Mean Business on North Ganson Street (25 page)

Perry closed the door and circumvented the vehicle, thinking about his children out West (who were always older in reality than they were in his mind) and also of Huan's advice, and soon, he made a decision. After he dropped off the platinum specimen, he would call his boys and see if they wanted to go hiking—maybe in the Cascades or a Carolina. It was eight o'clock in San Francisco, and both of them should be home and awake.

The detective entered his car, shut the door, and turned the key. A basso purr came from the hood, and the driver glanced at his passenger.

The woman was shivering.

“Only takes a second to get warm.”

Kristie nodded. Again, she seemed preoccupied by her problems.

“Everything okay?” Perry dialed the heater to its highest setting.

“Just cold.”

The detective let the comment sail. Toggling the gear with his bad hand, he backed out of the parking space, found an empty street, and drove.

Warmth and silence filled the plush interior.

“What do you like to do besides hit on Irish cops?”

“I like to read.”

“Books? Periodicals? That blog about dogs that can sort of say the
F
-word?”

“Books.”

“Thrillers? Romance novels?”

“Romance novels?” A light chuckle emerged from the woman. “Not since I was fourteen.”

“You didn't read
Our Eternal Summer
?”

Kristie looked surprised. “You read that?”

“I did. I thought it was pretty good.” The detective refrained from revealing that he had cried at the end.

“I'll take your word for it.” This was said ironically, but not unpleasantly.

Dialing the wheel counterclockwise, Perry turned onto Summer Drive. No pedestrians were visible anywhere, and in the distance, a pair of triangular taillights veered onto a side street.

“So what kind of stuff do you read?” asked the detective.

“History, mostly. Some spy stuff.”

“You'll have to give me some recommendations.”

“Sure.”

A yawn that seemed less than genuine emerged from Kristie, and Perry interpreted it as a cue. The air grew warm, and for several miles, the two of them shared silence and bumps in the road. It was a surprisingly comfortable experience.

The car purred, and outside, the city was dark and empty. Passing by a record store that had been closed since the eighties, Perry turned on his radio and selected an oldies station. A gang of vociferous women were singing about a boy named Billy Jim, whom they had just decided was no darn good.

“I like this one,” said Kristie. “Reminds me of being little.”

“Grew up in Victory?”

“Unfortunately.”

Perry circumvented a dead pigeon and resumed the conversation. “What else do you do for fun?”

“Rent movies.”

“What kind? I won't think less of you if they're fetishistic.”

“Foreign films. I really like to see other places, other cultures.”

Perry brightened at her response. “Did you see
The Crushing Depths
?”

“I don't think so.”

“It's Japanese, black and white—takes place in a submarine.”

“I'm not into war movies.”

“This will be the exception, since it's the single best movie ever made.”

“What's it about?”

Although the detective suspected that the platinum specimen just wanted to kill time until they arrived at her home, he decided to oblige her request. “I don't want to tell you too much,” he said, “but I'll set it up…”

Perry cleared his throat as if he were about to give an acceptance speech.

“Japan's about to lose the biggest sequel ever made—World War II.

“The main guy in the movie's a guy named Taisho. He's a captain in the Japanese navy. Taisho's got a girl he's engaged to named Yuki, and she's a pretty little doll who works in a factory, on an assembly line making torpedoes for submarines. Times are bad, and the factory's behind schedule—even though everybody's working eighteen-hour shifts, seven days a week. Yuki's lost three fingers in the machines and has a terrible cough.

“Taisho loves her anyways.

“So he gets his mission direct from the Japanese Imperial Commander. His orders are to take one midget submarine to a critical point in the Pacific and sink all of the enemy ships that're there—including a fully loaded aircraft carrier.

“There isn't a chance this is gonna work—not one—but Taisho is a soldier, a warrior, and this is what he does. It's his mission, and it's an honorable death.

“If there's one thing the Japanese like more than raw fish and robots, it's honor.

“Taisho spends one last night with Yuki, having dinner, talking, making love—it's an old movie, so the sex is implied with silhouettes and flowers and stuff. Real classy and romantic. He doesn't tell her about the kind of mission he's going on. He just tells her to be happy—no matter what happens.”

Perry felt his eyes tingle.

“At dawn, Taisho puts all of his money under Yuki's pillow and writes a note telling her to leave the factory and move someplace with clean air.

“Then he goes and gets his crew together.

“There's Taisho's best friend Goro, who's a big beefy guy, simple and fun-loving, the kind of guy everybody likes, and there's an old drunk guy with gray hair who's missing an arm, and there's a skinny kid with pimples and glasses—lots of scrubs were being used at this point in the war.

“The four of them go to the midget submarine, and it's banged up like a car you'd see in Shitopia. It's made for two people at most, but all of them need to get in there.

“They load it up with torpedoes, and Taisho has them throw out the bed so that they can fit even more. The ship's called C Seventy-three.”

“They didn't name it?” asked Kristie.

“Not the Japanese.

“So C Seventy-three leaves the harbor. The special effects look pretty good for the time, but it's an old movie and you can't be too picky about that sort of stuff.”

The headlights shone upon the bent sign for Tenth Street, and Perry glanced at his passenger. “You said Fourth, right?”

“Right.”

“On their way to the enemy fleet, Goro and the kid with glasses play cards and talk about having kids, and the old guy with one arm goes on and on about his granddaughter, and how he's gonna take her to the hot springs in Kyoto when the war's over.

“Taisho listens to this talk—even joins in a couple of times, playing along, talking about what he's gonna do after the war. He doesn't tell them they're on a suicide mission so that they can enjoy their last day.”

Perry turned onto Fourth Street. “Let me know where.”

“Okay. What happens to them?”

“You should see it. Maybe we could watch it one day?”

“Maybe.” Kristie pointed at a gray building. “Right here.”

The detective braked and dialed the wheel clockwise. “Can I use your bathroom? I've got a long drive ahead of me.”

The platinum specimen appraised the driver as he parked along the curb, behind a navy blue sports utility vehicle that had tinted windows.

“I'm not gonna make a move or anything,” defended Perry, aware that his request had seemed premeditated. “But if you're uncomfortable, don't worry about it—I'll just make some ice in an alley.”

Kristie raised an index finger. “Just the bathroom.”

“Just the bathroom.”

“Will you tell me what happens to C Seventy-three?”

“I don't want to ruin it,” said Perry, shifting into park and killing the engine. The tense sequence where the crewmates discovered that they were on a suicide mission was one of the detective's favorites, as was the mutiny, during which Goro died defending Taisho's life. “You really need to watch it.”

“Okay.” There was something sad in Kristie's voice.

Perry climbed out of the car. Steam wreathed his head, and he shut the door.

“Dropped my purse,” said the woman, leaning forward in her seat.

Suddenly, the detective understood.

Three long black barrels emerged from the windows of the navy blue SUV.

Perry reached for his semiautomatic pistol.

Crackling white fire burst from the machine guns. Bullets burned holes into the detective's face, arms, and chest.

His gun clattered against the pavement.

Darkness returned to the street.

Asphalt smacked Perry's face. His insides gurgled and clicked, transformed into a wet jigsaw puzzle.

An engine rumbled to life, and a man said, “Get in.”

Kristie's high-heeled boots tattooed the pavement.

Blood sputtered out of the detective's mouth as he said, “I knew … that you were … f-forty-two.”

A car door slammed.

Red life drained out of Perry, and his pierced body grew numb. Using all of his strength, he shifted onto his side and looked at the navy blue SUV. From the back of the vehicle emerged two dark figures who wore stockings over their pale faces, leather gloves, and black coats. Each man carried an assault rifle that had been built for war.

Perry closed his eyes and retreated into his favorite movie.

Shortly after the mutiny, an enemy submarine attacked C-73, engaging Taisho and his men in a long battle at various depths. The one-armed oldster and the pimply kid soon joined Goro in death.

Water leaked into the damaged midget submarine, and the three dead men stared at the lone survivor with wide, unblinking eyes. Near death and wondering at the pointlessness of existence, Taisho crawled across the floor, retrieved the last remaining torpedo, and slotted it inside of the firing tube. His brow wrinkled when he noticed an anomaly—something small and pale that was caught inside the rotor. The bloodied captain carefully extricated the obstruction and gasped upon seeing what it was that he held. Lying in his hands was an index finger that had once belonged to his fiancée Yuki. Fate had given him a piece of his beloved so that he could face his death with honor.

Resolved, the soldier fired the last torpedo. The weapon shot through the water, and the American aircraft carrier exploded in a sunburst that looked like a Japanese flag. As the debris fell, Taisho sank into the dark abyss, the crushing depths, clutching his fiancée's finger in his right hand.

The warrior was content.

“Get him inside,” said a man.

Indelicate paws seized Perry's arms and dragged him across the asphalt. A mechanical bolt clicked.

“Toss him in back.”

The detective was airborne. A moment later, he slammed against a hard surface. His new environment smelled like garbage bags and blood. The hatch slammed shut, and the entire world turned black.

Pretending that he possessed Yuki's finger, Perry Molloy clenched his right hand and died.

 

XXXIV

A Very Impressive Policeman

Abe Lott patted Nancy Blockman's shoulder. “The doctor says you're gonna be okay.”

“I was here—and awake—when he said it.”

“You need to convalesce. That's the most important thing.”

“Can't do much else.”

Abe often forgot that Nancy was a woman—she was neither pretty nor especially feminine (and she wore the same police uniform that he put on five days a week)—but lying there on her back, draped in a hospital gown and half covered with bandages, she looked pretty decent. If he were a single man, he might have enjoyed a little off-duty time with his partner.

“Stop looking at my tits.”

“I'm not.” Abe redirected his eyes to a tube that connected Nancy and a bag of plasma. “I was just checking the ivy.”

“It's two letters—
i
and
v
. Stands for ‘intravenous.'” (The woman was like an instruction manual.)

“Right. Ivy.”

“Any luck with the van?”

“No. Nothing yet. But they're looking.”

“Let me know if you hear anything.”

“You're supposed to convalesce. It's important to convalesce.” The pudgy officer really liked this word.

“If you hear anything, let me know.”

“I'll tell you. And if you need anything, call me.”

“I think I'll let the doctors handle the rest.” It was clear that Nancy was about to become irritable.

“I'm glad you're okay.”

Earlier that day, Abe had borrowed a ten-speed bike from a kid who lived next door to the Oakwells and ridden it to the place where his partner had crashed the patrol car. When he had first seen her—bloody and unconscious inside of the smashed vehicle—he had suffered a panic attack.

“I like working with you,” said the pudgy officer. “I care about you.”

“Get out of here.” Nancy pivoted upon the mattress so that she faced the television.

“
Attack of the Rattlesnakes
is on channel four.”

“Put it on and go.”

*   *   *

Sitting behind the wheel of his station wagon and wearing regular civilian clothes, Abe steadily consumed banana-flavored frozen custard until his little white spoon scratched the bottom of the empty cup. Something moved on the far side of the parking lot, and when he looked over, he saw Detective Tom Ryder emerging from the tan apartment building that he had lived in since he was a cadet. The handsome fellow wore a slick Italian suit, and his dark hair was feathered—the sort of job that required a blow-dryer, certain chemical compounds, and no small amount of vanity. Most of the girls at the gentlemen's lounge liked him, and it was not just because he had good outfits.

The two fellows waved at each other, and as Tom Ryder approached the station wagon, Abe undid the locks, tossed his empty cup toward a trash basket, and shut the door. From his wallet, he withdrew two gold cards, which were the passes that he had received on New Year's Eve from Wendy. She had told him that VIP stood for Very Impressive Policeman, and all of the guys had laughed really hard at that one. Although she was not the prettiest exotic dancer at Pink Roses, she was the friendliest by far.