greeted by name at the cashier's window.

Home away from home for

obsessive collectors. I leaned back
against the vinyl seat of the Checker, letting the rhythm of the streetlight
halos glimmer past, and reflected on all those happy nights I'd made the
trek with Joanna. She'd had no real interest in my collecting hobby,
Japanese samurai swords and armor, but she was always a decent sport
about it. Besides, she had her own passions. While I was agonizing over
long blades and short blades, she'd sneak off and browse for something
French and nineteenth century and expensive. Fact is, I'd usually plan
ahead and have something of my own on the block just to pay for that
little sketch, or print, she suddenly had to have. Out of habit I'd even
shipped up a couple of mistakes for the auction this evening (a hand axe
and a lacquered-metal face guard).
Though tonight's sale had only a few odd items in my specialty, the
slim offerings actually suited the occasion. It left the evening open, time
for the real agenda—getting things rolling with a new client who'd
inexplicably handed me a job as simple as it was strange.
The man, name of Matsuo Noda, had rung all the way from Japan
Friday before last, introduced himself in generalities, then declared he
had a pressing legal matter requiring both speed and confidentiality.
Inquiries had led him to me. Would I have time to help him locate an
office building to buy? He claimed he was head of a Kyoto consulting
outfit that called itself Nippon, Inc., and he was looking for something
in midtown, seventy-million range.
Honestly I couldn't quite believe he was serious at first. Why this
job (just a little legwork, really) for somebody he'd never even met? I
could swing it, sure, but now that Japanese investors were snapping up
U.S. property right and left, who needed some ex-Texan turned New
York lawyer knocking around? There was no rational reason to engage a
corporate attorney.
"Out of curiosity, why aren't you working through one of the Tokyo
firms here in New York, say, Hiro Real Estate or KG Land? Surely they
could—"
"Mr. Walton," he interrupted smoothly but firmly, "allow me to say
I have my reasons. May I remind you I stressed confidentiality."
"Merely asking." I took a deep breath. The connection was
distorted, a high-pitched hum in the background, as though he wasn't
using commercial phone lines. "If you want, I can look around and see
what's on the market . . . and in the meantime how about sending along
a prospectus, just for the file?"
 "Assuredly," he said, "and I do look forward to working with you."
After a few more polite nothings, he abruptly closed out the call.
Peculiar. That wasn't how the Japanese road show usually did
business. From what I'd seen, Tokyo invests very cautiously and
deliberately, sometimes "researching" a deal half to death. I momentarily
wondered if it wasn't just one of the jokers from my old partnership
pulling my leg.
He was real enough. A brochure arrived by overnight air, bound in
leather, with a flowery covering letter. Two problems: most of the thing
was in his native tongue, and what I could read didn't tip his hand.
From the looks of its public disclosures, Nippon, Inc. was merely some
kind of money manager for Japanese investment banks; it had almost no
assets of its own. All I could find listed were a few million dollars, lunch
money for a Japanese outfit, mostly cash parked in some short-term
Euroyen paper. That, and a head office in Kyoto, was the sum of it.
What's more, Noda only worked with Japanese banks and firms. No
foreign clients.
So why did this man suddenly require space in New York? An
entire building. I honestly couldn't figure it. On the other hand, with
any luck the whole deal probably could be put together with a few
phone calls.
By way of introduction, let me say that I worked, technically, as a
straightforward attorney-at-law. I say "technically" because I was, in fact,
a freelance defensive back in the corporate takeover game, which these
days is anything but straight. You'd have to go back to the roaring
twenties to find so many creative screw-jobs.
Some people are drawn to power; guess I'm more attracted to the
idea of occasionally whittling it down to size. So when some hotshot
raider found a happy little company whose breakup value was worth
more than the current stock price, then decided to move in and grab it,
loot the assets, and sell off the pieces—one of the players apt to end up
downfield was Matt Walton. For reasons that go a long way back, I liked
to break up the running patterns of the fast-buck artists. It's a game
where you win some and lose some. The trick is to try and beat the
odds, and I suppose I'd had my share of luck.
Give you a quick example. Back in the spring, a midsize cosmetics
outfit called me in as part of their reinforcements to fight an avaricious
rape, better known as a hostile takeover, by one of their biggest
competitors. After looking over the balance sheet and shares
outstanding, I suggested they divest a couple of unpromising consumer
divisions—namely a "male fragrance" line that made you smell like a kid
leaving the barbershop, and a "feminine hygiene" product that could
have been a patent infringement on Lysol—and use the proceeds to buy
back their own common shares. We also threw together a "poison pill"
that would have practically had them owning anybody who acquired
more than twenty percent of their stock. Our move scared hell out of the
circling vultures and reinforced my reputation on the Street (unduly
harsh, I thought) as a give-no-quarter son of a bitch.
Another fact worth mentioning is that I worked without benefit of a
real office; after selling off my piece of the law partnership, I operated
out of my place downtown, with a telephone and a couple of computers.
A kindly gray-haired dynamo by the name of Emma Epstein, who had a
rent- controlled apartment down the block, dropped by afternoons and
handled correspondence, filing, matrimonial advice, and the occasional
pot of medicinal chicken soup. The only other member of my staff was a
shaggy sheepdog named Benjamin, who served as security chief,
periodically sweeping the back garden for the neighbor's cat. That was
it.
Oh, yes, one other item. Crucial, as it turned out. I'd always been a
collector of something—once it was antique spurs, for chrissake—but
about ten years earlier I'd started to get interested in things Japanese and
ended up going a little overboard about old swords and such. Joanna's
unscheduled departure managed to burn out a lot of my circuits, and
what had been merely an obsession grew into something a little crazy.
For a year or so I became, in my own mind at least, a sort of American
ronin, a wandering samurai.
You see, the Japanese warriors had a code that said you ought to
live every moment in full awareness of your own mortality. When you
adopt this existential outlook, so they claimed, all regrets, emotions,
complaints, can be seen as an indulgence. You're ready to meet life
head-on, to risk everything at a moment's notice. That's the only way
you ever discover who you really are, and it's supposed to make you
marvelously detached.
Almost enough to make you forget how your raven-haired, brilliant,
sexy mate packed it in one New Year's Eve twenty
months past . . . when you called late from the office, again . . . after
declaring that that was the goddam last straw and apparently the only
thing you could find worthy of undivided attention came printed on
goddam computer paper and she was goddam sick of it—which she
demonstrated the next day by slamming the door on her way out.
 Add to which, she used my momentary disorientation to get
custody of Amy. So while I was battling corporate Goliaths, I let her
walk off with the only thing I would have given my life for. The more
time went by, the more I wanted to kick myself. Alex Katz (of Walton,
Halliday, and Katz—now minus the Walton) read the custody
agreement the day after I signed it, sighed, glared over his smudgy half-
lenses, and announced that this kind of unconditional surrender should
only be signed on the decks of battleships. What did he have, a law
partner or a fucking schlemiel?
He was right, for all the wrong reasons. Not long after, I cashed in
my piece of the firm and went independent. Win or lose, it's best to sort
things out on your own. I was then forty- three, six one, and weighed in
at an even one eighty. There were a few lines on the face and several
more on the psyche, but the sandy hair was mostly intact, and I could
still swim a couple of miles if absolutely essential. Maybe there was still
time for a new start. Part of that therapy was going to be our trip.
Perhaps I should also add that I'd had a brief "rebound" fling, for
what it was worth. The lady was Donna Austen, a name you'll recognize
as belonging to that irrepressibly cheerful "Personalities!" host on what
Channel Eight likes to term its Evening News. She'd called about a
segment on the subject of the cosmetics company takeover, then very
much in the local press, and I'd said fine. She ended up downtown, and
soon thereafter we became an item. She was the closest I'd had to a
girlfriend, and at that it was mostly an on-again, off-again thing—which
terminated in an event reminiscent of the Hindenburg’s last flight. In the
aftermath I went back to chatting with Amy every day on the phone,
putting together stock buyback packages, and collecting Japanese
swords.
Anyway, while the cab waited for a light, worn-out wipers
squeaking, I fumbled around in my coat pocket and extracted the
meishi, the business card, one side in English, the other Japanese, that
had been included with Noda's letter. He'd
personalized it with a handwritten note on the side with English print.
Now, I'd kept track of the new Japanese investment heavies in town—
Nomura, Daiwa, Nikko, Sumitomo—since you never know when a
corporation might need some fast liquidity. They were starting to play
hardball, and these days (with all that cheap money back home) they
would underbid a nine-figure financing deal before Drexel Burnham
could spell "junk bond." But Nippon, Inc.? Never heard of the outfit.
 Well, I thought, you'll know the story soon enough. The driver had
just hung a right on Fifty-seventh and was headed east toward York
Avenue. I'd called that afternoon to lower the reserve on one of my lots
and had been told that because of some union squabble the preview
would continue till just before the sale, now scheduled to kick off at
eight-thirty. It wasn't quite seven yet, so we would have at least an hour
to run through my list of prospective buildings.
As the cab pulled up next to the chaste glass awning, I took a deep
breath, shoved a ten through the Plexiglas panel between the seats, and
stepped out. While the battered Checker (lamented remnant of a
vanishing species) squealed into the dark, I unbuttoned my overcoat
and headed up the steps. A few grim-faced patrons milled here and
there in the lobby, but nobody looked familiar. There was even a new
girl at the desk by the stairs, ash blond and tasteful smoked pearls, pure
Bryn Mawr art history. A class act, Sotheby's.
It appeared that most of the Japanese crowd was already upstairs,
undoubtedly meditating on their bids with the meticulous precision of
the Orient. I was headed up the wide, granite steps myself when I
decided to check out the downstairs one last time.
Hold on, could be there's a possibility. Waiting over by the coat
check, thumbing the catalog, was a distinguished-looking guy,
retirement age, wearing a light, charcoal suit. Italian. Unlike the usual
Japanese businessmen, he clearly didn't assume he had to dress like an
undertaker and keep a low profile. No, probably just some Mitsubishi
board member thinking to diversify his portfolio with a few objets d'art.
Abruptly he glanced up, smiled, and headed my way. I realized I'd
been recognized.
"Mr. Walton, how good of you to come." After a quick bow he
produced his card, a formality that totally ignored the fact he'd already
sent me one. As convention required, I held it in my left hand and
studied it anew while I accepted his hearty American handshake. "It's a
pleasure to meet you. At last."
At last?
I let that puzzler pass and handed over a card of my own, which he
held politely throughout our opening ritual, then pocketed.
Noda had a mane of silver hair sculptured around a lean, tan face,
and he looked to be somewhere between sixty and seventy. Though his
dark eyes were caught in a web of wrinkles that bespoke his years, they
had a sparkle of raw energy. He moved with an easy poise, and the
initial impression was that of a man eminently self-possessed. He had
that sturdy, no-nonsense assurance usually reserved for airline pilots. If
you had to entrust somebody with your wife, or your life savings, this
man would be your pick.
Well, my new client's a mover, I told myself. All the same, I
accepted his hand with a vague twinge of misgiving. What was it?
Maybe something about him was a little too precise, too calculated.
"Mr. Walton, permit me to introduce my personal consultant." He
laughed, a slight edge beneath the charm, and more wrinkles shot
outward from the corners of his eyes. "I always seek her approval of
major acquisitions, particularly those of the Heian period, her specialty."
He turned with what seemed obvious pride and gestured toward the tall
Japanese woman standing behind him. I'd been so busy sizing him up
I'd completely failed to notice her. "I must confess she is, in fact, my . . .
niece. I suppose that ages me." Another smile. "You may possibly be
familiar with her professional name, so perhaps I should use that. May I
introduce Akira Mori."
Who? I stared a second before the face clicked into place. And the
name. They both belonged to a well-known commentator on Tokyo
television. Only one slight problem: her "specialty" had nothing to do
with art.
"Hajimemashite. How do you do, Mr. Walton." She bowed formally
and, I noticed, with all the warmth of an iceberg. No surprise—I knew
her opinion of Americans. She did not bother meeting my eye.
She looked just as I remembered her from the tube. A knockout.
Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, framing that classic oval face,
and her age was anybody's guess, given the ivory skin and granite chin.
She was wearing a bulky something in black and deep ocher by one of
the new Tokyo designers. For some reason I was drawn to her
fingernails, long and bronze. The parts, a mixture of classic and avant-
garde, did not seem of a piece, the kind of detail you didn't notice on
the TV. But there was something more important than her looks.
I'd been to Tokyo from time to time for various reasons, and I'd
heard a lot of stories about this lady. Fact is, you didn't have to be
Japanese to know that Akira Mori was easily Japan's most listened-to
money analyst. You've probably seen her yourself in snippets of that
weekly chat show she had on NHK, which used to get picked up by the
networks here when they needed a quick thirty seconds on "Japan This
Week" or such. Her ratings had little to do with the fact she's a looker.
She was, talk had it, an unofficial source for official government
monetary policy. Akira Mori always had a lead on exactly what was
afoot, from the Bank of Japan to the Ministry of Finance, even before the
prime minister broke the news.
Miss "Mori," whoever the hell she was, had some very well placed
friends. Tell you something else, she didn't go out of her way to find
flattering things to say about how Uncle Sam handled his bankbook
these days. Her appearance here made Noda's unorthodox office plans
even more perplexing.
"We both appreciate your taking time from your schedule to meet
with us." He bowed again. "We've been looking forward to having you
join us at the sale."
While Akira Mori appeared to busy herself with a catalog, Noda and
I got things going with that standard formality preceding any serious
Japanese professional contact: meaningless chat. It's how they set up
their ningen kankei, their relationship with the other guy, and it's also
the way they fine-tune their honne, their gut feeling about a situation.
Any greenhorn foreigner who skimps on these vital niceties runs the risk
of torpedoing his whole deal.
In response to my pro forma inquiries, Matsuo Noda declared he
liked New York, had even lived here for a while once, honestly found it
less hectic than Tokyo, usually stayed these days at the Japanese hotel
down on Park but sometimes picked the Plaza when he needed to be
closer to midtown. He adored La Grenouille and thought La Tulipe
overpraised. When I pressed him, he declared his favorite Japanese place
to dine was Nippon, over in the East Fifties (maybe he merely liked the
name, but it was my pick as well).
After he had in turn solicited my own views on Sotheby's, a couple
of the galleries down Madison, and various North Italian eateries, he
suggested we go on upstairs and preview the lots.
All the while Miss Mori appeared to ignore us, standing there like a
statue of some Shinto goddess, except for the occasional tug at her dark
hair. Maybe she didn't give a damn about this obligatory small talk,
thought it was old-fashioned. Or possibly she liked the idea of being the
only one not to show a hand. And as Noda led the way up toward the
exhibition rooms, she trailed behind like a dutiful Japanese woman—
while we, naturally, continued to talk of everything except, God forbid,
why we were there.
In the first room we were suddenly in my arena—samurai swords
and battle gear.
"This is your special interest, is it not, Mr. Walton?" Noda smiled,
then turned to admire the row of shining steel tachi, three-foot-long
razors, now being watched over by a trio of nervous guards. Sotheby's
didn't need some amateur Toshiro Mifune accidentally carving up the
clientele. "I understand you have a notable collection yourself."
What? What else did he know about me?
Easy, Walton. Play the game. I knew what a Japanese would expect
in reply.
"Matter of fact, I've lucked onto a couple of items over the years."
Then the standard disclaimers. My own painstaking collection was
merely a grab bag of knickknacks, the fumbling mistakes of a dabbler,
etc., etc.
Noda monitored this culturally correct blarney with satisfaction. "As
it happens, Mr. Walton, I was in Nagoya last year when several of your
pieces were on loan for the show at the Tokugawa Museum. I still recall
certain ones, particularly that fine fifteenth-century katana, attributed to
the Mizuno clan. Unusual steel. No date or mark of the swordsmith, but
a remarkable piece all the same." A split-second pause. "Your reluctance
to part with it was most understandable."
This man had done his homework! Or maybe he'd been the one
who had tried to buy it. The steel was unusual, too heavy on copper. I'd
even had a little metallurgical testing done on it down at Princeton, just
to prove that hunch. But it was no big
deal, merely an oddity that had fallen my way via an estate sale. There
was an anonymous inquiry shortly after the exhibition opened, with an
insistent offer, but I'd turned it down.
Poker time. "I was honored. Your figure was more than generous."
He laughed—bull's-eye. I watched as he glanced back at Miss Mori,
maybe a bit nervously. Then he returned his attention. "Merely a small
gesture for the museum. I felt it should be back in Japanese hands." He
continued, his voice now sober. "You do understand?"
"Certainly." I just stared.
"Good. I see I was right." He had paused to examine a large
monochrome screen. It was eighteenth century and he inspected it with
only mild interest, then moved on.
I was still knocked over. Could that be why he'd retained me as his
U.S. legal counsel? Because of some damned antique sword? Okay, I was
already getting the idea Matsuo Noda might be a trifle eccentric, but all
the same . . .
"Interesting." He was pointing at a long picture, part of a series
locked in a wide glass case. "Honto ni omoshiroi, desu ne?'