No wonder she roams around from place to place, from man to man, seeking. And not even knowing what it is herself, what her biology needs. But I know, and through this big-time action with McCarthy—whatever it is—I’m going to achieve it for her.
At lunchtime, Robert Childan closed up American Artistic Handcrafts Inc. Usually he crossed the street and ate at the coffee shop. In any case he stayed away no more than half an hour, and today he was gone only twenty minutes. Memory of his ordeal with Mr. Tagomi and the staff of the Trade Mission still kept his stomach upset.
As he returned to his store he said to himself, Perhaps new policy of not making calls. Do all business within store.
Two hours showing. Much too long. Almost four hours in all; too late to reopen store. An entire afternoon to sell one item, one Mickey Mouse watch; expensive treasure, but—he unlocked the store door, propped it open, went to hang up his coat in the rear.
When he re-emerged he found that he had a customer. A white man. Well, he thought. Surprise.
“Good day, sir,” Childan said, bowing slightly. Probably a pinoc. Slender, rather dark man. Well-dressed, fashionable. But not at ease. Slight shine of perspiration.
“Good day,” the man murmured, moving around the store to inspect the displays. Then, all at once, he approached the counter. He reached into his coat, produced a small shiny leather cardcase, set down a multicolored, elaborately printed card.
On the card, the Imperial emblem. And military insignia. The Navy. Admiral Harusha. Robert Childan examined it, impressed.
“The admiral’s ship,” the customer explained, “lies in San Francisco Bay at this moment. The carrier Syokaku.”
“Ah,” Childan said.
“Admiral Harusha has never before visited the West Coast,” the customer explained. “He has many wishes while here, one of which is to pay personal visit to your famous store. All the time in the Home Islands he has heard of American Artistic Handcrafts Inc.”
Childan bowed with delight.
“However,” the man continued, “due to pressure of appointments, the admiral cannot pay personal visit to your esteemed store. But he has sent me; I am his gentleman.”
“The admiral is a collector?” Childan said, his mind working at top speed.
“He is a lover of the arts. He is a connoisseur. But not a collector. What he desires is for gift purposes; to wit: he wishes to present each officer of his ship a valuable historic artifact, a side arm of the epic American Civil War.” The man paused. “There are twelve officers in all.”
To himself, Childan thought, Twelve Civil War side arms. Cost to buyer: almost ten thousand dollars. He trembled.
“As is well known,” the man continued, “your shop sells such priceless antique artifacts from the pages of American history. Alas, all too rapidly vanishing into limbo of time.”
Taking enormous care in his words—he could not afford to lose this, to make one single slip—Childan said, “Yes, it is true. Of all the stores in PSA, I possess finest stock imaginable of Civil War weapons. I will be happy to serve Admiral Harusha. Shall I gather superb collection of such and bring aboard the Syokaku? This afternoon, possibly?”
The man said, “No, I shall inspect them here.”
Twelve. Childan computed. He did not possess twelve—in fact, he had only three. But he could acquire twelve, if luck were with him, through various channels within the week. Air express from the East, for instance. And local wholesale contacts.
“You, sir,” Childan said, “are knowledgeable in such weapons?”
“Tolerably,” the man said. “I have a small collection of hand weapons, including tiny secret pistol made to look like domino, Circa 1840.”