Giri (23 page)

But having no choice, he had fought to win. Decker wanted to talk to Red Cap Frank, who seemed to be the leader. Frank, who still lay on the ground with damaged balls and a face blue from a lack of oxygen.

In studying the martial arts Decker had also learned
kappo,
the system of resuscitation. Hundreds of years ago these methods of emergency first aid had been one of the most guarded secrets in the martial arts, never to be handed down from master to pupil without the master’s permission. Now they were known by instructors and senior black belts the world over.

He went down on one knee behind Frank, sat him up, then with hands under his armpits lifted him inches from the snow before gently dropping him on his buttocks. He repeated this several times before using the bottom of his fist to gently tap Frank’s back, from his shoulders to the base of his spine. Next, he removed Frank’s shoes, and again using the bottom of his fist pounded the heel of each foot several times.

Normal color gradually returned to Frank’s face. His breathing became less labored. Removing the red cap, Decker used it to wipe cold sweat from Frank’s face, then said, “Head down. That’s it. Now take deep breaths, hold it for a count of five, then let it out slowly. Good. Can you stand?”

“I’ll give it a shot. Jesus, where did you learn to kick ass like that?”

Decker pulled the Magnum from Frank’s belt, retrieved the envelope and his own .38 and took the .22 from the bearded man he had kneed in the face. “Jump up and down a couple of times,” he said to Frank, now on his feet. “Come down flat-footed.”

Frank did, nodding his head to indicate that he felt as well as possible under the circumstances.

Decker said, “It bounces your testicles out. Brings them down where they used to be.”

“Glad to hear. Jesus, I’d like to have died when you kicked me.”

Decker flashed his badge. “Detective Sergeant Decker and I’m with a federal task force.” He jerked his head toward the arena. “Who sent you after me?”

A chastened Frank cupped his sore scrotum. “Guess we all got our ass in a sling now. Buscaglia. He’s probably watching us through the window up there. Son of a bitch should have come out here himself.”

“Did he say why he wanted this envelope so badly?”

“He don’t want it. Lawyer named Pangalos wants it. He’s really pissed, Pangalos, about you having the envelope.”

“Frank, do me a favor. Get Buscaglia on that radio of yours.”

Frank took out his radio, got it working and called for Buscaglia.

No answer. Frank looked betrayed.

Decker, with exaggerated politeness, held out his hand. “May I?”

Gripping the radio, the detective walked over to the Mercedes and stared across its hood at the arena. He brought the radio to his mouth. “Buscaglia, this is Detective Sergeant Decker. You have thirty seconds to get your ass out here.”

No answer.

Decker flicked the sending switch. “Sal, I want you outside.
Now.
If you don’t come out, I’m coming in after you. You don’t have enough security guards to stop me. Let’s put it this way: they don’t get paid enough to try. Now make nice and tippy-toe on out here.”

Decker flicked the receiving switch. Still no answer.

Decker was about to turn and pick up his overcoat when he saw a lone figure walk slowly down a winding marble staircase and stop on the bottom step. The balding man in sunglasses and an expensive camel’s hair coat held a hand radio to his mouth.

“So I’m out. So what?”

“Start walking.”

Sal Buscaglia didn’t move.

A grinning Decker looked back at Frank, then to Buscaglia again. This was the fun part of being a cop. Controlling people’s lives. Buscaglia had come this far. Who did he think he was kidding?

The union leader stepped from the staircase and headed toward the parking lot. Decker never looked at Frank. But his voice spelled control. “Frank, get my coat and hat for me, will you? I want to look good when Sal arrives.”

Mind games. Cops played them all the time. Anything to keep the perpetrator off balance. And to let him know you’re in charge.

A docile Frank held Decker’s hat and coat out to him. “Frank, I think your friend, the one sitting by my car, can walk. Looks like his hands are damaged. Please move him away from the car, if you will. And don’t forget to have your men taken care of. I think Sal ought to pop for any medical bills involved. Ah, here he is, our boy Sal.
Suede shoes? In snow?
Oh, Sal, you are something. Came downstairs so fast you forgot your rubbers, I bet.”

At the Mercedes, a sullen Salvatore Buscaglia stopped by the car trunk. Decker couldn’t stop grinning. Sal, in his time, had probably stuffed a few people in car trunks. Did he think the same thing was going to happen to him?”

“Charge me. You gotta charge me. If I’m under arrest, what’s the charge?”

Decker jerked his head toward the Mercedes. “Get in, Sal.”

Buscaglia shook his head.

A smiling Decker got into the car and slammed the door. Both he and Sal knew how the game was played. Sal had to look good in front of his men. And whoever was watching from the arena. But he had come this far. Who was he kidding?

Buscaglia dragged his steps and got in on the passenger’s side. Twice he looked back at the arena as though expecting help. During the return trip to Manhattan he never said a word, which didn’t surprise Decker. That’s how the game was played.

I
N HIS PARK AVENUE
office Ushiro Kanai put down a newspaper clipping he had been reading and swiveled around in his chair to stare at a painting on the wall behind him. The painting covered the space between two windows facing the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel across the street. Measuring seven feet by seven feet, the painting was an example of
yohaku,
the artistic use of empty space.
Yohaku
literally meant white space and reflected the Japanese way of achieving balance by pairing incompatible objects. A mass of thick, shapeless red brush strokes filled the top right-hand corner of the painting. A vaguely triangular pattern of gold and yellow took up two square feet of space in the bottom left-hand corner. And in the center was a blob of black streaked in bright red. The rest of the painting had been left blank. Color and
yohaku,
white space. Tint and emptiness combining to create an off-balance elegance, a sense of restfulness.

The painting, a favorite of Kanai’s, had been done by Yoshi Tada, the son-in-law murdered a month ago.

Yoshi, a skilled accountant, had also been a promising artist. His work hung in Tokyo’s principal museums—Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, Bridgestone Gallery and the National Museum of Modern Art in Kitanomaru Park, beside the Imperial Palace. Two paintings hung in the permanent collection of Osaka’s Municipal Art Museum, and there had been talk of Yoshi having his own exhibition in Kyoto’s Prefectural Gallery.

Kanai’s fingertips traced the yellow and gold, then moved up to the white emptiness and he wondered if he had not killed his son-in-law by killing the young man’s dream.

Murakami Electronics was Ushiro Kanai’s entire life. Loyalty to the company came before family, friendships and confused dreamers like Yoshi. In the end this self-interest, masquerading as virtue, destroyed the unhappy young Yoshi Tada. Over the past few weeks grief and guilt had driven Kanai into deep reflection, and he now saw the role both he and his daughter had played in Yoshi’s sad life.

Yoko, Kanai’s daughter, was spoiled and self-centered. She hated New York and lived only for the day when she could return to Japan. A woman of stronger character would have complained less and tried to be more supportive of her husband. This was Kanai’s fault. She was his only child and he loved her dearly; it had always been difficult to be harsh with Yoko.

A word from Kanai and she and Yoshi could have returned to Japan together, saving the marriage, saving Yoshi’s life.

But instead the industrialist had kept his son-in-law in New York, where his accounting skills were needed. Murakami’s American investments—the takeover of the electronics company in California, real estate purchases in Texas and Arizona, the new hotel in Hawaii, the prospective investment in the Golden Horizon hotel casino in Atlantic City—all called for an accountant with above-average ability. Yoshi was hardworking and exact, conscientious and resourceful. Assign him a task and he stayed with it until completion, no matter what the obstacles.

Murakami needed Yoshi. And so did Kanai. Yoshi, however, had needs that could no longer be satisfied working for Murakami. To be truly happy he needed to devote himself to art.

This conflict between
giri
and
ninjo,
personal human feelings, was invariably brought to a head in New York. Here, Japanese businessmen stuck together, spoke only Japanese, worked sixty-hour weeks and drank sake toasts to the day when their three- to five-year company assignment in America would come to an end and they could return to Japan.

Yoshi the artist, however, found something attractive about New York. He loved its freedom and energy.

It had taken all of Yoshi’s courage to speak to Kauai about these conflicts. But from the beginning Kanai gave him no hope. “By chasing shadows one loses substance. A life as an artist can never bring the power and esteem to be found working for Murakami. You are my son-in-law. You are guaranteed success here, great success.”

Yoshi said, “For me, business does not offer the passion to be found in art. I wish to work with passion in everything I do. I wish to work in something that demands my best every minute of my life. I do not feel that way …” He stopped.

“You do not feel that way about your work at Murakami. Yes, I know. But feelings are to be forgotten. Strength comes from ignoring feelings and choosing duty. Duty and loyalty. Loyalty to Japan, to the family, to the group and yes, to Murakami. Duty and loyalty mean strength. Yoshi, you have a duty to me, to Murakami, to my daughter. Turn your back on illusion.
Giri
is the path. There can be no deviation from it.”

Yoshi did not answer. Kanai, however, saw an answer in the young man’s troubled face.
Take away my illusions and you kill me.
A few weeks later, Yoshi was dead.

Kanai turned his back on the
yohaku
painting. Sorrow for the dead was always accompanied by guilt. On his desk was a framed wedding photograph of a smiling Yoko and Yoshi, their eyes bright with tomorrow’s promise.

Kanai removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as though to blot out the sight of his beloved daughter Yoko, now sick with grief. He remembered her in Tokyo at the
otsuya,
the vigil before the funeral, greeting Yoshi’s family at the door and weeping with them. During the Shinto ceremony, when prayers were offered for Yoshi’s soul, she had to be supported by relatives as she approached the altar to receive the traditional
tamagushi
branch from the
sakaki
tree, which was to be placed on a special table, its stem pointing to the altar. Afterward she was to step back, bow and clap her hands four times. But Yoko could not go on. She bowed, clapped once, then fainted and had to be carried from the shrine.

Since then she had remained
mo-chu,
in mourning, spending her days in a Shinto shrine, offering prayers, incense and
tamagushi
branches for Yoshi’s soul. We both should have loved him more in life, thought Kanai.

It was time for Kanai to do his duty and leave all else to the gods. He buzzed his secretary and ordered her to get Detective Decker on the phone. Then the Japanese industrialist returned to the pile of press clippings on the murder of Alan Baksted. He knew he could not avoid telephone calls from the Marybelle Corporation and its attorney, Constantine Pangalos, forever.

Sooner or later, Marybelle and Pangalos would want an answer about buying into the Golden Horizon. But there would be no two-million-dollar Atlantic City investments made by Murakami until Kanai had spoken to Decker about Alan Baksted’s murder. Japanese businessmen who made two-million-dollar mistakes did not become presidents of multinational corporations.

Kanai’s secretary buzzed him. “Sir, I have the police station, but Detective Decker is not there. A woman, Detective Spiceland, has answered. She says she’s his partner.”

Kanai closed his eyes in disappointment. He needed to talk to Decker-san as soon as possible. But perhaps the woman could be of some help. He remembered her, a light-skinned black, with dark red hair and a harsh but sensuous face. She and Decker-san had come to his office the day after Yoshi had been stabbed.

“I will talk to the woman.”

Kanai, the receiver to his ear, bowed politely. “Detective Spiceland, I am Kanai.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry about Mr. Tada. I understand you were in Japan.”

“Yes. The funeral, you understand. And business for my company, yes.”

He fingered the press clips on Baksted’s murder. “I ask your kindness in helping me to reach Decker-san. I do not wish to intrude on the work you must do, but I must contact him.”

“I wish I could help you, but he was out on Long Island for most of the day. This task force business. He’s not due to come into the office. He had a little trouble out there and he brought some guy back with him, so they’ll probably be downtown at Federal Plaza till quitting time. I could try to locate him, but it won’t be easy.”

Again disappointment Kanai’s eyes moved over the clips and caught something he had ignored earlier. A small paragraph with the dateline reading Ocean City told of a woman who had been raped and murdered the same night Baksted was shot to death.

Something about the woman’s death seemed familiar. Death by a blunt instrument or possibly by the blows of a very strong man.
Hai.
Last month on Fifth Avenue a woman had died in the same way. And these deaths resembled those of a woman in San Francisco and one in Dallas, each having occurred while Kanai had been in those cities on business. Was he the only one to have observed the similarities in these killings?

“Mr. Kanai?”

“Please to forgive. I was reading something of interest. I apologize for allowing my mind to wander.”