They froze at the sound of Hirata's name: His reputation had spread into the underworld. Gangsters hated to admit they were afraid of anybody; they would kill on the slightest provocation, and they fought savagely with rival gangs, but they were more inclined toward self-preservation than the samurai who constantly challenged Hirata. These four gangsters chuckled as if they'd been playing a joke on him. Three pretended an interest in reloading their pipes. The other ambled into the house. Soon he reemerged and beckoned Hirata inside.

Led down a corridor, Hirata saw rooms where gang members lounged, awaiting orders from their boss. They eyed him, silent and hostile. A group of them knelt in a circle, playing hana-fuda-the flower card game. They wore their kimonos down around their waists, displaying their tattoos. One man threw down his cards. The others laughed and exclaimed, "Ya-ku-za!"

Eight-nine-three. It was the worst hand possible, but the gangsters seemed to feel an affection for it. Maybe they thought it symbolized their no-good selves, Hirata speculated.

His escort left him in a reception room. The tatami floor mats were bound with embroidered ribbon and so thick that they felt like cushions under Hirata's feet. The mural on the wall depicted a garden of brilliantly colored flowers beside a blue river highlighted with ripples of silver and gold paint. Black lacquer screens sported gold-inlaid birds. Brass lanterns suspended from the ceilings dangled gold pendants. Shelves held a collection of gold figurines. Hirata got the message: Jirocho was filthy rich. But he hid his wealth behind closed doors. Not even a top gangster boss dared violate the sumptuary laws that prohibited commoners from flaunting their wealth.

Two women brought refreshments to Hirata. They were as beautiful and stylishly dressed as the most expensive courtesans in the Yoshiwara licensed pleasure quarter. They wordlessly served the tea and food and departed. Hirata listened to the gangsters talking and joking at their card game. His keen ears also picked up the sound of distant sobs.

He followed the sound down a passage to a door that was open just enough for him to peer inside. He saw a young man kneeling and weeping, arms extended on the floor. Two older gangsters stood over him. "I hear you've been keeping some of the money you collected from the vendors," said a deep, scratchy voice. Hirata couldn't see the man who spoke, but he recognized the voice as Jirocho's. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"

"I'm sorry," the young man cried. "I shouldn't have done it!"

Hirata knew that gangsters had a code of honor consisting of three rules: Don't touch the wife of a fellow member; don't reveal gang secrets to outsiders; and, above all, be loyal to the boss. If the boss says crows are white, you must agree, the saying went.

One of the two gangsters standing grabbed the young man and yanked him upright. The other shoved a heavy wooden table in front of him and offered him a cleaver. Even as he sobbed in fright, the young man took the cleaver in his left hand. He positioned his right hand with its little finger laid against the table, its others curled into a fist. He raised the cleaver, screamed, and hacked off the tip of his finger.

Hirata blinked. He'd seen many acts of violence, but this one shocked him even though he knew it was common among gangsters. One who broke the rules would lose a finger joint for each offense. Samurai who violated Bushido were punished by compulsory suicide, but Hirata thought this forced self-mutilation was bizarre.

Pale as death, the trembling young man accepted a white silk cloth from one of the other gangsters. He wrapped his severed finger in the cloth and offered the package to Jirocho.

"You're forgiven this time," Jirocho said. "Don't let there be a next time."

Hirata silently slipped away and returned to the reception room. Soon Jirocho entered. "Well, well, Hirata-san. This is a surprise."

Now in his fifties, Jirocho had changed in the twelve or so years since he and Hirata had last met. Beneath the gaudy silk robes that he wore in private defiance of the sumptuary laws, his figure was pudgier because he sat around and gave orders instead of prowling the streets and fighting as he'd done in his youth. His hair had turned gray and he'd gone bald at the temples; his jowls sagged. But his sharp eyes gleamed with the familiar look of controlled aggression. His thick mouth wore the same predatory smile that Hirata remembered.

The biggest change had less to do with Jirocho than with Hirata's own expanded perception.

For the first time Hirata saw Jirocho's shield. It exuded a magnetic attraction as well as sheer ruthlessness. Once Hirata had wondered how Jirocho had climbed the ranks from petty thief to boss of his own gang. Now he knew. Jirocho drew weaker men like a magnet draws iron specks.

"Have you come to arrest me again?" Jirocho's smile broadened: He knew he was safe, protected by the same government that Hirata served.

"Not today," Hirata said. "I'm here about a crime, but not one that you committed."

"What crime?"

"The kidnapping of your daughter."

Jirocho's smile vanished. He abruptly turned away. "I won't talk about that."

"I'm afraid you'll have to," Hirata said. "Chamberlain Sano and I are investigating another kidnapping that may be related to your daughter's. We need information."

"You'll have to get it somewhere else," Jirocho said, his back turned, his voice cold.

"How about if I talk to your daughter?"

"My daughter Fumiko is dead."

"What?" Hirata was surprised. "The police say she was found alive."

"She's dead to me." Jirocho turned to face Hirata, who saw that his eyes were wet and ablaze with angry tears. "Some filthy monster ruined my girl. She was disgraced."

Her kidnapping had one more thing in common with Sano's cousin's, Hirata realized. Fumiko, too, had been raped.

"I had to disown her, for the sake of my clan's honor," Jirocho said.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. I threw her out of the house."

"You threw a twelve-year-old girl out to fend for herself?" Hirata was horrified by Jirocho's attitude.

Jirocho gave him a hostile stare. "I loved Fumiko with all my heart, but things have changed. Wait until it happens to your daughter, then let's see how you react."

Hirata thought of little Taeko, whom he would always love and protect no matter what. But he wasn't as bound by conventions as Jirocho was in spite of his outlaw background. And he shouldn't criticize Jirocho if he wanted his cooperation.

"All right," Hirata said, "I understand. But I still need your help. Perhaps you would let me talk to Fumiko's mother?"

"Her mother died when she was a baby," Jirocho said. "I raised her myself."

Hirata made one last try. "Chamberlain Sano's cousin was kidnapped and violated, perhaps by the same man as Fumiko. We're seeking justice for her. Don't you want to avenge your daughter?"

"Oh, indeed, I do. Make no mistake." Jirocho spoke with a savagery that darkened his face. This was the man who forced his henchmen to cut off their own fingers as punishment for crossing him. He would never let anyone get away with violating his daughter, even though he'd forsaken her. "But I'll do it myself, my way."

Things had been bad enough when Major Kumazawa had conducted a search for his daughter, offending and threatening people wherever he went. Now Hirata was appalled by the idea of the gangster boss out for blood.

"You stay out of this," he ordered Jirocho. "Let Chamberlain Sano and me handle it. Just tell me what you know about your daughter's kidnapping."

Jirocho's face was stony, closed. "With all due respect to you and Chamberlain Sano, this score is mine to settle personally. Now please leave."