Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  The knee! she remembered suddenly. She could hear her instructor say, “The knee is one of the most vulnerable joints on the human body.” She knew the rest of the lesson.

  She pulled back her right leg and kicked his kneecap. He cried out and collapsed into the shower stall, ripping the curtain from the rod and scalding his face and upper body. He flailed his arms, attempting to shield himself from the near-boiling water.

  Instinctively, she dove for the Beretta. She found it, aimed, and pulled the trigger rapidly, three times, the muffled report sounding like hands clapping. Blood spurted from three small holes. Then the bleeding ceased.

  Stunned, she sat staring at him. Finally, she inched closer and, reaching quickly, turned off the water. Silence. Absolute silence, punctuated only by the pounding of her slowing heartbeat. Water dripped from his hair. He was dead.

  She gathered her clothes up, unable to take her eyes from him, and backed up step by step into the bedroom. With her mind caught up in planning the next few minutes, she dressed quickly.

  What now? Was another person waiting somewhere for a signal? Would a backup enter any minute, having not heard from his accomplice, or, having heard the commotion inside this room? And what of the agent—the conduit? She had summoned him here. Would he now be led into a hotel teaming with police, or worse? Think! she demanded of herself. She weighed her options. The police? No. The fiasco at the train station had made her a fugitive. What then?

  Escape.

  She moved to the door, pulling her skirt to fall correctly, tugging the sleeve of her wrinkled blouse. She opened the door a crack, the Beretta in her right hand. The hallway was empty.

  How had he known she was here? Had someone followed her from the train station? Had they traced her one phone call back to this hotel? She pushed the thoughts aside and opened the door farther. The hallway was empty, the exit at the far end dimly lit. She crept down the hall, her shoulders pressed against the wall. After what seemed like an eternity, she entered the poorly lit stairway. She told herself that the conduit—all else—came second to her own escape. No one was going to show up and rescue her; she had to do this alone. Landing by landing, she worked her way down the stairs, the weapon aimed at the ceiling, arm bent at the elbow. She rounded each landing carefully, arms extended, aiming the heavy gun. No one. Floor by floor she descended, anticipating opposition. Ready.

  She had killed.

  The stairs seemed endless. Finally, she reached ground level and stopped by a door that opened onto the street. What now? Step out onto the street with a gun and silencer? She untucked the blouse from her skirt and stuck the Beretta between skirt and skin, forced to keep a hand on it due to its weight. She pushed against the door. It was locked. Frustrated, she threw a shoulder against the door. It did not budge.

  Behind her, another door led into the lobby. She cracked it open and peered down a short corridor that led past the hotel kitchen. She edged into the narrow hallway, moving cautiously toward the lobby. Looking around the corner of a wall, she spotted the desk clerk, the man she had paid to warn her. Beyond him, a young woman sat in an overstuffed chair flipping through a magazine. The woman’s apparent lack of concentration alarmed Sharon. Was she an accomplice playing the part of a bored tourist? Or was she a bored tourist? How long had she been there? Was she a guest of the hotel?

  Sharon pressed herself against the wall. One option was to try and locate an alternative exit; her other option was to simply walk out the front door. She clamped the gun against her body, holding it firmly in place. If she left through the kitchen she would attract attention. The lobby was better. She prepared herself for trouble, rounded the corner, and walked straight toward the front door.

  The bored woman turned a page, looked up from her magazine, offered a pained and contrived smile, and crossed her legs. Sharon Johnson stepped outside.

  Dusk had softened the street. A solitary car was parked halfway down the block. As she glanced toward it, a small, thin man stepped from the passenger door and hurried after her. She walked steadily in the opposite direction, careful not to run, keeping track of him with quick glances over her shoulder. He was walking briskly. Again she looked back. The car pulled out from the curb and headed toward her.

  She opened a door and stepped into a restaurant, worming her way through the tables, reminded of the night of Brian’s death. A doorway to her left led to a portico covered with hanging flowers. Checking over her shoulder, she hurried onto the portico. Well-dressed people sipped cocktails and wine. In her wrinkled clothing she stood out. She had not waited for the maitre d’, and the squat, balding man now caught up to her. He rattled on in German, waving his arms. The Beretta slipped out of her hold and clunked onto the stone patio. The portico became hushed. The maitre d’ stared at it. She heard a gasp behind her. A few people stared, frightened. All eyes. It felt like she had stood there for several minutes, when, in fact, it was only a matter of seconds before she grabbed the Beretta and broke into a run, making for a wooden gate at the end of the patio.

  The thin man was close behind. She moved through the gate and turned right, breaking into a run down a narrow, cobbled lane. Slowing to prevent a turned ankle, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the man come through the gate. She ran left through an open doorway and hurried down a dark hallway, seeing a lighted door at the other end of the building. As she reached the door, a police car, siren wailing, zoomed past, another behind it.

  She heard footsteps behind her and jumped into the darkened corner by the doorway, the stairs to her right. The thin man’s shadow stretched against the far wall, moving toward her. He came into view, holding a weapon in his left hand. She raised the Beretta, not wanting to fire. He stopped, his breathing loud in the narrow hallway.

  “I see you,” he said in German, turning his weapon on her.

  But he did not see her. He saw a shadow.

  She fired first, wounding him. His gun discharged, sending a bullet into the wall. Her next shot hit him too. He slumped to the floor. A cloud of bitter gray smoke hung in the air.

  She fled out the doorway, stuffing the Beretta into her skirt and burning her skin. She buckled with the pain but forced herself to keep moving. An alley to her immediate left took her north. She walked quickly. He was back there dying; she had left him to die. She had killed. Again. Her head was spinning. She turned right, then left, and threaded her way through the narrow back streets of Regensburg.

  13

  Holst, trading in a nine of diamonds and three of spades for a fresh pair, glanced up and caught Kepella’s eye as he entered. The back room held less smoke than usual because Patsy had not showed up. Fu had arrived a few minutes earlier, the ever-present cigarette glued to his lip. Dull-colored poker chips, the texture of smooth bone, lay stacked in piles by the five men around the table. Four were Chinese. They rattled to each other in their staccato tongue, casting suspicious looks across the green felt table. Poker is as much a game of what you don’t have as what you do have, and these men were very good at poker.

  The defeat written on Kepella’s face made Holst feel good. Fu grunted, signaled Kepella, and rose from his chair. They left the room together; the arguing began immediately.

  Holst had been waiting for this all afternoon. Fu was following orders to the letter, doing everything he was being paid to do, and doing it well. Holst folded and left the table. Peace Brother stood guard by the door to Fu’s rarely used office, scraping dirt from beneath his nails with a toothpick.

  “Are they in there?” Holst asked his other hired hand rhetorically. Peace Brother nodded, not looking up from his nails. Holst knocked once and opened the door before Fu answered. He stepped inside.

  Kepella, his face flushed and sweat-covered, stood glowering down at Fu, who was seated behind a battered desk. “What do you want?” the small Chinaman asked angrily. Perfect.

  “Lemme in the game,” whined Kepella, ignoring Holst’s entrance. “I have the cash.”

  “Cash you owe
me,” insisted Fu.

  “I thought maybe I could help,” interrupted Holst, answering Fu’s initial question.

  “I have agreement with Mr. Roy, Mr. Holst. It none of your concern. Please return and enjoy game. We can settle this.”

  “Is that why Peace Brother is outside the door?” Holst asked.

  Kepella blanched.

  “John Chu helps me when I need help,” explained Fu Calmly.

  “And who helps Roy?” asked Holst.

  “There’s no need for rough stuff,” Kepella interjected anxiously. “I just want to play poker.”

  “You owe two percent for game. Minimum. That two hundred sixty dollar. Then you no play here—or anywhere—until daily interest paid. I explain yesterday.”

  “And how much is that?” inquired Holst, already knowing the answer.

  “None of your business, Mr. Holst,” Fu told him.

  “Go ahead and tell him.” Kepella slumped into a chair, defeated—the consummate actor.

  Fu rattled the numbers off. “Nine thousand one hundred seventeen dollar in principal on gambling debt. Two thousand seven hundred forty-three dollar interest. This total eleven thousand eight hundred sixty.”

  “Is that right, Roy?” Properly astonished.

  Kepella shrugged and rubbed his eyes.

  “Have you got it?” asked Holst.

  “Tapped out, Iben. I’m tapped out.”

  “There must be something you can sell,” Holst suggested, watching Kepella rub his eyes and nose. “How about your wife’s jewelry or something?”

  “I’m single. I’ve sold everything I own. The banks own the rest. I’m tapped out, I’m telling you. Tapped out.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen. This no concern to Fu. I want interest this minute. And if I hear you play other games around town, Mr. Roy, before I repaid, I send John after you. You understand me?”

  “Now listen here, you Chinese son-of-a-whore—”

  Fu leaned across his cluttered desk.

  Kepella appeared to back down. Holst asked, “Fu, would you leave us alone for a minute?”

  Fu rose with the difficulty of an old man, sighing. He coughed loudly and took a drag off his cigarette, then left.

  Kepella sounded desperate. “Iben, do you think you could go me the interest… I mean just today’s interest? If this asshole puts Peace Brother on me, I’m history.”

  Holst thought, You’re history already, Kepella. He said, “I do not know, Roy. Without something to back it up… I just do not know. I loaned you five hundred yesterday. Sounds like you need some big money.”

  Kepella shrugged. “You know of someone? Shit, I didn’t even think of that. A street loan?”

  “The interest is high of course. A point a week at least. Without collateral maybe a point-and-a-half. You must pay the interest every week. You do not pay, they cripple you.” He waited. He wanted to say, Come on, Kepella.

  Kepella repeated, “You know somebody?”

  “I might. But remember, if you default, it is on my reputation, my credit. If I arrange the deal… I am taking a risk as well.”

  “Yeah, yeah. No worries, Iben. I can pull a couple hundred a week no problem.”

  “You will have to stop the gambling. Absolutely stop.”

  Kepella had a good sweat going. He dragged his hand across his mouth and chin. “I know, I know.”

  “I will stake you to today’s interest now,” Holst said, with drawing several hundred from his right-hand pocket. “You give Fu what he needs, and we will go see the man, right away.”

  Holst played it well. He drove Kepella to a seedy apartment house on Holgate and left him sitting in the car. The sky was the gray of the filing cabinets in Kepella’s old office. The sun hid behind the cloud cover like a night light behind a faded towel. After a few minutes, Holst reappeared and climbed in.

  “Where can I drop you?”

  “What’s up?”

  “He won’t deal with you. He doesn’t know you.”

  “God damn it.”

  “It is okay, Roy. I told him I would act as middleman. I do not know why I should be doing this for you…” He tried to sound reluctant.

  “You won’t regret it, Iben,” Kepella assured him.

  “I must leave you while I make the arrangements. Have you a pen?” Kepella shook his head. Holst searched the glove compartment and found one. He scribbled the address of the Washington Plaza on a gas receipt and wrote his room number on the bottom. “I am sticking my neck out for you, Roy.”

  “I understand.”

  “Are you sure?” Holst’s glare was like the warning rattle of a poisonous snake about to strike.

  “I won’t screw it up, Iben. I promise.” Kepella grabbed Holst’s hand and shook it eagerly.

  An hour later Kepella knocked on the door to Holst’s room. Holst opened the door and let him in. The room smelled of hotel disinfectant and stale air. Holst offered a chair, but Kepella elected to remain standing. He kept his trench coat on.

  “I borrowed five thousand to start with, Roy. I thought it best to start slowly, make sure you can handle this kind of load.”

  “That’s great, Iben. How many points?”

  “It is worse than I thought, Roy. Three points a week. That is steep, I know. If you want out, say so. I can still return the cash.”

  “Three points, huh? What’s that work out to?”

  “One hundred and fifty a week, interest.” Very German now. “Ten percent of the principal every twenty-eight days. Those payments will be six hundred and fifty. But listen carefully, Roy: if you miss even one interest payment, they tack on a point a week, and that point stays there. You follow that? You screw up some week and your interest is up to four points; two weeks, five, just like that. And that stays fixed. You better think about this, Roy.”

  Kepella appeared to be considering the deal. He paced the small room for a moment, wondering why Holst didn’t open the window occasionally. Through the window Holst had a view of a cement parking facility. Down on the street pedestrians hurried about; a few limos cruised by, headed, no doubt, to the Four Seasons, nearby. Kepella didn’t want to jump at the deal. It would seem out of character. It was funny, he thought, that in order to assume a deeply buried cover you had to become the person you were establishing. You could not, even for a moment, be the true Roy Kepella. You had to stay fixed in an identity, fixed like the interest rates. You acted and acted, and pretty soon you lost touch with the real Roy Kepella. You laid in bed at night, tempted to try and remember, but Rosie would reach over and take hold of your crank and get you all worked up, and you realized they were everywhere. They hovered around you like vultures waiting to feed off your mistakes. And you laid in wait yourself, awaiting the sound of your trap closing on them—a sound you had given the last month of your life to. If the job was to trap a loan shark, the job would have been done—but it was not. Each and every day it was as if the operation was just beginning.

  “I’ll do it, Iben. No problem.”

  Holst grinned. It occurred to Kepella that until now he had never seen the man smile. “That is fine, Roy.”

  “Take what I owe you…”

  “You sure?”

  “Damn straight. I want to get things settled. You take your dough, then I’ll go pay Fu.”

  Holst counted out eight hundred, which he pocketed, and handed Kepella the rest of the money. Kepella counted it quickly and asked, “How much trouble would it be to get another five thousand?”

  “No trouble, Roy. But I think we had better see how this goes first.”

  “Yeah, sure. Right.” Kepella appeared both nervous and elated. “Do I pay you?”

  “Yes, you pay me every Thursday afternoon. The first two or three payments are critical, Roy. You miss those and that makes you look bad. When these people give their customers reminders, they are the kind of reminders that one does not quickly forget. You follow me?”

  “Yeah, I follow. They break your knees with baseball bats. Don’t
worry, Iben. No sweat. I’ve got this covered. No sweat.”

  “I just thought you should see the full picture, Roy. I would not want to surprise you. You understand.”

  “Clear as a bell, Iben. Thanks again.” They shook hands. Holst’s hands were cool, Kepella’s warm and sweaty.

  14

  The gig had started promptly at nine.

  The bar, less crowded than the dining area, contained the usual crowd: tanned bodies dressed in the vivid colors of L. L. Bean, Eddie Bauer; and Land’s End. The long wooden bar patrolled by two bartenders stretched the length of the room, ferns separating rows of bottles, their numbers doubled by the mirrored wall behind them. A hand-lettered poster taped to the mirror advertised Seattle Slews, a mixture of rum, orange juice, coconut, and grenadine, for three bucks even. Voices were shouting rather than conversing. The waitresses wore Danskin tops, cut low, and all well-filled. Apparently they were allowed to choose their own skirts.

  On stage, at the far end of the low-ceilinged room, under the lights, Jay turned to Jocko and counted softly: “…two… three… four…” The drummer tapped his sticks together to the same tempo and the band started into a smooth rendition of “High Wire.” Several people turned, some smiling as they remembered the song, while others shifted in their chairs restlessly, and still others, apparently deaf, took no notice at all. Conversation grew louder. The waitresses weaved through the throng, drawing male glances, delivering weak drinks with pink umbrellas, chunks of pineapple, and an abundance of ice. The thirty-dollar haircuts, the perfect teeth, the arch smiles, all marked a typical summer night at the Blue Sands.

  Jay sang strongly and moved well on stage. He had moved well on stage damn near every night for ten years. Eleven next month. For the last three nights The Rocklts had been drawing capacity crowds at the Sands and had enjoyed the scene. Most everyone knew each other, often slept with each other, and ate dinner for something to do. Money was no object. Many owned boats, either on Lake Union, Lake Washington, or the Sound. The Sound was the hip scene this summer. Last year it had been Mercer Island. The women were all just a little too pretty, and the guys a little too cool. Jocko called it a herpes convention—but he liked to watch the waitresses walk by; the elevated drum platform afforded nice glimpses of cleavage.