I Parker - The Fires of the Gods

‘Thank you, thank you,’ muttered the beggar, bowing from the waist in the general direction of the passer-by. ‘May the Buddha bless you, sir.’

‘You’re welcome, uncle.’ Looking at the beggar’s emaciated figure, Tora asked, ‘Have you eaten today?’

The old man thought this over, pushing his lips in and out in concentration. ‘Not today,’ he finally decided. ‘But I’ll eat now.’ He grinned, revealing a few yellowed teeth, and shook the bowl, making the coins rattle around inside.

Tora felt a little ashamed of his small gift. ‘Do you live nearby?’

The beggar nodded and pointed over his shoulder.

‘You live in the Fifth Ward?’ Tora thought that extremely unlikely. Wealthy people tended to keep beggars out of their neighborhoods.

‘There’s a hole in the wall of the gate. I sleep in there. Not bad in the summer, but I near froze to death last winter.’

Tora walked back under the roofed gateway and looked. Sure enough: there were a few loose boards in the wooden wall on one side. Perhaps a cart had backed into it and loosened them, and the beggar had helped matters along. Inside, he glimpsed more rags and an earthenware water pitcher. A thought occurred to him, and he returned to the beggar.

‘By any chance, did you see… I mean, did you hear anyone passing last night? Anyone who might have been in trouble? Or some young hoodlums?’

To his surprise, the beggar nodded. ‘Right. On both counts. Two boys going in. Recognized their voices from my hole. Talking about the Rat.’

‘The Rat? You mean an animal, or someone called the Rat?’

‘The Rat’s no animal. He’s a saint. He left me something when he passed by.’

Tora crouched beside the beggar, holding his breath against the stench that met his nose. ‘That was last night? The Rat passed you last night, and then the boys came?’

The beggar nodded.

‘Those boys, they’re the ones I mean,’ Tora said. ‘Did they come back out? Were they alone?’

‘Came back dragging someone. He was moaning. Don’t think they caught the Rat, though. He can make himself invisible.’

Tora’s heart beat faster. ‘Thanks, old man,’ he said, jumping up. ‘I’ll be back.’

He loped off looking for a food vendor. Near a bridge, he found a couple selling hot fish wrapped in cabbage leaves and rice cakes filled with vegetables. Spending nearly all his money, he bought one of each and ran back to the beggar.

‘Here,’ he said, placing the food in the beggar’s hands. ‘Eat. And then, if you can tell me where I can find those two boys, I’ll come back tomorrow with a gold coin.’

The blind man took the food with trembling fingers. For a moment he just sat there, then he muttered a choked, ‘May you live in paradise in the next life, young man. I don’t know where they came from. They just came. I could smell them, and then I heard them talking.’ He extended the food. ‘Do you want it back?’

‘No, of course not. Eat.’ Tora crouched beside the beggar and watched him eat fish and cabbage leaf in large gulps, then take huge bites from the rice cake. ‘Slow down,’ he said, ‘or you’ll choke.’

The beggar promptly choked and turned nearly blue coughing. He gestured frantically behind him. Tora slapped his bony back, then recalled the pitcher and dashed to get it. It was half full of water. The beggar drank, caught a deep breath and wiped the tears from his face.

‘I’m blessed,’ he said. ‘If you’d left me, I’d be dead now.’

Tora saw nothing blessed about the beggar’s life, but did not say so. Instead he pursued the question of the hoodlums. ‘You said they just came. Have they ever come before?’

‘Maybe. I seem to remember the smell.’

Tora sighed. Putting his hand on the old man’s shoulder, he said, ‘Thanks, old man. Keep out of their way. They’d just as soon kill a man than walk around him.’

‘You’re right about that.’

Tora got up to walk away, then stopped and turned. ‘You recognized them by their smell, you said?’

‘Yes. People smell. You smell of baby spit. They smelled of malt.’

Tora grinned. The old man had a very good nose. Yuki had, in fact, spit up on his shoulder that morning. Malt, he thought. Malt is used by sake brewers. It was something. He thanked the old beggar again and went off whistling.

His good humor did not last. If the same hoodlums had Jirokichi, the poor Rat was most likely already dead. Still, he suddenly felt a great urgency and walked more quickly.

At the Western Market, he pounded on the door of Hoshina’s wine shop. She opened it a crack, saw him, and threw the door wide.

‘What is it? Have you found him?’ she asked, the words spilling out in mingled hope and fear.

Tora stepped in and closed the door again. ‘No. But I picked up something. A blind man in the Fifth Ward heard some young louts talking about Jirokichi. He says they smelled of malt. I wondered if you might know where I could look for them.’

‘Oh, I hope those evil bastards haven’t got him again. They nearly killed him last time.’

‘Malt,’ Tora reminded her.

She looked confused. ‘You mean a place that sells malt? Or a brewery?’

‘I don’t know. It’s got to be someplace where they either work or live.’

‘Them, work?’ She snorted. ‘Never. They’re thieves and robbers.’ Seeing Tora’s impatient face, she thought. ‘About six blocks west of here are warehouses. Some belong to breweries. They’re supposed to be watched, but a lot of scum hang out around there. Some of the warehouses are empty.

‘Where?’ Tora had his hand on the door.

She described the place where he had almost got a knife in his back.

He nodded. ‘Wish me luck.’

He covered the distance at a steady trot, fearing already that he would find the bloodied corpse of Jirokichi in some corner among garbage and at the mercy of wild dogs. Then he would have to go back and tell Hoshina. He had not been very good at saving lives lately.

When he reached the alley – for the third time – he sniffed the air. Yes, there was the unmistakable, if faint, smell of malt. Glancing first one way, then the other, he decided that the most likely warehouse was near the middle of the block and on the right side. The Fragrant Peach was just down the road and around the corner. Tora decided to have a look at the warehouse first.

He walked down the deserted lane, which was little more than two weedy ruts where an occasional cart had passed.

The warehouses were long, low buildings, their flat roofs made of boards weighted down by large stones. The fourth building was the one with the malt smell. It looked abandoned, its chained gate leaning drunkenly, the access unmarked by wheels. The fence was unbroken, but the gate gave enough to allow a man to slip in and out.

Tora pushed it cautiously and peered inside. The warehouse lay still in the afternoon sun, its doors closed. It was hot in the barren yard, and flies buzzed nearby. Tora did not like the idea of flies. He shuddered and withdrew his head. The dust around his feet showed the footprints of people going in and out, some in shoes and some barefoot. Then he saw something else: a small brown spot in the pale dirt. And there was another a few feet away. He bent down, licked a finger and touched the spot. A sniff verified his suspicion: someone had dripped blood here.

He studied the tracks more closely. Among the footprints he found some straight lines – double lines, as if from someone’s feet being dragged through the dust. The lines came from the street and passed into the warehouse yard. He had found the place. Jirokichi had been brought here, probably alive but bleeding.

Tora considered the situation. He was alone and did not know how many of the bastards he would have to deal with. It was unlikely that there would be only two of them; the place looked like a hang-out for the whole gang. He did not dare check more closely, because they might have put out a guard. And he could not hang about outside on this deserted road either, in case one or the other decided to leave or come back.