Free Bad Blood by Anthony Bruno Page B

collided with the pointy black toe of Nagai’s alligator shoe.
    â€œWhat about you, Mashiro? Do you want to go back to Japan?”
    â€œIf you want me to.”
    Nagai grinned. “But you don’t really want to.”
    Mashiro shook his head. “No. Here is better for me. They want me badly over there. If I went back, I’d be an animal on the run again.” He glanced up at the armor on the wall. “I’d rather not repeat Yamashita’s fate.”
    Nagai stared into the pattern of the ancient armor, tiny, dull brass plates tightly knotted into an intricate weave of dark green, brown, and black leather thongs. He knew the story of Mashiro’s ancestor who wore that armor, Yamashita, the illegitimate son of Japan’s most famous samurai, Musashi Miyamoto—or so Mashiro claimed since Musashi supposedly had no children. According to Mashiro, Yamashita’s lord Nagai was killed in battle, and all of his samurai were forced to become ronin , wandering warriors, exiled to a life of endless migration and marauding because of their lordless status. Despite his reputation as a fierce swordsman, Yamashita died like a peasant, the result of a trivial vendetta. His throat was slit from behind while he was humping some local woman. The murderer was a ninja hired by a Chinese silk merchant who lost his favorite horse to Yamashita in a dice game. Very dishonorable to kill a man while he’s making love, but a typical ninja tactic, according to Mashiro. Nagai wondered if Mashiro would consider him a ronin if he betrayed Hamabuchi for D’Urso. Did samurai ever switch sides?
    Nagai took two more cherries and lobbed them far to either side of Mashiro. The samurai drew the long sword in his right hand, the short sword in his left, and spread his arms like a bird of prey. He moved fast to the right, then lunged left. The katana sliced through one cherry, but the wakizashi only succeeded in batting the other one across the room and into a stack of boxes. Mashiro scowled and grumbled to himself.
    Nagai was chewing another cherry. “Tell me something,” he said. “What do you think of D’Urso? Really.”
    Mashiro raised an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”
    â€œShould I trust him?”
    â€œYou’ve trusted him this far.”
    â€œSo.”
    Mashiro rested his hands on the hilt of the long sword in his belt. “Something is bothering you. What? What has D’Urso done?”
    Nagai considered telling him then, but suddenly changed his mind. “There’s nothing that he’s done in particular. I just have a bad feeling about him sometimes. I always find myself wanting to know what he’s really feeling. On the surface he seems fine, but there always seems to be a nasty undercurrent, especially whenever Francione is around. I just don’t feel right around them.”
    Mashiro scratched his neck. “I know little of feelings. Only actions.” Nagai knew he’d say something like that. You’re a big help.
    â€œI get the impression that D’Urso has some big ideas, ideas that could wreck our partnership with the Mafia. I couldn’t let that happen.”
    Mashiro shrugged. “What difference does it make who we sell our slaves to?”
    â€œHamabuchi wants us to do business with Antonelli’s family. You know how he is about Antonelli, his old friend from the days after the war.”
    â€œEverything is war, all the time. Which war?”
    â€œThe one we lost.” Wise guy. Is this how your ancestor spoke to his lord? “Hamabuchi told me right out. If our partnership with Antonelli’s family falls apart, he’ll blame me. He’s already said as much. That’s a lot of money he’d be losing.” Nagai then held up his hand, fingers spread to show Mashiro his two stumpy fingers. “Another finger won’t satisfy him if this deal is blown. I’m in exile as it is. The only punishment