Copp For Hire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (18 page)

      
Charlie snapped his fingers. Saint Peter reached into a breast pocket, produced a fifty, handed it to me without a sound. I transferred it to my breast pocket without acknowledgement, said to Charlie, "I figured any overture would put me in touch. But I hand it to you—I didn't expect to be in touch this quick."

      
He said, in that curiously emotionless voice. "You have had a big night."

      
I said, "Bigger than I needed, right.
 
That's my own fault and I apologize. I didn't know that you and Davitsky are connected. I was on him, not you. Don't blame you for covering your flanks. But now I'm into deep trouble with the Honolulu cops."

      
All this time I'm talking to the mirror. But Charlie was reading me loud and clear.

      
He asked, "So what do you want from me?"

      
"An understanding."

      
"That's all?"

      
"That's all."

      
He snapped his fingers again and the car began moving. We circled around onto Hotel and went on toward the freeway, just cruising slowly.

      
"I do not get you, Mr.
Copp
," Charlie was saying, still with no emotion in the voice. "You come over here to this beautiful island and lay all over me, spy on me, knock off two of my kanakas and—"

      
"Hold it right there. I did not knock off anybody. Two boys tried to hit me but they weren't good enough so it went sour. All I did was cover myself. They got excited and got careless and got dead. I had nothing to do with it."

      
Saint Peter evidently felt an obligation to speak up for me. He spoke across his shoulder to say, "That's right, Charlie. I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. They loused it. Then he got behind them and was chasing them. But he didn't fire any shots. They lost it on their own."

      
"And one of them was carrying a badge. So that puts me in an unhappy spot."

      
"He tried to split," Saint Peter explained. "He did split. Went on out to the
Kahala
. HPD caught up with him out there. I got a read on the booking. It's suspicion of vehicular manslaughter and leaving the scene. I read it myself. He made bail, came straight to the club."

      
"Sounds like," Charlie commented, "you have found a brother, Mr.
Copp
."

      
I presumed he was referring to Saint Peter. "We have a lot in common," and almost choked on the words. Saint Peter nodded. "That's right."

      
 
"You feel good about this man, do you?" Charlie asked Saint Peter.

      
Fu replied, "I think he's okay, sure. 'Course I don't know what—"

      
"Then let me tell you what," Charlie said. "This man has been a hardnosed cop for fifteen years. Could not handle the system so went out looking for trouble on his own. Thought he would bring some to our island. Now he is in a mess and yelling for help. That about it, Mr.
Copp
?"
I sent an angry look into the mirror. "That covers it pretty well, yeah. Except for the conclusion. I don't want any help from you, Charlie. I'm just trying to simplify my case, keep it sized right. You're not part of it."

      
We were moving up the hill toward the National Memorial Cemetery, called "The Punchbowl." I did not like the symbolism of that, but I tried to keep the tension out of my voice as I went on with my pitch. I was prepared to lie like hell, and thinking fast.

      
"I'll lay it out straight for you. Buy it or don't buy it, that's your problem, not mine; but HPD wants me to make you part of it. They've offered me a deal. Play their game and I go home clean. Otherwise, I may never see home again. So—"

      
"So you decided you should play their game."

      
"I decided I'd better make them think I am, for the moment. I don't know why they're so hot for your body, pal, but they're sure lusting after you."

      
Charlie merely grunted.

      
I went on, "I want no part of island troubles. I want Davitsky, and that's a personal want, has nothing to do with you or any of your dealings with him. Whether I get him or not, he'll take a fall because the L.A. cops are getting ready to lay all over him. I give this to you out of the kindness of my heart, and as an apology for busting in on you tonight. If you've got detectable connections there, you should break them quick and clean. The guy is going to fall."

      
Charlie snapped his fingers.

      
The car stopped.

      
We were within view of the memorial. A lot of Vietnam and World War dead were buried up there. I had to work to suppress a shiver as we all got out of the car—all of us but Charlie. Saint Peter shook me down again, then the guy who'd come into the club to fetch us shook me down, then the driver took a turn at it. I was thinking what the hell when Peter opened the rear door and motioned me inside.

      
I moved in beside Charlie. The other guys wandered away.

      
"I figured it was something like this," Charlie said.

      
I said, "Well, it does figure, doesn't it. This guy Davitsky has got a head problem."

      
He said sourly, "Yes." It was the closest to an emotion he'd shown yet.

      
I said, "You never know what comes up when you mix business with a head like that."

      
He said, "This man has great connections, though."

      
"It's those connections that are wrapped around his neck right now," I said. "And I guess that's what has HPD all excited. They're really worried about you, Charlie."

      
He showed me a small smile. "Yes?"

      
"Oh yes. I gather it hasn't always been that way. They used to look the other way. Right? Now they're looking at you with telescopes and microscopes. They're feeling heat, somewhere. But I think the heat is coming from Davitsky, or reflected off of him. Whatever, it's shining on you now and these guys are running scared—these HPD guys, I mean."

      
"This man has a head problem," he said. "You are right about that."

      
"And now it has become your problem, Charlie."

      
"At the moment you seem to be my problem, Mr.
Copp
. I do not fear this other man. Why should I fear his problem?" He snapped his fingers. "I do this and he is a dead man."

      
"You could do it to me."

      
He agreed.
  

      
"But you didn't. Why not?"

      
"I did not yet," he corrected me, then smiled and corrected himself: "This time."

      
"Okay. So why not yet the second time?"

      
"You interest me, Mr.
Copp
. Particularly your story interests me, but you interest me also. Why would a man with a cop's hard nose behave so foolishly? Why do you place yourself directly into the palm of my hand...so close to the snapping fingers?"

      
"I figure it's my only way to Davitsky. He can go home any time. I can't."

      
“I see.”

      
"The guy has become a liability to you, Charlie." "We shall see."

      
He rolled down the window and signaled the others to return to the car.

      
I was watching the snap-fingers. But that hand seemed entirely relaxed now.

      
Mine were not. Believe me, pal, none of me was relaxed.

Chapter Twenty-six

I DON'T WANT you to take me a hundred-percent literally when I tell you that Charlie Han—in a certain, curious way—is a gentleman. A hood, sure—thug, pimp, killer—all that—but with all that, something else; and the something else is what I refer to under the title of gentleman. I don't know how to sum it up except as a sort of elegance or self-possession, an almost courtly formality or dignity or whatever.

      
I would put him at about fifty—though I could probably be ten years wrong either way on that. He must stand about five-ten. The body is thickset, hard, probably not much fat but very substantial; he could weigh two hundred. The hands are not manicured but they are tidy and very strong, fingers thick and stubby but smooth, and the knuckles gleam when he makes a fist.

      
The face is not so expressive as impressive, but it does reflect the mind behind it. You get a stolid feeling there; a strength and a mindset of utter pragmatism. There is no facial hair, but it is thick upon the head, shiny black, neatly trimmed. The eyes have seen it all but still can leap with some otherwise unexpressed emotion, and they are the only place he laughs.

      
When Charlie speaks, you hear a hundred tongues. It is a soft voice, but soft with its own confidence and not given to postures or deceits, not trying to impress with sincerity or anger. You hear some British in that voice and some Hawaiian pidgin and God knows how many other ethnic influences, but you never get the feeling that it is groping for words or straining for effect.

      
In short, I was impressed with this man, while still aware that he was as deadly and ruthless as anyone I had ever met. I could have liked this Charlie Han if I had not known about the other. And I had the feeling that "the other" was what had survived many hard streets and vicious environments where only the shrewd and the ruthless make it through.

We cruised the streets and roads of Oahu shoulder to shoulder in utter silence and for quite a long time while Charlie thought his thoughts. It was my understanding that he was mentally processing the situation with Davitsky, considering his options, weighing ramifications—and I understood also that my own fate, like they say, was in the balance there. I had the feeling that he liked me, but I doubted that would have any influence on the outcome of those deliberations.

      
But I'd made my pitch and I knew that anything further volunteered from me would only hurt my case; I had to wait for the man to come to me for further arguments . . . and it was a damned difficult wait.

      
When finally he did speak, I was totally unprepared for it—I had let go, and maybe that is what turned the trick for me. I found myself simply going with the flow and allowing it to happen in total spontaneity.

      
"This man came to me as a prince of the mainland."

      
"Okay, sure, you could put it that way. He and four others administer a principality that stretches across four thousand square miles, eight million people, personal property valued at two hundred fifty billion dollars, with maybe the most dynamic economy in the nation. It's bigger and wealthier than most of our states. A prince of the mainland? Okay."

      
"Including this one, this bigger and wealth- •
tp
ler
.

      
"I'd say, yeah."

      
"This man comes to me one year ago. He brings me a business deal. I will do him certain favors; he will do me certain favors. This is the way of business. I am a man of business, not a man of politics. What do I know of politics?"

      
"What do you know of Jim Davitsky?"

      
"I know that he is a man of power."

      
"I presume you checked him out before committing yourself to anything."

      
"Of course. He is what he says he is. What do you say he is?"

      
"Never met the guy. But he's a prince, yeah. And maybe a devil."

      
Han stirred, scratched his knee, regarded me through
slitted
eyes. "This man tells me now that you are employed by his enemies to interfere in his business. What do you say?”

      
"I say I'm over here on a Visa card that's about to blow up in my face. I have no employers and I have no idea who his enemies are, except himself. I had a client, sure, for about two minutes, but she was hardly an enemy of any prince. A scared kid, that's all, with this prince laying all over her, and she came to me for help. I didn't help in time. He snuffed her. That was two days ago. Several other people have been snuffed since then, all in my shadow. I don't like it. And I don't like this prince of yours."

      
Eyes gleamed at me as he commented, "This is a matter of honor with you."

      
"Maybe you could call it that. It sure isn't a matter of money."

      
"Or business?"

      
"Not hardly. I'm not even getting expenses."

      
Han withdrew into another deep contemplation and we cruised through several more minutes of silence, the other men in that vehicle respectfully still but alert and obviously ready to leap to any command.

      
Presently Han leaned forward and snapped his fingers at the driver's neck. We pulled into a little park and the guys again left us in privacy, withdrawing to a distance of about twenty feet but still watchful and ready to leap.

      
Han lit a cigar and lowered the window, so I lit a cigarette and relaxed into my corner of the seat.

      
After a couple of puffs on the cigar, he said quietly, "Let me tell you about this man. He comes to me with this story of connections in high places, the power of politics, and the politics of business. You say he is a devil, but ..."

      
I give him respectful room to complete the thought, then tell him, "That was a figure of speech."

      
"Yes, but he has the problem in the head. I have noted this problem. He calls it business. But I ..."

      
Again I waited respectfully, then said, "Maybe he makes a business of his problem."

      
That drew a sharp look, a long and careful study of my face. Finally he says, "Maybe you are right. Let me tell you this. This house at
Kahala
. It is a stage."

      
"Stage for what?"

      
"For business, he says. Yet I wonder. This house has false walls everywhere. It has hidden rooms behind deceptive mirrors, concealed television cameras throughout and sound devices. This entire house is a secret television studio. This man calls it the business of politics yet I sometimes wonder if his politics are not clasped within his loins. What do you say?

      
I cracked my window and sent smoke outside; told my friend Charlie, the Godfather of Chinatown: "I say he's a dangerous son of a bitch. Let me tell you how I see this man. Never did an honest day's work in his life. Born rich, with every privilege, and getting richer day by day doing nothing. Trusts no one, because he's so rotten inside himself, and feels that he owes nothing to anyone. He could be a true prince of the land, use his position and influence to make the world a little better without hurting himself in any way, yet he uses that power to gain more power. And for what? Where does it end, Charlie? It ends where it begins, I think, and you already said it—clasped within his loins."

      
Han nodded his head in an understated little jerk of agreement. "Ah. We see alike. I will tell you this in humility, Mr.
Copp
. I do not like this man. I have never liked this man. But business . .. well, business is business. We do not need to lie down together to do business together. But ... as you say, where is the end of it? What did I truly need of this mainland prince? Why did I admit him in? What do you say?"

      
I shrugged. "Business begets business, doesn't it. We buy stock and sell stock and never see the certificates. Then one day we meet the stockbroker eye to eye and instinctively hate his guts. So we find ourselves a different broker. They all sell the same stock. Right?"

I got another gleam for that. He worked at the cigar for a moment, then tossed it out the window with a tired little sigh. "So what of this
haole
woman? You have plans for her?"

      
"My jury's still out on her."

      
"This
haole
woman is not his mainland partner?"

      
"Did he say that?"

      
"He infers this. Or
wahine
, maybe."

      
Subtle shades, there.
Haole
simply means mainlander or Caucasian.
Wahine
is the Hawaiian word for girl or woman; in this context, something more intimate than business partner was being suggested.

      
I asked, "Had you seen her before tonight?"

      
I don't know if he evaded the question or if he was simply focused elsewhere, because he came back with: "These I do not understand. For a lowborn woman, youth and beauty are her tools for survival. There are no lowborn
haoles
.
So why do these highborn women engage in this work?"

      
"You mean whoring?"

      
"Whoring, yes. I do not like the word. If my
wahines
are whores then I am a pimp. I do not like this word, either."

      
I asked, very gingerly. "What would you call it?"

      
"Surviving," he replied quietly.

      
"You seem to be surviving rather well."

"Ah, it is beyond mere survival for me, Mr.
Copp
. I
have
survived, but there are levels of survival and I still must struggle. It has not been easy, let me tell you. But I am not a pimp. I am a man of business. My
wahines
are ladies of business. It is the business of survival. What would they do? Where would they be? Boat people, you see, these are boat people. Where would they be?"

      
I asked, even more gingerly, "Where would they be if you gave them a fair split of the profits?"

      
He gleamed at me. "Ah. I do so. It is a fair split, all things considered. They have more money in one year than could be realized from an entire lifetime elsewhere. Also I give them my protection. But these highborn
haole
women ... ah! ... what do they need of this?"

      
I was thinking of a particular
haole
when I told my friend the Godfather: "I think the word is '
equalborn
,' Charlie, without highs or lows out of the womb. It's not what you're born with in our country but what you do with. Some of us just go for the brass ring, without questioning what it means, and sometimes it ends up around our necks and we never find out how it got there." Hey, I was beginning to sound like a Ph.D. candidate myself. "I think your man Prince Davitsky has attached chains to a lot of those rings and I think the guy has pulled in a lot of poor fish with them. I intend to stop that if I can. If I don't someone else will, because this guy is too rotten to survive. I think you hear my words and know what they mean. You've been down all the hard streets yourself, so I don't have to tell you what it means to find yourself connected to a guy like that. He will go down. If you are connected, so will you. I rest my case. That's all I've got to say about it. You do what you have to do. As long as I'm alive I'll do the same."