Free The Sapphire Express by J. Max Cromwell

just needed to give it some options and let my eyes scan the streets like a starving cat and deliver as much data for it to analyze as possible.
    I arrived in town after a fifteen-minute drive and started cruising slowly along the main street with watchful eyes. I passed a Mexican, an Italian, and a Nepalese restaurant, but the call of corn tortillas, pasta, and dal bhat tarkari wasn’t strong enough to lure me in. I also managed to evade the pull of a fantastic new oyster bar near the county courthouse, but when I saw a small hibachi place at the corner of a quiet strip mall, I yielded, and my left foot applied the brake gently. I simply couldn’t resist Asian food, especially after a night of heavy drinking and general debauchery. A cup of warm sake didn’t sound too bad, either, and the decision was final: I was going to step into the den of the dreaded maneki neko .
    I parked the Econoline in front of the restaurant and jumped out enthusiastically. The Fallen Samurai looked inviting, and I pushed all my preconceptions aside as I opened the heavy mahogany door that hid a mysterious, fiery world from the unadventurous. I stepped in briskly, and, sure enough, a golden maneki neko welcomed me with its raised left paw. I approached the feline, unafraid, and took a toothpick from an ornamented martini glass that was twinkling next to the little creature. Then I put the toothpick in my mouth and started wondering where everybody was. I shrugged and placed my finger on the little silver table bell that sat quietly on the counter, but before I could ring it, a small Japanese woman appeared behind a bamboo curtain. She looked straight into my eyes and said with a welcoming smile, “One for hibachi, yes?”
    “Yes, one for hibachi,” I said, and the woman gestured me to follow her.
    I complied gladly, and the nice woman led me through the dark restaurant into a beautiful hibachi room where approximately thirty happy customers were already enjoying their brief visit to the Land of the Rising Sun. The fires were burning hot at the hibachi stations, and onion towers were spewing smoke like little tasty volcanoes while the cheerful chefs were entertaining the guests with their neat tricks and well-rehearsed jokes. The place was almost full, but one of the tables next to a large tinted window was still dark and waiting for more customers. The only two people sitting at that table were a beautiful young mother and her toddler.
    The hostess pointed at an empty seat at the table, and I sat down and said hello to the mother as gentlemanly as I could. She smiled at me and said hi softly, and I knew immediately that she was a wonderful young person. Her eyes were kind and sophisticated, and there was true, God-given intelligence behind them. She had lovely brown hair, and her makeup was subtle but elegant. She was wearing a gray University of Texas T-shirt and a nice pair of white slacks. Her entire demeanor exhaled class and mature sophistication, and she was polite and friendly to the waiter who asked if she wanted more water. She was taking fantastic care of her daughter, too, and the child was extremely well behaved and clearly excited about the mysterious room where fires were burning hot, and carts full of colorful food flew past her little eyes like little delicious choo-choo trains. She listened carefully to the sound of sharp knives cutting tender meat and fresh seafood and gazed curiously at the shiny spatulas clanging loudly in the hands of the skilled teppanyaki chefs. The place was like a wonderland for a young child, or a starving man in beat-up Nike pants.
    I hoped that the young mother and her daughter would be the only other customers at the table, but, unfortunately, that dream was cruelly dashed when a white Cadillac Escalade and a black Porsche convertible pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. Two women in their late forties—one blonde and one brunette—stepped out of the Escalade, already drunk, and the