Ori had replied by letter at once; "Not in the Yoshiwara or anywhere, not until our sonno-joi plan is done, the girl is dead and the Settlement burned. Before that if you, Akimoto or any other traitor comes near you will be shot."
Akimoto said, "He knows the fire was not an accident."
"Of course. Where would he get money?"' "Only by stealing it, neh?"' Other messages only brought the same answer. A poison plot had failed. So he had bought the gun and made a plan. Now it was time and tonight perfect. The last rays of sunset guided him across No Man's Land and along the fetid streets that were pocked with dangerous potholes. The few men who passed him, hardly looked at him except to curse him out of the way.
Ori reached haphazardly into the small sack of coins on the table beside the bed and pulled one out.
It was a clipped Mex, now worth half of its normal value. Though still five times her agreed price, he handed it to the naked woman. Her eyes lit up, she bobbed a curtsey, mumbling abject thanks again and again, "Yore a proper gent, ta, luv."
He watched absently as she wriggled into her tattered old dress, astonished that he was here, repelled by everything about this room and bed and house and place, and the pallid, bony gai-jin body and slack buttocks he had fantasized would allay the fire maddening him, but had only made his need worse, in no way comparing with her.
The woman paid no attention to him now. Her job was done except to mumble the customary thanks and lies about his performance--in his case not lies for what his organ lacked in size was made up with strength and vigor--and to get away and keep her newfound wealth without further trouble. Her dress hung on her thin, bare shoulders to trail on the threadbare carpet, partly covering the rough wooden floorboards. Torn petticoat, no drawers. Lank brownish hair and heavy rouge.
She looked forty and was nineteen, a street urchin born in Hong Kong to unknown parents, and sold into a Wanchai House eight years ago by her foster mother. "You want me back termorrer?
Termorrow?"
He shrugged and pointed to the door, his wounded arm healed and as good as it would ever be, never with the same strength, or quickness with a sword but good enough against an average swordsman, and good enough with a gun. His derringer was on the table and never far from his hand.
The woman forced a smile and backed away, mouthing thanks, glad to get away without a beating or having to endure the foul practices she had feared. "Don' you worry, Gerty," her madam had told her, "Chinermen're like any others, sometimes a bit picky, but this bugger's rich so just give 'im wot he wants, give it to 'im quick, he's rich so give it good." There was little extra she had had to do, other than to endure his frantic battering with stoicism and necessary grunts of feigned pleasure.
"Ta again, luv." She went out, the Mex secreted in the soiled bodice that hardly covered her flaccid breasts, another coin, a twentieth of its value clutched in her hand.
On the landing outside was Timee, a rough Eurasian seaman of mixed but predominantly Chinese blood. He shut the door and grabbed her. "Shut yor gob, you poxy whore," he hissed, forcing her hand open to take the coin, then cursed her in Chinese and guttural English for the poorness of her earnings: "Ayeeyah, why didn't you please the Guv?" Then he cuffed her and she half stumbled, half fell down the stairs, but when safe, turned and cursed with even more venom. "I'll tell Ma Fortheringill 'bout yer, she'll do yer!"
Timee spat after her, knocked and reopened the door. "Musume gud, Guv, heya?" he asked unctuously.
Now Ori sat at an old table by the window.
He wore a rough shirt and breeches with bare legs and feet, his short sword-knife in a belt holster. The money sack was on the table.
He saw the narrowed eyes staring at it.
Carelessly he found another Mex and tossed it.
The heavy-shouldered man caught it expertly, touched his forelock and smirked, his few remaining teeth broken and yellowed. "Thankee, Guv.
Grub?" He rubbed his big belly. "Grub, wakarimasu ka?" Their communication was with sign language and a little pidgin, and he was chief bodyguard. Another watched downstairs in the bar. A third in the alley.
Ori shook his head. "No," he said, using one of the words he had picked up, then added, "Beer-u," and waved him away. Alone at last he stared out of the window. The glass was cracked and fly encrusted, a corner missing, opening on to the drab facade of another ramshackle, wooden hostel opposite, ten yards away. The air smelt dank and his skin felt filthy, and crawled at the thought of that woman's body in sweating close contact, with no chance for a civilized Japanese bath afterwards though he could easily have had one in the village, a couple of hundred yards away across No Man's Land.
But to do that you risk Hiraga and his spies who will be waiting, he thought, Hiraga and Akimoto and all villagers who deserve to be crucified like common criminals for trying to prevent my grand design. Scum! All of them. Daring to try to burn me to death, daring to poison the fish--eeee, karma that the cat stole it before I could stop the beast and, in moments, died retching instead of me.
Since then he had eaten sparingly, and only rice that he cooked himself in a pot in the grate, with a little meat or fish stew made for the other boarders and bar customers that he made Timee taste in front of him as a further protection.
The food's foul, this place foul, that woman foul and I can only wait a few more days before I go mad. Then his eyes noticed the money bag.
His lips moved from his teeth in a vicious smile.
The night of the fire in the other hovel he had been sleeping on a cot in a tiny, squalid alcove in the back of the bar that had cost him the last of his money. Long before others in the hostel awoke, his danger senses honed in a score of fires since childhood had warned him, tearing him out of sleep, to find flames were already licking the wooden stairs above, and to see another gourd of oil with a burning rag in its neck being hurled into the main barroom.
An hysterical dog bounded down the stairs and joined two cats frantically seeking escape and the three animals began charging around the room crashing into bottles of spirits that, smashing on the cobbled floor, nourished the blaze. Screams and uproar began from the crowded floor above.
Half-naked men started cascading down the stairs in panic, flames licking at them as they fled into the street.
The stairs caught. Then a sudden tongue of flame soared upwards along the tinder dry walls and banister. The barroom was blinding hot, the air seared as a heat-generated wind roared the fire into an implacable killer. The sides of the front door began to burn furiously, the flames almost barring it. More men rushed pellmell down the stairs, screaming, tripping over one another in panic through the flames to the outside, some already with parts of their hastily donned clothes on fire. Only minutes had passed since the arson began but now the fire was in total command and the building doomed.
In his cubbyhole Ori was unafraid, fire drilled, safely out of the billowing smoke, hugging the floor, his mouth already covered with a beer-soaked rag, his emergency escape route automatically docketed the moment he had gone into the room.
Safety lay always in refusing to panic, and this time through a small, shuttered window across the barroom, well away from the burning stairs that let out onto the back alley.