Tora got to his feet. The food, he thought, must be cheap and decent, or the place would be empty. Besides, he was more likely to pick up useful information in a low dive than in a respectable business.

The owner, a fat, bald fellow, was leaning on the counter, looking at Tora from under bushy eyebrows.

“Salted vegetables and a pitcher of your best wine, my large friend,” Tora called out to him and took a seat beside one of the other guests. His neighbor lowered his bowl and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. Tora asked, “What’s that you’re eating, brother? Is it good? I’m half-starved.”

The man grinned. “Best bean soup in town, if you can hold it. And if you can’t, run outside. Old Denzo’s stunk up the place enough.” There was a burst of laughter from the others, and old Denzo stood up to demonstrate his powers.

Tora applauded, then became aware of the host’s round belly looming over him.

“Perhaps the gentleman would prefer the food at the Golden Dragon,” the fat man growled. “It’s the big restaurant at the corner of the market.”

“Why?” asked Tora, looking up at him. “If I wanted to eat there, I would’ve gone there. You must be all belly and no brains to tell a paying customer to eat elsewhere. I want some bean soup, and bring my friends here some wine.”

Suddenly he was everybody’s friend. The fat host muttered under his breath and waddled away. Tora hoped the wine would loosen tongues. “Tell me...” he began, when the curtain flapped back and three strangers joined them. They waited for the other men to move away, then sat down next to Tora. The room had fallen silent.

Tora looked them over: an ugly scarred brute, a fat giant, and a short, long-nosed man. He put on a ferocious scowl. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Sit someplace else. I was talking to my friends.”

“We like it here,” said the ugly brute with the scarred face. His open shirt revealed more scars. Knife fights, Tora decided and became intensely aware of being unarmed. The scarred man bared broken teeth as his deep-set black eyes roamed over Tora. His two companions stared silently. The giant had a strangely small shaven head perched on his enormous shoulders. He had the vacuous look of a baby. Slow in the head, thought Tora, and all the more dangerous for that. The third man was middle-aged, with the sharp features and sly eyes of a weasel. All three looked at Tora hungrily.

Courage aside, Tora had enough sense not to tangle with them in this place. Any one of the other customers might join in and knife him in the back. He tried bluster.

“If you’re hard up for company, scum,” he sneered, half rising, “let’s step outside and I’ll make all three of you wish you’d never left your mother’s tits.”

The big oaf reached into his sleeve and pulled out a large knife. He licked his lips. “Can I cut him a little, boss?” he wheedled in a thin voice. The hair bristled on Tora’s scalp.

The scarred man gave the moron a box on the ear without taking his eyes off Tora. The giant whimpered and put his knife away.

“We saw you collect our money from the rice-cake vendor,” Scarface said in a flat voice. “We don’t allow strangers to move into our territory and take what’s rightfully ours.”

So that was it. Protection money. These hoodlums collected money from small merchants with threats of roughing them up or worse. The rice-cake vendor had mistaken Tora for one of their gang and landed him in a bad spot. Even if he turned over the money, they would hardly let him walk away in one piece. His only chance lay in quick and decisive action.

Familiar with the fighting practiced by street gangs, Tora suddenly lashed out with his right arm in a backhanded sweep, letting the knuckles of his balled fist land squarely in the face of the small man. Simultaneously he rose and kicked the scarred man in the stomach. The idiot tried to get up but lost his balance stumbling over his friend. Before he could reason out the incident and reach for his knife again, Tora kicked him in the head. The idiot’s face puckered up like that of a hurt child.

The small man was not moving, but Scarface was up and coming at him with a knife in each hand.

A two-handed knife fighter was the most dangerous. Tora retreated, saw a wooden stool, and grabbed it to ward off the knife thrusts while looking for a weapon of his own. There was nothing, not even a broom handle.

Scarface slashed and Tora dodged, fending off one knife with the stool, then twisting out of reach of the other one. It was an uneven contest he had little hope of winning. He was about to try to make a run for it when someone extended a bamboo pole to him.

Tora snatched it with his free hand and immediately attacked. Scarface cursed when one of his knives skittered across the floor. His right arm hung useless. But he kept coming, his face distorted with pain, his eyes wild, the long puckered scar that ran from his hairline to his nose turning blood-red with his fury. A mad animal.

Tora dropped the stool and concentrated on working the pole. He almost enjoyed himself. The scarred man suffered a hard hit on the skull and another vicious jab in the stomach before the pole deprived him of his remaining knife, then pinned him against the wall by the neck.

Noisy applause broke out. Tora, breathing hard, adjusted the end of the pole firmly on his opponent’s windpipe and looked around. What he saw almost caused him to drop his weapon.

The giant was stretched out on the floor. On his back sat a burly man with thick gray hair and beard surrounding a deeply tanned face. His eyes twinkled gleefully at Tora, and the grin showed a gap in his front teeth.

“Hito!” gasped Tora. “What the devil are you doing here?”

The other man gave a laugh. “Glad I found you in time, little brother. I was passing and thought I heard your voice.”

The scarred man began to gasp and choke and his face turned purple. Tora eased the pressure on the pole a little. “Go get some rope,” he told the host, who was wringing his hands and goggling at the scene.

Hidesato asked, “What will you do with them?”

Tora considered. “Turn them over to the constables?”

There was a collective gasp from the patrons. A few men began to inch toward the door. The host, coming back with an armful of rope, cried, “Not the constables! We’ll take care of them ourselves.”

Their disposition could wait, but they made secure bundles of the three before Tora and Hidesato sat down together to drink to their unexpected reunion.

“You’ve been well?” Tora asked, looking at the gray in Hidesato’s hair and beard.

The other man grimaced. “Left the army a month after you did. Been knocking about since then, hiring myself out to people with more money than fighting skill.”