Giri (19 page)

Red faced and portly, Hinds was also a classical organist of some accomplishment and one of the dealers trading in American arms captured by the Viet Cong. He was the man to ask about George Chihara.

“Do my best, old sock,” Hinds said over a scratchy transatlantic connection. “Take a day or two, you know. Bloody Cong have so many revolutionary committees and party chairmen to go through. Swine don’t return your calls half the time.”

“Quickly as possible, Nial. Handle it yourself. Don’t want this to get about. Private inquiry, call it.”

“Get back to you. And you owe me one, old fruit.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Won’t let you forget”

Hinds’s call from Belgium came two days later. This time the connection was worse; the wire was riddled with echoes, crossed conversations, unexplained silences. Sparrowhawk could hardly hear the arms dealer and it annoyed him. Leaving his desk, he carried the phone to the window and looked down on Manhattan. The November days were getting shorter, darker.

“Nial, speak up. I can hardly hear you.”

“… said a woman tried to free your Chihara. He’s dead.”

“When did he die?”

“Woman …”

“Woman? Nial, you said woman. Who was she? Was she related to Chihara? Can you describe her?”

“Hello, Trevor? Trevor? Are you there? Damn this thing. Can’t hear you … Trevor, I’m leaving for Zimbabwe.”

“Nial, the woman—”

Silence. The line was dead.

Enraged, Sparrowhawk, telephone in one hand, receiver in the other, beat against the window. No one came back from the dead. No one.
Shi
was the end of all things.

“Mr Sparrowhawk, are you all right? I heard banging—” Mrs. Rosebery rushed to him. “Good Lord, your hands.”

They were bleeding. As George Chihara’s hands had bled that last night in Saigon.

Karate
kata,
or form, involving repeated switching of blocking arms, indicating changing from disadvantageous to advantageous position. In performing this
kata
one aims for a will similar to that required to smash into an enemy’s fortress.

C
OMING TO LAS VEGAS
was as dangerous as anything Dorian Raymond had ever done in his life.

He was in the city where, in the next few hours, Robbie would probably rape and kill a woman before stepping into a downtown hotel arena to fight the light-heavyweight champion of Mexico. Too nervous to sleep, Dorian got out of bed shortly before noon. He showered and shaved, then did a little cocaine for courage, pouring the white powder onto a small hand mirror and using a razor blade to shape the powder into a pair of thin lines before inhaling it through a rolled one-hundred-dollar bill. He dressed in a black sports shirt, beige summer suit, looped two thin gold chains around his neck and left his hotel room. At the front desk he handed his room key to the clerk, a round-faced Hopi Indian girl, who mechanically suggested he have a nice day and ignored his bold gaze at her breasts swelling under a beaded vest.

For a few minutes Dorian hung around the lobby staring at two million in silver dollars on display. The money, which always drew a crowd, was stacked on a raised platform and flanked by sunburned, crew-cut security guards wearing, black uniforms, mirrored sunglasses and nickel-plated revolvers on one hip. Dorian had seen their kind in Nam, rawboned Southerners who collected ears from dead Vietnamese, strung them into a necklace and wore it long after the ears turned brown and stinking. Hardasses who could drive a nail into your forehead with one blow of their fist.

A new ruling in Dorian’s precinct had forced him to make the trip to Las Vegas. All long-distance calls now had to be accounted for. Blame it on a budget squeeze coming out of the mayor’s office. Long distance had to be official business only, which left Robbie out. He wasn’t official business, not until Dorian had explored the benefits of turning Robbie in. Or not.

Nor would telephoning from home work at the moment, not if Dorian wanted to get close to Robbie before the murder went down. How could you say, “Sergeant, I’m telephoning about a whacko who’s about to rape and murder a woman in your town. Sure I know who he is, but right now I’d like to keep that to myself. Tell you this, though: our boy is a karate freak. He’ll waste this broad, then go out and half kill some other karate guy. I think there’s a connection there. Anyway, soon as the killing’s over, call me at home, not at the precinct. Sorry, no questions about how I know all this. It’s our little secret, you and me. Have a nice day.”

Impossible to run that by anybody and not have it blow up in your own face. No, Dorian had to find a city where Robbie was scheduled to fight, and then stay out of sight while Robbie played his little game. After that, Dorian would know for certain that Robbie had a tendency toward unsavory acts.

Las Vegas was Dorian’s favorite city. Around-the-clock action. Gambling, women, good food, tennis at three in the morning and a glittering style that Atlantic City and Caribbean casinos couldn’t match. There was the Circus-Circus casino, where gamblers could look up and see a full circus performing high overhead, complete with the sideshow and brass band; there was year-round jai alai, the world’s fastest sport, at the MGM Grand; a lake in the lobby of Caesars Palace, with a live band playing on a floating barge; a slot machine at the Union Plaza, where the grand prize was an airplane. People who put down Vegas wouldn’t know a good thing if it fell from heaven and bit them on the ass.

Outside his hotel, Dorian closed his eyes while waiting for a taxi, letting the mild desert air wash over him. The weather here was a thousand times better than New York, where the snow and ice came up to his balls. He had gone directly to the hotel from McCarran Airport and had tried to nap, but couldn’t. Too antsy. Too worried about Robbie.

He told the driver to take him to police headquarters and when the driver asked him what was wrong Dorian flashed his badge and said he was a New York cop paying a courtesy call, nothing more. The badge nailed the driver’s mouth shut, which suited Dorian just fine.

Time to make this trip had come from Dorian’s personals, the three days off New York cops received each year to deal with personal affairs, no questions asked. Now that he was in Las Vegas, he suddenly felt as though his dick was hanging over the fence and Robbie had the knife.

Stepping into the police station cheered him up. Cops were cops all over the world; they took care of their own. The Vegas cops could not have been friendlier, treating Dorian, a New York City detective, like a visiting celebrity. Kojak, Columbo and Dirty Harry rolled into one. He wasn’t alone anymore. Somebody found a bottle of Wild Turkey and a package of paper cups. Two drinks later Dorian, his jacket off, was laughing.

Still, he did not forget why he had come here. He wanted the cops in this town to know who he was when he contacted them again. Meanwhile it was let’s hold hands and get acquainted.

“Fewer tourists is right,” the duty sergeant said. “Hotels here have lost a little to Atlantic City. Gasoline prices have hurt us, too. Too expensive to drive, so we aren’t getting the numbers anymore from California, Arizona, Utah, New Mexico. Worst thing, one pit boss tells me, is there aren’t that many high rollers anymore, the guys who pop for three million a night and don’t know it’s gone. If you’ve got a good pigeon list on you I know two hotels who’ll give you at least two and a half million for it.”

Dorian said, “I’ll remember that. Still got the world’s most beautiful hookers here?”

A lieutenant said, “You expect a married man to answer that?”

Everybody laughed.

“The whores won’t ever go away,” the lieutenant said. “I know pros been working here for years. Christ, since the Korean War almost. And you got showgirls and cocktail waitresses peddling their hips for a few bucks and college girls flying in from Los Angeles for a weekend, sucking a few cocks, then going home with enough money for a new car. We get the runaways, too, just like you do in New York and just like in New York they get chewed up by pimps.”

Dorian lit a cigarette. “Whores mean sex crimes.”

“Tell me about it. Always one John who freaks out and it’s the girl who pays and I’m not talking about money. Other day a guy from Houston tied a broad to a bed, then did a number on her with a straight razor. Paid her five hundred bucks to let him shave her fuzzy, then got carried away. Stuffed a towel in her mouth and cut her up something fierce, then just walked away and left her there. When we found her she looked like chopped meat.”

It took a few more drinks before Dorian learned there hadn’t been a rape-murder in Las Vegas for a month and a half. Robbie had a clear field. The most recent incident involving a female had occurred yesterday, when a naked woman had been arrested in front of a wedding chapel on the Las Vegas strip. Naked, except for boots and mustard smeared over her body, the woman had been talking about Jesus to anyone who would listen. Dorian laughed.

Time to leave. Slightly drunk, Dorian felt sad at leaving his new friends. He was on his own again. It was him and Robbie now. One on one and no margin for error.

Two cops drove him back to his hotel, telling him to keep in touch while he was in town. Don’t hesitate to call us hick law enforcement officers if you need anything. The rest of the guys would be told that Dorian was in Vegas and to keep an eye out for him. Perfect I’m on a roll, thought Dorian.

At the cashier’s window he purchased some silver dollars and found a slot machine that took five silver dollars at a time. Ten times he inserted the five, and ten times he lost. On the eleventh time he hit the jackpot winning two thousand dollars. Bells went off, lights flashed and the machine played The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” A security guard with a canvas sack helped Dorian collect his prize money and exchange it at the cashier’s window for hundred-dollar bills.

Winning revived his appetite. At the hotel dining room he ate a late lunch of steak, chicken, ribs, baked potato, chocolate cake washed down with champagne. Winning brought him company, too. A cocktail waitress who sold him cigarettes congratulated him on hitting the jackpot and looked at him long enough to let Dorian know she meant it. And she had a friend for just one hundred dollars more.

An hour later all three were in Dorian’s room. Something special, he said. It’s been a good day and I know it can only get better. Paying for sex never bothered him. Sometimes it was a lot cheaper than getting it for free.

It began with the friend, a showgirl, licking cocaine from Dorian’s cock, while the waitress used her tongue on his anus. Fuck Robbie. Dorian lay on his back while the waitress sucked his toes and the showgirl straddled him, grinding and writhing. Then the two girls put on a show, licking and sucking each other and using a vibrator, giving him another hard-on and then he was pushing one on her back and forcing himself into her; he didn’t know who it was and he didn’t care.

More cocaine. And then they were in the bathroom, with the laughing girls gently pushing Dorian into an empty tub. Giggling, he lay on his back, long legs dangling over the side and one of the girls got into the tub, crouched over him, rubbed her body against his and slowly pissed on him, warming him with her urine and her smile and exciting him so quickly that his cock shot straight up and poked her in the stomach. The other girl joined her, pissing on Dorian’s chest, arms, thighs. A golden shower. Dorian came twice. Las Vegas was some kind of town.

When the girls had gone, Dorian, feeling loose and feeling good, cleaned himself, then went into the bedroom and turned on the television set. A pitchman was offering a free shotgun or Magnum rifle to anyone buying a mobile home. Dorian walked over to the dresser, knelt down, removed the empty bottom drawer and turned it over. Still there. Untouched and waiting. His future and Romaine’s. Five typewritten pages he had taped under the drawer. Five pages containing the names of 200 of the wealthiest men in the world. It was a copy of the pigeon list he had killed Alan Baksted for.

Where I go, it goes, thought Dorian, who had been uncomfortable at the thought of leaving it behind in New York. If you’ve got a good pigeon list on you I know two hotels who’ll give you at least two and a half million for it.

Dorian was going to find a way to turn these pages into a lot more than two and a half million. Just as he was going to find a way to make what he knew about Robbie Ambrose pay off.

Robbie was losing the fight, surprising Dorian, who had expected better from him.

In front of Dorian, who stood in the rear of the packed hotel arena, a cheering, beer-drinking group of Mexicans waved red, white and green flags and yelled themselves hoarse as Hector Quintero drove Robbie Ambrose into the ropes with a series of vicious kicks. Quintero, with eagles and haloed crosses tattooed on his shaven chest, was long armed and tall, with an unblinking gaze and dark beard. He had a quick, stinging left jab and long legs, which he used well. His strategy was to press Robbie at all times. Attack from a distance. Use the jab and kicks to keep Robbie away and outside. The Mexican’s kicks were awesome. He switched stances frequently, left leg forward, then right, kicking with his front leg, then the rear one, tireless in his assault. Now he had Robbie on the ropes. Quintero hooked two punches to Robbie’s stomach, then spun around and caught him high on the cheek with a spinning backfist that dropped the former SEAL to one knee. The Mexicans leaped from their seats, spilling beer on each other and screaming,
“Quin-tero! Quin-tero!”

Robbie sprang up immediately. The referee, however, made him take a standing eight count.

The bell rang, ending round four. Quintero’s round for sure, thought a disappointed Dorian. By his count the Mex had won two rounds, Robbie one, with one even. Maybe there was something to eating refried beans after all. For the first time Dorian began to have doubts about Robbie and the killings. A quick call before fight time to the Las Vegas police had revealed no reported rape-murders.

Had he been wasting his time? So much depended on Robbie killing a woman here. Dorian wanted something on Robbie and maybe, just maybe, that would lead to something on Sparrowhawk. And all of it would be to Dorian’s advantage. The more the detective thought about it, the more pissed he got at the thought that Robbie might not be a killer.