I mumbled that we were. We didn’t say much on our drive back to Brooklyn. I think Rafael was feeling so guilty about the close call that he didn’t ask any questions and he slumped in the back seat taking a quick siesta.

When I pulled the Ford onto the Brooklyn Bridge, Hiromi finally spoke. “Did you see the diamond on her stomach?” she asked.

I nodded. Then I asked a dumb question, “How does it stick? How does it stay there?”

“I think it was attached to her skin,” Hiromi said, “like those African natives that we see in National Geographic that have different things sticking through their bodies. It’s probably like an earring that is stuck through an earlobe, but this is her belly button instead.”

I winced. The Ice Queen was really weird. She had a body that didn’t need any adornments, so why in the world let something be jabbed through her belly button?

“Yakuza,” Hiromi said.

“Yock what?”

“Ice Queen have tattoo, you see? Only gangsters in Japan have tattoos,” Hiromi said. “Gangsters. Yakuza. Gangsters.”

5