by Marc Olden
Michi said, “I’ll make another one for you.” She did, licking the ends slowly, performing before Dorian’s glazed eyes.
He grinned, remembering.
She lit the joint for him. “You said that Paul Molise is a legitimate businessman.”
“Said he thinks he is.” He took a deep toke on the joint. “Thinks he is. Park Avenue office, English secretary, computer, telex. Keeps regular hours, nine to five. Like clockwork. Doesn’t even cheat on his wife. Can you imagine that shit? Goes home to Westchester like some kind of stockbroker.”
“Does he not have men with guns in his office to protect him?”
Dorian snorted. “See, that’s what I mean. Movie shit. Paulie’s a businessman and he deals with other businessmen, legit guys, and you can’t have shooters hanging around when that happens. Scares people. Attracts attention. He’s got a chauffeur acts as a bodyguard, but the guy doesn’t follow him around the whole time. Chauffeur’s probably packing.”
“Packing?”
“Gun.” He aimed a forefinger and cocked thumb at her.
“Oh.”
“How’s your security system working?”
She bowed her head and smiled. “Dōmo arigato gozai mashite. Thank you very much.”
A few weeks ago, Dorian had received a telephone call at the precinct: could he perform a security survey at Pantheon Diamonds on Madison Avenue. He had been recommended by businessmen who had met the detective at Gracie Mansion and been impressed by him. Dorian, like many cops, had an eye on the future. That’s why a smart cop made as many contacts in the business world as possible, for the day when he wasn’t on the force anymore.
He showed up at Pantheon Diamonds and made recommendations: a steel door instead of the glass-paned one they had at the entrance; new safes, with combinations to be changed frequently; deadbolt locks on the front door, locks at least two feet apart. Check with Management Systems Consultants for burglar alarms and security guards.
Michi, he knew her as Michelle Asama, was there. Nice. First-class stuff. Reminded him of Saigon, of the few good things about being over there. She was the kind of woman seen in that city’s excellent French restaurants, on the arm of a Vietnamese general or French businessman. Expensive. Too expensive for most Americans, though Dorian had found ways to come into money while in Nam. A lot of money.
After the survey, Michi had phoned the precinct to thank him. Dorian had nothing to lose. He invited her for a drink. She accepted.
Dorian drew on the joint. He was getting sleepy, close to nodding out. “Met a few Japs in Saigon. Man, your people are fucking strange. Never invite you to their homes. We never saw this guy’s family, this guy we had some dealings with.” He hesitated. “Never saw them until the end.”
Michi leaned forward. “The end?”
His eyes were on the ceiling. He spoke reluctantly, not wanting to remember. “Fall of Saigon. Just before the Communists took over.”
Just before you betrayed them, thought Michi.
He touched her. She flinched. He didn’t notice.
“Never in the fucking home,” he said. “Like you.”
“We are private people. We live within ourselves. The explanation of everything is within yourself.”
“If you say so.” He finished his drink. Michi refilled the glass.
Dorian said, “Within, huh? Only within I like is getting within you.”
He became drowsier, slurring his words, spilling liquor on himself and the bed. She could have killed him easily, swiftly, with her bare hands. She was skilled enough. But she needed him, needed the information he could give her about the other three. Dorian Raymond was the weak link, the man who could more easily be used than the others.
“You almost fell asleep,” she said.
He giggled. “Almost. That’s my father’s nickname for me. The Almost Man.’ Almost became a lawyer. Quit college after a year. Bored out of my bird. Baseball tryout with the Mets. Almost made it. They almost signed me to one of their farm clubs but what the hell. Couldn’t hit curves and breaking balls. Almost made it. No fucking patience for college or law school or hanging around the minors for five years. Too much in a hurry, my father says. ‘The Almost Man’ is always in a hurry.”
He sighed. “Almost stayed married. Almost. Nice people, my old lady. Ain’t got diddley squat to give her and I wish I did. She deserves the best. Just a sweet, sweet lady. Think she’s got something going for her, though. Another guy. I just feel it.”
He fell asleep.
Michi took the remainder of the joint from his fingers and angrily screwed it into an ashtray. He would die when it was right for him to die.
She dressed, and thought how pleased she would be to kill him.
Dawn. Decker’s internal clock had trouble functioning this morning, but eventually one eye opened, then the other. It had been one of the deepest, most relaxing sleeps he’d had in some time. And it hadn’t been a dream. Michi lay beside him on the floor, her face gentle and vulnerable in sleep. He leaned over, smelled her, closed his eyes with pleasure. In sleep she reached for him, her small fist closing around his thumb as a child might do. He smiled, kissed her hair and lay back down beside her.
When she opened her eyes, they made love.
And made promises.
8
INCENSED AND RUNNING OUT of patience, Trevor Sparrowhawk walked to a window and opened it with vehemence. Chilled night air rushed into the cramped, humid room. The silver-haired Englishman filled his lungs. He was close to stalking out of the hastily called meeting. Let Paul bloody Molise handle the problem himself. Then we would see who knew more about security matters: a professional soldier or a spaghetti eater.
They were on Long Island, in attendance at the opening night of a new auditorium, a circular, futuristic design of white marble, tinted glass and steel. Through a series of dummy corporations and front men, it was the latest legitimate business venture of the Molise family.
Through the open window, Sparrowhawk heard the clamor from a sold-out house of over twelve thousand people. With the exception of invited dignitaries, all had paid outrageous prices to see the hottest pop star of the moment, a tubercular thin English youth in green eyeshadow and lipstick and rolled socks stuffed down the front of his skin-tight trousers.
Back in his chair, Sparrowhawk lit a Turkish cigarette, crossed his legs and looked at the five men clustered around the one desk in the office. Paul Molise was the central figure, dark skinned, tall and long nosed; in his impeccably tailored three-piece suit he looked more like a high-priced surgeon than a merciless thug. Closest to him, and openly enjoying Sparrowhawk’s discomfort, was the hairy and smirking Constantine Pangalos. Then there was Lloyd Shaper, bearded, portly, an accounting genius, and Livingston Quarrels, blond and blue-eyed, a Jew passing himself off as a Connecticut WASP. Quarrels, an attorney, headed one of Molise’s dummy corporations and was one of three front men nominally in charge of the new auditorium.
Because the auditorium was important for Long Island, opening night had drawn New York’s lieutenant governor, Senator Terry Dent, three borough presidents, along with other political and civic notables. Celebrities included sports figures from New York’s professional teams, plus Broadway, film and television stars. Press coverage was extensive. Which is why Sparrowhawk demanded that security be perfect, an idea that had brought him into conflict with Paul Molise. And Molise’s foul temper.
What they had clashed over was tonight’s skim, money taken from admissions and concessions to avoid paying taxes.
Constantine Pangalos had devised the idea of listing the auditorium’s official capacity as twelve thousand three hundred and thirty-two, some five hundred short of the actual total. Income from these invisible seats went directly to the Molise family, and since they controlled concessions for food, drink, T-shirts and programs, they skimmed from these receipts as well. Tonight’s total skim came to almost seventy thousand dollars. Molise wanted that money carried to Manhattan a
nd placed in a safe at Management Systems Consultants’ office, where it would be picked up within hours and taken to the Golden Horizon in Atlantic City. Now. No excuses.
Intelligent men always make the same mistake, thought Sparrowhawk: we refuse to believe that the world is as stupid as it really is.
Tonight, Molise had brought only his bodyguard-chauffeur with him. Others associated with the family, particularly known hoodlums, had been told to keep away from the auditorium on opening night Too much press, too many police on hand. Molise himself had entered the auditorium office unobserved and would remain there until it was possible to leave the same way.
Without men of his own to do his bidding, the next best thing was to order Sparrowhawk’s men around, something the Englishman opposed.
“Cut the shit, Trevor,” said Molise. “I said get four of your men in here now and I mean it. I want this money out of here before anybody starts poking around. I’m talking about tax people. Federal, state, local, whatever.”
“And I tell you, I don’t have four men to spare. I need every man I can get. We’re fighting gate crashers, not to mention groups of drugged cretins trying to get in without paying. Barely holding our own against them. We’re dealing with scalpers, counterfeit tickets, screwed-up seating arrangements and, God help us, backstage security. And that little twerp entertaining the throngs out front keeps mentioning John Lennon, so we have no choice but to assign a dozen guards to him.”
“Fuck him.”
“You’re both consenting male adults and from what I understand, he might even enjoy it. Be that as it may, it’s in his contract that we supply sufficient security.”
Mouse slammed a hand down on the desk. “Trevor, you’re not in the army now. Somebody else gives the orders. You take them.”
The Englishman’s permanent squint hardened and he stared at Molise. Angry. His voice was a soft monotone. “We’ve had incidents tonight in the parking lot. Tire slashings, dope dealings, fights. As I said, we’ve managed to contain the situation so far, just barely. When the concert’s over, we’ll still need every man and the local police. Dignitaries must be escorted to the party two and a half miles away. We do want them to get there, don’t we? Don’t want them stabbed in the parking lot or urinated upon as they bend over to unlock their car doors, do we? Don’t want them to rush the stage and kill our star performer, do we? Don’t want to have the fans being trampled to death, do we? We’ve had emergencies tonight and on balance, my men are acquitting themselves quite well. However, there isn’t an extra man to spare right now. You could put this entire auditorium venture at risk by insisting I try and supervise this opening short-handed.”
Pangalos used a pinky finger to dig wax from his ear. “Now is a very small word, not hard to understand. Paulie says now. I mean, what’s to understand?”
Sparrowhawk eyed him coldly. “Tell me, please: does Paulie wipe his arse north to south or east to west. If anyone here knows, besides Paulie, I imagine it would be you.”
Someone in the room snickered, someone else coughed. The Greek lawyer froze, finger still in his ear. His nostrils flared. He forced a smile, shook his head. One of these days, Birdman, one of these days. All Pangalos had to do was wait. And remember.
Asinine, thought Sparrowhawk. All of it. All of them. He stood up. “Paul, a single negative incident tonight and you’ve undone months of work. The press will see to that and the press is something we haven’t bought and paid for just yet. If we let it be known that we cannot provide adequate security, all future bookings will disappear faster than a Jew’s foreskin.”
Livingston Quarrels laughed the loudest.
Paul Molise leaned back in his chair, listening.
“One night, Paul. One night makes or breaks this auditorium. I need every man I have. Can’t spare one. Well, perhaps one. Robbie. If the money has to go now, let him take it. He’s licensed to carry a gun and you know how good he is.”
Molise inhaled. He was coming around. “Cash-flow problem at the Golden Horizon. Right now I need every dime I can get my hands on. Can’t reach that fucking Jap Kanai. Still, dragging his ass over his dead son.”
“Son-in-law.”
“Whatever. And even if I do get him to pop for ten percent I’ll need more money for renovations, twice as much as I’d planned on. Look, Robbie’s fine, but one man. Shit, that worries me. Two, okay, but one. Don’t like it.”
Sparrowhawk had won. At last “Two men sounds bloody good. And I have just the second man. Dorian. He’s here tonight with a rather smashing Japanese girl. Michelle Asama. She’s one of our clients.”
The men in the room knew who she was. And approved. Was Sparrowhawk the only one who found the idea of her and Dorian Raymond an extremely odd coupling? She was intelligent, cultured, capable of running a business; not the sort of woman one normally expected to find in the company of Dorian Raymond.
Sparrowhawk had met Michelle Asama a few times, first at her Madison Avenue office, where he had personally checked the installed burglar alarms, new safe, new door and introduced her to the security guards who would be protecting Pantheon Diamonds. And he’d met her on a few occasions with Dorian Raymond. She had clung to formality with him, always calling him mister, saying as few words as possible. While it may have been the Japanese way, Miss Asama still seemed more formal than called for.
Was it his imagination or did he detect in her a hostility toward him? Not to worry. She was a client, paid her bills on time and one should never mix business with pleasure in any case. Let her be as glacial as the Antarctic. Sparrowhawk was devoted to his wife Unity and after more than twenty years of marriage still preferred her company to that of other women.
Molise was talking to Sparrowhawk, agreeing to the idea of using Dorian and Robbie. But the Englishman only half listened. Something about Michelle Asama that Sparrowhawk had encountered tonight danced on the edge of his subconscious.
Backstage earlier, she and Dorian had been among the crowd sipping champagne, mixing with politicians and celebrities all happily posing for cameras. Not Miss Asama. She had been adamant about not being photographed. Shades of Jacqueline Onassis, thought Sparrowhawk. Or was she part American Indian and terrified that the camera would steal her soul?
He had managed to engage her in a brief conversation, first complimenting her on the lovely black and white Halston she wore, with a white gold and black diamond pin on her heart. As usual, Miss Asama had seemed less than enthralled by his presence. Somehow the matter of education had come up, which led to a few words on French literature. Sparrowhawk had made a reference to the published works of Baudelaire.
Holding a champagne glass in front of her beautiful mouth and looking elsewhere, Michelle Asama said, “Baudelaire did not publish works, major. He published one single volume of poetry, Les Fleurs du Mal. If you are interested in works by French poets of that period, symbolistes they were called, I suggest you read Verlaine, Rimbaud and Mallarmé.”
She turned away, leaving him more irked than angry. He knew his literature as well as any man, but she was right. Baudelaire had debauched himself into an early grave and hadn’t lived long enough to turn out works. Still, Sparrowhawk didn’t like the way she had made him feel like a schoolboy who had just been paddled across his backside.
Sitting in the office with Molise, Pangalos and the rest, Sparrowhawk suddenly remembered.
Major. Michelle Asama had called him major for the first time. She had never done that before. What’s more, he doubted if she’d ever heard Dorian use the term. In the nauseating informality of all Americans, Dorian too often insisted on calling him Birdman or Tweety Pie, a vile habit acquired in Vietnam. He did use the name Trevor on occasion, but never major. Even if he had mentioned it to Miss Asama, he would have said it once in passing and not repeated it Why would she associate that rank with him? Even Molise never called him major. Sparrowhawk himself no longer used the term. Only Robbie still accorded him that honor.
Molise said, “Le
t’s go with Dorian and Robbie before I change my mind. Dorian’s got a car, if I remember. How much should we give him?”
Sparrowhawk said, “Sorry. Would you repeat the question?”
“Dorian. How much?”
“Thousand should be sufficient. Bugger’s only driving from here to Manhattan. Doesn’t have to know how much he’s carrying, either. He does have that Japanese girl with him.”
Molise shrugged. “She can tag along with him. Looks normal, having a woman along. Dorian’s a cop. He can give her a song and dance about having to return to the city on cop business. Tell me something: how does a schmuck like Dorian end up with a class act like her?”
Pangalos said, “Her side lost the war, so she’s got to pay.”
“Glaucoma,” said Quarrels. “Check her eyesight. You’ll find she has glaucoma. She thinks Dorian’s Clint Eastwood.”
Molise said, “A dipshit like Dorian getting into her pants. Go figure.”
Had Michi made a mistake? Part of her said what happened had been unavoidable. The rest of her issued a warning: leave the auditorium as soon as possible, before questions were asked.
She waited in a narrow hallway before a closed door and a uniformed guard. Dorian was on the other side of that door, summoned by Sparrowhawk and Paul Molise. Were they discussing her? Had she somehow slipped up and betrayed herself? Did they know about the incident in the ladies’ room just minutes ago?
She forced herself to stay calm, to tune out the uproar from the auditorium behind her. There must be no fear in her; fear weakened and robbed the mind of its powers.
The office door opened and she saw the four of them together—Molise, Ambrose, Dorian and Sparrowhawk. She turned away before the hatred on her face could betray her. Then Dorian had his arm around her shoulders. “Okay, babe. Time to roll.” He carried an attaché case.
