But how could he have known?
So as soon as that guy Jack had left the store yesterday he'd looked back through his phone's call history and found Gerrish's number. He'd been calling him for two fucking days now. Finally he'd got through late this afternoon. Apparently the jerk hardly ever charged his phone.
But worse: Gerrish was no longer in a selling mood. Said he'd changed his mind and wanted to keep it. At least he still had it. If he'd sold it to someone else…
Tom didn't want to think about that.
After much wheedling—humiliating as all hell—he brought Gerrish around to the point where he'd allow him to examine the sword.
When the door to 4D opened, Tom offered his hand.
"Hugh, thanks so much. I really appreciate this."
Gerrish's handshake was as limp as his tone. "Yeah, well, I hope you don't think you can talk me into selling."
When he stepped through the door the tingle in his neck spread down his back. He was in the same room as the fucking Gaijin Masamune.
"Like I told you on the phone, I just want to see it." He'd worked up this story earlier in the day. "You said it was rusted out in spots, and that makes it pretty much worthless. But then I got to thinking that maybe it wasn't rust. Maybe it was some kind of design in the steel that hadn't been reported before. I need a look."
"Okay. You can look, you can touch, but you can't have."
"Sure. Fine. But a few days ago you were itching to sell. What made you change your mind?"
Gerrish's expression wavered from resolute to uncertain. "I'm not really sure."
"You sound pretty sure."
"When I… when it came into my possession, I had a feeling it was special… that I could, you know, move it for some decent change."
"So you called me."
"Yeah, but you turned me down."
"That I did." Schmuck that I am.
"Turned out I was glad you did. Because the thing's kinda been growing on me. I decided to keep it."
"Interesting. Where is it now?"
Gerrish motioned Tom down the short hallway to the main room where he made a flourish toward the coffee table.
"Ta-daaa!"
Tom stopped and stared. The room could have been made of solid gold and lined with the proverbial seventy-two naked virgins. Who cared? Tom had eyes for only one thing.
At first glance, with its Swiss-cheesed blade, it indeed looked like a piece of junk. As he bent and ran a finger along the random pattern of pocks and holes, every square millimeter of his skin began to tingle. He lifted it and rested it on his palms. These weren't rusted out or eaten out—these had been melted out.
He raised it and peeked through one of the holes. He experienced an instant of vertigo as he seemed to be standing on a low bridge looking out at a bustling city filled with rough-clad Asian men and kimonoed women. Then it all disappeared in a blinding flash as bright as the sun.
He snatched the blade away from his face and stood blinking at the purple afterimage.
"What's the matter?" Gerrish said.
Tom took another quick peek. This time all he saw was Gerrish.
"Nothing."
He lowered the blade again for a closer look. The jihada—the steel of the cutting edge—was unmarred. The swordsmith must have concentrated the best steel there. The hamon—the temper line—undulated like a series of gentle waves on a placid lake.
Tom moved down to the naked tang. This was where the swordsmith traditionally carved his mei—his signature. No signature here, only a Kanji symbol:
This was it—the Gaijin Masamune. He was holding the fucking Gaijin Masamune.
He noticed his hands starting to shake so he put it down. Not an easy thing to do. Maybe the hardest thing he'd ever done.
"I—" He swallowed around a dry tongue. "I was right the first time out: It's a piece of junk, good only for sentimental value."
"But it's so sharp," Gerrish said. "Watch this."
He stepped into the kitchen and returned with an apple. He lifted the sword by the tang and dropped the apple onto the upturned edge. A whole apple hit the blade. Two halves bounced onto the table.
"Yeah. Sharp."
Tom wanted to say, What else would you expect from a Masamune blade, especially one tempered in ground-zero atomic fire? But he held his tongue. This asshole had no idea what he had. Cutting an apple—like using a CO2 laser to make a paper doll. Christ.
He saw the smear of apple juice on the blade and wanted to scream at Gerrish to wipe it off.
No way was he walking out of here without that blade. Like leaving a small child alone with a pedophile. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen.
He pulled a Ziploc bag from his pocket.
"Brought you a present. Since you're gonna keep this piece of junk, it might as well have a handle—what the Japs call a tsuka."
He sat on the couch, pushed the apple halves aside, and dumped the contents on to the table next to the sword. Two pieces of halved bamboo, a bamboo peg, a piece of cloth, and strips of tightly wound silk.
"You don't really—"
"Sure I do. My way of saying thanks for letting me see it, even if it is junk." He held up the two pieces of bamboo. "These make up the ho."
He fitted them around the tang, noting how they obscured the gaijin symbol. He shook his head in wonder, thinking, You could own this thing all your damn life and never know you had the fucking Gaijin Masamune.
He picked up the bamboo peg.
"This is the mekugi and it fits through the holes in the ho and the tang to hold everything together."
That done, he wrapped the red cloth around the ho and began winding the silk cord around the cloth in a crude approximation of the traditional diamond pattern tsuka-ito. Once the sword was his, he'd fashion a suitably magnificent tsuka. But for now, this was all he had time for. He'd even skipped installing a hilt—the round, ornate tsuba. He wouldn't need one for what he had planned.