DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  “Trying to work out how Ronin might get into the Makatashi Building.” He told me what he had in mind and said he’d need some help.

  “I’ll send somebody over. What about Sakura?”

  “She’s Makatashi’s bodyguard. She’s going to stay by his side as much as possible.”

  “Perimeters of security.”

  “That’s what I told her. Once inside the parking garage, you were past the first perimeter.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  “You, too.”

  I clicked off and Orville said, “He dropped him off at a Quality Inn out by O’Hare.”

  52

  Derek

  Sitting behind the wheel of a Makatashi company car, a big black Lexus with tinted windows parked in a shadowy corner of the entry level of the underground parking garage of the Makatashi Building, Derek took a sip of coffee. He didn’t expect anything to happen until morning.

  It was possible nothing would happen. Huge chunks of his professional career in the military, briefly in the CIA, for the World Health Organization and the UN, then Homeland Security, were spent preparing and waiting for things to happen. From time to time they did and in his experience, they were often horrible when they happened.

  He wondered about his career decision-making paradigm.

  Sakura was sticking close to Makatashi, who had an apartment in the building. When cars started coming into the garage in the morning, Derek would be checking every one.

  But in case Ronin tried to get in earlier, he was going to stay alert.

  He’d done more than his fair share of surveillance in his years in the Green Berets, often in significantly less comfortable and more dangerous situations than he currently found himself.

  Still, he was older and comfort could be as much of a problem as none. So he’d asked Sandy to join him or give him someone to take shifts, to help stay alert.

  So far he hadn’t heard a thing.

  An hour later, his phone buzzed.

  “Stillwater.”

  “Yo, Derek, where are you?”

  With a sinking feeling, Derek said, “LeClare?”

  “Yeah. Sandy called me, said you need help with surveillance at the Makatashi Building. I’m across the street. Where are you?”

  Fuck.

  With a sigh, Derek said, “You got food?”

  “I can get some. You got coffee?”

  “Bring more.”

  “You got something to piss in?”

  “The advantage of two people…”

  “I’ll get a two-liter of Coke. Just in case.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Be back in an hour. You on the main level?”

  “Yeah. When you’re back, text me, I’ll walk you past the security guard. He knows I’m here.”

  Trying to sound like a half-assed Arnold Schwarzenegger, LeClare said, “I’ll be back.”

  53

  Jimmy Brewster, Jr.

  Jimmy Brewster couldn’t believe the message he received.

  Jackson Station. Take the train to the city. Start at midnight.

  He’d typed back: How will I know it’s you?

  Ronin had replied: I know who you are.

  Sitting back in his room at the O’Hare Hilton, Brewster felt his heart stutter.

  What the fuck?

  This Ronin, part of the deal was anonymity. Communication through anonymous online portals, blind emails, dummy phones, numbered accounts.

  He wasn’t supposed to know the true identity of Ronin and the assassin absolutely was not supposed to be able to figure out who he really was.

  Had Michiko, his contact in Japan, sold him out?

  That had to be it.

  But he’d known Michiko a long time. Trusting wasn’t how he would describe their relationship. But during his years working with the Japanese government and military as a contractor liaison, they had come to an understanding about how business and the world really operated.

  If you needed some leverage on a competitor or a bureaucrat or politician, Michiko had known where to look. Maybe the politician had a taste for little girls. Or maybe the bureaucrat had been skimming from accounts. Maybe your happily married competitor had a girlfriend or two. A couple photographs, some bills, and a threat to share with the wife or her attorney, get a low bid on a project, or some concessions on a contract.

  Or maybe a union rep in France was making too many demands. Maybe he would have an accident, step in front of a taxi, slip and fall coming out of his house one morning.

  Things like that could happen.

  Michiko had worked with him on these.

  Granted, this deal with Makatashi had been at a higher level.

  What was he going to do?

  He considered bailing on the whole thing. Hands resting on the keyboard of the laptop, he considered typing: Abort the mission. The money is yours. We’re done.

  And then Makatashi would finalize this contract between the U.S. government and Japan, and DynaCorp would spend the next twenty years trying to catch up. By that time his old man would be retired or dead and the company should be his.

  He wanted this deal to go through. He wanted DynaCorp to lock in on the U.S. and Asian markets while he was in charge of those markets.

  Once that announcement went out, the stock would jump and his net worth would almost triple, and there’s be no way the board could deny him.

  He typed: Affirmative.

  54

  Sandy

  It took some time to coordinate between Captain O’Day and the Sheffield PD. Sheffield had supplied a detective, a Simon McCafferty, who had thinning red hair, pale blue eyes, and a size and heft that made Orville seem like a fitness model in comparison. Sheffield had also sent along two uniformed cops. I told them to sit in their car and stay tuned, but to otherwise don’t get in the way.

  O’Day had sent out two uniform who were given the same message. She’d asked if I needed SWAT.

  “I hope not.”

  “Yes or no, Beach.”

  I took a moment to consider that. But Ronin was one guy. If we did this right, we wouldn’t need SWAT.

  “No. We’re good.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Orville, behind the wheel, with McCafferty in the back seat, said, “Who’s going in?”

  “Me,” I said. “And Simon.”

  And in we went. McCafferty was a blustery guy, wanted to do the talking, didn’t have much patience for women cops or Chicago PD operating in his jurisdiction

  I was tempted to cuff him to the bumper of the car. And maybe take the car for a spin. But instead I agreed that he should be the one to talk to the motel’s staff to get a room number.

  Lumbering across the gold and red carpet to the front desk, where two young women were trying to look attentive instead of tired and bored, McCafferty flashed his badge. “We have reason to believe a fugitive is staying at this hotel. He probably checked in the last couple hours.”

  One of the women, who was short and slender with corn-rowed hair and milk-chocolate skin, said, “That Japanese guy from TV?”

  “You’ve seen him?” I asked, ignoring McCafferty’s annoyed glare.

  “I told you,” said the other woman, a Minnesota blonde, probably six-feet tall with pale skin and plump cheeks, looking like when she wasn’t minding the desk she was out milking cows. Or wrestling them.

  “It’s not like there’s a shortage of Japanese guys checking in here. And Korean, Chinese, Taiwanese, whatever.”

  “Yeah, but you told me he—“

  Sandy supplied a photograph. “This him?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Room?” McCafferty snapped. “What name did he register under?”

  “Uh…” The blonde checked the computer. “Shouldn’t you have a warrant or something?”

  “Not under these ci
rcumstances,” I said.

  “My boyfriend’s sister’s going to law school,” the short one said, “and she’d probably disagree with you. I think you need a warrant. I might have to call my manager.”

  McCafferty growled, leaning forward so his man-boobs were hanging over the counter. “Look, honey, I appreciate that you think you know more about the law than we do, but there’s something called ‘hot pursuit,’ so here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna give us the room number, the dude’s name and credit card number and any other information he gave, then you’re going to give us a key to his room. And you’re gonna do it right now with no more yappin.”

  I suddenly liked McCafferty a little bit more.

  “Joe Matsumura,” the blonde said. “Uh, says he’s from San Francisco. And, he’s using an Amex. You want the number and date?”

  “Yes,” I said, pulling my notepad and jotting the information down. “And we want the names of the people in the rooms on either side of him. And if you can call the rooms and let me talk to them for a moment, that would be great.”

  And two minutes later we had the room number and a keycard to the room. No one answered in one of the rooms. In the other I asked Jerry Coughman, a sales rep from Baltimore who’d just flown in a little while earlier, to come down to the office as soon as possible.

  Five minutes later he showed up, a stocky man with gray hair and soft brown eyes. I informed him what was going on and asked him to wait in the lobby for a few minutes.

  Then McCafferty, Orville and I headed down to the room, waving over the four patrol officers, giving them a head’s-up.

  In we went.

  Orville and I looked at each other and shook our heads. “Dammit!”

  “At least his crap’s here,” said Simon. “The question is, do we search it or do we stake out the room waiting for him to come back?”

  55

  Brewster

  Feeling edgy and angry, Jimmy Brewster followed directions. He got on the blue line and headed into the city, riding in the second car. The Ronin had told him to ride all the way into the city and get off at Jackson Station on Dearborn.

  The train wasn’t very busy this late at night. A couple other travelers coming in on late flights, heading into the city either to party or to check into hotels, those people more obvious because of their luggage.

  At a stop about halfway to the city, Brewster wasn’t paying much attention—Irvine? Irving?—the three other passengers on the train car exited and a single man walked in, a gangbanger in black jeans, boots, a Chicago Bears jersey, a denim jacket, a black skullcap pulled over his scalp, wraparound sunglasses, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  Ronin? He seemed like he might be Asian, but it was damned hard to tell. Darker skin, but he could have been Hispanic, light-skinned black, and yeah, Japanese.

  The guy sat behind him, which given that they had the entire train car to themselves, made him uneasy.

  “What the fuck do you want?” the man said.

  “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am.”

  “You said Jackson Station.”

  “And yet, here I am. Again, why are you here?”

  “To make sure you get the job done that I paid you for.”

  “It’s a difficult assignment and there have been problems, but I don’t see how your presence here helps either one of us.”

  “I felt the personal touch was—“ Brewster broke off as he felt something sharp and cold touch the back of his neck.

  “Listen very carefully,” Ronin said. “Your presence here is unwelcome. It is not helpful. You are not applying pressure. You are not being a leader or an executive or any of that other bullshit you VPs and CEOs and what-have-you think you have. You are in the way. You are a complication. And you are putting both of us at risk. At the Jackson Station, get off, cross over and take the north train back to O’Hare and catch the first flight back to Austin. The primary objective will be completed tomorrow.”

  “What about—“

  “If you still want them done after the primary is taken care of, I will take care of it. But the heat on that is enormous and it won’t go away.”

  “I already paid you—“

  “There are risks to every speculative business. You’re now in a very high-risk business venture. Very high risk.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Brewster said. He turned in his seat to face the Ronin. The blade held at his neck disappeared up a sleeve in the blink of an eye.

  “I’m educating you. And frankly, I’m protecting you. Get out of here. You don’t want to be on the field of battle. You don’t belong here.”

  “Let me tell you something, asshole,” Brewster snarled. “You do this job and get it done clean or—“

  Ronin stood up abruptly and headed for the door as the train slowed to a halt at the Belmont Station.

  “You’re some kind of stupid,” Ronin said, “to threaten me. If this deal goes bad, you’re going down. Now go home, little boy. Go home to Daddy.”

  56

  Derek

  LeClare slid into the passenger side of the car with a bag of groceries. “All set. Been a few weeks since the last time I did surveillance.”

  With a mental sigh, Derek said, “And that was for…?”

  “Divorce case. Woman thought her husband was porkin’ her sister.”

  Derek winced. “And was he?”

  “Yeah. Just about every day. Gotta give him credit for his stamina. I got some video. Went on for hours. I don’t know if it was Viagra, Cialis, or what, but he was like the Ever-fuckin-ready Bunny, y’know what I mean? He’d take long lunches—he was an accountant at one of the big city firms, TT&H—I always called ‘em Titty-H—and he was pretty up there, partner, one of their veeps, so he could get away with a three-hour shagadelic lunch, doing the ol’ shaboink—“

  “Shaboink?”

  LeClare was rummaging around in the paper bag, pulling out sticks of beef jerky, a six-pack of Mountain Dew, and a couple deli sandwiches that smelled great in a garlicky, meaty way that made Derek wonder just how horrible the interior of the car was going to smell by morning.

  “Yeah, shaboink. Y’know, bump uglies, beat cheeks, the horizontal bop, hide the salami, lay some pipe…” He trailed off when Derek didn’t say anything. “What?”

  “No, go on, Guy. I was in the Army. I’ve heard most of these. Shaboink was just new.”

  “Slap and tickle.”

  “Heard it.”

  “Hot beef injection.”

  “An oldie but a goodie.”

  “Knock boots.”

  “I prefer sex with my clothes off.”

  “Well, aren’t you just a purist,” LeClare said. “Probably only do the missionary position.”

  “Well,” Derek said, “it’s a classic, but I’ve read the Kamasutra—“

  “Me, too!”

  “Not surprised, and although I haven’t exactly worked my way through it from Samdamsha to Vyomapada—“

  “I love it when you talk dirty.” LeClare offered some jerky to Stillwater.

  “You’re sticking that in my face while we’re talking about the Kamasutra?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Never mind, Guy.”

  “Anyway, you were talking about Sam’s Dash and vagina-pad.”

  “It’s Hindi. Or maybe Sanskrit, now that I think about it.”

  “What were we talking about?”

  “Slang for fucking,” Derek said. “I think your last one was lay some pipe.”

  “Yeah. Why do you care? I didn’t think this would be your kind of thing, Stillwater. You’re kind of, well, a stick-in-the-mud.”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “Gimme some jerky. I’ve killed a lot of time on patrol, surveillance and just plain waiting for something to happen, Guy. Talking about sex is as good a way to kill time a
s any.”

  “And better than most.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Derek said, peeling back the wrapping and taking a bite of the jerky. Blinking, he held the jerky out and double-checked the wrapper. “Jesus, Guy, garlic chili pepper beef jerky?”

  “Yeah, is that any good? Mine’s lemon garlic.”

  Derek cracked open a Mountain Dew. “It’s not bad. But Jesus, man, in a couple hours my farts’ll blow up the car.”

  Derek chewed for a second. “My parents are missionary doctors. Whenever someone says something about the missionary position, I think about my parents having sex.”

  “That sucks.”

  “I don’t want to think about that either.”

  “People fuck, Stillwater. How was that mathematician?”

  “Never made it that far, but she was pretty hot.”

  “You mean she’s available?”

  “She’s something.”

  “Maybe once the case is over, you can go back and get some. When there’s more time.”

  Derek chewed on his jerky, contemplatively, or as contemplatively as the garlicky, spicy, salty beef allowed. “Storm the cotton gin.”

  “What?”

  “Oh. Just another weird term for sex I came across once. Never really heard anybody use it.”

  “Sounds like something out of Alabama.”

  “Yeah. Or Georgia.”

  “But about that mathematician…”

  Derek frowned. “Once this investigation’s wrapped up, there’ll be some other dumbasses trying to kill people. I probably won’t be around town.”

  “Your loss. Maybe I’ll look her up.”

  “I’m not sure you’re her type.”

  “What type is that?” LeClare was now working on a corned beef sandwich on rye with garlic mustard and Swiss cheese.

  Derek was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Maybe you’re right, Guy. I kind of got the idea she had a thing for law enforcement types.”

  “Then I definitely want her number.”

  And so it went.

  57

  Anne Sakura

  Anne checked in on Ichiro Makatashi. In the days she had been acting as the man’s security, she had come to regard him almost with awe. Certainly, in her experience with the rich and powerful, he deserved respect.