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The
waiter
shrugged
,
replacing
the
taser
behind
the
horseradish
cans
.
'
Two
hour
.
’
He
went
into
the
shop
without
bothering
to
glance
at
the
display
of
shuriken
.
He
’
d
never
thrown
one
in
his
life
.
He
bought
two
packs
of
Yeheyuans
with
a
Mitsubishi
Bank
chip
that
gave
his
name
as
Charles
Derek
May
.
It
beat
Truman
Starr
,
the
best
he
’
d
been
able
to
do
for
a
passport
.
The
Japanese
woman
behind
the
terminal
looked
like
she
had
a
few
years
on
old
Deane
,
none
of
them
with
the
benefit
of
science
.
He
took
his
slender
roll
of
New
Yen
out
of
his
pocket
and
showed
it
to
her
.
'
I
want
to
buy
a
weapon
.
’
She
gestured
in
the
direction
of
a
case
filled
with
knives
.
'
No
,
’
he
said
,
'
I
don
’
t
like
knives
.
’
She
brought
an
oblong
box
from
beneath
the
counter
.
The
lid
was
yellow
cardboard
,
stamped
with
a
crude
image
of
a
coiled
cobra
with
a
swollen
hood
.
Inside
were
eight
identical
tissue
-
wrapped
cylinders
.
He
watched
while
mottled
brown
fingers
stripped
the
paper
from
one
.
She
held
the
thing
up
for
him
to
examine
,
a
dull
steel
tube
with
a
leather
thong
at
one
end
and
a
small
bronze
pyramid
at
the
other
.
She
gripped
the
tube
with
one
hand
,
the
pyramid
between
her
other
thumb
and
forefinger
,
and
pulled
.
Three
oiled
,
telescoping
segments
of
tightly
wound
coilspring
slid
out
and
locked
.
'
Cobra
,
’
she
said
.
Beyond
the
neon
shudder
of
Ninsei
,
the
sky
was
that
mean
shade
of
gray
.
The
air
had
gotten
worse
;
it
seemed
to
have
teeth
tonight
,
and
half
the
crowd
wore
filtration
masks
.
Case
had
spent
ten
minutes
in
a
urinal
,
trying
to
discover
a
convenient
way
to
conceal
his
cobra
;
finally
he
’
d
settled
for
tucking
the
handle
into
the
waistband
of
his
jeans
,
with
the
tube
slanting
across
his
stomach
.
The
pyramidal
striking
tip
rode
between
his
ribcage
and
the
lining
of
his
windbreaker
.
The
thing
felt
like
it
might
clatter
to
the
pavement
with
his
next
step
,
but
it
made
him
feel
better
.
The
Chat
wasn
’
t
really
a
dealing
bar
,
but
on
weeknights
it
attracted
a
related
clientele
.
Fridays
and
Saturdays
were
different
.
The
regulars
were
still
there
,
most
of
them
,
but
they
faded
behind
an
influx
of
sailors
and
the
specialists
who
preyed
on
them
.
As
Case
pushed
through
the
doors
,
he
looked
for
Ratz
,
but
the
bartender
wasn
’
t
in
sight
.
Lonny
Zone
,
the
bar
’
s
resident
pimp
,
was
observing
with
glazed
fatherly
interest
as
one
of
his
girls
went
to
work
on
a
young
sailor
.
Zone
was
addicted
to
a
brand
of
hypnotic
the
Japanese
called
Cloud
Dancers
.
