Ransom Read Online Free Page B

weak.
    â€œLet’s just see,” DeVito said, stepping away from the bar and drawing a deep breath. He closed his eyes and drew his hands up to his chin. Opening his eyes, he swung his right hand, palm open and rigid, in a slow arc that ended at the neck of the beer bottle. Behind him, the onlookers were divided—one could judge from the expressions—between those who admired DeVito’s strength and audacity and those who hoped he would slice his arteries and die. People cleared away from the bar. DeVito practiced the move several times, closed his eyes again, and gathered himself up from the shoulders, inhaling violently.
    The bottle skidded along the bar, spouting foam, and disappeared over the edge. Miles retrieved it and held it up, intact.
    â€œGreat trick,” Marilyn said.
    DeVito examined his right hand, sorting out his failure, and looked up at Ransom. “Your turn, handsome.” He called for another beer. “I want it tonight, not tomorrow afternoon”—drumming his hands on the bar as the bartender reached into the cooler.
    DeVito lifted his head back and held the bottle high as he swallowed, then slammed it down in front of Ransom. By this time he was surrounded by spectators, some explaining to others the nature of the challenge.
    â€œGo ahead,” he demanded.
    â€œI need a reason,” Ransom said. “Even if I could do it, why should I?”
    â€œThe thrill of victory. Because it’s there. But mostly, because I say you can’t do it.”
    â€œYou’re probably right.”
    DeVito seemed at a loss. “You think you could land a hit on me?”
    â€œI don’t think about it at all. I don’t spar outside the dojo.”
    â€œTry it.”
    â€œNot interested.”
    â€œHow about if I start things off? Is that what it takes?”
    Ransom turned away and took a sip of his tea. At the edge of his vision he saw Miles winding through the crowd behind DeVito, then he registered DeVito’s move. He dodged quickly enough so that the blow glanced off his shoulder instead of his temple, and saw Miles bring somethingdown on DeVito’s head. The impact sounded like a bat connecting with a ball. DeVito slumped to the floor as the bar gradually went quiet. Miles was radiant.
    â€œI didn’t want you to break your priestly vow of non-violence,” he said to Ransom, ax handle in hand, “so I had to drygulch the fucker. It’s my prerogative as owner and proprietor.”
    Ransom nodded—the brief surge of adrenaline beginning to subside. He knelt down and checked DeVito’s scalp and topknot with immense distaste. No blood.
    â€œLast of the Mohicans,” Miles said, and laughed.
    Together they carried DeVito, now starting to moan, out into the street, depositing him on the sidewalk, followed closely by the two women he’d been sitting with. One of the women cradled DeVito’s head in her lap while the other massaged his shoulders.
    Inside, the music resumed. The Japanese were still stunned by this American display of violence.
    The band started into “Stormy Monday,” one of Ransom’s favorite songs, and did a creditable cover, but there was always a little trouble with the vocals. Kano’s face was red and slick with sweat.
    They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday’s just as bad
.
    They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday’s just as bad
.
    Wednesday’s worse, and Thursday’s oh so sad
.
    Kano plucked his Gibson and winced as if he were tearing the notes out of his chest. He made it throughFriday and Saturday admirably the first time, then fumbled the repetition:
    The eagle fries on Flyday, Sa’day I go out to pray
. Sunday morning, he was playing where he should have been praying.

3
    If you were a tourist coming in from the train station en route from Tokyo, you would be prepared for the winged rooflines of ancient temples and the crabbed enigma of ideographic signs. You