by Linda Ladd
Kate nodded. Booker took the baby seat from her, then held her arm as they walked swiftly around the back.
“You think Joey's okay now?” he asked her.
“Yes. It must've been gas."
“He's a tough kid."
Kate was incongruously proud that Booker thought so. He hadn't really touched Joey much since she'd jumped his case for taking him out of the tepee when she'd been in the shower. Now she was ashamed she hadn't trusted him. Well, she trusted him now. Without reservation.
Twenty-Five
THE SHOJI TABUCHI THEATER was indeed a sight to behold. The huge building, facing a corner, was tan trimmed in purple, mauve and forest green with enough neon to light a small town. The Japanese violinist had spelled out his first name in gigantic letters crowning a picture of himself and his pretty blond wife. The parking lot approximated the size of Rhode Island. Apparently, Shoji was an entertainer to be reckoned with.
At the moment, however, Booker was more interested in getting inside without being nabbed by some citizen wanting the reward offered on Kate, so was particularly pleased to see the large crowd milling around the front doors and spilling into the interior lobby. Several bored-looking security guards were directing the parking of diesel-belching tour buses and corralling a whole herd of shiny new Continentals and Cadillacs. No one paid a bit of attention to one more couple with a baby hurrying across the street so as not to miss the three o'clock show.
Inside the lobby was an absolute mob scene. In the middle of the uproar was a big-screen television playing tapes of a prior live performance by the man of the hour, Shoji Tabuchi in the flesh, absolutely playing the hell out of a violin. Booker had to admit the guy was good, more than good. There was a two-sided snack bar shaped in a V with concession counters on each side, mirrored brilliantly to show the ornate decor, where awestruck customers bought popcorn and jujubes to eat while the master fiddled.
“The ladies’ powder room has gold fixtures and fresh flowers on every wash basin,” Kate whispered. “It was featured once on 60 Minutes."
Booker looked down at her. “They put Shoji's bathroom on 60 Minutes?"
Kate laughed softly. She looked good when she laughed but she sobered self-consciously and glanced around, remembering their peril. “It was a piece about Branson and how it had become a boom town for country stars. Surely you've seen 60 Minutes with Ed Bradley and all those guys?"
Booker hadn't watched much television in the last fifteen years and didn't want to start now, especially if they were featuring the lavatories of stars. The ticket booths were lined up to the left of the entrance, five abreast, with long waiting lines at each one. A pink neon light on the wall spelled out the word tickets in script with a curlicue under it for emphasis. He took hold of Kate's arm and led her to the one farthest from the front door.
“You think it'd be okay if I changed Joey in the bathroom before the show starts?” Kate asked in a low voice, brown eyes scanning the lobby for enemies. Booker had been doing the same thing.
“Looks like I'll be here awhile. But make it quick. I don't like us being separated."
“Me either. Believe me, I'd rather be joined at the hip with you more than anyone I know,” Kate said, taking Joey's seat back from him. The baby smiled when she leaned close, apparently feeling chipper now, his dimples deepening as if Kate made his day just by looking at him. Booker was beginning to understand that. “If you get the tickets before I come back, wait outside the ladies’ room door where I can find you. I'll hurry, I promise."
Booker nodded, trying to look less anxious than he really was and like all the other carefree tourists gawking at the purple-and-mauve-medallioned carpet and wrought-iron balconies festooned with hanging artificial vines entwined with purple Christmas lights, but he didn't think he carried it off too convincingly. People glanced at him, then took a second look, not a good sign. He didn't want to be noticed. He tried to slouch a little so he wouldn't seem so tall.
The ticket lady was regretful that there just weren't any great seats left, but that didn't really matter, sir, you see, because all the seats are good because our theater is built so every person can see the stage just fine. Booker bought two at twenty-five bucks a pop but Joey got in free, if his mother could hold him on her lap.
Booker shelled over three twenties from the stack he'd cashed out of a bank circa nineteen eighties, then asked the woman, keeping his voice quiet, “Mac Sharp still work here, ma'am?"
“You know Mac?” She smiled, a real friendly sort with half-glasses perched on the tip of her nose and attached around her neck on a necklace of big fake pearls. She had dangly earrings that looked like something Hopi Indians would dance around their ceremonial fires wearing, and a fire-engine red jogging suit with silver half-moons all over the jacket. Her nametag said Myrtle. Everyone seemed to wear nametags nowadays. Booker wondered why.
“Yeah, a little.” He didn't feel the need to chat about his life history with Mac. He just wanted to know if he was around. “He workin’ today?"
“Oh, yes, he's in the show, but you'll probably have to wait until after it's over to find him. They'll be starting the first act any minute now. You'll have to hurry to be seated before the lights go down. You don't want to miss Christina. She's Shoji's daughter, you know. Sings like a nightingale, truly does. And the prettiest little thing, pretty as a picture, but so's Dorothy, that's Mrs. Tabuchi, you know."
“Yeah? Well, thanks, Myrtle,” he said, gathering up the blue tickets and pocketing his change. He glanced at the doors again, feeling fairly certain they hadn't been followed but never quite comfortable believing it. And there were always the news reports and reward to worry about.
“Tell Mac I said hi when you see him. He's just the nicest man, always wearin’ that big smile and a howdy, always talkin’ about the Cardinals and Mark McGwire. Thank goodness, I get to go home now for a spell. Have a nice day, y'hear? And enjoy the show. It's really something to see."
“Yeah, thanks."
Booker felt he was getting better at making the eternal small talk everybody seemed to require, not good, but at least he was carrying on conversations that he wasn't used to. He moved past a seven-foot-high flower arrangement with lilies and every other conceivable kind of flower to where Kate had disappeared earlier. There were double French doors of cut and beveled glass that led into the entry foyer of the ladies’ room. The LADIES transom sign above the door was of stained, jeweled glass.
Booker could see inside well enough to make out a big chandelier and a long marble table with a gilt-edged mirror over it. Little red lights glittered under glass insets on the table, and a pair of two-foot-high, rectangular crystal vases held pink and white irises. Lots of women were standing around eyeballing everything, no doubt oohing and aahing over the magnificence. And that was only what he could glimpse through the doors. Nope, Kate wasn't kidding about Shoji having glitzy bathrooms.
Most of the crowd had swarmed and pushed their way into the auditorium at the rear of the purple lobby by now, just a few hungry old men left loitering around the refreshment counters and Booker hanging around the ladies’ room like some kind of pervert. He didn't like standing around in the neon glow, for anyone to pick out and stare at. He wished Kate would hurry the hell up. She came out a couple of minutes later, looking refreshed with lipstick on her mouth, baseball cap off and hair fluffed up some. Booker looked at her full red lips a second too long and remembered how she'd looked in that damn little white towel. His body reacted.
“You wouldn't believe that place. Real orchids in crystal vases at every sink and a huge chandelier in the ceiling with purple crystal teardrops, and the changing table had a teddy bear."
“C'mon, let's get inside before the show starts."
Booker had a feeling Kate felt a little too safe all of a sudden. They were not out of trouble, not by a long shot. They weren't on a damn vacation here. He told her to put her hat back on as they were led down the side aisle by a retired man wearing
a green blazer. As they took their places the lights flickered, then went down, and the curtain went up. They were seated about halfway down the huge auditorium, more toward the middle, seats not too bad, actually. Booker was more interested in their proximity to the exits.
Row upon row of silver heads faced forward, the glow of the stage lights on their eager, lined faces. Christina, the Tabuchi offspring, was on stage now, greeting everyone and telling them they were in for some FUN TODAY. A rumble of approval greeted her proclamation. Get it on, get it on, they all seemed to say in a way reminiscent, if the truth were known, of the gladiator duels of ancient Rome. He wondered if Shoji ever got bum crowds who booed him, or just sat there and looked bored. Probably not, the way he made his instrument sing. For the most part, senior citizens seemed to remember how to be polite.
For awhile they were entertained with various tour groups shouting out like high school cheering sections as the name of their state was mentioned. After Kentucky, Arkansas, Kansas, Michigan, Florida, and Mississippi, Booker was afraid they'd have to suffer the entire lower forty-eight, but luckily the show finally got started with Shoji's daughter belting out a song and dance that really got everyone's blood pumping.
Booker scanned the performers backing her for Mac, especially during a portion of the show where a sixteen-piece orchestra sat on a tiered stage to accompany Shoji Tabuchi, who was turning out to be quite the showman. A glance told him that Kate seemed to be enjoying herself. She had turned Joey, too, his back against her chest, both proving to be ever adaptable. But Kate leaned close to him most of the time and kept a tight hold on Joey. Joey seemed to enjoy, gurgling now and then with appreciation for some of Shoji's high notes.
At one point, Shoji showcased his home country with an incredible rendition of Gene Krupa that looked like the Japanese equivalent of three giant bongo drums. They were called taiko, according to Shoji's introduction, and were the instruments of the ancient Japanese art of drumming. Booker had seen the real taikos once in Tokyo on a mission, and the beating throb of the drums quickly enthralled the audience.
When suddenly two drummers were spotlighted being lowered from the ceiling in slings about ten yards in front of them, Booker was first stunned, then relieved to find that Mac Sharp was the one on the right, closest to them. He looked pretty much the same as he had the last time he'd come down to the river to visit Booker, the only person who'd ever been inside the cave, besides Kate Reed.
Booker watched his old pal, thinking he looked good to be almost forty, a hell of a lot better than Booker did. They'd served together in the Green Berets, though Mac had enough sense to get out and enter the police academy. Booker had been recruited by the CIA, and that had cost him his wife and son and sent him to his own brand of personal hell in a steamy, stinking jungle hut.
The drumbeats filling the air suddenly took on another meaning, the sound of guards having fun around their cook fires while he and his men were starving and filthy, arms crossed over their chests and shackled tightly to the next man's wrist so none of them could move. He began to tense up, feel the stifling, close heat of Central America, the jungle rot eating away the flesh between his toes and fingers, the dinging bell, the shrieks of pain that always followed.
When Kate touched his hand, Booker jerked back as if she was the sadist with the electric wire. She started in surprise, her eyes shirting to the sweat beading his forehead. “What's the matter? Are you sick?"
“Nothin'. That's Mac up there.” He pointed toward the man suspended from the ceiling.
“You're kidding.” Kate stared up at Mac beating the drum with his sticks as if he'd been born in a pagoda at the base of Mount Fujiyama. “He's really good."
The Japanese spot ended with an abrupt blackout. Somehow the two drummers in the ceiling were hoisted away without much ado. The show went on, spanning every kind of music known to man, from jazz to show tunes to another Japanese number where the women dancers wore white porcelain geisha masks and twirled parasols to a tune from Madame Butterfly or something like it. Booker caught sight of Mac a couple more times, once playing a guitar in a fifties dancing number on a soda-shop set, again after the intermission, during a disco number. He was glad when the three-hour show came to an end.
The crowd filed out in an orderly, pleased-pink hush, and Booker led Kate and the baby outside an exit located low in the sloping parking lot. The freight entrances were there, all locked and deserted, and they hung around, conspicuously he feared, near a wooden stair that led up to what Booker determined was the stage door used by the performers, while buses idled with more acrid fumes and the parking lot gradually emptied.
When a young kid wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt finally showed up at the top of the steps, Booker inquired after Mac. The kid had strange designs carved into his burr cut, a phenomenon new to Booker, and he grinned and ogled Kate's figure openly for a minute, then said they could wait inside while he found Mac for them. They stood just inside the door beside the time clock and card slots, the air-conditioned hallway cool and dim after the hot tarmac on which they'd been standing.
Ten minutes later Mac Sharp walked through a locked steel door at the far end of the hall. He stood about five ten, and he kept himself real buff, had ever since he'd been a detective with the St. Louis police. He was as muscular as he was agile, and Booker wondered if he still ran five miles every day and swallowed down multiple vitamin tablets like M and M's. His hair was cut short, its light brown color now bleached out white for some reason. He wore a Cardinals T-shirt, which didn't surprise Booker because Mac was the most fanatical sports enthusiast he had ever met, especially about the Redbirds. Mac didn't recognize Booker at first, peering at them curiously as he strode toward them. He was paying more attention to Kate, but Mac had always appreciated a good-looking woman, and Kate was certainly that, more than that.
“Are you the people looking for me?” Mac asked, looking at them quizzically, obviously not as used to fans swarming him at the stage door as Shoji no doubt was.
“It's me, Mac."
Mac took a double take right out of a Charlie Chaplin skit, looked startled, then laughed. “Good God, Book. Don't tell me you've finally decided to join the human race?"
It must've occurred to Mac then that Booker was actually in the company of a good-looking female. He grinned knowingly and looked to Booker for explanation. Booker didn't see any point in keeping the guy in suspense, but he kept his voice down.
“This is Kate Reed, Mac. We're in trouble and need your help."
Mac stared at him, Kate's name obviously registering at once and with some impact. “If she really is Kate Reed, you're in deep shit."
“She is, and I am."
“Jesus Christ.” Mac glanced at the baby seat Kate was holding, then at the closed door behind them. He lowered his voice even more than Booker had. “Every goddamned cop in the state's after her. The news is full of all that shit about her husband and her kidnapping the kid."
“She didn't do it."
“Is that the kid in the baby seat?"
“Yeah."
Mac frowned and swiped a hand through his spiky bleached-out hair. “Okay, okay.” He dragged his palm down over his face. He was trying to think what to do with them without getting thrown in jail for his trouble. “Man, man, you got yourself a shitload of a mess now. Let me think a minute."
Booker let him think a minute. Kate looked nervous again.
“Okay, okay, listen, I've got a couple of hours before the next show. I'll take you down to my place. Nobody'll notice you guys there.” Something troubling suddenly occurred to him. “Anybody know you're here? In Branson?"
“Don't think so. Not yet."
“Good.” Mac was obviously extremely relieved. “C'mon, let's get the hell out of here before somebody does recognize her."
Pleased to do just that, Booker took Kate's arm and followed his old friend out onto the parking lot. Mac had a brand-new, silver-gray Mustang convertible with a black top. Booker had
to fold his legs up like an accordion just to get in the front seat. Kate sat in the back with Joey. Mac had the wherewithal to keep the convertible top up, as well as the black-tinted windows. He turned the key, glancing at Booker as the engine settled into a soft, well-serviced purr, lots of unanswered questions behind the wire-rimmed spectacles he'd put on to drive. Booker would fill him in later, when Kate wasn't there to listen. He was asking a lot from his friend but Mac would come through for him. He always had. He would this time, too.
Twenty-Six
DMITRI KAVUNOV stood alone in the darkness, waiting. He could hear the soughing wind in the trees, whispering pine boughs so reminiscent of the forests near St. Petersburg. The lonely sound of a car whooshing at high speed down the deserted highway came to him, and he listened to make sure it continued on its way. Yuri and Misha were in place, in the shadows near the front of the restaurant, waiting for the Negro named Jumbo to close up for the night.
He shifted his eyes to the man's upstairs living quarters. It was still dark. The last waitress had left about fifteen minutes before, well past eleven o'clock. The parking lot was empty and had been since the woman had driven her beat-up black Nissan out of the place. He tried to pick out Misha's place near the front door but couldn't see him. Yuri was on the other side somewhere. Andre and Nikolai had returned to St. Louis to mollify Vince Saracino, who was threatening to jerk Dmitri's contract on the woman and do the job himself. Dmitri found that amusing, considering how Vince relied on inept, untrained soldiers out of New York to do his dirty work.
On the other hand, he didn't want Saracino to get his hands on Kate. Dmitri had chased her too long, had held her in his arms, caressed the satiny softness of her skin and hair. She was his now, whether he decided to kill her or not, whether he decided to bed her or not. He had wanted to let her go, still did at times, had given her a chance to live, to be with him.
