6
"You know a guy called Daisuke Kurosawa?" the stranger says.
Daigo frowns so deeply that it feels like part of his face is going to slough off. He says, "What do you want with Daisuke Kurosawa?"
Trouble. Daigo knew it—just like he always does. The man standing before him reeks of trouble. Well, that and the sharp, close miasma of someone who's been too long on the trail.
It's the stranger's turn to smile. His oversized canines shine in the blue-green murk. "Hey now," he says. "I'm the one who's paying for answers. I take it that you know the guy? Daisuke?"
Daigo realizes that his tobacco has long since gone mushy and sour, sitting like a wad of day-old vomit between his teeth and tongue. It's been thirty years and gone since he last vomited from bad tobacco, but even now the experience leaves his stomach feeling greasy and abused.
"I don't personally know him, stranger," Daigo says. He makes his way over to his sales desk—an old, irregular sheet of tin resting atop a pair of sawhorses. A moth-nibbled red sheet gives the illusion that the contraption is an actual piece of furniture—an old trick Daigo picked up from Godo, Daigo's old griftin' mentor. Also the first man he ever killed. "But there ain't a man in Tokusei that ain't heard of him. You know what I mean?"
"No."
Shaking his head, Daigo sighs, "You ain't playin' me, now?"
"No."
"Interestin'."
Daigo shuffles behind his "desk" and locates the battered spittoon at its feet. A pair of bright green bottleflies explores its rim. He takes aim and—drawing on decades of practice—launches a meteor of chaw at the receptacle. There follows a sticky splud, and all that remains of one of the bottleflies is a sepsis-colored dribble at the spittoon's edge. Daigo nods in satisfaction.
He can't help but eye the stranger as he goes about his task. Greasy spicules of blonde hair poke from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. An Eastern hat, Daigo figures—something they'd probably wear out in the Lands o' Fire or Mist. At one time, it was probably an immaculate snow white, its fine inlay a coruscating pattern of red, orange, and gold. Now, the hat's more or less the same color as the rest of the stranger's clothes—a mottled patchwork of ashen grays, blacks, and browns.
The stranger, clearly trying to play it cool, stands and stares with eyes like open tide pools. Nonetheless, he rocks back and forth on his heels, apparently trying his best not to start fidgeting.
Double-interestin'.
Daigo says, "Well, I don't know what you want with a man you don't know nothin' about, but I can tell you a little bit. Daisuke's one o' the Underbosses for Clan Kurosawa. He and his brothers all split things equally once Old Boss Kurosawa passed a few years back. They control about half o' the forges and factories in Tokusei, and more or less all the minin'. Old Boss Kurosawa were the one who figured out how to mine phantom stone, see?"
The stranger nods, but Daigo can tell that almost none of this registers with him. What a dude—don't know nothin' about the town he's travelin' to or the man he's supposedly got business with.
Aye—trouble in the flesh, no doubt. After all, if Daigo can believe the rumors flitting about . . .
Well. No need to muddy the waters. Blondie here ain't paying for rumors. Daigo presses his palms together, puts on the face of a much-aggrieved elder businessman, and continues.