Night and Day (21 page)

“It was a calculated risk.”

I shook my head. “You may know a lot more about this samurai shit than I do, sama this,
wakizookie that. Hell, you even had Cynthia doing it.” I paused. “But I brought you along to
help in this investigation, not for your extensive knowledge of Japanese culture. If she splits
your head like an apple, you’re not gonna be much use to me as an investigator.”

“Like I said, it was a calculated risk,” he said. “I told you, as far as she’s concerned, you’re
a fellow samurai. I’m just your servant. That doesn't make for a healthy working relationship. I needed to earn a
level of respect from her. Challenging her like that was the only thing I could come up with on
short notice.”

“She could have killed you, Dick.”

He shook his head. “Nah, she’s not that good. Even unarmed I was able to put her down.
Could have disarmed her, too, but that would have been pushing it too far. Didn’t want to
humiliate her in front of her own servants. She wouldn’t have forgiven that.”

Nedelmann laughed. “Relax. Everything’s okay now. I challenged her. I lost. My life was
in her hands and she didn’t take it. Couldn’t ask for a better outcome.”

“You’re not going to pull a stunt like that again, are you?”

“No need. It had to be done, I did it. Finished.”

“Okay.” I paused. “But let me be real clear. If you disobey me again, or come up with
some half-assed idea and don’t clear it with me first, I’ll bounce you back to Downtown station
in a heartbeat. Clear?”

“You bet,” he said.

We drove in silence for a few minutes, until my curiosity got the better of my anger. “So
how do you know all this samurai shit anyway?”

He laughed. “Kendo, originally, after the camp, kenjutsu,” he said.

“Kendo,” I said. “That like bingo?”

He laughed again. “No, kendo is sort of like sword fighting with bamboo swords. It’s a
competitive sport. Kenjutsu uses wooden swords and real swords. It’s less about the sport, more
about learning how to fight and win. Both are rooted in bushido and samurai
tradition.”

“Are you telling me that you have swords in your apartment?”

“A few,” he said. “Some guys are collectors and have dozens of them. I do it for the
exercise and knowledge, so I only have what I need.”

I shook my head. “And Vees don’t have a problem with people learning how to fight and win with
a samurai sword? That sounds like something on the short list of prohibited activities.”

“We don’t advertise.” He was staring out the window. “Listen, are we going to finish up at
Carpenter’s in time for me to get home by midnight?”

“Why? Got a midnight sword practice to go to?”

“I like to be home before midnight on Friday nights,” he said. “It’s cheating, but only by a
few hours.”

“Cheating?”

“The Shabbat,” he said. When he saw I didn’t know what he was talking about, he added,
“You know, Jewish Sabbath. Sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. Being a cop, it isn’t always
easy to get the whole Shabbat off, so when I can’t, I try to start it by midnight Friday.”

“I didn’t know you were a religious man.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Wasn’t. Now I am.”

“This mean you’re not going to be around tomorrow morning when I go see Eddie Gee?”

Nedelmann sighed. “I hate to miss that, but yeah, I guess not. Sorry. That’s what you get
for recruiting a Jewish cop.”

I came around the corner and saw the blinking neon sign above the entrance to Carpenter’s
ahead. “Not a problem. I can deal with Eddie on my own. Don’t worry, I’ll find something to
keep you busy after sundown tomorrow.”

The street was almost totally deserted, and there were plenty of parking spaces available on
either side. I eased into one of them. In the rearview mirror, I saw Takeda pull in behind us.

Nedelmann and I climbed out of the Jeep and started down the sidewalk toward the club,
under the watchful eye of the tall, impressively-muscled bouncer at the door. As we reached
him, he stepped between us and the wooden door, arms folded across his chest, and said, “Can I
help you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You can get out of the way so we can go in.”

“I think you might be lost.”

I glanced up at the bright yellow neon sign above his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

I heard Takeda come up behind us and the bouncer looked past us at her. “Ahhh, I see,” he
said. “Welcome to Carpenter’s. Enjoy your evening.” He turned and opened the door.

The three of us went through the door into a small, silent lobby. The walls were covered in
red velvet wallpaper and Nedelmann laughed. “Nice. You didn’t tell me this place used to be a
whorehouse.”

The sound of soft jazz was coming through an open doorway to the left. Beside it was a
small podium. Nobody there. Apparently the maitre’d was on his lunch break.

I turned to Takeda. “What was the bouncer talking about?” I asked. “What did he ‘see’.”

“He assumed I had brought you both for my pleasure.”

My brain worked on that for a couple of seconds, then I said, “Gotcha.” I looked around the
empty lobby. “Kind of quiet, isn’t it? I thought this was a hopping place.”

“It’s early,” Takeda said. “People are at work. Business will pick up by 0300 hours.”

“Good,” I said, walking toward the open door. “That means Lou Carpenter will have plenty
of time to talk to us.”

The main room of Carpenter’s was huge, with at least 100 feet separating us from the three-man jazz band on the small stage in the back. It was also dark. The only source of light seemed
to be the small lamps on the dozens of tables that filled the floor and the pencil-thin beams of the
spotlights that pointed down at the long wooden bar which ran nearly the length of one side of
the room. At the end of the bar was a wide staircase, leading up. The other two walls were lined
with booths, most open, a few shielded by thick curtains.

“No dance floor,” Nedelmann said. “I guess bloodsuckers don’t tango.” He looked over his
shoulder and said, “No offense, Takeda-sama.”

“None taken,” she said with a hint of a smile.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” I said.

Takeda sat at an empty table. “I’ll remain here and observe,” she said.

“Sure.”

Nedelmann and I were under intense scrutiny as we threaded our way through the tables to
the long bar. There were people at a few of the tables, and all of them were watching us.

“Kind of like when the waiter brings out the Baked Alaska and everybody in the joint
watches, hoping that he catches on fire,” Nedelmann said.

We reached the bar and I sat down on one of the stools. Nedelmann slid in beside me and
looked around. “Something about this place still reminds me of a whorehouse.”

The guy behind the bar wasn’t Jedron Marsch, which didn’t surprise me. Whatever had
happened to Jedron, it didn’t include coming back to work.

The bartender approached us slowly from the far end of the bar, where he’d been chatting
with a couple of women. “You gentlemen lost?”

“We already had this conversation with the bouncer,” I said. “No, we’re not lost.”

That seemed to stump him.

“We’re here to see the boss,” I said. “Could you have him come out here, please.”

“The boss,” he repeated.

“Yeah, the boss. Lou Carpenter. His name is in big bright letters over the front door.”

“Mr. Carpenter is a very busy man,” he said. “If you would like to make an appointment . .
.”

“Tell Mr. Carpenter to unbusy himself and get out here,” Nedelmann interrupted, his voice
hard. “Like right now. And when you’re done, give me an Old Crow and water, no ice.”

The bartender took a step back, then turned and hurried down the bar to a red telephone that
hung on the wall.

Nedelmann turned to me. “Damn, Charlie, you got soft working the private side of the
street. You need to get the cop mentality back. You don’t ask. You tell.” He looked past me.
“Now what have we got here?”

The two women who’d been talking with the bartender at the end of the bar were gliding
across the floor toward us, big smiles on their faces. One was blonde, the other brunette, both
tall and slender. They weren’t wearing a whole lot of anything, just enough to keep their
modesty intact, though both were wearing some kind of flimsy scarf draped around their necks
and shoulders.

The brunette moved in close to me and put her hand on mine. As soon as she touched me,
she jerked back like I was on fire and said, “Shit, you’re warm.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled. “Sorry.”

The blonde had stopped in her tracks and was looking from Nedelmann to me. “Him too?”
she asked, jerking her chin at Nedelmann.

“Afraid so, honey” Nedelmann said.

“I’m . . . we’re so sorry,” the brunette said quickly. “We didn’t know.”

Before I could speak, the bartender came up behind us. “Mr. Carpenter will be down in few
minutes.”

I turned to him in time to see him shake his head, his eyes on the two women. They hurried
away.

“Where’s that drink, pal?” Nedelmann asked.

The bartender looked to me. “Anything for you, sir?”

“Club soda,” I said. “With a twist.” He nodded and walked away.

“So what the hell do you think that was all about?” I asked, turning to Nedelmann.

“No idea. Other than that they obviously thought we were bloodsuckers.”

Behind him, I saw a redhead sit down at the bar, a few stools away. She looked to be in her
mid-forties, about my age, somewhere between plain and plain ugly, wearing a low-cut orange
dress that was about a size to small. As I watched, she smiled, showing a lot of teeth, and
scooted across the stools until she was right behind Dick.

“I like ‘em warm,” she said, putting her hand on Nedelmann’s shoulder. “Warmer the
better.”

Nedelmann didn’t move, didn’t look at her. “Lady, if you don’t move your hand right now,
I’m going to rip off your fucking arm and shove it down your throat.”

“Feisty,” she said with a low chuckle as she slowly moved her hand, her fingers trailing
across his shoulder as she pulled back. “That can be fun, but I’m not in the mood tonight.”

“Then take a hike,” Nedelmann said, still staring at me.

She laughed again and moved back to her original stool. Nedelmann smiled at me. “You
have no idea how much willpower it took not to blow that bloodsucking bitch right back to hell.”

“If this bothering you, you might want to wait outside in the Jeep.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” he said. “I just have to look at this as research.”

Behind Nedelmann, the bartender was leaning in close to the red-haired woman, listening.
He nodded, straightened up, and raised his hand. A few moments later, a thin boy with shoulder-length blonde hair, no older than twenty or so, came to the bar. Like the women who’d
approached us, he wore very little and like them, his neck and shoulders were draped with a thin
scarf.

The kid moved into her arms, smiling, his face nuzzling her throat. She stroked his hair
gently, laughed at something he said, and looked at the bartender. The bartender nodded,
reached down behind the bar, and came up with a small silver plate. On the plate was a knife,
about the size of a pocketknife. The woman picked it up.

Nedelmann noticed that my eyes weren’t on him, and turned to see what I was looking at.

“You might not want to watch this, Dick,” I said.

“No, I do,” he replied, his voice a monotone. “I really do.”

The woman pushed down the left side of the scarf that surrounded the boy’s neck with the
point of the knife, and I understood why he and the two girls kept that part of their anatomy
covered. The side of his neck was marked by a handful of small scars. If the rest of his neck and
his shoulders had the same scars, he’d have been cut fifty times or more.

He was smiling as the woman raised the knife and made a small shallow cut on his throat. He was
still smiling as she leaned in and began to lap at the blood that ran down his neck, her eyes
locked on mine.

Nedelmann watched for another moment, then turned to face the bar. “Well, that answers
the question of what bloodsuckers do when they go to a bar.” He spotted the bartender and said,
“Still waiting on that drink, pal.”

The bartender hurried over and put the two glasses on the bar. Nedelmann picked up his and
drained it in one gulp. “Another,” he said, slamming it down hard. I was surprised the glass
didn’t shatter.

“I think you’d be happier outside,” I said. “I can handle Carpenter solo.”

“No, I’m fine,” he said. His jaw was working like he was grinding his teeth. He turned to
me. “So, Charlie, you think they did things that way in the camp? Silver plate, little nicks on the
neck? Or do you think they just . . .” His lips moved for a moment, soundlessly. “. . . gobbled
their food down like animals?”

I stood and grabbed his arm. “Come on, Dick, let’s go outside.”