Owl and the Japanese Circus Read Free

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, butclose, 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 looseinterpretation 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