by Rex Burns
“I turned Scotty over to Sergeant Kiefer in homicide,” said Bunch. “He sent a request to Florida for the arrest of Pierson on that charge.” He sighed. “Kiefer was really happy.”
Kiefer was happy. Reznick was happy. Even the Pensacola DEA office had been a little bit happy to have a solved case complete with confessions dropped in their laps to enhance their statistics. Devlin wasn’t happy. He wanted Pierson and had missed his chance. Despite the official termination of the case, it still didn’t seem finished with Pierson off and running. The guilty memory of Chris Newman’s body dangling in that bloody bag hadn’t been satisfied by merely fighting with his killer and then letting him escape. But life had a lot of loose threads. Devlin knew. And he was beginning to learn that sometimes a standoff was the best one could expect. “Did Kiefer say what the chances are of finding Pierson?”
“Kiefer doesn’t know about it yet. I talked to him last night when you thought you had the bastard wrapped and delivered to the Pensacola PD.” Bunch shook his head. “I’ll call him when we get to the office, and tell him to put Pierson on the FBI wire. He won’t like it, but there’s not much else to do now.”
They pulled into the parking lot behind the office and Devlin stifled a grunt and slid stiffly out of the Bronco’s high front seat.
“What’s the matter, Dev? You move like you’re pregnant.”
On the way upstairs, he told Bunch about the knife.
“Jesus—guns and knives, both. You keep this up, your insurance’ll be out of sight and we’ll both have to listen to Uncle Wyn preach to us.”
“We don’t tell him. There’s no sense worrying him over nothing.”
“Okay by me.” Bunch picked up the telephone and punched in a number from memory. After a few seconds, he asked for Sergeant Kiefer. “Dave? Bunchcroft here. I got some sad, bad news.”
He told the homicide detective about Pierson’s escape, holding the receiver off his ear as it squawked angrily. “No, if he’d brought in the local cops, the guy wouldn’t have showed at all. You know that, so quit your bitching. It was a good try, and a pretty good fight, too. And I got to tell you, old Dev’s pretty cut up over it.” He winked happily at Kirk. “No, my guess is he’s either out of the country or holed up so deep he might as well be. Maybe the FBI can come up with something … . Yeah, yeah, I know how much help they are. But what else do we have? … Okay, let us know.” He hung up the receiver and shook his head. “Pissed, Dev. The good sergeant is really steamed.”
“I don’t give a damn if he’s parboiled.” The cut along Devlin’s ribs was throbbing slightly, a sign that infection hadn’t been entirely overcome by the doctor’s swab and a needle full of anti-tetanus serum. “I’m going to figure Reznick’s bill and then I’m going home to sleep.”
“Uh, Dev, as long as you’re feeling so depressed and all …”
“What?”
“We’re off the Jean Truman case. Allen Schute called—he says he can’t afford to lose any more money on her.”
“Is he getting another agency?”
“He didn’t say that exactly. Just that he was surprised to see Kirk and Associates outsmarted.”
“Crap.”
“Hey, look on the bright side: no more squatting in that Subaru.”
“Probably no more insurance cases, either.”
“Nah, Schute wasn’t all that pissed. He’ll just make sure we get the dumb ones from now on.” Bunch began pulling on his jacket as Devlin punched up the Advantage file. “I’ll see you in the morning, Dev.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Got a date. My busy social life.”
CHAPTER 25
IT WASN’T EXACTLY a social date, but Devlin didn’t have to know that. He looked tired enough to fall asleep up against the computer screen, but if he knew where Bunch was headed, he’d insist on coming along. And that was all Bunch needed: someone else to look after if things got sticky with the yojimbo.
Mitsuko hadn’t wanted to give him the address. Her face held a mixture of hope and fear. The hope, of course, was that Bunch could somehow convince the Korean to return to Japan without either killing Humphries or telling him about Mitsuko’s real relationship to Watanabe. The fear was that Bunch would fail. And even, she said softly, that he would be killed.
“Kim Soon has earned high respect in Japan. For being one of the best of the yakuza.”
“Was respected.”
“He wants that back.”
“He can lie. He can tell his buddies he took care of both of you and go home with a lot of Humphries’ money too.”
She thought about that. “It’s possible. It might work.”
“Then tell me where he is.”
She told him, and when Humphries, baggy-eyed and nervous, was convoyed home, Bunch, leaving out some details, told him the plan.
“You think he’ll do it?” Humphries looked first at Bunch and then at Mitsuko. “I’m willing, if you think it’ll work.”
“Can’t hurt to try. He can tell Watanabe he killed his daughter and take home a few bucks too.”
“It sounds so bizarre—so … .”
“Hey, having the guy after you is bizarre, right? This is a way to end it without hurting anybody.”
“But, Mitsi—you’ll have to give up your family! They’ll think you’re dead.”
“My father wants me dead, doesn’t he?” She shrugged. “And I don’t want to go back.”
Humphries looked at her for a long moment, studying the downcast face, the body whose touch he never seemed to get enough of. Maybe it would work. God, what a sacrifice she was making for him. While he … . He turned to the big man who waited patiently. “You really think it has a chance?”
“Sure. Give it a try—it’s just money.”
And compared to what Mitsi was surrendering, compared to the Japanese reverence for ancestors and family, fifty thousand wasn’t much. “Okay.” He went to his desk.
Bunch cruised past the motel a couple times before pulling out of traffic onto the trashy shoulder of the busy highway. It was one of those old-fashioned collections of look-alike cottages that used to line the dirt sides of South Santa Fe before that road was supplanted by 1-25 a few decades ago. Bunch couldn’t count the times he’d driven this stretch of road, but he’d never noticed this cluster of brown, fiat-roofed units. They were pinched between a salesroom for hot tubs and a rug dealer whose Day-Glo orange sign screamed Factory Outlet. The motel had a name—Mesa Land Oasis—and it looked like something out of one of those black-and-white movies where the lovely blonde in trouble picks up a tough but honest hitchhiker who falls in love with her. And they drive away in a ‘38 Mercury convertible with bulbous fenders.
Cars were parked here and there on the dusty gravel that formed a quiet square back from the busy thoroughfare. Most of the cars looked as if they had coasted to a final rest at the Mesa Land Oasis, and in their weary silence seemed grateful for the shelter provided by the surrounding cottages. A semi’s tractor, dark and bulky, loomed like a powerful sleeping animal. Bunch walked past it to the unit whose tiny porch caught the glare of passing headlights. Under the unlit Mesa Land Oasis sign, a smaller sign said “Office.” It, too, was faded and the paint cracked. Above a doorbell someone had penciled the word “Manager.” Above that, “Weekly and Monthly Rates Available. Ask Within.”
Bunch expected the manager to match the decor. But instead of a wizened and suspicious old man, the girl—possibly as old as twenty—could have been pretty if her face hadn’t been pale and lined with weariness. And if her hair hadn’t hung in lifeless ropes to frame that drawn face. From somewhere behind her came the thin, sickly wail of a baby exhausted from long crying. The odor of dirty diapers floated into the cool air through the open door. “Yes?”
“You’re the manager?”
“His wife. You looking for a room? All we got’s one without a kitchenette. All the kitchenettes been taken.”
“I’m looking for one of your roomers. Kor
ean guy named Soon.” He showed a corner of the envelope. “I got a letter for him.”
“Korean? I thought he was Chinese or something. You a police officer? That a summons?”
Bunch shook his head. “It’s a letter I’m supposed to give him personally.”
“You look like a policeman.”
“Well, I’m not. What cabin’s he in?”
The baby’s howl rose. “Five. Down on your left.” She closed the door while her hand fumbled at her blouse. A moment later, the fitful crying stopped.
Bunch’s shoes crunched in the gravel as he passed a rusty station wagon with a slab of cardboard in place of one of the rear windows. An equally battered bumper sticker announced, “I Voted for Reagan When I Was Rich.”
Cabin 5 was half hidden beneath a towering cottonwood tree whose dry leaves clattered in the evening breeze like a small stream. In the twilight, Bunch saw the flicker of a television set through the window of cabin 3. As he passed, the loud noise of the set drowned out the chatter of leaves, and a silhouette of three heads—one adult, two children—made bumps of darkness against the pale glow. The only light from cabin 5 was a faint yellow fringe around a tightly pulled blind. Bunch knocked on the doorframe.
“Kim Soon? We need to talk.” He knocked again. A few curls of green paint spiraled down.
No answer.
He tried the doorknob. The fragile lock gave with a metallic twang and the door sagged inward. Another flake of paint settled on the back of his hand like a warning touch.
“Soon?”
Through the partly open door, he glimpsed a corner of the room crowded with a rumpled bed and lit dimly by a lamp. Bunch pushed the door slowly wider to show the empty bed. A small end table held the lamp and a telephone. A sagging upholstered chair was jammed close to a dark bureau. He glanced through the crack between the door hinges. The dark behind the door was empty. “Konichi-wa?” He stepped in carefully and closed it behind him. On a folding stand rested a suitcase, shut but not locked. From behind a closed door came the faint sigh of a running shower. Bunch eased across the room to listen at the dark wood. Then he turned the handle slowly.
He opened the door to a wisp of steam and the louder rush of water. The tiny shower stall billowed hot mist over the top of a plastic curtain, and the wetness beaded on his jacket and swirled across his eyes. Bunch stepped past the bulge of a toilet to rap on the fiberglass wall. He wasn’t sure if it was a sound or a tiny flicker of motion beneath the fogged glass of the mirror or just the feeling on the back of his neck, but he wheeled in time to see a gleaming arc of silver swing toward him through the hazy air: a sword.
A squat, barrel-chested man wearing black pants and a white undershirt lunged from the recess beside the shower stall. Both hands swung a samurai sword in a chopping curve toward the base of Bunch’s neck. He fell back to shove against the toilet with all his strength and felt the porcelain stool tip and rock as he pulled the door hard against the falling blade. It caught in the wood with a solid chop, biting a deep slice into the door’s edge. It stopped at Bunch’s ear and sent a spray of splinters prickling his cheek. Soon wrenched the blade free and jabbed, a two-handed thrust that pierced the loose fold of Bunch’s coat and sliced upward, reaching for his clutching stomach and lungs. Grabbing the man’s wrists, Bunch shoved. The blade ripped clear of his coat to clang against the shower stall and dig a furry gap in the fiberglass wall. The Korean, a round face with black eyes squeezed almost shut by high cheekbones and the effort to push against Bunch’s strength, grunted something and aimed a sudden knee at Bunch’s crotch. The big man swiveled to take the thudding blow on his hip and drove the point of his elbow into Soon’s solar plexus. A burst of garlic-smelling air, and Bunch followed with a hard chop up under the Korean’s chin. He aimed for the throat but half missed as Soon saw it coming and twisted away to try a jabbing kick to Bunch’s face. It glanced off his shoulder. He wrenched the Korean’s hands and drove the heel of his own hand against the back of Soon’s elbow. The gristle squealed and popped and the Korean’s lipless mouth, a slash of agony across his face, opened in a strangled howl.
The sword pulled free of Soon’s hands and quivered in the wall of the shower stall. Bunch twisted again, squeezing both the man’s wrists together like dried sticks. He drove a knee into his ribs to fold him backward into the steam and spewing water and thud his skull against the sagging sink. Another chopping blow with the side of his hand low against the man’s neck, and Soon grunted and sagged, not quite out. But he was numbed and boneless in Bunch’s fists.
Panting, Bunch dragged the man from the tiny, wrecked bathroom. He dropped him on his back in the middle of the grimy carpet and pulled the gleaming sword from the shower stall. Soon began to make rasping sounds and to dig his heels into the carpet. He tried to roll onto hands and knees. Bunch thudded the side of his fist against the man’s skull and he lay quiet.
“You speak English?”
No answer.
Bunch jabbed the Korean’s ribs with his shoe and held the sword’s blunt tip just under his chin. “Yo, jimbo, I asked you: You speak English?”
Soon’s round face twitched and one of his eyes blinked. The other was already swollen shut. His mouth was a clamped, soundless line.
Bunch, keeping his face and the sword toward the man, clicked on a floor lamp whose chain tinkled briefly against its ornate brass stand. Then he groped through the suitcase’s elastic pockets until he found what he wanted—a passport case and its booklet. The photograph matched the silent Korean, and the name beneath it, in both Japanese and English, said Soon Kim. Bunch studied the man on the carpet. The wiry muscles showed a lot of exercise. Dark scrolls of tattoos covered his arms and torso wherever it showed beneath the sleeveless undershirt. The left hand, lying splayed on the floor, was missing the last knuckle of its little finger. The single eye studied him in return, and all the grogginess was gone.
Bunch swung the sword in a long arc. Its blade made a deep hum in the quiet room. “I came here to talk. You willing to talk about all this Bushido crap?”
The eye glittered.
Bunch felt through his sliced jacket and drew out the envelope to lay on the suitcase. “Money—a lot of it. And a plane ticket for a direct flight to Tokyo. Leaves at nine forty-seven tonight. Be on it.” He waited, but Kim said nothing. “Mitsuko says go home. She ficky-fick round-eye now.”
“Son of bitch!”
“Ah. We’ve established communications.” Bunch sat on the side of the bed, which sank dangerously and squealed. “Your boss, Kobayashi-san, know you’re in America?”
No answer.
“Take the money and go. Tell Kobayashi you killed Saito and her boyfriend. Nobody knows the difference—you save face and get rich too.”
“Son of bitch!”
“You said that already.” Bunch picked up the telephone from the small table. It had a rotary dial, the kind Bunch hadn’t seen in years. “Mr. Humphries? No—not yet. Can I talk to Mitsuko, please?”
In a moment, she answered, voice breathless. “Yes?”
“I don’t know if I’m getting through to the guy. Tell him in Japanese, will you?” He held out the phone to the glaring man and gestured for him to take it.
Kim, eyes on Bunch, held the receiver to his ear. “Anone!”
The telephone buzzed, and every now and then Kim grunted. His one good eye focused on Bunch as he listened. Finally, “Ieh! Ieh!” Then, “Hail” Scornfully, the man yanked the wire out of the receiver and tossed it on the bed.
Bunch shook his head. “I sure hope you listened, Kim baby.” He stared for a dozen seconds at the man still sprawled on the grimy carpet. Its threads showed through in large gray patches beside the bed and in front of the bathroom door. “But I bet you didn’t.” He wiped again at the tickle on his neck and looked with surprise at the blood that gleamed on his fingers. The Korean’s thin lips tightened in the trace of a smile.
“By God, you nicked me, didn’t you?” Bunch touched the t
op of his ear where a flap of loose skin stung under his fingers. He tapped the sword on the floor and listened to its clear ring. “Good steel—I didn’t even feel it.”
Kim said nothing. Bunch saw that his arms and feet had gathered together into springing position.
He sighed and shook his head. “You’d try it, wouldn’t you? You didn’t listen to a goddamn thing Mitsuko-san said, did you?” He tossed the sword on the bed. Kim’s eye followed it. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
He reached for the man. Kim flopped quickly to hands and feet and lunged for the sword. He jabbed a side -kick at Bunch’s knees as he moved. Bunch caught a foot under Soon’s thigh and lifted, turning him in the air and grabbing his left arm to fold it back and around his body in a kink that froze the Korean in an arc of pain. “This is going to hurt you more than it does me.”
The bone gave a muffled crackle like something crunchy under a shoe. Bunch saw beads of sweat spring out on Kim Soon’s wrinkled forehead. A strangled grunt came from his pinched lips but he made no other sound.
“Now the other arm.”
He tried to struggle. A swat across the broken arm took the fight out of the Korean, and Bunch bent the man’s right arm until a bone snapped.
“Nothing personal, right? Strictly business, Japanese style.”
The Korean’s face, a sick color that made his shaven whiskers stand out darkly against the wet flesh, stared back at Bunch. He made no sound. If there was any hunger for revenge in the eye, it had been washed out by pain. Bunch pulled a shirt and shoes from the suitcase and a jacket from the closet and tossed them to the hunched man. Then he locked the luggage and set it by the door. Kim Soon, his breath a loud whistle in his nose as the shirtsleeves pressed against his swelling arms, struggled into the clothes. Picking up the suitcase and sword, Bunch opened the door for the man, who walked in his untied shoes as if he were slightly drunk. Removing the cash from the envelope, he riffled the money under Kim’s nose and then stuffed it and the airplane ticket into Kim’s jacket pocket. Bunch would escort the Korean to the plane and watch it take off. When it landed, Kim could explain the money and the two broken arms to Japanese immigration. And then to Kobayashi and his yojimbo.
