Giri (28 page)

“Robbie, lad, just listen. It could be that Dorian is as big a problem to us as Pangalos. I’m talking about that young Japanese lady of his, Miss Asama. She could well turn out to be tied in somehow with George Chihara. Perhaps even related to him, I’m not sure.”

“No shit.”

“Too much shit, if you ask me. Mention none of this to Dorian. Not a word, you understand?”

“Hey, major, you don’t have to tell me that.”

“Good. Now I’m having MSC look into her background, her diamond company, its backers, board of directors, the lot. I don’t plan on turning that information over to the wogs. Not just yet. I’ll get to why in a minute. There’s no direct proof she’s related to Chihara, only the possibility. Been unable to reach bloody Nial Hinds, who’s been in Africa, then the Middle East and now supposedly in Argentina doing God knows what. Selling the guns dropped by your American army when they fled Vietnam, I expect. Hinds first put me on to a Japanese female who is said to have comforted George Chihara in his declining years—Miss Asama,
I
think.”

Robbie scratched his throat. “Think she got Paulie? Class job, if she did. One woman against two men.”

“You mean has she gone from bouncing moronic American boys off tile basins to slitting the throats of known Mafiosi? I wish I knew, dear boy. I wish I knew. If she has, it means she’s here to do the dirty to—”

He pointed and whispered, ‘To thee and me. And Dorian as well.”

Robbie let the information register, thought about it for a few seconds, then snorted. “If she’s gonna bring it to me, she better bring it good.”

Sparrowhawk put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “When I tell you to and not before. Clear?”

“You’re calling the shots, major. Think Dorian’s with her against us?”

“No. He was with us when we took Chihara. If she’s samurai, there’ll be no pardon. Dorian will have to pay for his sins, as will we all. But, cheer up, this is assuming she is the avenging angel we suspect. Right now she’s out of the country on business, so while she’s abroad I’m going to have her New York flat gone over with the finest of fine-tooth combs. I’m also having her followed by our operatives abroad, who will look into her associates, friends and lovers over there. Anyone who is capable of sending Paul on to his reward in that fashion cannot be underestimated.”

“Major, suppose it turns out that she did waste Paulie? What then? You going to turn her over to Johnny Sass? I mean, he’s gonna make some kind of connection between her and us, and he’s gonna want to know how come we waited so long to tell him. We worked with her father in Nam, remember?”

“I can hardly forget, dear boy.” He looked over his shoulder at the study door, then back at Robbie. “I’ve thought of the possibility that Gran Sasso and Allie Boy just might feel there’s a bit of collusion going on here. To avoid you and I having to undergo any suffering at their hands, I propose to turn Miss Asama over to them, along with Dorian as well.”

“Major, I don’t get it.”

“He’ll be back any minute, so listen up. Michelle Asama and Dorian are what you would call great and good friends.”

“He’s jumping her bones, you mean.”

“This means, to all intents and purposes, he can be portrayed as her protector. Let’s just say he knew of her plans in advance, that he aided her to some degree. Even prevented me from learning about her sooner. Get it? Dorian obstructed my investigation, and all for love. That leaves us in the clear for not having solved the mystery earlier.”

Robbie shrugged. “Why not. But none of this makes sense if she’s not the one we’re looking for after all.”

“Dear boy, years of hunting and being hunted have left me with an instinct about people. I feel rather strongly that Miss Asama is either the one we’re looking for or knows who is. Everything about her smells of intrigue.”

Sparrowhawk moved closer. “I have an alternative plan. It may be that we’ll have to eliminate Miss Asama on our own, and it could be to our advantage to handle the whole thing quietly. I’ve not asked you to kill since you’ve come back, but I am alerting you now that I may call upon you to …”

Robbie grinned. He looked ten years younger. “Major, you want it, you got it. If you say she goes, she goes.”

“Just this once, Robbie. After that, no more. I promise.”

“Hey, I’m cool. She’s gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

The study door opened and Dorian reentered the room. “What the hell you two talking about? Know something, Birdman? That bathroom of yours looks like a damn cathouse. Mirrors trimmed in gold—”

“Gold paint.”

“Rugs on the floor, paintings on the wall.”

“Prints. The work of John Singer Sargent, an American portrait painter who lived in London.”

“Hooray for him. I miss anything?”

Sparrowhawk said, “We were talking about Robbie’s next fight. When is it, lad?”

“Week from now. Boston.”

Sparrowhawk clapped Robbie on the shoulder. “Good for the firm to have Robbie fighting and winning like that. Excellent public relations. Impresses clients when they read that sort of thing.”

Dorian crossed the room to a sideboard, opened a decanter and sniffed.

“Scotch,” said Sparrowhawk.

Dorian poured some into his coffee cup. “What I’m looking forward to reading is the autopsy report on Paulie. All kinds of rumors going ’round. Like maybe he was killed as part of some weird religious ritual or maybe there’s a Manson-type gang working New York or maybe Aldo the chauffeur was fucking the wrong broad and somebody cut up Paulie because he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

With his back turned, Dorian did not see Robbie and Sparrowhawk exchange glances. Shortly after the killing, Robbie had told Sparrowhawk that Molise appeared to have been killed in
ninja
fashion.
Ninjas,
Robbie explained, were medieval Japanese assassins and spies who usually used steel needles, but were supposedly no longer in existence.

Would Michelle Asama know
ninja
techniques? There were men in Japan who could teach her, said Robbie.

Sparrowhawk watched Dorian pour himself a second cupful of scotch and wolf it down. Red faced with liquor, our Dorian, and less than immaculate in appearance. A bit thick in the head as well. But not a bad sort. Still, the thought of handing him and Miss Asama over to the wogs was a warming one: It would certainly help the Englishman get through the next few days.

The sound a bell makes after being struck; an indelible memory

I
T WAS LATE AFTERNOON.
Decker stood in front of Michi’s apartment and removed a set of her keys from his overcoat pocket. An unsealed envelope had been tucked in the doorjamb. Curiosity made Decker take a peek. A Christmas card. Signed by every doorman in the building, all ten of them. A reminder that this holiest of holidays was only a couple of weeks away and that Miss Asama’s generosity would be remembered throughout the year. Ho, ho, ho and up your chimney, thought Decker.

He tried to insert keys into the top lock and finally, after three tries, found the right one. Two more tries and the bottom lock finally yielded.

Michi had asked him to collect her mail and water her plants while she was gone. Decker was surprised. But he saw the request as a sign of her growing trust, so had readily agreed. Was this a test to see if he would respect her privacy? He didn’t think so. He had not pressed for answers about her past and didn’t plan to. Treat time gently, said the Japanese, and it will treat you gently as well.

He was late getting to Michi’s apartment and now would be late getting to his own precinct. He could blame LeClair, who had kept him down at Federal Plaza longer than usual. But Captain Agrest, Decker’s precinct commander, could care less about the federal government’s claim on Decker. He had a precinct to run and did not appreciate the growing pile of paperwork on the detective’s desk.

To catch up at the precinct he’d have to put in some overtime. Decker could sneak in morning workouts at the dojo, but he’d have to get someone else to teach his evening classes for the next few days. Damn. He’d miss the teaching.

But LeClair smelled blood and wanted his services immediately. “Mr. Manfred, I do believe we have Mr. Pangalos and Mr. Quarrels by their gonads, thanks to you and that seating plan. Now, it behooves us to squeeze. Tax fraud, conspiracy, you name it. Quarrels is ready to deal. He’s given us a sample of what he hopes will help him to avoid incarceration.”

“Like what?”

“Like the names of those Delaware companies Paul Molise used to wash money he brought back into this country from the Caymans. Like information on the courier system used to get the money down to the Caymans and back. He’s also let drop a word or two about the Marybelle Corporation.”

LeClair buffed his fingernails against his chest, then looked at the shine. “Quarrels says your boy Kanai pulled out of the Golden Horizon.”

Decker stared at him. “I gave you my word,” said the detective, “and I kept it. Nothing about the casino or the people behind it or Baksted’s murder. If you remember, Kanai had his doubts before Baksted got burned.”

“So he did, so he did. Maybe Kanai gets visions in the night. And I hear Jesus lives.”

“It be’s that way sometimes.”

“It do, oh, it do.”

They both laughed.

“Before you leave us today,” LeClair said, “I’d appreciate you dictating a report on just how you came to obtain the seating plan. Leave out the name of your informant. One of my girls is waiting next door to take your statement.”

“Can’t this wait? I’ve got to show up at the precinct.”

“Mr. Manfred, day after tomorrow I’m due in Washington again. Your report figures prominently in my plans. It’s going to help me implement phase two.”

“Phase two?”

“To leave Terry Dent twisting slowly, slowly in the wind. I’m gonna catch me a United States senator. Gonna grab more media attention than anything since ABSCAM. But you see, the boys down at Justice want to make sure we’re proceeding correctly. They don’t want any more overturned convictions of congressmen, because that tends to make Congress pret-tee angry. The bottom line is, Congress has enough juice to hurt anybody who hurts it Since ABSCAM, our senators and representatives have all been paranoid, not to mention downright nasty, to anybody coming after one of their own. Got to be sure, this time.”

Decker said, “And Pangalos?”

“Mr. P.? He’s always on my mind. Dude’s hanging tough, but for sure I have a way of getting to him. I’ll start by working Quarrels. Get a little bit from him, then let Pang know. So, the longer Pang waits to come on board, the more he’ll have to give in order to become a player. He thinks he’s having it all his way by gluing his lips together and going eyeball to eyeball with me. Shit. I’m gonna tie a knot in his dick that sucker will never be able to unravel. Either he does the right thing or he’s on the street alone.”

“Throw his ass in jail, why don’t you.”

“Because Mr. Manfred, as much as I want his ass in jail, I also want to get MSC, and Mr. P. can help me do that. But first I want Pangalos to suffer.”

I believe it, thought Decker. You really want to show Pangalos who’s the better man.

LeClair said, “He’s been told that I just might dig into his clients’ background. When his clients hear that, they’ll drop Pang like a hot rock. Since he’s been in my office enough, the street knows I’m getting closer, so maybe it’s a wise thing to back off from Mr. P. for a while. I want him isolated, alone, with nowhere to go. I’m gonna cut his options. Leave him with nowhere to run except into my waiting arms.”

On a hunch Decker said, “Has anybody ever done anything like that to you? Given you no choice, I mean.”

LeClair looked down at his highly polished shoes. There was a long silence. Then, “Long time ago. I was a kid. Prelaw. Howard University down in D.C., where my father was on duty with the Pentagon. Bunch of us coming back from a basketball game in Baltimore. Kids. Maybe too much to drink, but not making any trouble. Some white cops grabbed us. Took us down to the station house.”

He looked up. “Niggers in a white station house. Imagine that. Know what they did? Held a gun to our heads, each one of us, and said, ‘Sing a chorus of “Old Man River” or get your brains pushed through your ears.’ They all sang. Except me.

“I said pull that trigger, but I’m not singing a note. Well, of course I became the center of attention. Somebody checked me out, learned my father was a two-star general at the Pentagon and I was allowed to go. But not without a cracked cheekbone, and a couple punches to the kidneys to remember them by. Thoughtful bunch. But the rest of them had it worse.

“Taught me something,” LeClair continued. “Taught me that power can save your ass, so I’d best get me some. Taught me, too, that cops can get carried away. Need to be controlled.”

Fucked over is what you mean, thought Decker, remembering DeMain and Benitez.

“Anyway,” said LeClair, “somebody gave me a choice. So now I’m giving Mr. Pangalos one. He can choose to work with me, or I can choose to send him to prison. I guess he doesn’t realize that one of these days the Molise family isn’t going to be so occupied with who killed Paulie. And then, when they turn their full attention to brother Pang, that’s when he just might need a friend.”

Decker said, “Talk is there’s an open contract on whoever got Paulie. Quarter million for the person who gets the killer, no questions asked. You’re probably right about Molise’s people concentrating on it. Wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t put MSC on it as well.”

LeClair nodded in agreement. “Meanwhile, you truck on next door and ask for Rochelle. She’s waiting to hang on your every word.”

Decker rose from his chair and turned to leave the room. LeClair said, “One more thing, Mr. Manfred.”

The detective stopped, back to the prosecutor. “Mrs. Raymond shouldn’t be left alone too often, my man.”

Decker sever turned around. And he never answered. He simply began walking toward the door.

Fuck me, he thought. LeClair knows about Michi.