White Tiger
Page 6
“Yeah, four hundred pounds of blubber. I’d lose my dick in the folds of her fat,” Chee Wei continued. He turned the key, started the engine. “The housekeeper says they had a quiet night in. Watched some Chinese soaps on satellite TV, then went to bed around ten-thirty. Then they had their nightly lesbian fest. Mrs. Lin got hers first. The housekeeper says she likes it rough, right up to the elbow. She squeals like a pig when she comes. Hey, you listening?”
Ryker was listening but with only half an ear. He was thinking back to the night Shannon Young had died in this very house. Valerie Lin had been out of town. Ryker didn’t recall seeing the housekeeper then either, or the gardener. Were they employees or family? Did they travel with her? He knew someone must have checked it out, just as he and Chee Wei were checking on Valerie Lin’s whereabouts around midnight last night. Maybe the records still existed. Or had James Lin conspired to have them erased, as he’d so easily erased the minor problem of his son being charged with supplying tainted drugs that led to Shannon Young’s overdose?
“So I’m guessing you’re thinking about Mrs. Lin. Maybe she’s just your type. Maybe you’ll get the chance to talk to her again. Who knows where it might lead? A quiet dinner for two. Touching knees under the table. An electric spark. An invitation back here for a night cap. With any luck her husband’s slippers will fit. Maybe his robe and his pajamas, too.”
“Let’s go talk to James Lin,” Ryker said, and Chee Wei put the Crown Vic into gear.
CHAPTER 4
Tokyo, Japan
The sun was low on the horizon when Manning returned to his apartment in Tokyo’s Minato-ku ward. He had taken a circuitous route home, making several switchbacks and conducting the usual surveillance detection routines he employed out of habit, though he had no indication that the Fujianese had tailed him. And as Minato-ku was full of foreigners like himself, there was little chance they could find him near his home. As most Asians looked alike to Westerners, the reverse was true, though getting an Asian to admit such usually involved nail-pulling and teeth-breaking.
Halfway home, his DoCoMo cell phone chirped; he had received an SMS message. Manning checked the mailbox, and was heartened to see one word: Airborne. Chen Gui and his narcissistic nephew had left Haneda, and were bound for Osaka’s Kansai International. Excellent—step one complete.
Manning’s apartment was in a newer building in Roppongi Heights. His two-bedroom unit was on the 19th floor, which afforded him a grand view of the hellacious Tokyo Tower and all of Minato-ku, something he rarely tired of. It also had an alarm system, which was something he prized.
As always, the apartment was vacant when he entered. Shucking his shoes, he stepped across the ceramic-tiled entry foyer and crossed over into the kitchen, where he acceded to his customary ritual of opening the refrigerator and peering inside. He wanted a beer, but didn’t dare, not if there would be an op later in the night. So he chose a chocolate-flavored soy drink. The cherry wood floors in the living room gleamed as if they were glazed with glass, and his socks made for an uneven gait as he half-walked and half-skated to the leather chair that faced the windows. He lowered himself into it with a sigh, and sipped some of the sweet soy. He checked his watch; Chen Gui would be in Osaka in less than an hour, and his connection would depart 40 minutes after that. So for the moment, Manning was content to sip some soy and look out the windows at the growing night.
He must have dozed off, for the trilling of the cell phone brought him back to a much darker room than the one he thought he’d just entered a short while ago. He checked his watch groggily; hell, it was no doze, it was a full-out power nap. He’d been out for over two hours!
He rose from the chair, kicking over the empty glass, sending it rolling across the throw rug. Manning stooped to pick it up, then headed into the kitchen. He placed the glass in the stainless steel sink and picked up the phone from where he’d left it on the marble countertop.
To Dalian. Call LF. Msg Me Aft 12
Manning pursed his lips and cleared the message. Apparently, Chen Gui was quite worried about the future disposition of his rival, for which Manning couldn’t blame him.
He made the requisite telephone call to Chen Gui’s man in Shanghai, Lin Feng. Their conversation was brief, a verbal shorthand. Lin Feng confirmed he understood what was required of him, and that he would initiate the lengthy process of contacting Boss Tao in Dalian. The call completed, Manning pulled the card Chen Gui had given him from his back pocket, and wondered for a moment just what a young girl was doing handing out business cards to middle-aged Chinese gangsters who couldn’t even help her with her homework.
Chen Gui’s contact to the Fujianese gangland world was a young but world-weary fifteen-year-old girl named Chisako Noguchi. She had her own cell phone and answered almost immediately when Manning called. She was thrilled and delighted to speak with a foreigner, and she was greatly interested to learn how old he was. When he told her he was forty years old, she turned positively gooey with delight.
“I’ve never been with a foreigner before,” she cooed. “A white foreigner—”
“I’m sorry, but Chen Gui would never allow that.”
“Mmm.” There was a pause, and Manning was sure he could hear a television in the background. “Why should you care if he wouldn’t like it? He’s gone, isn’t he?”
“Giri,” Manning answered, using the Japanese word for honor.
She giggled. “You think Chen Gui understands giri? You’re more foreign than he is!”
“Chen Gui tells me you know the movements of the Fujianese snake head.”
“Yes...I’ll be with him at nine tonight.”
“Nine? Aren’t your parents going to be concerned?”
“It’s Friday, and I can stay out until midnight on Friday and Saturday. He’ll be taking me to Lychee tonight...you know it?”
“A karaoke club in Roppongi.” Manning knew it, though he’d never been inside. It wasn’t far from his apartment.
“Yes,” Chisako murmured. “We always leave through the side exit. I’ll send you his picture...” An instant later, Manning’s cell phone trilled.
“Just a moment.” Manning thumbed the menu buttons on his phone, and was rewarded with a photo of a very thin Chinese dressed in an expensive business suit. He had lank hair and oversized glasses which were held in place by an unusually broad nose. Even over the telephone’s small screen, Manning could make out the acne scars. He put the phone back to his ear.
“Got it, thanks.”
“We don’t have sex or anything,” Chisako said quietly on the other side. “Nothing like that. He just holds my hand and likes it when I wear short skirts. Do you like short skirts?”
“Sure. Why not.”
“Would you like to see a picture of me?”
“That’s not nec—” His phone trilled again, and Manning stifled a sigh. “Just a moment.”
He thumbed through the menu again. Chisako was a young, fresh-faced girl with eyes that were as empty and devoid of warmth as a hungry shark’s. Surprisingly straight teeth that were white, hair dyed to a glossy light brown, and smooth skin. A touch of eye makeup heightened the sense of budding exoticness she emanated even from a digital photograph. Manning put the phone back to his ear.
“You’re very lovely. Chen Gui is smitten with you, and I can see why.”
“But I want a white foreigner...” she pouted.
“How many men travel with your—with the Fujianese?”
“Usually only three. Sometimes four. They take two cars...Audi A8s. Black. Very kako ii,” she said, using the Japanese word for “cool.”
“How are they armed?”
“Two of them usually carry guns. They all carry knives, though. Do you like women with hair, or do you prefer them shaved?”
I prefer them legal, Manning didn’t say. He ignored the question and stuck to business.
“You’ll have to find an excuse to leave him. As they’re walking out to the cars. It’s very, very
important that you’re not there.”
“I want to see it.” Chisako’s voice was small and suddenly dreamy, and Manning had no trouble picking out the sheer lust riding her voice like a carrier wave. “I’ve never seen men die before... I want to see it. I want to know what it’s like.”
“That’s not at all wise. You could be injured, or even killed yourself.”
“You would shoot me? To get to your target, would you shoot me?” she whispered.
“No. But one of his men might, and that would be a bad thing.”
Chisako sighed. “I’m so wet now,” she murmured.
Manning put his head in his free hand and sighed. “Chen Gui would be very upset with me if you were to be hurt. That can’t happen.”
“Then don’t shoot me,” Chisako said coyly. “The man who opens the car door for him is armed. The one behind us will be armed. Mister Yang is always between them. One tall and thin, the other short and fat. The fat man wants to fuck me, but he’s disgusting and has bad teeth. Do you have good teeth? White teeth?”
“I’ll want you to send me a text message when you’re leaving the club. And you’ll have to get down as quickly as you can,” Manning advised her, knowing in his mind that she wouldn’t. “I’ll need a clear shot at him, but he won’t be the first. The others go first, then him.”
“If he tries to run, I’ll hold onto him.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“If you get some of his blood on me, I’ll come. Right there. I won’t wear any panties, and I’ll spread my legs for you so you can see. My manko is lovely, you’ll see for yourself, it’s like a small peach—”
“Noguchi Chisako! Do as I tell you!” Manning snapped in Japanese. “Do as I tell you, and Chen Gui will reward you with anything you desire. Anything. Do you understand me?”
“Hai, wakarimasu,” the girl on the other end of the phone responded. “Will he give you to me, if I ask? Will he reward me that way?”
“Remember what I told you, and do nothing out of the ordinary this evening. If you wish to remain the recipient of Chen Gui’s favoritism, this is a non-negotiable requirement.” Manning disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the coffee table. He stretched out on the leather couch and regarded the winking lights of Minato-ku outside. He couldn’t believe the conversation he had just had with a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl, of all people.
“My God, Japan is one fucked up place,” he told himself.
###
Despite the fact that it was a Friday night and the Lychee Karaoke Club was both a new and a happening place, it was situated on the corner of Kaigaken-mae street, which meant Manning could prowl the area without much trouble from the countless bar hostesses and streetwalkers who preyed on gaijin like himself. He found the door that Chisako had told him about, and saw the short alleyway it led into was only tepidly lit. While it would afford him some anonymity, it would also reduce his ability to carry out the act as quickly as he had hoped. He decided it was a fair tradeoff; he’d rather get it over with and risk having to take the time for a few more shots as opposed to standing out in bright light with a gun. Even though he was fast, there was a wealth of pedestrian and vehicular traffic in the area.
There was a Starbucks three doors down. Manning went inside and ordered a tall latté, and then sat in one of two available chairs. He sipped the latté and waited.
At just a few minutes before midnight, his phone trilled. Manning read the display; in hiragana was the message:
coming out now make me wet
Manning pocketed the phone and hurried outside. He entered the alley just as the first man, the fat one Chisako had told him about, stepped out. Loud, raucous music followed him, echoing in the alleyway. Their eyes met, and Manning was overtaken by a sinking feeling.
It was the Fujianese he’d taken out in the men’s room earlier in the day.
He heard Chen Gui’s voice in his head: “Why didn’t you kill him?”
Because my dream of becoming a wealthy fortune teller is officially on the rocks, he thought as the Fujianese facing him drew short. Recognition flashed across his face.
Manning went on automatic. He whipped the suppressed Ruger KMKIII pistol from its shoulder holster. Thumbed off the safety and fired two rounds—clack-clack!—into the man’s face. He collapsed into the arms of the man behind him, who hadn’t seen Manning yet. It wasn’t the mark, Yang; even though Chisako had said he would be between the first and third man, they hadn’t synchronized their formation yet. Manning fired another two shots, and charged toward the door as the two bodies collapsed.
Manning stepped into the doorway and came face-to-face with Chisako, her eyes wide and bright, her face flushing with unmistakable ardor at what she had just witnessed. Behind her, the older Fujianese, Yang, backpedaled right into his third and last remaining bodyguard.
Manning fired right over Chisako’s head. She squealed in delight as the .22 clicked and spat its small gout of fire from the end of the suppressor. Yang took both rounds in the right eye, and he crumpled against the man behind him. Manning glimpsed a stainless steel-plated Browning Pro-9 as the guard frantically tried to shrug off his boss’s body, now concerned only for his own safety. It was too late for him. Manning advanced and snapped off another two rounds. One bullet caught the man in the left eye, while second plowed through the bridge of his nose.
There was more movement behind the last man, and Manning caught a glimpse of bright, shiny blond hair. One of the club’s hostesses stared at Manning through the pale light of the hallway. Light that was too bright for him to trust his identity was known only to the dead.
“Gomen nasai,” he said, his voice barely audible above the karaoke music. The hostess started to scream, but had barely drawn enough air into her lungs when Manning’s last two rounds penetrated her skull and broke apart, turning her brain into something more akin to lifeless oatmeal than a sophisticated bundle of nerves, neurons, chemicals, and pathways that together served as the human brain.
“Oh yes,” Chisako murmured from behind him. “Oh, so unexpected, so beautiful!”
Manning turned and headed for the door behind her. “Get out of here,” he hissed.
Chisako grabbed his hand and shoved it between her legs. He momentarily felt the wet heat of her sex, his fingertips grazing her swollen vaginal lips, the palm of his hand brushing the silkiness of her shaven mound.
“I’m so wet, look what you’ve done to me!” she gasped. “Take me with you—take me with you and fuck me!”
“Get the hell out of here!” Manning snatched his hand out from between her thighs and shoved her against the wall. “Go on!”
Chisako only smiled slavishly, head lolling, eyes on the corpse of her Fujianese benefactor, blood pooling on the rubber matting on the floor, leaking from the wounds in his head. Her right hand darted between her thighs, raising her plaid skirt; she cried out as she immediately broke out in a shuddering climax.
Manning fled, replacing his gun in its holster. So far, his actions had attracted no interest; no one even turned toward the alleyway. Keeping his head down, Manning stepped out into the pedestrian traffic. After a block, he hailed a taxi and gave him the address of a small coffee shop on a narrow street a mile away. From there, he would walk a circuitous route to the parking garage in Shibuya where he had left the Friendee.
Chen Gui had his revenge, and his territory returned to him.
Jerome Manning would soon have two hundred thousand dollars to play with.
But it would be years until he forgot the hostess. If ever.
###
“Moshi-moshi.” Ryoko’s voice was smoky and subdued, even though Manning knew she hadn’t gotten out of bed until at least three o’clock that afternoon. She hadn’t even been awake for ten hours.
“Ryoko-chan. Are you alone?”
“Hai. I didn’t go out tonight. Where are you?”
“Downstairs.”
“A few moments, please.”
A car trundled past, rap music blaring—Japanese rap music, which almost always made Manning crack up. Tonight it did nothing for him, couldn’t even begin to chip away at the mantle of depression and self-loathing that encased his soul. For the thousandth time, he wondered how he had wound up so far off course, his morality compass spinning like a runaway gyro. He feared for his humanity; at times like this, the reasons he did what he did seemed distant and cold and small, like the love of the dispassionate God he had once prayed to. If there was a road to salvation, he was certain he would be forbidden to travel it. It did not sadden him, but knowing this was what was allotted for him occasionally made him angry. And as time wore on, he found he merely existed on two emotions: anger and depression. No, that wasn’t entirely right; most of the time he was just as hollow as an empty bottle of beer forgotten on a shelf, doing nothing more than gathering dust.
The dome lights snapped on as the passenger door opened, and Manning stirred from his dark reverie, watching as Ryoko Mitake climbed into the Friendee, her face composed, her lovely features accentuated by only the slightest touches of makeup. She was dressed in a black skirt, broad white belt, and a black sweater over a thin white T-shirt that exposed her taut midriff. She took Manning’s hand as she claimed the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. She smiled at him wanly, and it was a beautiful sight. The dome lights dimmed out, leaving them in darkness save for the glow of the dashboard lights and the actinic glare of the nearby streetlight.