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“Again, I apologize for being tardy,” Hyatta said, “but I was waiting for a special delivery. I hope you don’t mind if I boast a little about my latest find, but I knew this would be something you’d appreciate.”
Hyatta took a small plastic case out of his jacket pocket, placed it reverently on the table between himself and Kurisaka. He opened the case. A gold coin within.
Kurisaka shoved more shrimp into his mouth, leaned forward to look at the coin. A gold American Double Eagle. Kurisaka was not impressed. He had a few of these coins himself. The US government had started minting them about the time of the gold rush. Kurisaka kept the smile off his face. If Hyatta thought this was worth boasting- Kurisaka spotted the date on the coin. His mouth fell open. Shrimp dropped out.
“Is that a 1933?” he asked.
Hyatta smiled and nodded.
“But I can’t-it must be a replica,” Kurisaka sputtered. “ Roosevelt had them all melted down. The Secret Service tracked down the ones that were stolen.”
“It’s genuine,” Hyatta said. “An interesting story actually.”
Hyatta dove into the story, how the coin had turned up during a renovation of a basement in San Francisco. Hyatta had good contacts with dealers throughout the United States. When the construction worker who’d found the coin sold it for five hundred dollars to a dealer in Oakland, the shop owner had immediately recognized what the coin was. But he’d needed to be careful. Otherwise, the US Treasury Department would claim the coin. The shop owner had contacted people who contacted other people until finally Hyatta had arranged to purchase the coin.
Kurisaka barely listened. His eyes were fixed on the coin. A sickening, mixed feeling of admiration and envy settled in his stomach. He desperately wanted to ask Hyatta if he could hold the coin but didn’t want to give his rival the satisfaction. He simply said, “Congratulations.”
Hyatta offered a modest shrug. “We are fortunate to be men of means. We can afford to pursue our passions. What of you, Ahira? Any new additions to the collection?”
Kurisaka brightened. He knew Hyatta had a special weakness for baseball memorabilia. Now here was his chance to make Hyatta jealous. “I’m negotiating the purchase of a baseball card. It’s one of a kind, quite special.” He picked up the dropped piece of shrimp, put it back in his mouth.
“What a coincidence. I’m also in the middle of acquiring a baseball card. My people are in contact with a Florida man who claims to have something unique.”
Kurisaka choked on the shrimp, went into a coughing fit.
“Are you all right?” asked Hyatta.
Kuriska washed down the shrimp with a glass of water. “I’m fine.”
They finished lunch, and Kurisaka returned to his limousine, surrounded by four bodyguards. He sulked in the back as the long black vehicle slid through downtown Tokyo. The thought that Hyatta might get his Joe DiMaggio baseball card made him physically ill.
He picked up the car phone and dialed Billy Moto. “Billy, pack a bag and arrange for one of the company jets. I’m sending you to America.”
1
Co
Sid, the eternally bald and surly bartender, set the draft beer at Co
“Thanks, Sid.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Co
Hell.
Salty’s Saloon was old and dark and filled with quiet regulars who wanted to watch sports, nurse drinks, and be left alone. Co
Sid glanced at the television, shook his head. “You got the worst luck of anybody I’ve ever known.” He was still shaking his head as he stacked clean glasses behind the bar.
Co
He didn’t want to make the calls yet, so he stalled, paged through the Wall Street Journal. DesertTech was up three points. A friend of a pal of a guy somebody knew had suggested the stock a week ago. Co
“I guess you ain’t a millionaire yet,” Sid said.
“Would I be in this dump if I were a millionaire?”
“Yeah, I sorta think you would,” Sid said. “My sister owns an alpaca farm in California. Says it’s the latest thing.”
“No animals.”
“They always need guys on the offshore oil rigs.”
“I want my money to work for me. Not the other way around.”
“Yeah, but it takes money to make money.”
“That’s clever,” Co
“Oh, blow it out your ass.”
Co
Next, Co
“ Gulf Coast Collections,” said the secretary.
“Tell Ed it’s Co
“Hold please.”
Co
Ed’s gutter ball voice came on the line. “You must need work, Samson.”
“What? A guy can’t call up an old buddy?”
“No.”
“Okay, so I need work.”
“Ain’t got none.”
“Come on.”
“None.”
“Awwwwwww, come on.” Sometimes just being pathetic was the best way to get a job out of Ed. He liked to save most of his repo work for a squat little hunk of meat he called his kid brother. “I’m not picky here, buddy. I just need some folding money.”
“No. You always bust up the cars. Bring them back all banged.” He was from Albania or Lithuania or some kind of ania. Co
“It was only that one time,” Co
“All headlights smashed real good.”
“The guy had a tire iron. He was trying to cave in my skull.”
“So you hit him with a car.”
“The light was green.”
“Then you back over him,” Ed said. “Smash up taillights and bend the bumper.”
“I was going back to see if he was okay. It wasn’t my fault, man.”