Giri

by Marc Olden

  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.

  Four

  Yoin

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

  20

  IT 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.

  Decker turned the key, pushed the door open and stepped inside Michi’s apartment. After closing the door behind him he switched on the light and walked to the edge of the sunken living room. The smell of cigar smoke was still fresh in the air. The silver ashtray was missing from the coffee table. Whoever was hiding in the master bedroom had taken the ashtray with him. The bedroom door, which Decker had closed yesterday, was almost closed today. Cracked just enough to allow someone to peek out

  Decker concentrated. Mail left on the coffee table yesterday was still there. A shoji screen was not where he remembered it and the two ikebana vases in the tokonoma, the alcove, were slightly closer together than they should be. Decker had surprised someone.

  The detective tossed the mail onto the coffee table and took off his overcoat, folding it over his right arm. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and moved the folded overcoat to his front. Slowly, he crossed the sunken living room and moved toward the bedroom, which stood at the head of a narrow hallway leading to more rooms. Before he reached the bedroom the door swung open slowly and a man in a porkpie hat and knee-length leather coat eased out into the hall. Both hands were in his pockets.

  Both hands came out slowly. One was empty, the other held a badge.

  “Police. We’d like to see some identification.”

  “We?”

  “My partner. Behind you.”

  Decker looked to his left and down the hall. A second man had stepped from a bathroom. He was young, not over thirty and powerfully built, with wide shoulders, a thick neck and drooping blond mustache. He wore jeans, boots and a heavy white woolen sweater. He approached Decker tapping the palm of one hand with a rubber-handled screwdriver. Decker smelled trouble.

  He looked back at the eight-hundred-dollar leather coat “Cop, you said. Like to see that badge again.”

  “I just showed you my badge, Mr. …”

  “Decker’s the name.”

  “Decker. We’re here officially.”

  “Oh? Let’s see your potsy.”

  Leather jacket turned an ear toward Decker as though he hadn’t heard correctly.

  “Potsy,” he repeated, pulling his overcoat from the hand that held his .38. “Means shield. Badge. A cop would know that.”

  Decker took his badge and ID from an inside jacket pocket and identified himself. With his gun hand he motioned the guy in the white sweater closer. “You guys are good. Two first-class locks on that door and you walked right through them. Probably didn’t come in through the front lobby, either. What did you use, freight elevator? Basement garage?”

  Leather Jacket filled his cheeks with air and blew it out through his mouth. “Whoo boy. My horoscope said be careful in meeting new people today.”

  Decker turned his head to the right and dodged the screwdriver hurled at his left temple—but not in time to avoid a painful blow to his cheekbone. In the same motion White Sweater dropped to the floor on his right side under Decker’s gun hand, kicked up with his left foot His boot heel smashed into the detective’s right wrist. The gun went flying. White Sweater had reason to be confident. He had martial arts training and he was good.

  The kick numbed Decker’s right arm. Hot needles scraped at every nerve and fiber. But when he saw Leather Jacket a few feet away, bending down, reaching for Decker’s gun, his training said ignore the pain. Face sticky with his own blood, his right arm on fire, he leaped forward and kicked Leather Jacket in the ribs, once, twice, lifting him off the floor and sending him backward into the wall.

  Decker turned to face the other guy just in time. He moved like a cat, his eyes never leaving Decker. Whoever had trained the son of a bitch had trained him well. He took one long step, then leaped sideways high in the air, feet drawn up close to his buttocks. In midair he lashed out with his right leg in a side-thrust kick, the leg stretched to its limit boot heel reaching toward Decker’s face.

  Decker felt the rush of air as the leg passed within inches of his head, then whirled around to see the big man land out of range, on his feet, knees and ankles bent for excellent balance. And then he was facing Decker again, body sideways, inching forward, eyes locked with Decker’s eyes, each man looking for an opening to exploit.

  White Sweater aimed a kick at Decker’s groin to bring the detective’s hands down in defense, then quickly spun around, back to Decker, and threw a high kick at his head. Decker retreated, kneading his right arm.

  He flexed his fingers, squeezed his fist, felt the feeling and strength returning. Then he kicked twice, aiming low, going for a knee, an ankle. The big man backed up, but not far. Just out of Decker’s range. He wasn’t running. This guy was a thinking fighter.

  But he had overlooked his partner. Behind him, Leather Jacket struggled to get to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ribs and hugging himself with both arms. He was halfway off the floor, back against the wall before he said, “Fuck it,” and slid down the wall back onto the floor, and into his partner, clipping him from behind at the ankles.

  Off balance and arms flailing, White Sweater looked down at his partner, his back to the detective. This was Decker’s chance. With his right foot he pushed hard behind the big man’s knee, driving him to the floor. Now he had his man where he wanted him.

  Moving quickly, Decker applied the choke. With h
is right arm around White Sweater’s throat, right hand deep and thumb inside, left hand under the big man’s left armpit and over the left shoulder, Decker threw himself backward to the floor, pulling White Sweater with him. Then the detective wrapped his legs around the big man’s hips and thighs and, holding him in place, began choking him, pushing the edge of the left hand into his neck, pulling the right hand into the other side of the neck, across the throat, to cut off the brain’s supply of oxygen.

  Decker held his grip just long enough; didn’t want to turn the guy into a vegetable. His victim fought, wriggled, clawed at Decker’s arms. And then weakened. When Decker felt the man’s muscles relax, Decker released his grip, pushed the now unconscious man to one side, and retrieved his gun. Then he bent down and patted Leather Jacket. No gun. But he was carrying a very interesting ID.

  Leather Jacket’s name was Jay Pearlman. Decker eyed him. “Both of you work for Management Systems Consultants?”

  Pearlman, eyes closed, kept both hands on his right side. “Yeah.”

  “Where is he?” Decker asked.

  “Where is who?” Pearlman said. “Shit, I think you broke something.”

  “The brains of this outfit. Muscles over there isn’t the type to give orders. And you’re not carrying cigars.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

  “Want me to kick a hole in your other side? Don’t play dumb. You weren’t supposed to get caught at this, remember? I’m talking about the man who smokes those expensive Cuban cigars I smell. You don’t and something tells me the man lying there with the twenty-eight-inch neck doesn’t either. Now who smokes Cuban cigars and is the best wiretapper in Manhattan?”

  Decker turned around to face the bedroom. “Oye, Felix, get your garlic-eating ass out here.”

  The bedroom door opened again and a small, smiling Cuban, cigar clenched between white teeth, stepped into the hall. He was well dressed, three-piece gray suit, tie, a Burberry topcoat over one arm. An attaché case was in the other hand. “Decker, my friend. Como está?”