Mori Hidemoto and Kobayakawa Hideaki betrayed my master and became Ieyasu’s slaves. But that’s ancient history. I’d rather talk about now.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “You shouldn’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course, Dr. Oda told you the katana was a forgery.”

  It all felt terribly wrong. “Yes, he mentioned that.”

  “That’s because Ieyasu had the real katana destroyed as soon as he learned it was made by Muramasa. But not the wakizashi, Andy. Samurai never carry the wakizashi into battle, you know. Ieyasu never got his hands on it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She put the cup down on the coffee table and smiled enigmatically.

  “Does the sword hold the man, or does the man hold the sword?”

  Lockhart tried to get up but she pushed him back.

  “The sword holds the man, Andy. What the sword puts in the man’s hands is just another tool to be used. The false katana was handy, so it was used. The wakizashi was still there when I arrived, Andy. The real wakizashi, the one fashioned by Muramasa and imbued with his spirit. Sit down! I’m talking to you.”

  He didn’t see where it came from, but suddenly there was a sword in her hands, shorter than the one Dell’Isola had used, but even more beautiful, more dangerous, more frightening.

  “When were you going to tell me about that jigoku Beth Lundstrom, Andy?” Elaine drew the wakizashi’s edge against Lockhart’s chest. The incision was so fine it didn’t even hurt at first. Then the blood began to flow.

  Her face warped with rage, Elaine positioned herself to deliver another cut and growled a single word.

  “Uragiri!”

  Copyright © 2010 James Lincoln Warren

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  Fiction

  A GAME OF CONFIDENCE

  BILLY O’CALLAGHAN

  The back room was small and cramped. Cigarette smoke hung in a softly churning haze a foot or so beneath the ceiling, bars protected the small fogged-glass window, and the plaster had split in a dozen different places along the walls, exposing clammy, mud-colored patches of brickwork. The lights were kept low, except over the green baize-covered table. There, light was everything.

  Tonight, three of the four chairs were filled.

  “I’ll take three . . .”

  Kimble, who owned the game, the joint, and the whole damned setup, dealt the cards. “Three from the top.”

  The third player, Wilson, the player with the window seat, sighed thoughtfully. “Two, I guess.”

  “Two.” Kimble’s dextrous fingers flicked the new cards into play. “And the dealer helps himself to one . . .”

  All three players settled to their hands. The odd man out here was Jake Tanner. He was a stranger to this game, middle aged going on for elderly, slim set, with the blanched pallor and pinched expression of someone never very far removed from pain. He wore a pepper-colored suit that looked both cheap and worn out, but he seemed to fit well at a card table, and he moved as if he knew the form. He considered his hand, then bunched the cards together, tapped their edges into place on the table.

  “So, she says to me . . . get this, she says, ‘You don’t know how it feels.’ Ha! Can you believe that. And she just as close as you like to tears too. Boy, I’ll tell ya. Kids these days, they think they invented love. The way they go on, it’s like they’ve got the patent on it, or something. ‘What?’ I said. ‘You think I don’t know things? Ha! I know things, believe me. I know plenty.’ She had the lip going too. You know, quivering. The whole works. ‘Is that what you think?’ I ask her. ‘That I don’t know? Well, let me tell you, missy,’ I said. ‘You can take this one to the bank and lock it up safe and sound. I know plenty.’”

  Kimble rolled his eyes. “We playing, or what?”

  “What?”

  “I said, I came here to play cards, old man, not to listen to you run your mouth off.”

  “Is there a problem here?” Jake said. He moved slowly, laying his cards facedown flat before him on the table. His voice was measured, too, soft but assured, and his rheumy stare never flinched. “Because I’ve got money on the table just the same as you. That buys me some entitlements, I reckon.”

  Kimble took a breath and held it, hoping that his anger would abate. Rage and poker did not make for an easy mix. “Look, old man, all I’m saying is, you feel like making a speech, go get yourself into politics. I like a little silence when I play cards. If you don’t mind.”

  “Hey, I don’t mind at all, sport. Wouldn’t want to knock you out of your stride.” Jake smiled. His teeth needed work, or at least a good cleaning. “Hey, tell you what. How about we split the difference, okay? You keep all the silence you can carry over at your side of the table. But I quite like a little chitchat when I play. If you don’t mind, sport.”

  His hand chased a wrinkle out of the emerald baize tablecloth, then settled over a stack of chips. The plastic disks lifted with his fingers and tumbled back down as a stack, over and over, making the sound of crickets at play, or the sound of rattling bones.

  “Hmm, so it’s down to me, huh? Well now, let’s see. Yeah, I guess a little raise might be in order. This here pot’s looking mighty skinny.” He glanced at Wilson, then returned to meet Kimble’s stare. Wilson was at the table me
rely to make up the numbers; Kimble was the real challenge here. “A hundred,” he said, and pushed a small bunch of chips out into the middle of the table. Then he smiled again. “Now, tell me, gentlemen. Isn’t that just a whole lot better?”

  “A hundred? Damn.” Wilson sighed again. “Too hot for me, I’m afraid. I guess I’ll fold.”

  Jake smiled, without even looking at his beaten opponent. “As you please, young feller,” he said, going for a kindly tone and almost making it. “Won’t be the same without you, but I do admire a man with sense enough to know when quits is quits.”

  “You’re full of shit, mister,” muttered Kimble, but his words only widened Jake’s smile.

  “Hey, you got me cold, Mr. Kimble. You’re absolutely right, I’m plugged to the gills with the stuff. In fact, that’s the reason I chew so much gum. Bad breath is just about the bane of my existence. I’ve damn near worn my teeth down to stubs from all the chewing I do. But tell me, am I to take it that you’re not quite so ready to make for the door?”

  “You like to talk, all right. But a hundred is pretty tall words for such a little guy. Yeah, I’m in. And I’m staying in. This pot’s not for sale.”

  “Are you sure about that, sport? Because there’s plenty more where that came from, you know.”

  “I’m glad as hell to hear that.” said Kimble, showing his own teeth now.

  He glanced once more at his cards, then leaned out and pushed a loose rabble of chips into the center of the table. “Your hundred, and let’s say a hundred more. Just to keep things interesting.”

  Jake whistled softly. “Nice, kid. Now you’re talking my language. It took a while, but I knew the words would come in the end. Knew it just by looking at you. Well now, let’s see . . . Your hundred and—what would you say is a fair price then? For the pot, I mean. Another hundred? Or how about we make this really interesting. Let’s try five. Five hundred.”

  “What are you, old man?” said Kimble. He looked stunned, but Jake knew that his heart would be heaving in his chest. “Some kind of nut job? Or maybe you’re on some kind of charity kick. You swapped three cards and you don’t even have a pair showing. You really think I’m going to let you come in to my club and bully me out of my own game with a lousy five hundred dollars? Your five, and another five.”

  “That’s the spirit, kid,” said Jake, and his calmness now was more irritating than any other stunt he’d pulled tonight. “Don’t ever let yourself be pushed around.” His right hand rattled another stack of chips. “So, what was I saying before? Oh yeah, my kid, Molly. Great girl but, well, you know. ‘Let me tell you something,’ I told her. ‘There’s more to the world than you, you know. What? Seventeen years old and you think you’re doing business that no one else ever done before? I adore the very bones of you, Molly,’ I said, ‘but it might surprise you to know that—’”

  “It’s up to you, old timer,” said Kimble. “Put something on the table. Your money or your cards. You decide.”

  Jake smiled again, then relaxed slowly into laughter. “Get on with it, huh? Well, there is a ball game on, out on the West Coast, and I do have a little, well, shall we say professional interest in the Giants. So why not? It’s still early. I might even be able to catch the final inning. Tell you what, Mr. Kimble. I guess I’ll settle for calling your five. I mean, there’s no point in being greedy, now, is there?”

  Wilson’s Honda Civic crawled through the late-night streets. The city was quiet at this hour. Dead, almost. The adrenaline of an hour ago had flushed itself out, and all that remained now was a lead-boned exhaustion. Soft jazz dripped from the stereo speakers, soprano sax flurries that probably sounded aimless to the uninitiated but which to his ears seemed perfect in every note, every pause, every wandering line.

  In the passenger seat, Jake Tanner was watching the streets. Even in profile, his demeanor looked shot. Only the illusion of life clung to him. He seemed to awaken only when the heavy night shadows were set to crawling by the occasionally invading wash of a streetlight. And yet, words flowed from him with a detachment that was quite disturbing.

  “They always give themselves away. No matter what they’re holding, you can always count on some gesture that will tip their hand. It may be nothing more than a chewing of the lip or a flicker of eyelid, or perhaps they’ll touch their nose or their ear, tap their fingers on the table. There is always a giveaway. Now even the casual observer might spot one out of every twenty slips, maybe even one in ten, if they happen to be particularly sharp. But their biggest difficulty is always in trying to interpret what they’ve seen.” He raised a hand, pointed through the windscreen. “Take a left at the next set of lights. You need to cross over onto Tenth.” He paused and waited for Wilson to properly navigate the turn, and there was only jazz to keep the silence at bay. He shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, then settled again to gazing through the side window. An earlier thundershower had fixed the road and the sidewalks with an eerie glint, a sheen that emphasized all that was squalid about this part of the city.

  “Look,” he said, “this is not magic, not really. It’s simply a matter of learning all the signs, and understanding what each one means. The real trick is in knowing what to look for, without being seen to look.”

  Put that way, it sounded reassuring. But Wilson could not relax. There were just too many possible pitfalls, and a single mistake could prove fatal. He glanced at the older man. “But how can you be so certain? What I mean is, can—does everyone do it? Give themselves away, I mean? Supposing you were to come up against someone who knows the game, really knows it. What happens then?

  Jake shrugged. “If they really know the game then they won’t be sitting down across from me. Or not for long, anyway. Not for more than a couple of hands. They’ll know better and so will I. I’ve been doing this for more years than I can count, and I don’t make mistakes. Like Walter Brennan used to say in that old TV show: ‘No brag, just fact.’ You remember that one? The Guns of Will Sonnett? Well, no matter. It’s from before your time, I reckon. Pretty good show though, as I remember it. Anyway, the point is that if you aim to last in this business then you learn to make the read. Everything depends on that. Poker’s not a game of chance, not if you play it right. And if you do happen to come up against a brick wall or a straight face and for whatever reason can’t make the read, then you get the hell out. And fast. Otherwise it’s just suicide. Only a fool tries to beat the odds.”

  “And this one? I mean, you are sure, aren’t you? Because you have to be. There’s too much on the line. You’d damn well better be.”

  “I’ve seen him play, kid. No problem.”

  “But what if—”

  “No problem, I said. Trust me.”

  The Honda switched empty lanes again and drifted a few blocks farther. Wilson had his bearings now. “So,” he said, at last, “how much did you take him for?”

  Jake cleared his throat, fixed his gaze hard on the street just ahead and to his right. A homeless man stood bent over, peeling sodden newspaper pages off the sidewalk. In a few seconds they came abreast of the man and then they were past. Jake glanced at the wing mirror but the glass was set to the wrong angle and he saw only darkness.

  “How much, I said.” Wilson had a way of sounding angry without even raising his voice.

  “I don’t know,” said Jake, feigning disinterest. “Altogether? Something like two grand and change, I guess.”

  “What the hell’s with you, Jake? You were supposed to hit him hard, clean him out. What good is two grand?”

  “Do we have to listen to this shit?”

  “What?”

  “This,” Jake said, gesturing toward the radio with the toss of a hand. “Jazz. Can’t you get nothing better on this fancy stereo system of yours, or are you just getting some kind of sick kick out of tormenting me?”

  “You ignorant bastard,” said Wilson. The anger was still close to the surface, but now there was a mottling of amusement too. “That’s Coltrane. My F
avorite Things.”

  “Figures,” Jake muttered. “And, hey, if you’re not happy with the way I work, you are more than welcome to just stop this car right now and go get yourself another chump to do your bidding.” He let his voice purposely spin out of control, then paused and drew a gasping breath. “I told you at the beginning, we do this my way. I know what I’m at. Hell, I was pulling games when you were still just an itch in your daddy’s shorts.”

  “Jake—”

  “No. You can rant all you want, but your meanness don’t amount to a hill of beans. There’s nothing that the likes of you can teach me about working a racket. We do this my way, or you can just forget it.”

  Now Wilson was smiling. “You done?” he asked, his tone soft with menace. “Good. Now, sit back and shut up. Just remember, it’s my money you’re splashing around when you take a seat at that table. And you owe me, don’t forget that. You owe me big. It’s like I said before, you do this one thing for me and we’re quits. You’ll never hear another word from me again. But you screw this up, or if I get even a hint of a notion that you’re not giving this your A-game attention, I’ll personally feed you to the lions. Look at me. I said, look at me. Because I want you to take this seriously. I have never been a man fond of idle threats. Got that? If you never believed anything in your whole miserable excuse for a life, you can believe this. Screw me over and I swear to God I’ll take you out to the Bronx Zoo and personally feed you to the fucking lions.”

  They drove on in silence for a while. Wilson knew this area now and there was no further need to rely on the older man’s directions. When the lights turned red they stopped, even though theirs was the only car on the streets. Apart from the winos and the junkies, they seemed to have the city to themselves.

  Jake nodded slightly along to the music, though he had to make up a beat. When the song, if that’s what it was, had wound itself out, he cleared his throat again. “The two grand was just to hurt him. There was no serious cash in the house tonight. If there was, he would have been power playing, trying to frighten me off with big numbers. But when I show up tomorrow night he’ll be mad as all hell. And he’ll be packing cash by the bucket load. Tonight was just to rough him up a little bit, hurt his pride. I needed him to get his mind working up a little vengeance.”