The Kaisho (58 page)

Kozo shrugged. “More’s the pity for him that he turned against us. Karma. He chose his own path, no one pushed him.”

“You did your best.”

Kozo shrugged. “I was once Okami’s most trusted ally, everyone knows that. But when his path changed, I noticed and became suspicious, and I was proved right. At the end, I fought him tooth and nail—and why not? He did not believe in what the Godaishu had become. He betrayed the Godaishu, betrayed our trust in him as the Kaisho. He made his own deal with Dominic Goldoni, and now we’re left with picking up the pieces.”

“He and I were always the best at dealing with the Americans, but I must admit that he understood them better than I do.”

“That will soon change. I’m working hard to understand the
iteki.”

“You see what I mean about challenges?” Ushiba said. “You just can’t resist them. But your determination to destroy Linnear is senseless—worse, it’s downright dangerous.”

“Not senseless. I initiated my actions on the basis of some astonishing information. Linnear is Nishiki, the secret conduit who had been supplying intelligence to Dominic Goldoni and Okami.”

“Ridiculous. Linnear’s strict moral code—”

“The history of Japan teaches us that the espousal of righteousness is the securest refuge for corruption,
neh?”
Kozo smiled. “Think it through, Ushiba-san. Linnear has the kind of mind and the range of expertise to destroy all of us.”

“But that’s only part of it, isn’t it?” Ushiba said shrewdly.

“Daijin, you will not draw me into a personal confession.” Kozo shook his head. “Look, by going after Okami now we take down two birds at once. We agreed that the Kaisho’s day was over. And by deliberately letting him find out his days were numbered, we forced him into a corner. He had to draw on the Colonel’s promise to him that his son would come to his aid. Linnear did not fail his father, and now we are able to pick the time and place of our confrontation. I’m convinced the only way to defeat Linnear is for us to choose the killing ground. As Sun Tzu has taught us, that will be our advantage.”

“Us. You mean
you.”
Ushiba stared at him a long time. “I was right all along. You
are
going after Nicholas Linnear.”

Kozo laughed. “Daijin, I’m doing better than that. I’m about to get him.”

“It has come to my attention that you are indulging in a bit of extracurricular activity.”

The Red Queen stretched, relieving the tension that had built up between his shoulder blades. He cracked the knuckles beneath his gloved hands. “You’re costing the government of the United States of America money it can ill afford to spend. Tell me why.”

“You know why,” Lillehammer said. “Dominic Goldoni was whacked under our noses.” And then, confronted by the Red Queen’s implacable silence, he was compelled to add quite unnecessarily. “Inside WITSEC, for Christ’s sake.”

“Goldoni was operating—isn’t that how it’s put?—inside WITSEC. What did you expect?”

Lillehammer watched the Red Queen pick his way through the remnants of his double bacon cheeseburger and jumbo fries. Why did they always have to eat at a fast-food joint? “I expect we won’t let whoever it was get away with it.” It was surreal having these discussions amid the cacophony of kids, working stiffs, and people marking time until they could place their next bet at the OTB across the street.

The Red Queen, pushing aside his coated paper plate, was not amused. “I need another Coke.” He got up abruptly, went across the red-and-yellow plastic restaurant. He was wearing an English-made tweed suit with a hand-cut doeskin vest. His tie, its pattern as voluptuous as it was gaudy, was, however, strictly American.

When he returned, an enormous paper cup of soda in his hand, he said, “Don’t get coy with me. I took a good long look at those photos of Goldoni. I know Do Duc did the Goldoni hit. And I know how badly you want to put his nuts in a meat grinder.” The Red Queen sucked a bit of cheeseburger from between his teeth. “But I’m giving you a direct order to cease and desist.”

Lillehammer sat very still. He wondered if this was the moment of severing, when the granite of which he had been a part for years was cracked in two. “I’ll need a very good reason,” he said quietly.

The Red Queen’s face was laden with a frown. “What do you think? Should I get a sundae?”

“Here? The sundaes taste like plastic, just like everything else.”

“Really? I never thought so.” The Red Queen shrugged and patted his stomach. “Oh, well, I suppose all that’s left is to leave the busboy a token of our appreciation for a clean table.” He took out some change and placed it on the plastic tabletop. As they were getting up, he said softly, “Your personal rage won’t help us now. If it doesn’t get in the way of ops, it’ll get you killed. I want your word. Forget Do Duc and attend to current business. God knows there’s enough of that.”

Lillehammer turned his head to stare at a little boy with ice cream all over his face. “You have my word. I will not go after Do Duc. Does that satisfy you?”

“I want you to keep an eye on Davis Munch. Bane tells me his prosecutor was seen with this man Harley Gaunt shortly before Gaunt showed up at your house. Bane may be paranoid, but he’s not stupid.”

The Red Queen patted the little boy on the head as they passed him. Outside, he leaned toward Lillehammer in an uncharacteristically avuncular gesture. “Madness is born of the meditation on revenge,” he said. “It will do you good to remember that.”

Manny Mannheim was staring at the thickly stuffed manila envelope when the buzzer sounded. He turned, hastily shoving the envelope onto the shelf beside the sawed-off shotgun he kept loaded and ready. Peering through the gap in the wire mesh, he watched as a tall figure came through the front door.

The man, wrapped in a dark wool tweed coat with its collar up, did not immediately look at him. Instead, he spent a good deal of time peering at the larger pawned objects Manny had hanging on the walls or lining the dusty wooden floor: glittery electric guitars, a full set of classic Louis Vuitton luggage, a green-and-silver mountain bike, a pair of Chinese celadon vases, a gleaming black-and-cream Harley-Davidson Softail, autographed by Johnny Cash to someone named Ferdie Francis.

The man took his time so Manny had a while to size him up. The more he did so the more nervous he became. Actually, he had become nervous the moment Harley Gaunt had come in a second time, handing him the thick manila envelope with instructions as to what to do with it if he did not contact Manny within twenty-four hours.

That was two days ago, and Manny had to assume that something had happened to his friend. He did not want to think about what might have happened to Gaunt, but he dreamed about the possibilities when he went to sleep at night.

The man who had walked into Manny’s pawnshop was broad-shouldered, ham-fisted, intimidating. As he turned this way and that, examining each item before moving ever closer to where Manny stood behind his wire screen, Manny could see the scars on his face, the nose that had once been broken, the clever eyes that saw every scratch and defect in whatever they were examining.

A light sheen of sweat broke out on Manny’s forehead and upper lip, and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. An itch began just below his right shoulder blade as a droplet of sweat snaked its way down his back.

Christ, what had Harley been involved in that could have gotten him killed? Manny wondered. Curiosity and terror waged a battle inside him. How many times had he picked up the envelope after the twenty-four hours had passed? Too many to count. Once, his curiosity getting the better of his common sense, he had decided to slit it open. But at the last moment either his courage failed him or he had come to his senses.

But today he had scrutinized with excruciating concentration every customer who walked into the pawnshop because he had started awake this morning, his mind filled with a terrifying possibility: What if Harley had been followed to the pawnshop, and somebody knew he had given the envelope to Manny?

The man lifted his shoulders, let them fall as he ran his hands over the Louis Vuitton luggage. He gave a quick glance toward the front door, then back at the cage where Manny stood, rooted to the spot. The thick, callused fingers upended the steamer trunk, large enough to hold a human being if it was curled up. He snapped it open, lifted the lid, contemplated the interior with a diligence Manny found highly disturbing.

Manny’s first thought had been to burn the envelope, to be rid of the evidence of Gaunt’s visit, to avoid the responsibility his friend had thrust upon him without asking his consent. In the end, he could not even light the match. Perhaps he was less of a moral coward than he had thought. However, seeing the man now replace the steamer trunk and move toward the motorcycle, closer to the wire cage, Manny could believe that he had made a grave mistake.

Yet how could he abandon his one true friend? His relationship with Gaunt, inconstant though it had been, was important to him. They were the kind of friends who, though not having seen each other for long periods of time, could pick up their conversation as if the intervening years had never passed. People like that were rare in life, especially Manny’s life, which had never amounted to much of anything.

The man in the tweed overcoat cleared his throat and Manny jumped. His right hand automatically sought out the butt of the sawed-off shotgun he kept within easy reach under the counter. His finger eased around the trigger.

“Yes?” Manny said, not liking the high squeak in his voice.

“Nothing,” the man said, glancing his way. “Only... how much d’you want for this?”

“Twelve thousand. It’s a classic—”

“Softail,” the man finished for him. “Yeah, I know.” He put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, turned to stare at Manny. “You always stay inside that cage?”

Manny was terrified now. Of course the man wasn’t interested in the Harley, he never had been. He was here to take the envelope Gaunt had left, and to kill Manny in the process.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Manny, shaking mightily, tried to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. “Ulbg!” was all he managed to say.

“What?”

“I’ve—had some, uh, you know, trouble over the years,” Manny stumbled. “So I—”

The man took a step toward him. “You packing a gun back there?”

“Don’t come any closer!” Manny said, trying vainly to get saliva back into his mouth.

The man stared at the sawed-off shotgun leveled at him. “You gonna use that if I ask if you’ll take ten-five cash for the Softail?”

“Huh?” Manny blinked, swallowing hard.

“I want the Softail,” the man said, taking his hands out of his pockets and spreading them wide. One held a thick roll of bills. “You gonna sell it to me or you gonna shoot me?”

Manny felt his heart in his throat. Nothing seemed to be registering. He was locked into an assumption that was immutable.

“Come on, buddy. I know you said you’d had trouble here, but gimme a break, would ya, I just want to buy the damn Softail.”

Manny wiped his face with a tremorous hand.
Jesus Christ,
he thought,
this isn’t my kind of life. I’m seeing bogeymen coming out of the walls. Any more of this cloak-and-dagger shit and a heart attack or a nervous breakdown is not out of the question.
He put the sawed-off away. His muscles were spasming so heavily he had to grip the counter with both hands in order not to fall down. His desire to urinate was very strong.

The man waved the bills over his head. “How about you come out here with the keys and we’ll do this transaction one-two-three?”

Manny opened the door to the cage, stepped out. “You got a license?”

“Sure,” the man said, reaching with his free hand behind his back.

That was the moment Manny knew he was a dead man. It was a moment one only experiences in dreams, when momentous actions occur all around you while you watch, helpless to intervene. His thoughts were gelid with a kind of existential morbidity.
Why did I leave the cage?
he wondered.
Why did I put away the sawed-off? Why didn’t I listen to my instincts?

Manny watched, impotent, as the man pulled out his wallet, put the wad of bills on the saddle of the Softail, extracted his license. He held it out to Manny.

For a moment, Manny stood frozen. His heart clamored inside his chest like an out-of-control subway train, and he was having a good deal of trouble breathing.

“S’matter, don’t you want to do the deal? These days how many people come in here offering you ten-five cash for the Softail?”

Woodenly, Manny held out his hand, took the license. Somehow, it fell through his fingers, and as if in a dream, he bent down, retrieved it. Then he got the paperwork, went through it like a zombie. He hardly heard what the man said. Mac Divine, the driver’s license read. He took receipt of the ten-five without counting it himself. Divine had done that with great care right in front of him.

“Man, my neighbor’s gonna shit his pants when he sees this baby in my driveway,” Divine said with a grin. “He’s been looking for one of these for three years.”

After he left, wheeling the Softail as if it were his son, Manny leaned against the door, panting heavily. He was drenched in sweat. He hurried back to his cage, slipped on his coat, sliding the thick envelope under it. Then he went outside, locked the door, and pulled down the gates, padlocking them. It was only three in the afternoon, but he’d had it for the day.

On rubbery legs, he went to his bank, made a night deposit of the cash in the till, including the amount Mr. Divine had given him, then he set off to do what he should have done this morning: follow Gaunt’s instructions.

The tolling of the bell reverberated deep inside him, like a raspy voice spoken in the small hours of the morning when the senses are blurred by a melancholic stupor born of a furious rush of reckless emotion, now spent.

The tolling continued like a heartbeat or a sermon, a spoken text of words indistinguishable as a flight of sparrows after sunset.