Beating the Babushka

by Tim Maleeny

  “Not at all,” replied Cape. “Read the headlines today, then go to the library and read the headlines from ten years ago. Five will get you ten the stories are the same. Mayor cuts budget. Trouble in the Mideast. President promises tax reform.”

  “This is starting to get depressing.”

  “You’re missing the point. I’m saying that I couldn’t change those things—they were too big, too complex for one person to solve. So I decided to stop writing about other people’s problems and start doing something about them. I just needed to do something.”

  “So you woke up one day and said, ‘I’m going to be a private investigator’?”

  “Actually, it never occurred to me,” replied Cape. “Then one day I get a call from an old friend who says his sister has gone missing and the cops aren’t buying his story.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  Cape let that sit for a minute before continuing. “I always had a knack for finding people. Over the years I’d learned where to look, what questions to ask, how to piss someone off just enough to get a reaction.”

  “You found her?”

  “Yeah, I did,” said Cape. “And it made a difference.”

  “Where was she?”

  “With a very bad man,” said Cape. “I got her back, he got hurt, and I got arrested.”

  “Arrested?” said Grace. “Why?”

  “I think it had something to do with the bad man getting hurt,” said Cape. “But in the end, she came home and he went to jail. And I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.”

  “The risk doesn’t bother you?”

  “I used to be a war correspondent,” replied Cape. “A real reporter gets into lots of scary situations, but he can’t fight back. I’d rather be a participant than a spectator.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been doing this a long time.”

  Cape shrugged. “Long enough to know it doesn’t do any good to wish you’d done something else.”

  Grace nodded absently, walking quietly along the path. Cape suspected she was thinking about her own choices. When she spoke again her tone had changed, as if changing the subject put a weight back on her shoulders.

  “The studio wants you to come to New York.”

  Cape stopped walking. “They know I’m alive?”

  “No—sorry—no, they don’t. I didn’t know myself when I called them. I was…kind of upset.”

  “You’re gonna make me blush,” said Cape. “So what did they say?”

  “I talked with Angelo, that unctuous asshole. He said Mr. Berman wanted to meet you, see if he could help.”

  “He said that before I was shot, or after?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cape. “It might.”

  “It was like we were having two different conversations. I was calling to tell them about the shooting, Angelo was calling me to see if you could come to New York.”

  “Which Mr. Berman?” asked Cape. “Adam or Harry?”

  “Angelo didn’t say, now that you mention it,” replied Grace. “But it sounds more like something Harry would say. Adam isn’t normally that, umm…helpful.”

  Cape nodded. “I’d like to drop in on the folks in New York unannounced, if it’s all the same with you.”

  “Sure,” said Grace. “But you don’t think the studio has anything to do with the shooting? I thought you said there might be a connection between the drugs in Tom’s apartment and a local drug dealer?”

  “There probably is, and I’m going to check that out. But Tom was working for the studio when he got killed. And we still don’t know he didn’t jump.”

  Grace turned, her nostrils flaring. “He didn’t jump.”

  Cape held up both hands. “The point is we don’t know what Tom was into, or how those drugs got into his room, or why someone tried to kill me on the beach.”

  “I’m your client and you’re telling me you don’t know anything,” said Grace. “What are your rates again?”

  “Funny,” said Cape. “You want me to start earning my fee, then you’ll let me ask your bosses some questions.”

  “Even if they’re not involved?”

  “They might know something without knowing they know it. That’s sort of how this works.”

  Grace took a deep breath. “Just—”

  Cape cut her off. “Tom was working for Empire when he got killed.”

  “So?”

  “Now I’m working for Empire, and someone tried to kill me.”

  “A lot of people work for Empire,” replied Grace, defensively. “What are you getting at?”

  “You work for Empire.”

  “You think someone wants to kill me?” Now she sounded more indignant than alarmed. “Why?”

  “I don’t, really,” said Cape. “So far the heat has been entirely on me, but you were close to Tom, and now you’re connected to me. So I’d be remiss not to mention the possibility.”

  “Remiss?”

  “I did really well on my SATs.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Cape chose his next words very carefully.

  “I don’t think you should be worried,” he said. “But you can always call off the investigation.”

  “I’m not ready to fire you yet.” Grace forced a smile. “The only thing I’m afraid of is what you might find out about Tom.”

  Cape thought that if he’d been Tom, he couldn’t ask for a better answer.

  “I’ll probably fly to New York sometime tomorrow,” he said.

  “I know there’s a flight out later today.”

  “There’s someone I have to visit first.”

  “What does he do?” asked Grace. “Another reporter? A cop? You seem to know some interesting people.”

  “She—my friend’s a she.”

  Grace coughed. “Sorry, guess that’s none of my business.”

  Cape laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “She’s not that kind of friend,” said Cape. “In fact, she doesn’t really like men. Not that way, anyhow.”

  Grace gave Cape a quizzical expression. “So what does she do?”

  “She kills people,” he said. “With her hands.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When Sally was five her parents died in a car accident on the outskirts of Tokyo. They were both killed instantly in a head-on collision with a truck driven by a yakuza, a member of the Japanese mob. Sally’s father had been a colonel in the U.S. Army, a special investigator looking into yakuza weapons smuggling. There were rumors the car accident had been an assassination.

  Sally’s mom was Japanese and beautiful. You could see her in the shape of Sally’s green eyes and the tone of her complexion, the luster of her black hair. Her dad was American of Irish descent and gave Sally his freckles and his laugh, a raucous bark only heard on rare occasions.

  Sally had no other relatives, so when her nanny Li Mei adopted her, there was no one to object. Li Mei had left her home in Hong Kong for Japan many years before, for reasons she kept to herself, but she felt it was best to return to old family and friends. Upon arriving in Hong Kong, the first thing she did was enroll Sally in school. It was a private and very exclusive school, yet there was no tuition. In fact, the school paid Li Mei handsomely in exchange for Sally’s attendance.

  The school was run by the Triads, whose absolute control of organized crime in Asia was under constant threat. That was the reason for founding the school, to protect their interests.

  By the time she was twelve, Sally could speak English, Japanese, and Chinese with no discernible accent. She could swear in all three like a sailor, since her classes emphasized colloquial sayings and street slang as much as formal speech. And, like most children, Sally knew basic arithmetic.

  Sally also knew how to make poison from common household plants. She could hit a man in the eye with a throwing knife from almost thirty feet away, or crush his windpipe with two fingers and a sudden jab to the throat. She could disguise
herself as any age, gender, or nationality, or become invisible, blending into the shadows like a wraith.

  Sally was an excellent student. The men who ran the Triads watched her progress very closely. Then one day, in return for her loyalty, they decided to betray Sally. No one ever said life in the Triads was fair.

  They never lived long enough to regret their mistake.

  Sally left her past on the far side of an ocean and moved to San Francisco. As far as anyone knew, she was a martial arts instructor who lived modestly in a converted loft above a grocery in the heart of Chinatown. She kept to herself, but a few people knew who she had been and what she was capable of doing. One of them was Cape.

  As he trudged up three flights to her loft, Cape tried to keep his breathing shallow. The stairs were killing him. The bandages wrapped around his ribs were too tight, rubbing against the wound. With each step he felt the scar being carved deeper into his skin. Amazing how one little gunshot wound could make you feel your age.

  The sliding wooden door was already open. Stepping inside, Cape called out Sally’s name, scanning the vast open space.

  The right wall was covered entirely in mirrors with a bar at waist height, giving the first impression of a dance studio. That image was shattered by the facing wall, filled with racks holding a dizzying variety of training weapons—wooden swords, bamboo poles, throwing stars, sparring pads for hands and feet.

  In the center of the room, three heavy bags were suspended from the exposed beams overhead. Above those were nylon ropes arranged in a complicated web, used for climbing and balance training. Cape glanced into the rafters and saw her, but only because he knew where to look.

  Sally was directly above him, hanging upside down from one of the ropes, watching Cape with a disgusted look on her face. She shook her head sadly.

  “Pitiful.”

  “What?” asked Cape defensively.

  “You were a sitting duck.”

  “You’re the one in the vulnerable position.”

  “Really?” Sally looked as relaxed upside down as most people do sitting on a couch.

  “Absolutely. The door was unlocked, and you’re hanging upside down. Unarmed.”

  “I knew it was you.”

  “What if it wasn’t?”

  “Had it been someone else, I would have been somewhere else.”

  “You sound like a fortune cookie,” replied Cape. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Your footsteps—no two sets are alike. You’re favoring your left side, by the way.”

  “Suppose I was a foot impersonator?”

  Sally barked out a laugh. “Suppose you were?”

  “Well, I could have a gun.”

  “You do have a gun,” replied Sally. “It’s in a holster in the small of your back, under your jacket.”

  Cape frowned. “I need a new tailor.”

  Sally wrinkled her nose. “Guns.”

  “I’m aware of your views on firearms. Those of us lacking your talents need—”

  “To compensate?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Is that why men always carry guns?”

  “If it weren’t for guns we’d be scratching ourselves all the time.”

  “Men do that anyway.”

  “But my original point remains, that you were vulnerable.”

  Sally snorted. “So shoot me.”

  “That’s a helluva dare.”

  “No, I insist,” said Sally. “I want you to shoot me.”

  “It might make a mess.”

  “I have a woman that cleans every Saturday.”

  “It would be awfully loud in this enclosed space.”

  “Trust me,” said Sally, swinging slowly back and forth.

  Cape shrugged, then drew his gun as quickly as he could. He didn’t intend to pull the trigger but thought he might prove a point. The gun had barely cleared the leather holster when he felt the knife at his throat. He hadn’t looked down as he drew, but he did blink, and in that instant Sally had disappeared. As he felt the cold tanto blade press against his neck, Cape realized he never even heard her hit the floor.

  “Your quarry is never where you think it is,” said Sally, standing on her toes to whisper in his ear. “So strike where it will be next.”

  Cape lowered his gun. “Was that Confucius?”

  “No, a teacher I had in Hong Kong.”

  “I don’t skate to where the puck is,” replied Cape. “I skate to where the puck is going.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Wayne Gretzky, the hockey player.”

  Sally nodded. “He would have done well at my school.”

  She took a step back so Cape could turn and face her. The knife had vanished somewhere within the folds of black cotton wrapped around her diminutive body. Just over five feet tall, she looked about as dangerous as a dandelion.

  “Was that the lesson for the day, sensei?” asked Cape, bowing. “What do I owe you?”

  “No charge for remedial students.” Sally returned the bow.

  They moved to a small alcove off the main room, where a traditional Japanese tea sat ready. They both sat on tatami mats, Sally looking infinitely more comfortable than Cape. He told her about his visit from the Russians and his fun at the beach. When he was finished, Sally frowned.

  “The Russian mob.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not the Russian tourism council,” said Cape.

  “You must be a detective.”

  “You’ve dealt with them before, I take it.”

  Sally sipped some of her tea. “Once, in Hong Kong. They’re crude, but thorough.”

  “Thorough.”

  Sally nodded. “Very.”

  “Swell.” Cape touched his side.

  “What does your client have to say about all this?”

  “Grace says she doesn’t know what’s going on. Right now I’m inclined to believe her.”

  “Grace? Your client’s a she?”

  Cape sighed.

  Sally looked at him and shook her head. “Are you trying to help her, or save her?”

  Cape held up his hand in warning. “I already got an earful from Beau and Linda.”

  “They’re your friends—you should listen to them.”

  “I’ve learned from my mistakes,” said Cape in a tired voice. “I am a changed man.”

  Sally snorted. “Men don’t change,” she said. “And your taste in women is atrocious.”

  “We just have different tastes,” replied Cape. “Any other advice? Want to lecture me on the proper technique for cunnilingus?”

  Sally snorted again. “There is no technique, you testosterone-soaked buffoon. There is only desire. If you enjoy it, then she’ll enjoy it.”

  “You know, this has been a really great visit. First you establish that you can kick my ass, now you’re lecturing me on bedroom etiquette. You sure know how to make a man feel welcome. Are you going to kick me in the nuts on my way out?”

  Sally laughed and held her hands up.

  “I forget sometimes how sensitive you are.”

  “Only during the weeks when people are trying to kill me.”

  Sally’s expression changed. “Murder is rarely personal for people like this—they just want you out of the way.”

  “I think I made it personal when they came to my office.”

  “Want to know what I think?”

  “Always.”

  “I’d get out of town until you know what’s going on.”

  “Way ahead of you,” replied Cape. “I’m taking the red-eye to New York.”

  “Want company?”

  Cape nodded. “That would be great.”

  “You need a place to stay until the flight?” asked Sally. “I don’t have any classes today.”

  Cape shook his head. “I have one more stop to make before heading to the airport.”

  Sally raised her eyebrows.

  “I’m going to visit the Sloth,” said Cape.

  “You’ve got s
ome strange friends,” said Sally. She set down her tea and walked silently back to the large room, where she jumped into the air, grabbed a rope, and disappeared. Cape shook his head and smiled.

  “I’ll take them any way I can get them,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Cape thought Linda’s hair seemed happy to see him, but he couldn’t say the same for Linda.

  She was standing at the bottom of the steps leading to the Sloth’s house, a small Victorian directly across from Golden Gate Park. Her hands were on her hips, which was never a good sign. “You’re late,” she said sternly as he walked up the driveway.

  Cape glanced at his wrist and realized he wasn’t wearing a watch. This was clearly an argument he could not win.

  “You’re right,” he said a little too quickly. “I’m an inconsiderate asshole. Anything else?” Linda’s hair swayed back and forth, which Cape chose to interpret as acceptance of his apology. Her frown, however, said he wasn’t out of the woods yet. “You’ve probably got plenty of other things to do, and I should have more respect for the value of your time,” he added.

  Linda’s eyes narrowed.

  “I have brought dishonor to the institution of friendship,” intoned Cape solemnly, his hand over his heart, “and I swear that from this day—”

  Linda’s right hand shot out in warning as her hair moved into fighting position.

  “Enough,” she said. “Another forced platitude and I might gag.”

  “So I’m forgiven?”

  “No, but I’m exhausted,” she replied. “Let’s go inside.”

  One step over the threshold made it clear that someone unusual lived in the house. The large living room was directly off the front entrance, overlooked by an open kitchen that sat behind a short counter. Despite the size of the room, the furniture did not fill the space in any traditional, decorative fashion. Instead, small islands of chairs and tables were arranged by function. A small couch and chairs were clustered tightly around a television, VCR, and DVD player, everything within easy reach. A few feet away a chair, reading lamp, and desk were surrounded by a semi-circle of bookshelves. Half a dozen such groupings dotted the carpet, each a small shrine to a very specific activity, each within a few feet of the next. And in the center of them all was mission control.

  An elaborate array of four plasma screens perched above a large curving desk, below which sat four servers, each the size of a small refrigerator and capable of storing untold amounts of data. Cables of every color snaked their way through a hole cut into the center of the floor. Arranged between the monitors was a plethora of peripheral devices, most of them unavailable from your local computer store. Cape thought he recognized one or two from the bridge of the Starship Enterprise, but Captain Kirk was nowhere in sight. Instead, sitting behind the desk with a bland expression on his face, was the Sloth.