Chapter 17
We drove to San Francisco on Saturday. I wasn’t ready to tell Karla where I lived, so Mio and I took a cab downtown to the Hyatt Regency on L Street. I’d given Karla a call on Friday instructing her to meet us in the lobby at 8:00 p.m. I’d also given her directions to Tony’s house so she could pick him up on the way downtown.
During our cab ride, Mio showed me her new handbag. She asked me to examine it and see if I noticed anything unusual about it. It was small, only about eight by six inches, made of a very fine, soft leather. There was a long, thin strap, also leather, connected by jade rings at the two upper corners. The bag opened at the top by a clasping mechanism made of what looked like a high grade of burnished steel. The clasp consisted of four steel rings. At first, the four rings appeared to be a single piece, but on closer examination I saw there were two sections, one of three rings, the other of the remaining single ring. There wasn’t anything novel about the mechanism itself, aside from its exceptional workmanship. By pressing in opposite directions, the fourth ring snapped briskly apart from the other three, allowing the bag to open.
The opening was straight and rigid, the two sections of steel spreading apart at each end by expanding accordion-like folds of leather. The inside consisted of a single compartment containing a small makeup kit, two keys on a key ring set with a very large emerald, a California driver’s license giving Mio’s age as twenty-three, and what looked like about three thousand dollars in hundreds in a money clip. I removed everything and placed it on the seat between us. The bag was lined with a patterned silk of exceptional quality and didn’t appear to have any secret compartments. The only thing that struck me as curious was its weight; it was heavier than I expected it to be. The weight was all at the top, which, given the thickness of steel used in the clasp, was what one would expect.
I knew Mio had a reason for showing me the bag, and given enough time, I probably would have figured it out. But whatever I was supposed to be looking for was not obvious. I replaced the bag’s contents and handed it back to her. She took it, casually sliding three fingers of her right hand into the three connected rings of the clasp. I heard a faint click and the bag dropped to her lap. Still in her hand was a very mean looking weapon, something like a combination knife and brass knuckles. Sized to fit Mio’s fingers, the three rings served as a grip. What would otherwise have been the brass knuckles part was machined into a blade running the width of the rings. When attached to the bag, the weapon was cleverly concealed as part of the bag’s construction. Being punched by someone wearing this on their hand would be like getting hit with a razor sharp axe.
“Taka-san made it for me,” Mio said. “The workmanship is quite impressive, don’t you think?”
Among other things, Taka-san was famous for his custom made knives. I only knew this because Mio had once shown me some of his creations. “Very impressive,” I admitted. “Did he make the whole thing? The bag, too?”
“Everything. I gave him a Fendi handbag as a model, but he made this one from scratch. When it was finished, I had one of my gallery employees deliver it to me. I wanted her to carry it through airport security, to see if it aroused any suspicion. Of course, it didn’t.”
“So, who are you planning to cut?” I asked.
“No one in particular. The main reason I had him make it for me was so I could pay him. His daughter isn’t healthy, and he’s spent most of his money sending her to various clinics in the U.S. and Europe. I’d give him the money, but he’s very proud. This way, he earns it. His fees are a bit extravagant, but in another twenty or thirty years, after he’s been dead for a while, everything he’s ever made will have increased in value many times. Commissioning the bag helps him now and it’s a good investment for me.”
I was sure these were practical considerations that weighed in her commissioning the bag, but it was obvious she had given Taka-san the assignment at least partly out of fondness. With Mio, it was difficult to know what the admixture might be. “He must be getting pretty old,” I said.
“He’s seventy-nine. He still has the hands of a brain surgeon, but his eyesight is going.”
“What’s wrong with his daughter?”
“Multiple sclerosis, for one. She’s also an insufferable bitch, but I suppose that’s beside the point.”
•
Across the street from the state capital, the Hyatt looks like a committee-generated facsimile of post-modern Mediterranean luxury. The cab dropped us in front of the lobby. We were about twenty minutes early, so Mio suggested we wait inside. We found a sofa not far from the front desk and took a seat. One of the staff, a young Asian woman, approached and asked if we would like a cup of coffee. I’d never been to the Hyatt before, so I didn’t know if this level of hospitality was normal, or if it had something to do with Mio. It’s often like that with her. She projects a presence that is almost regal. In the absence of any guiding etiquette, people have a tendency to become a bit servile around
