Owl and the Japanese Circus

Chapter 1: Egg Hunt (Part 2)

I knew I'd done due diligence – dotted my I's and crossed all my T's. The goods I'd delivered were well worth my salary. Hell, Mr. Kurosawa had gotten a deal.

I just had to keep my wits about me. It’s not like I didn’t have bargaining room: Mr. Kurosawa had a penchant for ancient Japanese artifacts and I’m a bitch to replace. Especially if he pushed me off the roof.

I stepped past Oricho into a high ceilinged ballroom with red tiled floors. The door slammed shut behind me. As my eyes adjusted to the dim LED ceiling lights reflecting off the clouds of smoke, I realized I’d entered a private casino that brought to mind images of an evil, enchanted forest - only filled with slot machines instead of trees. Like most casinos, there were no windows, and I had a hard time making out the boundaries. But the maze of slot machines was what got me. Row upon row filled the ballroom, everything from late 1800s original Feys through to electronics. As far as modern antiques go, it was a good collection – eclectic and haphazard, but good.

I headed down the widest and most well-lit aisle. I noticed the shelves lining the wall sported rows of Cho Han bamboo bowls, which are used in a feudal Japanese dice game. If they weren’t authentic I’d eat my toolkit. There were so many of them they obscured the walls, all but hiding the gold and black reliefs painted from ceiling to floor. Yet for all these machines, the room was silent – and empty. I shook my head and readjusted my cap. Well, at least Mr. Kurosawa had gone for original decor. I stifled another cough, wishing I had my gas mask. Ventilation, anyone?

The slot machines opened to a bar, complete with mirrored table and white leather couches that formed a plush alcove. A pretty Japanese woman in a kimono fashioned like a miniskirt and wearing a loose interpretation of Kabuki makeup, made her way out from behind the bar, stilettos clicking against the floor in rapid succession. She offered me a plate of drinks without a word, or smile.

"Owl?" I heard Mr. Kurosawa say from the couches, his back towards me. I shot the woman a questioning look. She stepped aside. Taking that as permission, I grabbed a glass of champagne and slammed it back – damn right I needed a drink. Say what you will about tombs and ancient burial sites, a deserted casino out creeps them any day of the week.

Ryuu Kurosawa, a Vegas mogul known for his Japanese Circus themed casino, looked up from a white couch and smiled that business smile you come to expect from professional sharks. Not the ones who take your money, the ones that eat you while you're still screaming. I sat down and noted his expensive suit, acutely aware how underdressed I was in my red flames hat, blue jeans, and hiking boots. I shrugged the sentiment off; it wasn't like they'd given me the option to change. 

"Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice," he said in crisp American English. I'd spoken to him a few times on the phone and seen interviews on TV, and never once had I heard a trace of an accent or glimpsed a break in the western businessman demeanour. In person though, the thing that struck me the most was how red and waxy his face was, dim lights or not. I shelved that little observation for later – it's not every day you see something like that.

I crossed my hands to stop them from fidgeting and waited, and for half a second wished I’d grabbed a second drink. Mr. Kurosawa's smile didn't falter as he waved the Kabuki fashion girl over. This time, instead of drinks, she was carrying a wooden box with a puzzle lid and deposited it on the mirrored table before me. 

I recognized the box – I'd packed Mr. Kurosawa's egg inside it just this morning, before transferring the money into my offshore account and burning my trail. The trick lid had seemed appropriate since Mr. Kurosawa was known for his love of puzzles. It's the personal touches and attention to detail that distinguishes the professionals like me from the hacks.