The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) (15 page)

THE
ANGRY
MAN

Beckman drove, while Masuto sat in the back seat of the car and talked to Maria. As they swung up Sunset Boulevard toward West Hollywood, he said to Beckman, “Easy, Sy. I don't want to attract any attention, and I don't want any sheriff's cars or L.A. police pulling us over to find out what we're up to. Just stay on it nice and easy.”

The girl was crying again. “I gave you my promise, Maria,” Masuto said to her. “I told you no harm would come to you and that I am not an immigration agent.” He repeated it in Spanish. “So no more crying. We have only a little time, and you must answer my questions.”

“I will try.”

He gave her his handkerchief. “Dry your tears. You are not betraying anyone. Do you think that people who murder, who will kill a small child—do you think such people can be betrayed?”

“I don't know.”

“Then believe me. Now tell me, before, when you spoke of the car, was that the car he drove you in, this man, Frank?”

“Yes.”

“Where was it parked when you left the hotel that night?”

“Down the hill from the service entrance.”

“What kind of a car was it? A fine car?”

“A splendid car. A Mercedes. I asked him how a busboy could drive such a car.”

“Yes? What did he say?”

“It was not his car. A friend's.”

“Did you ask him what friend?”

“He said a dear friend. It made me think it was a woman,” Maria said. “I don't know why. I just thought so. And I asked him. He became very angry.”

“Did he tell you?”

“No.”

“What color was the car?”

“Dark red.”

“Did you notice the license plates?”

She nodded. “Yes, the state of Nevada.”

“You said he lived with his brother?”

“He said that.”

“You didn't see the brother?”

“No. Only Frank—Issa.”

They had turned south on La Cienega now, and then left into Fountain Avenue. Beckman said over his shoulder, “I caught that about the red Mercedes. We could find out if Binnie Vance owns a red Mercedes.”

“It will all be over by that time, one way or another.”

“I could put it on the horn.”

“No!” Masuto snapped. “I don't want anything on the radio. I don't want any questions or answers.”

“Okay, Masao. It's your shtick.”

“Did he say anything about seeing you again—or when?” Masuto asked the girl.

“I did,” she replied plaintively. “He was nice.”

“Did he say he would see you again?”

“He said maybe. He said he didn't know if he would stay with the job or not. He didn't like being a busboy.”

“Him and the brother makes three,” Beckman said.

“Yes.” Then Masuto asked the girl, “Did he speak of any other friends? Any other brothers?”

“No. No, I don't think so.”

“It don't mean they were actually brothers,” Beckman said.

“I know. It doesn't matter.”

They drove on in silence for a while, and then Beckman said, “We'll be coming up on Western in a few minutes. Maria should start looking. What do you want me to do, Masao?”

“Just easy. About twenty-five miles an hour. When she spots the house, don't stop or slow down.”

They passed Western. “It's on this side,” said the girl, pointing.

“Don't point. Just watch. On the right, Sy.”

“There,” said Maria. “That place with the car in the driveway.”

“Red Mercedes with Nevada plates,” Beckman said.

Masuto leaned in front of her as they passed the house, a rundown frame cottage on a street of rundown frame cottages.

“Turn left up to Sunset on the next corner,” Masuto said to Beckman; and then he said to the girl, “We're going to drop you off on Sunset Boulevard, and you can get a bus there back to the hotel.” He pressed a five-dollar bill into her palm. “This is for bus fare and your trouble. You helped a little girl to live, and you helped other people too, and I thank you. But I don't want you to say anything about this to anyone. Do you understand?”

She didn't want to take the money, but he insisted, and when they had dropped her off and turned back toward Fountain, Beckman said, “I don't know, Masao, the way you let her go. She could have been tied into it.”

“That kid?”

“It happens.”

“Not with a kid like that. No. She gave me what she had.”

They had turned back into Fountain. “How close?” Beckman asked.

“Find a place to park about a block away. Don't pass it again. I don't want to press our luck.”

When he had parked the car, Beckman twisted around to face Masuto. “You know, Masao, we're in L.A. now.”

“We have the legal right to go anywhere in the county in pursuit.”

“We're not in pursuit.”

“I say we are.”

“Okay. You say we are. I say we should call the Los Angeles cops.”

“Sure. We call in the Los Angeles cops, and they bring the swat team and we have fifty guns around that house with its paper walls and tear gas and the rest of it, and inside you have two half-insane, desperate men who have already been a part of two killings and they're planning maybe a hundred or two hundred more before the day is out, and they're holding my kid as a hostage. Suppose it was your kid they had in there, Sy? Would you call in the swat team? Think about it.”

Beckman thought about it for a moment or two, and then he said, “What do you mean, two hundred killings?”

“Just answer my question.”

Beckman drew a deep breath and sighed. “All right, Masao. Your way. What is your way?”

“First thing, Sy, take off your gun.” He removed his own pistol from the holster under his armpit, and handed it to Beckman. “Lock them both up with the fat man's clothes in the trunk.”

Beckman just stared at him, holding the gun that Masuto had given him. “You're out of your mind.”

“No, Sy, I'm very sane. That wretched little house is made of matchwood. A bullet would go through the door or even both walls. They could be armed with forty-fives, and a forty-five is like a cannon in that place. If we come in there armed, they're going to start shooting. I can face getting shot; so can you. I don't want my daughter to face it.”

“And what in hell do you think is going to happen when we go in there unarmed? Either they kill us or they take us. Then where are we? And how in hell do we get in there? You say the door's made of matchwood—right? We kick it in and get them before they get us.”

“And suppose one of them's with Ana?”

“Goddamn it, Masao, we can't go in there unarmed. How?”

“We knock at the door. They open it. They let us in.” He was peeling off his jacket as he spoke.

“What's that for?”

“No jacket. No guns. I want them to see.”

“They open the door. Then what?”

“We take their guns away.”

“What?”

“Now listen to me, Sy. There's no time. Just listen and don't argue. I had a dozen years with the martial arts. I was trained by one of the best in Los Angeles. I can take the gun from the man who's holding it on me. Don't question that. It's you I'm worried about, and I need you because there's two of them. But if you're afraid to try it, I'll try it alone.”

“You're damn right I'm afraid. Shit. What the hell. You got any pointers?”

“Yes. These are terrorists. Amateurs. They kill with their demented ideology. They plan and they think in their own demented way. But they're not trained, and when they kill they have to think first. That takes two seconds, one second—even half a second is enough. Hit at the wrist, like this.” He made a chopping motion, his palm held flat. “Don't try to grab the gun—just hit at the wrist, and when you make that chop, make it with every ounce of strength in your body. If you hit right, you'll break his wrist. But don't go for the gun. If the gun remains in his hand, kick him in the testicles with all your strength. Watch his eyes. Wait for the moment when his eyes flicker toward me.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Don't watch me. There'll be two of them, probably each with a handgun. If your man has a rifle or a shotgun—that's an outside chance—the same thing, the wrist. I'm hoping that when we're in, they'll tell us to turn around. If they do, you hesitate. I'll turn immediately and use my foot. But don't watch me. Watch the eyes of the man who has a gun on you. Do you think you can do it?”

“No, but what the hell.” Beckman peeled off his coat.

“We go in with our hands up. Don't put down your hands. With your hands up, you have a fraction of a second more.”

They put their jackets, their guns, and the fat man's clothes in the luggage compartment. The street was empty, as are most streets in Los Angeles in midday. Then they walked down the block to the shabby little house with the red Mercedes in the driveway. Two wooden steps led up to a tiny porch. Both men in their shirtsleeves mounted the steps.

Masuto knocked. No response. He knocked again. Wood creaked. Masuto felt the hot summer sun. He was sweating. Then, a voice.

“Who is it?”

Masuto recognized the voice. It was the voice he had heard on the telephone.

“Masuto. My partner's with me. We're unarmed. I'm playing it your way. We'll stay with my daughter. We're out of it.”

“If this is a trick, Masuto, if you have a swat squad outside, the kid will die. First. I swear it.”

“No tricks. Just the two of us, unarmed. Alone.”

Words in another language. Words replying. He was right. There were two of them—hopefully no others.

“I'm going to open the door, Masuto. You come in with your hands up. Then your partner, with his hands up. Believe it, mister. Any tricks, your daughter dies.”

“I believe you,” Masuto said.

The door opened, and Masuto entered, followed by Beckman, both with their hands raised. The man who had opened the door was on Masuto's left. He kicked the door shut and stepped back. He was a slender, dark-faced, dark-haired young man, and he was covering Masuto with a heavy automatic pistol. The room itself was empty, except for some boxes and pillows on the floor. The other man, shorter, heavier, was on the right, pointing a revolver at Beckman. He was about three feet from Beckman as they entered.

“Keep your hands up and turn around, both of you,” the thin man said. Masuto turned immediately. Beckman hesitated, watching the eyes of the man facing him, and then the eyes flickered. Beckman never saw Masuto's motion; he was fixed on the eyes of the man covering him. As Masuto turned his back to the thin man, his body unleashed like a spring, and he drove his shoe into the thin man's testicles with a force that threw him across the room. It was more than a karate kick; it was an explosion of all his pent-up, controlled fear and anger and frustration, so violent that he slammed off his feet onto the floor. Beckman, in the same instant, forgot all that Masuto had spelled out for him and hit the man on the right with all his strength. Beckman had been a professional boxer before he became a policeman. He hit the shorter man squarely in the center of his face, feeling the nasal bones crunch under the blow. The man staggered and then collapsed like a sack. Masuto rolled over and grasped the automatic, which had fallen out of the thin man's hand.

The thin man lay huddled across the room, his knees drawn up, whimpering with pain. The other man lay motionless on the floor, blood pouring from his nose. Beckman was clutching his right hand with his left hand.

“God almighty, I broke my hand!”

Masuto handed him the automatic pistol. Beckman took it in his left hand. There were two doors on the right side of the room they had entered. The first opened into a filthy kitchen, with two chairs and a table of dirty dishes and sandwich bags and soda pop bottles. Masuto threw open the other door. It was a bedroom. Two mattresses on the floor, some blankets and a single chair. Ana lay on one of the mattresses, her hands and feet tied, her mouth gagged with a handkerchief. Masuto took off the handkerchief, and Ana began to scream hysterically. Masuto went to work on the cords that tied her hands and her feet.

Beckman rushed into the room.

“It's all right, Sy. Stay with those two bastards.”

The cords were off. Masuto took the child in his arms. He was on his knees, rocking her back and forth, clutching her tightly. “It's all right, baby, it's all right now. Everything's all right now. We're going home.”

Bit by bit, her screams turned into whimpers. She buried her face in Masuto's shirt, and holding her tightly, he rose and went into the next room. The thin man still lay curled up, clutching his groin and moaning in pain. The other man was unconscious on the floor, his face in a growing pool of blood. Beckman had both the automatic pistol and the revolver stuck into his belt, and he was massaging his right hand and grimacing with pain.

“Sure as God, I broke my hand, Masao. How is she?”

Still holding the child with her face in his shirt, Masuto took his handcuffs from his back pocket and threw them to Beckman. “Cuff them both,” he said shortly, “and stay with them. I'll be back with the car in an hour. She's all right. I'm taking her home.

“This one needs an ambulance,” pointing to the unconscious man. “I broke his nose.”

“He'll live.”

When he put Ana down on the seat next to him in his car, thinking how much she looked like one of those Japanese dolls they sold in Little Tokyo in downtown Los Angeles, with her jet black hair, her straight bangs and her round face, she had stopped sobbing and was able to smile at him and say, “You look funny, daddy.”

“Why?”

“Your face is so dirty.”

“We'll go home, and we'll both wash, and everything that happened is only a bad dream.”