Owl and the Japanese Circus Read Free Page A

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 touchesand 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 pupilshad 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