by Todd Merer
“My name is Kitty,” she said. “You are . . . ?”
“Thomas Brownstone. I came here to—”
“Brownstone, my ass,” said a woman from the doorway. She was slender but curvaceous in a formfitting exercise suit. Perspiration beaded her brow. She pushed hair from her face, and I recognized Missy Soo. Behind her was a man with a gun.
“Murdering an intruder is legal. Why are you here, Mr. Bluestone?”
“I had the impression I was expected.”
Her laughter trilled. “They sent you?”
The old woman perked up, clearly interested now. Missy noticed and wasn’t pleased. “Time for afternoon nappy, Grandmother.” Then she looked at me—Gad, she was beautiful—and said, “Come, Mr. Bluestone.”
Missy motioned for me to leave with her. So I followed her superb glutes down a carpeted corridor where fresh-cut flowers leaned from exquisite vases. We passed an inner courtyard in which butterflies danced. Missy walked briskly, long black ponytail dancing between bare, tanned shoulders.
Another corridor, shorter, ended at a door with a number lock. Missy punched in a code, the door opened, and the two of us entered.
Unlike the rest of the house, the room was sparsely furnished. A pair of computer stations. A studio-quality radio. Phones hooked up to jammers and recorders. One wall dominated by a map of Southeast Asia. From the north China coast, a red-dotted line circled a vast area of ocean that came near to Vietnam and the Philippines and totally enclosed Taiwan before curving back to the south China mainland. The setup looked like Espionage Central.
“Pay attention,” said Missy, placing her palm within the dotted line. “This is called the South China Sea for a reason. Europeans were painting their faces blue and killing one another when China’s peoples controlled the sea. And its bordering nations. Those were peaceful, prosperous days. The People’s Republic of China intends to restore that. The West must understand we do no more than they do. The Americans, by virtue of their so-called Monroe Doctrine, consider the Caribbean to be theirs. They react violently if others think differently. Witness Cuba, Panama, and Grenada. So, just as the Americans exert hegemony over the Caribbean, so shall the People’s Republic reign in the South China Sea. Do you see, Mr. Bluestone?”
I’d been studying the contours of Missy’s torso. I looked up, nodded, said, “No arguing with that.”
“How would America like it if we armed and defended Puerto Rico as an allied communist nation, around which we paraded our navy close to your shores?”
“Not very much, I’d say.”
“Don’t condescend.”
“Can’t even spell it.”
“You’re CIA.”
“I dislike acronyms.”
“Stop the word games. Our message for you to convey to your compatriots is simple. We do not want to repeat the tragedies of 2006. We’re ready to negotiate in good faith . . . if Mr. Marmaduke Mason is also prepared to do so. Is he?”
I shrugged. “I’m just the messenger. In fact, I have a message to personally deliver to your grandmother.”
“Is that so?”
“That it is.”
“Come.”
The old woman was napping. Missy leaned over and rearranged a stray wisp of gray hair, then kissed her brow. The old woman stirred. The tenderness left Missy Soo’s expression as she turned to me.
“You must stress to your people that any agreement must acknowledge there exists only one China. The mainland People’s Republic. That fact is nonnegotiable. Is that abundantly clear, Mr. Bluestone?”
“Copy that. Abundantly.”
“All right, tell Grandmother the message.”
The old woman’s eyes opened. She said, “There are many Chinas—”
“Please, Grandmother, do not speak.”
But the old woman ignored her, pointing a bony finger at the sea. “China is across the water.” She placed her hand over her heart. “I am a Soo whose ancestors rest there.”
I handed Duke’s envelope to the old lady. It shook in her grip as she tore the flap open. She took out the smaller letter, addressed to Kitty. Seeing it, she gasped, then opened it—
I suppose Missy had expected a verbal message and for some reason disapproved of a written, private communication. Missy snatched the letter from her grandmother’s hand. “You’re not wearing your glasses, Grandmother. I’ll read it for you.”
“I’m perfectly capable . . .”
Too late. Missy’s eyes swiveled across the paper. It was a brief letter, and a few seconds later she smiled. “Oh, Grandmother, you still have male admirers. It’s a letter from a gentleman promising his undying love. Must be an old admirer, he still calls you Kitty. Ugh! A gweilo name. You properly should be addressed as Madame Soo.”
Missy thrust the letter at Madame Soo, who read it avidly. From where I stood, I saw a few columns of handwritten Chinese characters. I hadn’t an inkling of what it said. Old story. Once I got some Chinese guy acquitted on a minor beef. The win made the local Chinese paper, which ran an article and my picture: post-trial and proud, sucking it up for the cameras. I hung the clipping in my office for a couple of years until some Chinese gang boy told me I’d cut and pasted the wrong text: under my picture was an article on herbal remedies for male sexual problems.
Come to think of it, that gang boy had been Scar.
“Your head’s on backward, dude,” he’d said.
A hint of rose tinged Kitty’s cheeks. Whatever she’d read had affected her profoundly. I had the feeling that Duke’s real message lay beneath the lines, that the communication wasn’t simply a love letter. Or maybe the proof of love was the fact that there was a communication.
The old woman looked at me. “Forgive me for not introducing myself properly. I am Madame Soo. Please inform the sender that I appreciate the letter.”
“I shall.”
Madame Soo reached beneath the incense bowl and took out a long wooden match, struck it, and held the flame to the letter. When it began burning, she dropped it in the incense bowl and watched the paper darken and curl to ash.
Missy hooked an arm through mine. I felt her breasts against me as we went down a corridor to a home gymnasium larger than the one I pay $300 a month not to go to.
She gripped a barre and stretched one long leg and spoke without looking at me, although I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“Tell Mr. Mason the primary matter is nonnegotiable. Lucky’s custody is to be transferred to the People’s Republic. Got that?”
I nodded. “Abundantly and clearly.”
“Are you always so goddamn flip?”
“Most of the time, I’m afraid.”
She clenched her jaw and continued. “In return for the People’s Republic receiving certain geographical concessions in the South China Sea, and the return of Lucky, the People’s Republic will renegotiate trade agreements that are very favorable to the United States. Over time, a concession worth trillions. Clear?”
Clear, if it was the truth. It seemed absurd that Missy, despite all her adorable bells and whistles, seemingly was representing China in a trillion-dollar deal. Meaning at the very least, she was a go-between to the top people in China. Or maybe she was top-ranked herself, one of those referred to as a princess, a daughter of an influential big shot, a Westernized brat who played at spying. Still, even more absurd than Missy’s participation was the insane fact that I was negotiating on behalf of the United States.
Which meant I’d just knowingly violated the Logan Act, which forbids private citizens from negotiating on behalf of the US government.
“I have a nonnegotiable matter as well,” I said. “Stella Maris is to be left alone.”
Missy smiled. “How sweet. Tell me, was Stella that good?”
I gave her a half-lidded look of disdain.
“I’m better,” she said, slipping into a mock-pidgin English persona. “I’m number one girl, gweilo. When you come back to see me, maybe I allow you a taste. Maybe I even make y
ou rich. Maybe you work for me? What you say, gweilo?”
I refrained from responding to her insults. See, I wasn’t done horse-trading. The first offer in a negotiation is never the final offer. The comeback to it has to be a way-upward demand, an opening gambit for something that will surely be refused but will later serve its purpose as a bargaining concession.
“I appreciate the offer, but let’s stick to business. We need one other thing: your bosses in Beijing will get rid of the fat midget who runs North Korea.”
“You’re joking . . .” Her smooth face quilted into frown lines. “You have the authority to propose that?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? You have the authority to reply?”
“I need to speak to . . . I’ll let you know.”
“Sure. I’ll be twiddling my thumbs.”
“It will take some time. I mean, your proposal would require an extraordinary effort. Maybe it could be . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, then,” I said. “Find out.”
She crossed to the door and held it open for me. As I started out, she put her finger beneath my chin and turned my face toward hers. “Do you want me, Benn?”
An offer hard to refuse, but I wasn’t a whore. I said, “I can’t afford you.”
“You can’t afford . . . ?”
“Morally speaking.”
Her smile became a sneer. “Go home. Wait until you’re summoned.”
CHAPTER 18
Upon returning to the Apple, I updated my personal profile. Rented a floor-through in a good brownstone on a Central Park side street. Signed a month-by-month office rental in case I needed use of a conference room. Ordered stationery and business cards. Overnighted to Miami and got my yearly physical from Doc Concierge. Filled his script for Valium. Flew back to Barney’s New York to refresh my wardrobe. Hit the gym for real. Got massaged, pedicured, a shave and haircut. Ate and drank in fine restaurants, and refrained from pursuing temptations.
Which doesn’t mean I didn’t think about them.
Came a night I staggered home drunkenly.
Fell into bed and fixated on Missy Soo . . .
Despite her stern veneer—or perhaps because of it—she emanated sexuality, a bouquet promising a garden of delights. But even thinking about bedding Missy was teasing the devil—
I went into the bathroom and vomited.
Went back to bed; visualized Stella . . .
Despite her ravishing beauty, I viewed her simply as a client. In retrospect, I regretted our brief encounter. She’d avoided eye contact throughout, and I felt as if I’d abetted her debasing herself by our acts, which were clearly not motivated by any lust for me, but rather to hurt another man, or perhaps herself.
Was she still with Dolores on the slopes of Anawanda?
If so, it was disturbing that Richard knew about it.
Now Dolores had entered my mind.
And she stayed there . . .
The next day, my real-estate lawyer reported, saying he was the bearer of good news. I asked what it was. He replied that it had been difficult to obtain, requiring trips to DC and Boston. “As agreed, we’ll amend our costs to your bill.”
I didn’t remember agreeing, but screw it. “The news?”
“I’m fortunate enough to have colleagues who take me into their confidence. Everything you showed me is accurate and truthful. Both the competing companies who bid are profitable international conglomerates. Their attorneys are from major firms. The competing offers are both twenty-five million US. The bank being used is Panama-based and specializes in tax-friendly LLC transactions. Independent appraisals value the property at thirty million. Summing up, I’d say it’s a good deal.”
“In your considered opinion.” I know lawyers. He was eager for me to proceed whether it was a good deal or not; big transactions generated big legal fees.
“Another thing? The Thai government is considering legalizing casino gambling. If that happens, the property value will double overnight. Please keep me advised, as there are certain minor aspects to the agreement I’d like to renegotiate.”
“Thank you. Along with your bill, please put your findings and opinions in writing.”
“Absolutely,” he said agreeably. “Anything else?”
I glanced at my watch. We’d spoken for fifteen minutes. Just long enough for him to bill me for a quarter of an hour. “Thanks for your counsel, Counselor,” I said, and hung up.
Shortly after, I met with the PI. He had a post-Phuket tan. His report was positive, too, not top-down but bottoms-up.
“You would not believe the ass there, Benn. Girls, girls, girls, and women that still look like girls. Thousands, drop-dead gorgeous. And thousands of old bucks with big bucks chasing them. Big cars, big boats, big houses. The hotel on the property was packed. Cost a fortune. Afraid that’ll cost you.”
“I was afraid you’d be afraid.”
I rented a car and drove out to speak to Duke. My nocturnal worries about my client, Stella, still nagged at me. I wanted to know if he’d been in touch with her.
I found Duke amid a field of scree on the cliff-side. Dr. Keegan, huddled in an overcoat, stood fifty yards away. Weird sort of doctor-patient relationship. Duke’s anger was so ingrained, he despised the man who kept him alive. Probably paid Keegan a fortune to surrender his dignity.
Duke sat with his arms around folded knees, looking out to sea. He must’ve heard my shoes scrunching but didn’t look up. I sat on a rock alongside him. His left hand cupped small pebbles. His right hand plucked one that he squinted at, then flicked into thin air above the sea.
“I smell a deep thought coming on,” I said.
“Fook yourself, you fooking fook.”
“I’d rather do one hundred push-ups, sir.”
He shook his head in disgust. Then tossed a pebble and spoke without looking at me. “God takes people from me.”
Seemed strange for Duke to mention God, but maybe Aung Three had been right. Maybe Duke was tortured by his shameful past and knew he was nearing a reckoning from on high.
He hurled the remaining pebbles into the sea except for one, which he dropped into his pocket. His eyes were wet, but whether from the sea air or his thoughts, I did not know. Nor did I care to know.
I said, “Let’s talk business.”
“Business? Sure.” A grin split his coarse face, and for a moment, he looked like the young man he’d once been. “Phuket’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I was sure he knew I hadn’t wasted my time in Phuket, but why admit anything to him? I shrugged.
“How was California?” he asked quietly, his expression sober.
“Nice weather. The old woman appreciated your note.”
“I see.” He paused, then, “And the younger woman?”
“Missy’s a fox,” I said. “A beautiful fox.”
“Missy’s a bitch. She’s red as they come.”
“She mentioned her support for mainland China, but many, if not most Chinese Americans feel the same way.”
“She’s no supporter. She’s a spy.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that. She asked me to convey the message that the United States withdraw support for Taiwan’s claims in the South China Sea.”
“Same old,” he said. “Then she demanded Lucky, right?”
I nodded. “In return, she promised the People’s Republic would make trillions of dollars’ worth of trade concessions to the United States.”
“Until they find a reason to rescind the concessions.”
“I thought that, too. So I upped our demand. I said no deal unless Beijing cuts off North Korea.”
For a moment, his expression froze but for a vein throbbing in his temple. Then, very slowly, he allowed a small smile, which became a big smile, which became a full-throated laugh. “You’re one ballsy son of a bitch. Dolores was right.” He paused as if considering something. “You doing Dolores?”
“Sorry, but I don’t do and tell. If you’re curious, ask h
er.”
“I did. She said to ask you. The old woman . . . she’s well?”
“Sure. As sharp as a tack.”
“That’s one fine woman.”
“My impression as well.”
“You’re satisfied with the Phuket property?”
“Still considering it. You heard from Stella?”
“We don’t need to speak to communicate.” He tapped his forehead. “She’s my blood.”
“Really? I don’t think she seems like you at all.”
I drove the rental back to town. Nice little car but not for me. I walked off the street into a Jaguar dealership and leased a top-of-the-line full-option model, on the condition it be delivered tomorrow. I figured might as well live large on Stella’s money.
The dealer gave me a ride home in a floor model. “We aim to please,” he said. “Time comes, I’ll give you a helluva deal on a trade-in for next year’s model. What’re you driving now?”
“I’m between vehicles. Say, you can drop me here.”
He pulled over, and I got out.
It was the twilight hour, and the East Side was slowing down, its outdoor cafés humming, the evening promising. I felt like getting a glow on. A pair of giraffe-legged models got out of a Maserati and crossed in front of me, tittering like I didn’t exist. My feelings weren’t hurt. I’ve had my share of kid models . . . now I was drawn to real women. Not women, a woman.
Dolores.
Funny, that. It felt good thinking about her, but I didn’t want a relationship. Too many other fish in the sea. Case in point: As I neared a café where candles glowed on outdoor tabletops, I spotted a pair of gorgeous crossed legs whose owner I recognized as an important Vogue-ish magazine editor. She was so pretty, she could have been a model, most probably once had been. I felt an urge coming on, so I palmed the maître d’ a Franklin and sat at the adjoining table.
I tend to be a man of few words. In court, I skip the bull and go straight for the jugular. With women, I go straight to introducing myself and asking if I might buy them a drink, or some such lameness. I was just about to do that when—
A man sat at my table, interposing himself between me and my intended.
