Meanwhile, there’s still the cop. Carter and Solly Epstein are due to meet in an hour.
Carter takes a thin poncho from a closet shelf and slips it into a backpack. He adds two bananas and a thermos filled with coffee, then eases the backpack on to his shoulders. Briefly, he considers and rejects taking a weapon other than the knife strapped to his calf. Suppose the snoop is a cop? True, he identified himself as a private investigator when he braced Miguel, but there’s still the chance.
Cautious by nature, trained to caution by the military, Leonard Carter avoids making decisions on the fly. He wants to know who this man is, why he’s asking questions about Leonard Carter and who hired him, assuming he’s really a private investigator. And Carter wants to accomplish each of these objectives without confronting the man on the street. Not that Carter doesn’t have a handy suspect, a likely betrayer, a man he never trusted but always liked.
Carter closes and locks the door behind him. He takes the elevator down six flights and walks out into the damp spring morning. Tulips bloom in a pair of window boxes to his right and the air is faintly scented by a small lilac bush in a townhouse garden across the street. Carter looks up at a sky the color of a prison blanket. He’s thinking that he woke up healthy this morning and he’s going to spend the night with Angel Tamanaka. Given the life he’s lived, as boy and man, he can hardly expect more.
Louis Chin’s been sitting in his rented Camry for three hours, feeling more and more uneasy about the silenced Glock stashed under the seat. Louis’s always been a good salesman, but what he sold Bobby Ditto was a bill of goods, at least when it came to his own background. Louis Chin’s never walked in Carter’s shoes. He led a company, sure, and he was assigned to Intel for a year, which is where he made his contacts. But the military he served was a blunt instrument, whereas Carter’s military was finely tuned. No way could Louis Chin operate fifty miles into Pakistan. Or Yemen or Somalia or Syria, for that matter. No way could he execute his mission – which for Carter meant executing human beings – and make it out alive.
Chin taps the steering wheel. The business of being a civilian has turned out to be a constant challenge. As he understands it now, the top-down military model suited him far better than the anarchy of the civilian world, every day beginning with new decisions, new consequences. Following orders was a lot simpler.
Of course, as a front-line Marine in Afghanistan, his life was at risk every day. That was why he quit. And now here he is risking his life again. Nevertheless, he’s certain that he has the element of surprise on his side. Even if Carter’s a paranoid type, he’ll be looking for Italian gangsters, not a well-dressed Asian.
Chin steps out of the Camry and into a light drizzle. He retreats to the shelter of a storefront canopy where he stretches, leaning to his left, then his right, in a vain attempt to loosen the muscles of his lower back. As he does, he glances up at a three-story building, a warehouse of some sort, located on a neighboring block, Myrtle Avenue. If he can get up on the roof, he’ll have an unobstructed view, both of the windows fronting Carter’s apartment and the main entrance to the building itself. Chin estimates the distance between the warehouse and the apartment building to be a mere two hundred yards. Maybe he isn’t the greatest marksman ever to enlist in the Marines, but armed with a rangefinder and a decent rifle, he won’t have any problem hitting something as large as a man.
Chin enters the little grocery store to find an Arab running the show. Two Arabs, actually, one by the cash register, a second behind the deli counter. That’s another thing about civilian life. Half the little grocery stores in New York are owned by Arabs. When had that come about? Why hadn’t anyone told him the hajis were taking over?
When no ready answer to either question comes to mind, Chin picks up an orange soda and a small packet of ibuprofen tablets before heading back to the car. Seated again, he chases the tablets with the first two inches of his soda and settles down. Back when he signed his discharge papers, he’d imagined a warm welcome from the many private security agencies owned by ex-Marines. And he’d gotten a warm welcome – Semper Fi, BooYah – but they were laying people off, not hiring. Now …
Chin stiffens when he picks up movement in the rear-view mirror. The man approaching the Camry on the street side of the vehicle is ten years older than Leonard Carter, with bull shoulders, a bald head and a cheap suit that has to belong to a cop. This is not good news, not with an illegal pistol under the seat. The silencer, all by itself, could put him in a federal prison for the next five years.
Sure enough, the man raises an open billfold as he comes up to the window, revealing a detective’s gold shield and an ID card. The billfold snaps shut before Chin can read a word.
‘Lieutenant Epstein,’ the cop says. ‘May I see your driver’s license and registration?’
‘Am I doing something wrong, detective?’
‘Yeah, you’re not complying with a lawful order. Show me your driver’s license and registration.’
With no real choice in the matter, Chin produces the documents. ‘The car’s a rental,’ he explains.
Epstein slides a pair of reading glasses on to his nose before scrutinizing Chin’s license and the rental agreement. He takes a spiral notebook from his pocket and writes down Chin’s name, address and driver’s license ID number.
‘Mr Chin, will you tell me what you’re doing here? You’ve been parked for the last two hours.’
Chin has the right to refuse and he knows it. He’s in a legal parking space and he’s not committing a criminal act. But then the cop smiles apologetically.
‘I’m not tryin’ to harass ya. I got a good reason.’
‘I’m a private investigator, detective. I’m on a case.’
Epstein’s eyes widen. ‘Yeah? A private eye?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re licensed, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Can I see your license?’ When Chin complies, Epstein examines the license, then says, ‘Mr Chin, do me a favor. Step out of the car and take a look around. Please.’
Epstein’s tone is so reasonable, the expression on his face so mild, that Chin simply exits the Camry to stand in a heavy mist that instantly coats his face. He looks around, as asked, discovering a single pedestrian, a massive black man in a red football jersey walking a dog that can’t weigh more than two pounds.
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘Ah.’ Epstein raises a finger. ‘See, that’s the whole point. We’re lookin’ for a serial rapist and we’ve got this whole area under surveillance. But you don’t see anything out of place because the whole point is to stay invisible until the mutt shows up.’
Chin looks at the ground for a moment. He’s thinking any port in a storm, any excuse to get himself and the gun out of Dodge. ‘You’re telling me that I’m messing up your operation and I need to leave?’
‘You’re definitely conspicuous. I mean, who sits in a car for two hours? People walkin’ the street see you, they’re gonna make you for a cop. Definitely. Now, I can’t order you to leave. You’re a private investigator, licensed by the NYPD, and you’re goin’ about your regular business. But I’d really appreciate your cooperation. We’ll be outta here by tomorrow morning, one way or the other. You can always come back.’
Chin accepts with a nod. Of course, he’ll cooperate. When Epstein hands over his paperwork, he slides into the Camry, starts the car and drives off. The relief that follows proves nearly overwhelming. Only at the last minute does he notice a stop sign at the end of the block.
Chin comes to a halt in the crosswalk, blocking the path of an elderly woman crossing the street. With the window still open, he listens to the tap of her cane on the pavement as she works her way around the car. Chin’s not resentful when she pauses long enough to favor him with a raised middle finger, not at all. He thinks he deserves the salute.
SEVENTEEN
Angel arrives at the Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art ninety minutes
before her appointment with Vincent Graham. A dedicated multitasker, she’s combining business with business, the first order of the day to choose a painting. Angel has a paper due for her last Art History class at Brooklyn College, a final thesis. She’s decided to compare storytelling traditions in Christian and Tibetan art, and to connect both traditions to the illiteracy prevailing in those cultures.
The paper, Angel’s certain, will be easy to write, its essential point beyond dispute, yet at the same time original because no one else in the class will think of it. In medieval religious art, candles symbolized holy illumination, flames the fires of hell. The lamb substituted for Jesus, the iris for the Virgin and the dove for the Holy Spirit, while eggs indicated the fertility of nature and chains symbolized slavery. Each of these symbols, and many more, would have been recognized and understood by the general population, just as today we instantly associate the golden arches with McDonald’s, or the swoosh with Nike.
Angel works her way up three levels before she comes upon a painting that nicely illustrates her main argument, a bhavacakra or Wheel of Life. There’s a printed explanation of the painting’s symbolism mounted on the wall beside the work, an explanation the work’s intended audience would neither require, nor understand, even if written in the Tibetan language. Prepared as always, Angel removes a pad and a pen from her purse, then fills a page with notes before turning her attention to the painting.
A series of concentric circles, the wheel is held by Yama, a fanged, three-eyed demon tasked with judging the dead. The wheel’s outer circle depicts the Twelve Causes and Effects, among them birth, conditioning, ignorance and desire. The next circle is divided into six sections and illustrates the six realms, the Realm of the Gods on top, the Hell World on the bottom. Between them, to the left and right, are the Realm of the Asuras, demigods burdened with every human vice, the Worlds of Humans and Animals, and the World of Hungry Ghosts. From the painting’s upper corners, two Bodhisattvas look down at the wheel. Finally enlightened after lifetimes of effort, the wheel no longer turns for them. Which probably accounts for their serene expressions.
Angel puts her notebook away and steps back, for the first time immersing herself in the painting. The colors are bold, the glaring demon, Yama, ferocious enough, with his tiara of human skulls, to thoroughly impress. This is no joke – that’s the message any Tibetan, even the most humble peasant, would understand. Since they’d instantly associate the three figures at the center of the wheel, a rooster, a pig and a snake, with the three poisons, greed, hatred and delusion.
After a few moments, Angel lifts a camera from her purse, a Nikon SLR, then meticulously photographs the painting’s every detail. She takes more than fifty shots before returning the camera to its case. Angel’s thinking, as she heads off to the lobby, that the bhavacakra perfectly illustrates all the points she hoped to make. Bhavacakras are ubiquitous, as well. A simple computer search will turn up hundreds of examples. No surprise. Transmitting a consistent set of ideas to an illiterate population was the whole point. Or so she intends to claim.
For just a moment, Angel toys with the idea of using twenty-first century symbols to illustrate a swing from religious concerns to a culture obsessed with consumption, a world of hungry ghosts. Then she shakes her head as she tells herself not to be a jerk. She’s already got an ‘A’ paper. There’s nothing to be gained by injecting armchair sociology into the equation, no reason to search the bush when the bird in her hand is already made of gold.
Angel spots Vincent Graham in the museum’s lobby. He’s standing with his back to her and his hands in his pockets, contemplating a Buddha carved from gray stone. He turns at her approach, his expression wary, as well it should be. Angel didn’t explain her mission when she arranged the meeting and Graham is a client, a repeat client whose fantasy boiled down to kidnapped-princess-sold-into-slavery. This is a script he certainly wants to keep from his wife and two adolescent daughters, a script Angel can reveal. But Angel hasn’t come with blackmail on her mind, far from it. Although he’s not Donald Trump or Bruce Ratner, Vincent’s a player in the city’s ongoing real estate game.
‘Angel, it’s good to see you again, though I have to admit I was surprised to hear from you.’ In his forties, Vincent Graham is short and round. Ordinarily a jolly sort, he’s not jolly now.
‘Believe me, Vincent, I never would have called you if I wasn’t desperate. But I’ve got a big problem and I know you can help me out.’
Angel’s deliberately cryptic statement does nothing to reassure Vincent Graham, but he doesn’t object when she takes his arm and leads him up the museum’s spiral staircase to a statue of the sleeping Buddha on the second floor.
‘Have you heard about Pierre?’ she asks.
‘Pierre?’
The suspicious note in Graham’s voice doesn’t surprise Angel. He’d put a move on her at their last meeting, offering to fly her to Costa Rica for a five-star vacation. When she declined, he handed over his business card, just in case she changed her mind. Now he’s afraid, and quite reasonably, that she might be recording the conversation.
‘Do you want to pat me down, Vincent? Would you like to do a strip search?’ Angel allows her smile to expand, revealing the edges of her teeth, the tip of her tongue. It’s obvious that good old Vincent would like nothing better, frightened though he is. ‘If you recall, Pierre ran Pigalle Studios. He’s the man you spoke to when you arranged our dates. Now he’s dead, Vincent. Somebody murdered him.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that. Why was he killed?’
‘Well, that’s just it. I don’t have the faintest idea, and the police don’t, either. But I got a call two days ago, a man’s voice saying that I know what I did and I have to pay for it. But I don’t know what I did and neither do the other girls he’s contacted.’ Angel tightens her grip on Graham’s arm as she leans into him. ‘I think the guy’s making it up as he goes along. I think he’s beyond crazy.’
Far from scared, Vincent is noticeably relieved. There’s no blackmail scheme happening here. There’s only the pressure of Angel’s breast against his ribs and a state of arousal that will become painfully obvious if pursued even a little further.
‘What do you want from me, Angel?’ He raises an apologetic palm before making an obvious point. ‘I’m not a tough guy.’
‘All I need is a place to go, a room or an apartment, if things get really bad. And I have money, Vincent. I’m not asking for a handout. If you can set me up with a place, I’ll be more than happy to pay you whatever it’s worth. But I need the keys today. I have to be ready to move.’
Graham waits for a troop of Buddhist monks to pass before he speaks again. The monks wear saffron robes and their shaved heads glisten. They smile and bow as they go by, their hands steepled together on their chests.
‘So, where were we?’ he asks.
‘We were talking about an apartment.’ Angel turns to face her benefactor. She stares into his eyes and finds them rapidly filling with a lust she doesn’t begrudge. Angel’s traded sex for money in the past and there’s no good reason for him to think she won’t trade sex for some other benefit. ‘Like I said, money’s not a problem. But I need the key right now.’
‘Does that mean you’ll be moving in?’
‘No, not today, and if I don’t use the apartment within the next two weeks, I won’t use it at all. But I have to be ready.’
‘Then what about my … my special place? The studio on Thirty-Seventh Street? Otherwise, I’ll have to call Varrier Management and have someone check the inventory. I don’t keep track of individual apartments. I own too many.’
The one-room apartment in question is dominated by a gigantic bed and a collection of sexual aids large enough to stock a small porno shop. Angel knows she’s not the first woman he’s taken there, and that she won’t be the last.
‘How much do you want?’ she asks.
‘How long will you need it?’
‘No more than a few days.’
<
br /> Vincent pauses for a moment, then says, ‘Let me see if I understand. You’re telling me that if you do need the place, you’ll need it within two weeks and you won’t be staying more than a few days. Do I have that right?’
‘Exactly right.’
‘Then I can’t charge you, not when you’re in trouble.’
‘Please, Vincent, I’d rather pay.’
‘No, I won’t hear of it.’ Vincent reaches into his back pocket. He removes his wallet and takes a key card from an inner slot. ‘This card works the lock on the outer door and the apartment door. Take possession whenever you’re ready, but call me as soon as you get settled. Otherwise, I might walk in at a bad moment.’
Angel rises on her toes to offer Graham a kiss that rocks him back on his heels. As she turns away, she thinks of Carter, of his life being little more than an endless preparation for the battlefield. Angel will never acquire Carter’s skills. That’s a given. But it doesn’t mean she’s without weapons of her own. Angel’s hoping with all her heart that everything works out, that she and Carter emerge triumphant to split Bobby Ditto’s money. But Angel’s not her father’s daughter. She will not put her faith in her hopes. And as for Vincent Graham, there’s always the little gun nestled in the toe of a boot, the one that fits her hand so nicely.
EIGHTEEN
Louis Chin’s in good spirits as he makes his way along Roosevelt Avenue in the Queens neighborhood of Flushing. For once, he doesn’t feel out of place, a sixth generation Chinese-American living in a Chinese-Korean neighborhood dominated by new immigrants. Louis doesn’t understand a word of Mandarin or Korean, the languages commonly addressed to him when he enters a shop or a restaurant, and he’s truly sick of the contemptuous looks bestowed upon him when he confesses his ignorance. As if the color of his skin and the shape of his eyes somehow binds him to a heritage in which he has zero interest.
Chin’s spent the last two hours in a bar with a war buddy, Nelson Flanagan. Flanagan’s in the private security business, running a start-up company in a hostile economic climate.
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