I DON’T PRETEND to be Superman. I don’t even pretend to be Jimmy Olson. Over the years, I’ve found that my job-related anxiety is at its worst two or three hours before the gig itself. I’ve tried antidepressants, a few shots of whiskey, even a joint or two of pot. But they all left me logy. Maybe the worst danger of all to a man in my profession.

  Then I discovered the Stairmaster. I now insist on hotel rooms with Stairmasters. Pricey, yes, but invaluable. An hour of hard exercise and then a cold shower leaves me not only wide awake but focused entirely on the task ahead.

  I’d just stepped out of the shower when the call came that I’d been expecting.

  “I guess I’m backing out.”

  “Figures.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

  “I’m ready to go. Guess I’ll have to find some other amusement for tonight.”

  “I was just thinking to myself I’m not this kind of woman. I’m a Junior Leaguer, for God’s sake.”

  “All right. I’ve got the money and I’m hanging up now.”

  “I feel foolish. You must think I’m an airhead.”

  “A Junior League airhead? A contradiction in terms.”

  “There’s that f-ing sarcasm again.”

  “Good night, Madam.”

  I was just adjusting the clip-on necktie that fitted the white shirt I wore under the uniform jacket when the second call came.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You know damn well who this is. Now quit playing around.”

  “Oh, yes, the Junior League lady.”

  “I ought to hang up on you, you bastard.”

  “Go ahead. It’s your turn.”

  “I want you to do it.”

  “I’ve already made other plans.”

  “You prick. You’ve got my money and I want satisfaction. And don’t get cute with that last word.”

  I checked my Rolex. If I was going to do it, I had to move fast.

  “One thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I never want to hear your voice again.”

  I hung up, grabbed my stun gun, and drove over to the hotel.

  THE BANQUET RAN LATE. A minor celebrity sang some songs and an even more minor celebrity gave a speech about why beauty pageants were the best expression ever of true American values. If there’d been a vomitorium nearby, I would have gladly bought my ticket.

  Someday when I tell this story again to a few friends of mine, I’ll fill it with a lot of intrigue and suspense. The whole stalking sequence you see in all those noir films. Close cuts of me hiding in the front of the garden area. The beautiful contestant coming out the door that leads to the garden, her mother holding her hand. Her innocently looking around. My hand tightening around my weapon of choice for this evening. Her walking briskly toward her entrance door. And then me coming up behind her, devilishly disguised, and saying in a safe, sensible voice, “Excuse me.”

  And her turning around and—

  I’D JUST POURED myself a drink when the phone rang in my hotel room. I picked up and said, “I thought I told you I never wanted to hear your voice again.” Nobody else it could be. Nobody else knew where I was.

  “I just wanted to thank you.”

  “I did my job.”

  “You did a fine job. Of course, I feel terrible about it. It’s not the sort of thing I’d normally do but my daughter—” Then, “But this Tiny Tiara contest is real important to her.” I could feel rather than hear her smile on the other end of the phone. “Call me the ultimate stage mother, I guess.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Well, that’s nice. All I wanted to do was thank you. I mean it must’ve been weird for you throwing acid in the face of a little five-year-old girl. I’m just glad you could get through it.”

  I hung up.

  The local news was all over it of course. A beauty contest for five-to seven-year-old girls. A barbaric act unheard of in the history of these pageants. Police searching for a dark-haired man dressed as a bellhop. So stealing the uniform and spending the time to get just the right wig had been worth the trouble.

  Sleep didn’t come easy but when it finally arrived I had an unwanted dream about screwing the woman who’d hired me. She was a lot better than I would’ve thought.

  MICHAEL A. BLACK

  FOR the past twenty-eight years Michael A. Black has been a police officer in the south suburbs of Chicago. His short stories have appeared in various anthologies and magazines, including Ellery Queen, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and Detective Mystery Stories. He’s the author of the Ron Shade novels, and the stand-alones THE HEIST and FREEZE ME, tender. Michael has worked in various capacities in police work including patrol supervisor, tactical squad, investigations, raid team member, and SWAT team leader. He is currently a sergeant on the Matteson, Illinois Police Department.

  On the subject of literary hitmen, Michael comments: “The role of the hitman in crime literature is fully entwined with that of the private detective. Both are steeped in a romantic mysticism that transcends reality and builds a mystique all its own. ‘Down these mean streets, a man must go. . .’ Raymond Chandler once said. What he didn’t say was that Marlowe was worried there was a hitman waiting somewhere in the shadows and the fog. But since hitmen and gangsters aren’t unique to the United States, I tried to give my story an international feel.”

  Visit him at www.MichaelABlack.com.

  THE BLACK ROSE

  Michael A. Black

  BRAX WATCHED AS THE muscular men danced around the picturesque courtyard, chopping at one another with those three-foot bamboo swords, their arms, chests, and backs covered with colorful tattoos, their bodies glistening with sweat.

  “They do that with real blades, too?” he asked. The wood of the raised porch-like balcony that overlooked the courtyard below was hard and his legs were beginning to ache from sitting there.

  “Of course.” Kiroshi cast an amused looking smile his way. His English was good, but heavily accented. “Those are called shinai. Used for practice. But there are times when a yakuza must use a real katana.”

  “A what?”

  Kiroshi smiled again and stood up. “A katana.” He touched the handle of the long sword sticking out from his belt. “For us, it is part of our culture. A sacred part.” With a quick movement, Kiroshi pulled the long sword from its holder and held it out in front of Brax. The shiny metal gleamed in the fading sunlight like sterling silver. “They were used to guard the Emperor and his lords. A true warrior used his katana as an instrument of honor. They were fashioned by. . .artists with metal. It would take them many months. They would fashion the blade over and over, never allowing any weakness or impurity.” He turned it, catching the light. “During this time, they would not eat meat, bathed only in cold water, and would not have sexual relations. Not until their task was complete. Not until the blade was perfect.” He swiftly raised his arm and with a quick motion sheathed the sword.

  Brax shook his head. This whole country was nothing but fanatics. In the distance, symmetrical rows of trees and circular patterns of crops gave way to a once scenic mountain, now obscured by a cloud of brown fog. Like everything else here, crowded, polluted, and inscrutable. The sooner he could get himself and crazy Stevie out of this damn country, the better.

  “We’re used to guns in the States,” he said.

  “Guns are illegal in Japan,” Kiroshi said, grinning as he pulled back his jacket to display the grip of the pistol, “but they are not unobtainable.”

  Kiroshi murdered the pronunciation of the last word, but Brax figured he’d better not say anything. After all, these were the guys who were protecting them. He looked around again at the remote house where they’d been hiding out, waiting on that flight back to the States in twelve more hours. It seemed pretty secure. They were a good distance from the city, in a maze of gardens or farms or something. The long house was set back from the yard, and the whole place was surrounded by a five-foot brick wall. Embedded fragments of broken glass adorned the topping cement. Plus there must have been at least fifteen yakuzas here. It should be safe enough. He glanced at his watch again, wondering what time it was in LA right now, and thought about the reason he was sitting here, sweating it out.

  “You’re sure that Tanaka dude ain’t gonna find us?” he asked.

  Several of the men in the courtyard yelled in unison, brandishing their bamboo swords and charging their opponents.

  “Tanaka Mishima knows where we are,” Kiroshi said. “But he will not come.”

  Brax thought about that and decided if two foreigners had whacked his daughter, he’d be sure to try and ice them before they took off for parts unknown. He hurled another silent curse at Stevie for getting him into this mess. Taking the boss’s son along on a business trip like this had been a mistake from the get-go. He’d known it, and Stevie’s excesses when it came to hookers was what did them in. Instead of completing the simple transaction agreement like he wanted, and getting the hell back to the States, idiot Stevie had to get laid.

  And how was I supposed to know he liked things rough, Brax thought. Real rough. And then the dead hooker turned out to be this ex-hitman’s daughter. . .

  “So just how good is this Tanaka guy?” Brax asked.

  Kiroshi’s eyes narrowed and he held up his thumb. “I trained him to be the best-best.”

  One of the female servants, dressed in a flowing kimono, stepped on to the porch and bowed, saying something in Japanese. Kiroshi grunted a response and motioned for her to set the tray down.

  “He was a cast-off of your army’s occupation,” he said picking up one of the small cups and sipping from it. “His father was a GI, his mother Japanese. When I found him, he was an einoko running the streets. I took him in, raised him as my shatei, taught him the way of the katana.” Kiroshi paused and Brax thought he saw something akin to pride in the older man’s expression. “In the years that followed, after the occupation, he became legend among the yakuza, able to master every technique, every weapon, and completely without fear. And yet he also had honor. He would leave a black rose with each of his. . .assassinations.” He murdered the pronunciation again, but Brax got the idea. It sent a cold shiver up his spine, “ft would be,” Kiroshi continued, “the last thing seen before his katana struck.”

  One by one, the combatants in the courtyard were being eliminated in their swordfighting contest. Only two of the tattooed men remained now. Brax watched as they circled each other warily. The larger of the two made a deft movement, sweeping the other man’s shinai out of his hands. The big guy followed up with a quick slashing motion, smacking the other man’s gut and leaving a bright red welt below a feathery tattoo pattern.

  Kiroshi called out in Japanese. Brax could tell that it was an order because the men quickly turned and bowed toward him. Then they picked up their gear and dispersed.

  “That big guy looks pretty good with that thing,” Brax said.

  “Kiro was taught by Tanaka,” Kiroshi said. “He is very skilled with tanto, katana, and guns.” He turned and pointed to the tray. “Have some tea, Brax-san.”

  “So the guy who’s stalking me is the guy who taught your crew all they know?” Brax said, ignoring the cups. “How do I know this guy ain’t crazy enough to follow me once we get outta here?”

  Kiroshi chuckled. “He could never find you in your country. He does not speak the language. And if he tries here, tonight, he knows it means defying me, which will necessitate his death. I am his saiko-koman.” His expression turned stem again. “Believe me, Brax-san, once we get you and your friend on that plane in the morning, you will be safe.” He leaned forward. “Just do not let your superiors forget about our agreement. And the special reward you promised me.”

  One of the flunkies from the courtyard approached them and bowed, then went into a crouch, holding out his open palm like he wanted to shake hands. Brax noticed that the little finger was missing on the guy’s left hand. Kiroshi regarded him for several seconds, and then said something in Japanese. The man responded, bowed again, and backed cautiously away.

  “He told me your friend has refused food,” Kiroshi said. “He is very strange.”

  You got that right, Brax thought. The dumb son of a bitch.

  “He’s also the big man’s son,” he said. “My boss, Sal Payne.”

  Kiroshi nodded and brought the small cup to his lips, sipped, then barked out an order and two men, each with small machine guns, began walking around the courtyard.

  “Looks like they’re ready for action,” Brax said, feeling slightly better that they were packing heat and not some kind of samurai sword bullshit. “You said that guy Tanaka is no longer with the organization?”

  Kiroshi set the small cup down and nodded. Almost noiselessly, the servant girl appeared and took the tray away.

  “So what did he do?” Brax asked. “Screw the boss’s daughter?”

  If Kiroshi got the joke, he didn’t show it. He simply shook his head.

  “I told you Tanaka was an einoko. . .Mixed blood. As it stands, it is our custom that he never marry a full blood Japanese. But he did.

  “He came to me almost twenty years ago, and asked to be released from the. . .” he paused, as if searching for the right word, “organization. He offered me yubitsume.” Kiroshi held up his own left hand, which was missing the tip of the little finger.

  The corners of Brax’s mouth turned downward. “That other guy was missing one, too. Some kind of sword-play accident?”

  Kiroshi shook his head. “Yubitsume. . .An atonement. If a yahuza has offended his oyabun, he may offer his finger as an apology.”

  “You cut off your own finger?”

  “Hai. I was his kumicho, but I forbade him to do it.”

  The image of some dude fanatical enough to go chopping off the tip of his finger flashed through Brax’s mind. “Why was that?”

  “Tanaka was the greatest kendo master I had ever seen. A throwback to the days of the samurai. And I owed him a debt of honor. I once saw him kill ten men at one time.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Brax said. “You mean with one of them swords?”

  Kiroshi nodded. “Yes, with a katana.” He stared off into space. “Tanaka saved my life that day, so I went to the oyabun and offered myself in his place. My yubitsume was accepted. I went back to Tanaka and told him our debt was paid. He left on the condition that I never see him again.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or,” Kiroshi looked toward Brax with an obvious expression of disdain. “I would kill him.”

  Brax wrinkled his nose. “You guys got some funny rules over here, I’ll say that. But I gotta tell you, I don’t get a lot of what you’re telling me.”

  The older man smiled. His teeth were gold outlines reinforcing crumbling enamel. “I did not imagine you would. You are a westerner. . .an American.” His word had a measured, contempt-filled tone. “I speak of bushido. . .The warrior’s code. It is very important here in Japan, even today.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Brax said, rising. “I gotta use the bathroom.”

  He went inside the structure and saw the shadows of a group of men moving behind the long paper wall of the main room. They were obviously playing one of their damn Jap card games. Christ, it seemed like that’s all they did. He went to the third room, slid open the door, and checked to see if Stevie was still sleeping it off. The fat slob was lying on his back clad in his dirty underwear, snoring and stinking of booze.

  Brax would have liked nothing better than to boogie on out of there, take a taxi back to the city, and wait by himself in the airport for the next flight out. But bringing the boss’s kid home safe was part of the deal. Sal Payne’s boys were almost, but not quite, as serious as these yakuza fuckers. He didn’t have to worry about cutting off any fingers. They’d probably cut something else off, though, before they put a bullet in his brain.

  Two of the gangster dudes ran down the narrow hallway talking Japanese into a portable radio. They looked agitated and alarmed. He could see it in their eyes. He slid the door closed and followed them, noticing for the first time that it had suddenly gotten very dark. Lighted Japanese lanterns ringed the hallway and the perimeter of the courtyard.

  Kiroshi stood by the doorway, his hands on his hips, surveying the yard as the other guys rushed out.

  “What’s up?” Brax asked.

  Kiroshi frowned. “Just checking on the guards. They did not answer their radios.”

  Oh shit, Brax thought. That don’t sound too good. “What does that mean?”

  Kiroshi glared at him momentarily, then his radio squawked with some kind of gibberish, and he smiled and held the radio up. “See, it is as I told you. All is good.”

  Brax looked dubious.

  “Do not worry, Brax-san. As I told you, Tanaka is a man of honor. He cannot defy me, without it meaning his own death.” Kiroshi turned and gestured down the hallway. “Do you want me to teach you how to play our game of cards?”

  Brax glanced at the gesticulating images against the opaque wall again. “You guys do that a lot, don’t you?”

  “It is our tradition. We take our name from it. The word yakuza means twenty-three.”

  “Is that lucky or something?”

  Kiroshi shook his head and smiled. “No. It means to lose.”

  Great, Brax thought. Just what I wanted to hear.

  “Another time,” he said. “I’m pretty beat.”

  “Go to your room, then. Rest for your long journey home.”

  “Ah, I’d feel better if I had a piece,” Brax said. “At least until we leave in the morning.”

  Kiroshi shook his head. “A gun would do no good against Tanaka, and you might accidentally shoot me.”