Giri (11 page)

Before returning to the precinct, he threw away the out-of-town newspapers and purchased copies of every karate or martial arts magazine he could find. Christ, it seemed that everybody and his brother was into this shit. Women as well. Old Rob had made all of the magazines. Dorian was impressed.

Robbie was ranked the number-one light-heavyweight title contender in something called full-contact karate, which Dorian assumed meant nobody pulls their punches. He was on the cover of three magazines, was the subject of stories in all of them and his matches seemed to draw the biggest crowds. A fucking superstar. Almost thirty knockouts.

Stories covering several months of tournaments told of Robbie’s fighting in Dallas, Minneapolis, Atlanta, Oklahoma City. All victories by knockouts, nothing past the fifth round. There were other stories: Robbie’s favorite fighting techniques; his plans to enter some world tournament next January; his challenge to the full-contact world champion in his division, who seemed to be ducking him. And why not, thought Dorian. You’d need a grenade in each hand to stop Robbie.

Back at his desk in the back of a crowded, frantic squad room, Dorian listed the dates of Robbie’s most recent four fights. Then the detective reached for the telephone. In less than twenty minutes he had his answers. According to police departments in four cities, a woman had been raped and killed within twenty-four hours of the day on which Robbie fought in those cities. And while a weapon might have been involved, it was believed in most cases the woman had been murdered by someone who knew how to use his hands.

Karate? Boxing?

Either one.

In those conversations with the four police departments, Robbie’s name never came up. Nor did Dorian mention why he wanted the information. The people he talked to didn’t give a shit. They had other things to worry about.

Dorian saved New York for last. Bingo. Two weeks ago a woman who worked as a story editor for a film company had been raped and murdered in her Fifth Avenue office. That information came from the green sheet. Since none of the martial arts magazines had any news on this month’s karate matches, Dorian phoned the biggest magazine at its California office and learned that there had been a major match in Madison Square Garden the night the film lady had gotten wasted.

Main event: Robbie Ambrose vs. Canada’s light-heavyweight champion.

Robbie Ambrose the winner by a knockout in the second round.

At that point, Dorian left the squad room to walk outside in eighteen-degree cold and he didn’t stop walking until he found a bar, where he swallowed two doubles. Scotch, with beer chasers.

Five very dead ladies.

All disposed of by someone who could use his hands and it came up Robbie every time. Lord, tell me what I do next. Sparrowhawk. Dorian rested an elbow on the bar and covered his eyes. The Englishman would go bananas when he learned what Robbie had been up to in his spare time. He loved that bastard as if he were his own son. What’s more, he wouldn’t take kindly to Dorian harming him. Sparrowhawk was no one to have for an enemy.

Handle this one carefully, Dorian. Get smart, for once. Learn more about Robbie and his peculiar little ways, then figure out what’s best for you.

Dorian looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. He had a scary thought. Had Robbie killed before
each
fight? Oh, God, if he had it meant he had murdered
thirty women.

Dorian bowed his head. Unreal. And dangerous information for any man to have, should Robbie ever find out about it.

In the bathroom of his apartment, Dorian turned off the blow dryer. He needed a drink. Then the downstairs buzzer rang and he grinned, raising his eyebrows in mock lasciviousness. Party time. He patted his hair, took a swig of mouthwash, spat it out. And checked his hair again. Then he trotted to the kitchen to buzz downstairs.

When the door to his apartment buzzed, he patted his hair once more. Jesus, why wouldn’t it grow back? The money he had spent on treatments, salves, blow dryers, creams, clinics, pills. Just wasn’t fair. On the way to the door, he turned down the lights, the better to hide his hair.

He opened the front door and smiled. “Well, all right, all right, all right.”

She stepped inside and he closed the door behind her. Locked it. Looked at her again. Fucking beautiful. Different Class.

She stepped into his arms and he drew her into him. Mouths, tongues met. His hand squeezed her buttocks. He got hard in record time. She helped. She found his penis, squeezed and Dorian was seconds away from coming in her hand. Her teeth nipped at his tongue.

He picked up Michi and carried her into the bedroom.

It had been easy to maneuver him into boasting. Sex, then flattery. Vanity was his weakness, drugs and liquor his vices.

Michi sipped from one glass, constantly refilling his, avoiding the drugs. She sat up in bed, sheet drawn close to her, head cocked to one side.

Listening.

Dorian, on his back, drew on a joint, held the smoke in his lungs before exhaling. “Everybody’s fascinated by the mob. Ever since
The Godfather,
all you ever hear is the mob, the mob, the mob. Bunch of comedians. Mob guy I know is scared somebody’s trying to kill him, so every morning he sends his wife out to start the car. If she don’t get blown up, that sucker comes out and drives off. Fucking sweetheart. When I was new on the force I listened to some wiretaps on which you had the Mafia listening to opera. I asked somebody why. I mean the people in crime, by and large, ain’t brain surgeons. I mean they get caught, right? Anyway, guy tells me the only language some wise guys speak is Italian. That’s why they listen to opera. It’s the only music they can understand.”

He giggled. “You Jap women sure can fuck. I mean that as a compliment.”

Michi stroked his thigh. “Tell me about the smart one, about Paul Molise.”

Women. Turned on by crime, by hoods, by cops. Always. Dorian giggled, remembering the woman who insisted that he shove four bullets up her ass one by one before allowing him to fuck her.

“Paulie,” he said. “Yeah, Paulie. Paulie the Beak, they call him, though he doesn’t like to hear that. Has this big schnozz, this long nose. Doesn’t mind being called Hawk, but otherwise don’t get cute about his nose.

“Paulie’s got smarts. I mean, who else figures out that by owning half the flea markets in New York, you got a great outlet for stolen goods. Paulie did. People go to flea markets all the time these days and they buy stolen shit and don’t even know it. Stolen securities, ripping off union pension funds, defaulting on bank loans, discount stores, storing toxic wastes. Plus the usual shit. Porn, drugs, hijacking. Christ, this joint’s had it.”

Michi said, “I’ll make another one for you.” She did, licking the ends slowly, performing before Dorian’s glazed eyes.

He grinned, remembering.

She lit the joint for him. “You said that Paul Molise is a legitimate businessman.”

“Said he thinks he is.” He took a deep toke on the joint. “Thinks he is. Park Avenue office, English secretary, computer, telex. Keeps regular hours, nine to five. Like clockwork. Doesn’t even cheat on his wife. Can you imagine that shit? Goes home to Westchester like some kind of stockbroker.”

“Does he not have men with guns in his office to protect him?”

Dorian snorted. “See, that’s what I mean. Movie shit. Paulie’s a businessman and he deals with other businessmen, legit guys, and you can’t have shooters hanging around when that happens. Scares people. Attracts attention. He’s got a chauffeur acts as a bodyguard, but the guy doesn’t follow him around the whole time. Chauffeur’s probably packing.”

“Packing?”

“Gun.” He aimed a forefinger and cocked thumb at her.

“Oh.”

“How’s your security system working?”

She bowed her head and smiled.
“Dōmo arigato gozai mashite.
Thank you very much.”

A few weeks ago, Dorian had received a telephone call at the precinct: could he perform a security survey at Pantheon Diamonds on Madison Avenue. He had been recommended by businessmen who had met the detective at Gracie Mansion and been impressed by him. Dorian, like many cops, had an eye on the future. That’s why a smart cop made as many contacts in the business world as possible, for the day when he wasn’t on the force anymore.

He showed up at Pantheon Diamonds and made recommendations: a steel door instead of the glass-paned one they had at the entrance; new safes, with combinations to be changed frequently; deadbolt locks on the front door, locks at least two feet apart. Check with Management Systems Consultants for burglar alarms and security guards.

Michi, he knew her as Michelle Asama, was there. Nice. First-class stuff. Reminded him of Saigon, of the few good things about being over there. She was the kind of woman seen in that city’s excellent French restaurants, on the arm of a Vietnamese general or French businessman. Expensive. Too expensive for most Americans, though Dorian had found ways to come into money while in Nam. A lot of money.

After the survey, Michi had phoned the precinct to thank him. Dorian had nothing to lose. He invited her for a drink. She accepted.

Dorian drew on the joint. He was getting sleepy, close to nodding out. “Met a few Japs in Saigon. Man, your people are fucking strange. Never invite you to their homes. We never saw this guy’s family, this guy we had some dealings with.” He hesitated. “Never saw them until the end.”

Michi leaned forward. “The end?”

His eyes were on the ceiling. He spoke reluctantly, not wanting to remember. “Fall of Saigon. Just before the Communists took over.”

Just before you betrayed them, thought Michi.

He touched her. She flinched. He didn’t notice.

“Never in the fucking home,” he said. “Like you.”

“We are private people. We live within ourselves. The explanation of everything is within yourself.”

“If you say so.” He finished his drink. Michi refilled the glass.

Dorian said, “Within, huh? Only within I like is getting within you.”

He became drowsier, slurring his words, spilling liquor on himself and the bed. She could have killed him easily, swiftly, with her bare hands. She was skilled enough. But she needed him, needed the information he could give her about the other three. Dorian Raymond was the weak link, the man who could more easily be used than the others.

“You almost fell asleep,” she said.

He giggled. “Almost. That’s my father’s nickname for me. The Almost Man.’ Almost became a lawyer. Quit college after a year. Bored out of my bird. Baseball tryout with the Mets. Almost made it. They almost signed me to one of their farm clubs but what the hell. Couldn’t hit curves and breaking balls. Almost made it. No fucking patience for college or law school or hanging around the minors for five years. Too much in a hurry, my father says. ‘The Almost Man’ is always in a hurry.”

He sighed. “Almost stayed married. Almost. Nice people, my old lady. Ain’t got diddley squat to give her and I wish I did. She deserves the best. Just a sweet, sweet lady. Think she’s got something going for her, though. Another guy. I just feel it.”

He fell asleep.

Michi took the remainder of the joint from his fingers and angrily screwed it into an ashtray. He would die when it was right for him to die.

She dressed, and thought how pleased she would be to kill him.

Dawn. Decker’s internal clock had trouble functioning this morning, but eventually one eye opened, then the other. It had been one of the deepest, most relaxing sleeps he’d had in some time.
And it hadn’t been a dream.
Michi lay beside him on the floor, her face gentle and vulnerable in sleep. He leaned over, smelled her, closed his eyes with pleasure. In sleep she reached for him, her small fist closing around his thumb as a child might do. He smiled, kissed her hair and lay back down beside her.

When she opened her eyes, they made love.

And made promises.

I
NCENSED AND RUNNING OUT
of patience, Trevor Sparrowhawk walked to a window and opened it with vehemence. Chilled night air rushed into the cramped, humid room. The silver-haired Englishman filled his lungs. He was close to stalking out of the hastily called meeting. Let Paul bloody Molise handle the problem himself. Then we would see who knew more about security matters: a professional soldier or a spaghetti eater.

They were on Long Island, in attendance at the opening night of a new auditorium, a circular, futuristic design of white marble, tinted glass and steel. Through a series of dummy corporations and front men, it was the latest legitimate business venture of the Molise family.

Through the open window, Sparrowhawk heard the clamor from a sold-out house of over twelve thousand people. With the exception of invited dignitaries, all had paid outrageous prices to see the hottest pop star of the moment, a tubercular thin English youth in green eyeshadow and lipstick and rolled socks stuffed down the front of his skin-tight trousers.

Back in his chair, Sparrowhawk lit a Turkish cigarette, crossed his legs and looked at the five men clustered around the one desk in the office. Paul Molise was the central figure, dark skinned, tall and long nosed; in his impeccably tailored three-piece suit he looked more like a high-priced surgeon than a merciless thug. Closest to him, and openly enjoying Sparrowhawk’s discomfort, was the hairy and smirking Constantine Pangalos. Then there was Lloyd Shaper, bearded, portly, an accounting genius, and Livingston Quarrels, blond and blue-eyed, a Jew passing himself off as a Connecticut WASP. Quarrels, an attorney, headed one of Molise’s dummy corporations and was one of three front men nominally in charge of the new auditorium.

Because the auditorium was important for Long Island, opening night had drawn New York’s lieutenant governor, Senator Terry Dent, three borough presidents, along with other political and civic notables. Celebrities included sports figures from New York’s professional teams, plus Broadway, film and television stars. Press coverage was extensive. Which is why Sparrowhawk demanded that security be perfect, an idea that had brought him into conflict with Paul Molise. And Molise’s foul temper.