Hook and Shoot (2 page)

The leather seat squawked from his spin toward me. “Happened? Maybe it's past tense for you. For me it's
happening.”

“Semantics.”

“Yeah, that's what I need right now: investigations and bad press.”

“You say right now. I'm talking about forever.”

“My forever
is
right now. Day to day. You been waiting to hear from me. You think I've been poolside this whole time, just sipping daiquiris and getting jerked off?”

“Daiquiris?”

“Besides all the shit piled on me, I still have a company to run. You caused chaos when you beat Burbank, turned the whole division upside down. Yeah, keep smiling. Even with the huge mess, I still got your next fight lined up.”

“When?”

“You don't wanna know who?”

I shrugged.

Eddie leaned toward me, spent some time scanning
the lumps and lines around my eyebrows. “Cuts are healing nicely. Which ones are from Burbank?”

“The new ones. When's the next fight?”

He sat back. “Two weeks. That enough time for you and Gil?”

“Two minutes, same answer. But you couldn't let us know sooner?”

“I've been a little busy. Delegation's tough when you can't trust anybody.”

“What, the debt thing?”

He laughed, a dry bark. “Yeah, the debt thing.”

“They reach out to you?”

“No. And that's bad, man. The Yakuza's like a snake. You want to be able to see and hear it. You can't—any rock you turn over, you know?”

I peeked under my seat.

“Relax,” Eddie said. “They won't come at me until after your fight.”

I looked up.

“Now you want to know who you're fighting?”

Eddie pushed a button on the driver's panel. “I need some coffee. Woody, you want something?”

“Answers.”

Into the panel: “Two coffees.” He opened a hidden cabinet and pulled out a package of wet wipes,
used one on his neck and face. It came away a different color. He stuffed it all back in the cabinet and looked at me. “Answers. Maybe we can share some.”

“I don't know anything about the Yakuza.”

“Strip away the tattoos and traditions. They're just violent criminals.”

“Oh, then you should read my dissertation.”

“Even better,” he said, “I saw it live.”

“I can't help you.”

“Listen first.”

“I don't want to help you.”

“What if it's close to the same thing as helping yourself?”

“How close?”

He let his eyes roll around, like he hadn't thought about it yet. “It's the exact same thing.”

The driver's panel slid down. Eddie took the two coffees in thick white paper cups, and the panel slid back up. He handed one to me so I could put it in the cup holder.

“What do you think of Mr. Burch?”

“Who?”

“My driver. He's British.”

“Does he have anything to do with my next fight?”

Eddie flapped his suit jacket. “Not really.”

“Then I don't give a shit about Mr. Burch.”

“I won't tell him you said that. You familiar with the MMA scene in Japan?”

“I know of it. I assume they punch and kick each other. Some choking.”

“Fighters are built up into folk heroes. We're talking about the land of the samurai, the birthplace of Bushido. Some of the fighters stick to that honor code, would rather die in the ring or cage than fail.”

“Dying kind of sounds like failing.”

“Not to them. All that ‘die on my feet rather than live on my knees' shit.” Eddie took my nod of appreciation for agreement. “And the Yakuza is balls deep in all of it.”

“Good thing organized crime stays out of combat sports in Vegas.”

He waved a hand at the city outside the window. “Not the point. I'm talking about the Yakuza making a move on Warrior specifically. Not an invasion of the sport. It's a precise attack on me and my company.”

“Well, don't you owe them a shit ton of money?”

Eddie sniffed. “You wanna get technical, Kendall took on that debt.”

“And they didn't just let it all slide after he blew up? Huh.”

“So, yes, I owe them.”

“What did you do?”

“Doesn't matter. What matters is they're going to
take my company. Which also happens to be your employer.”

“Yeah, about that.”

He put a hand up. “We'll get to it. And any contract we put together won't mean shit if they have control.”

“So don't sell them the stock. Or shares, whatever they're called.”

“They aren't sending accountants. They're sending a fighter. Do you own a suit?”

I frowned. “A suit?”

“Much like the one I'm wearing now.”

“No.”

He pressed the panel button. “We need to see Dorian first. Then the meeting. But don't call until afterward.” Came back to me without waiting for acknowledgment.

“Why do I need a suit?”

Eddie looked at my jeans, shirt, and tennis shoes like they were dead relatives of mine. “The fighter's a heavyweight, thirty-one years old. He's a catch wrestler with Olympic gold medals in judo, made his way up to MMA super fights in the promotions over there legitimately. Well, what passes for it. Got a record of twelve and three, two draws. Now his management is saying he's ready to challenge the big boys over here.”

“Tell them no.”

“Doesn't work that way. We take on all comers
if they're worthy. This guy is. But he's a fucking seed. Once he gets in our system, the Yakuza has roots. From there it's just a matter of time. They'll grow and push me out one way or another.”

“Sell it. Get out on your own terms.”

“That's what you'd do?”

“No, but I'm stupid.”

Eddie nodded.

I'd have smacked him, but his skin still looked filmy.

“I got one move left,” he said. “That's why you need the suit. If this doesn't work, you need to beat their guy in the cage. Two weeks from now, send him home crying.”

“Why me?”

“Because I believe in you.”

“Eddie.”

“If he's any good, I don't want him to beat anybody important.”

Glad I pushed that one. “What's his name? Maybe Gil's mentioned him.”

“Goes by one name: Zombi.”

Nope. I would have remembered that.

The limo slipped into a small covered parking area notched into a three-story building. We were somewhere northwest of the Strip. Lots of trees and flowers probably got bottled water while the landscapers drank from the hose.

Burch opened the door for Eddie and the heat clamped down on us. Eddie didn't seem to notice. Burch led the way to a thick, unmarked steel door in the corner of the parking area and pushed a button set in the frame.

We waited, Burch checking the corners behind us, then his watch.

Eddie stared at the door, leaning forward on his toes.

I checked my phone to see if my provider was allowed within this property value.

A black guy about my height and age opened the
door, all smiles. He wore a dark suit and a shirt and tie I knew were a shade of lavender, but I'd call them purple if anyone asked. It moved on him like feathers on a peacock. “Mr. Takanori, welcome back.”

“Dorian, sorry for the drop-in.”

“Please. Come on. Get out of this furnace.”

Burch turned to me. “Okay here?”

“For what?”

“Be right back.” He stepped past Dorian into the building and left Eddie with me.

Dorian said to Eddie, “Something wrong?”

“He's very careful.”

“Needs to be more careful with those shoes. Drier than a Mormon funeral.” Dorian examined me. “Dumpster's around the corner.”

Eddie said, “This is one of my guys. We need something for him to walk around in today and half a dozen or so fitted as soon as possible. Head to toe.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. “You take a shower today?”

Burch came to the doorway. “All clear, Mr. Takanori.”

We stepped into a short hallway, then through another unmarked door and down a set of narrow stairs. Pushed through a heavy black curtain into a cool, round, semidark room of solid wood panels lined with suits and angled shelves of ties, handkerchiefs,
shoes, and socks. Everything glowed with indirect lighting, the kind that requires engineers and technicians and Mayan calendars to dial in.

Dorian nudged me. “First time?”

“How'd you know?”

“This is gonna be fun, man. Lighten up. Enjoy it. My suits can't do a thing for you, walking around with that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“Put your arms down. Relax your shoulders.” Dorian checked his work so far. “Why are your hands so big?” He came back in with a tape measure, pins, and chalk.

Eddie sat in a leather chair and knocked back an espresso, staring at the recessed plasma screen showing financial news with the sound off.

Burch patrolled the suits and rubbed a few ties before he finally stopped in front of me and got down to it. “Mr. Takanori tells me you've worked executive security before.”

“That was a while back. And
security
might not be the right word. Security wants to avoid trouble. I usually got hired to make some.”

“So you know what it looks like.”

I checked one of the six mirrors in front of me. “Pretty much.”

“We're going to a meeting after this. Just do what I tell you. Anything seems off, don't keep quiet about it.”

“You got a phone book? Only a couple pages of guys better qualified than me.”

“That's not an option right now.”

“Why not?”

Burch glanced at Dorian, who kept working and said, “With these acoustics, I can't hear a thing. Never do.”

Burch came back to me. “We don't know why yet, but no one will help us.”

“You mean no one will help Eddie. Why are you here?”

His eyes were ice chips. “I'm a soldier, mate.”

I made sure Eddie wasn't listening. He was miles away. “What's he got on you?”

“Just do what I say, leave the stories for Valhalla. Dorian, how much longer?”

“How good does he need to look?”

“No arrests for exposure.”

Dorian stood, touched a white cloth to his forehead. They both stared at me. I felt like a piece of bad furniture.

“I'll cover him up,” Dorian said, “but he's going to look like a side of beef in a potato sack.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen. I have another client coming.” To me: “What are you carrying?”

I looked at my hands.

Burch opened his coat, showed me the pistol holstered against his ribs. He let the coat fall and the tailoring made the rig disappear—no bulge, no shadows. He tugged a pant leg up so I could see the strap around his ankle but not what it held.

“Nothing,” I said.

Dorian looked at Burch, who shrugged. “Boy likes to get his hands dirty.”

Likes to stay out of prison, too.

Burch said, “Mr. Takanori, we can be at the meeting in thirty minutes.”

Eddie stared through the TV, the wall, the city. “Make the call.”

The suit Dorian pulled off the rack for me fit like a layer of oil. I sat in the back of the limo and didn't have to push the coat out of my face or shake the legs down so my knees wouldn't show. It was a new shade of black with a gray shirt and tie, matching socks, black shoes. The knot in the tie was so big I had to feed it every half hour.

Eddie stared out the window at everything starting to brighten up as the sun went down.

I said, “Where we going?”

“I don't know. Mr. Burch handles that.”

I kinda missed the old Eddie. At least brash assholes aren't boring and depressing. “Who's the meeting with?”

“Just shut the fuck up and let me think, will you?”

I kinda missed the new Eddie. I checked my suit,
made sure I hadn't gotten anything on it yet. Dorian said he'd call when the six custom fits were ready. My old clothes and shoes were in a plastic bag in the trunk. Burch didn't want to sully the rags he used on the tires.

Eddie said, “Sorry about that. No offense, but I'm not thrilled I had to come to you for help.”

“So it's unanimous. You can let me out here.”

“Brah, you been listening? Warrior is on the endangered list. If it goes, you got no fight contract, no promoter, nothing.”

“Sounds terrible. Wait, that's exactly what I have right now.”

Eddie opened another cabinet, took out a stack of papers, and set them on the seat. “This is your four-fight contract. It includes the fight against Zombi.”

Ring that bell, Pavlov. “Gil's gonna go through that thing with a microscope. I'm not signing anything until he likes it.”

“You can get John fucking Hancock to autograph it, won't mean a thing.” He tossed the stack in the cabinet, left it bent and creased, closed the door. “I haven't signed it yet.” He crossed his arms and waited for my reaction.

I chewed my tongue and ran the options.

I could strangle Eddie before he pushed the panel button. Even if he got to it, I'd have his head off
before Burch stopped the car.

The other option was to sit here and take it.

I checked the seat for a coin to flip.

Eddie said, “If this meeting goes well, I'll sign it soon as we get back in the car. You and Gil can take all the time you want, get a pre-nup, whatever.”

“We're meeting the Yakuza?”

“Don't be naïve. Listen, you see any Asians besides me, set the place on fire and get me into this fucking car. Clear on that? We're meeting one guy. His driver, if he has one. Guy's a clown, though, probably leases a Fiat.”

Now Eddie wanted me to dig at him, pry the information out so he could feel important and show off a bit. I looked through the moonroof and picked at something in my teeth.