Giri (5 page)

The sake was making Decker hungry. When had he last eaten? Eight hours ago? Ten? He watched the Japanese chef enter, followed by men carrying a portable stove. It occurred to Decker why his refusal had been brushed aside; Kanai had assumed he was following the Japanese custom of
enryo,
a polite refusal that actually means the opposite.

“Kobe steak,” said Kanai. “It is kept here for me personally.” Decker raised both eyebrows. At $150 a pound, Kobe beef was the most expensive in the world. Kobe cattle, raised in western Japan and sold for $125,000 per cow, were hand fed beer and given daily rubdowns with plum wine, which supposedly tenderized the meat. Decker’s mouth started to water.

And there was the beauty of the meal. The detective watched with fascination as a fish was carved into the shape of a flower and fried seaweed woven into the shape of a beautiful bird.
Sara-kobachi,
dishes, cups, bowls of a subtle loveliness, were arranged on the counter, along with blue and white porcelain, bowls of bamboo and black pine, reddish brown earthenware plates and
hashi,
chopsticks.

Decker ate.

Sometime during the meal Kanai mentioned, politely, that he would be willing to discuss Pangalos and Buscaglia whenever the detective wished. The remark passed almost unnoticed. But Decker was not the type to let anything pass unnoticed if he could help it. Instinct overruled him. He thought about what he had just heard, then realized how clever Ushiro Kanai was, and realized, too, that this meal had been a part of that cleverness.

Kanai wanted Decker to keep him informed of any danger to his company. It was the Japanese nature to get to matters in their own good time, and in a way that benefited them. It was Kanai’s nature to use, not be used. Absentmindedly, the detective poked at a bowl of rice with his chopsticks and allowed himself a smile. Some men were wise; others were cunning. Ushiro Kanai was both.

Decker reached for a beer and suddenly, as though stabbed from behind, Kanai stopped eating. His eyes bulged. Decker couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Fear.

Kanai reached across the table, scattering dishes and bottles and yanked Decker’s chopsticks from the bowl of rice, where they had been standing upright.

“Death,” said a breathless Kanai. “In Japan, a bowl of rice with chopsticks sticking up is offered to our dead in the family shrine.”

“Sumimasen,”
said a chastened Decker. “I apologize, Kanai-san. I have done something very stupid. I beg your forgiveness.”

Silence.

Decker felt like crawling away and hiding. Damn. In Saigon Michi had told him about that custom and he had simply forgotten.
Baka.
Stupid.

There was a gentle tap at the paper and bamboo door. Kanai got to his feet, walked across the room and slid back the shoji. It was the maître d’. He and Kanai spoke in whispers and then the maître d’ bowed longer than usual before leaving.

Kanai kept his back to the detective and when he turned, he spoke in a choked voice.
“Sumimasen,
Decker-san. I beg your forgiveness, but I must leave immediately. I go to my daughter. My son-in-law has just died.”

He left Decker, guilty and confused, alone in the room.

C
OLD AND EDGY, DETECTIVE
Sergeant Dorian Raymond arrived in Atlantic City shortly before 8:30
P.M.
He parked his used Chevrolet on the outskirts of the oceanside resort, away from the boardwalk with its string of gaudy hotel casinos, and away from the center of town, where lovely Victorian and Edwardian homes stood surrounded by crumbling slums.

The drive down from Philadelphia had been tiring. Dorian had started out in fog, heading south toward the sea, slowed by roads covered with snow and ice. An hour later, he was stuck in highway traffic backed up over a mile, but he stayed outwardly calm. The last thing he needed was for someone to remember his face.

A trailer loaded with sewing machines had collided with a busload of senior citizens. When Dorian finally drew abreast of the accident, his reaction at the sight of old people wrapped in blankets, waiting for medical treatment, was disgust. They had delayed him. Why didn’t the old farts move to Florida?

To make matters worse, the heater in his car didn’t work. He hadn’t brought a scarf with him, so he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and wrapped a sweater around his neck. His nose was runny, his throat scratchy. Blame it on the guy in Philadelphia who had fixed him up with this four-wheel disaster. Fuck him.

Despite everything, Dorian arrived in Atlantic City in plenty of time to kill Alan Baksted.

The Chevy rolled to a quiet stop on a deserted stretch of Brigadier Boulevard. In the distance he made out the fog-shrouded lights of Harrah’s Marina Hotel Casino. Here, just blocks away from the ocean, the fog was heavier and Dorian had to turn on the windshield wipers. One worked, one didn’t. Beautiful.

Still, he could see well enough to make out the corner apartment house. Six stories, on his right facing Harrah’s. Baksted’s car, a gray Porsche, stood out among the three parked in front of the building. Dorian blew into cupped, gloved hands. Nice car, a Porsche, but you couldn’t take it with you.

Behind him, a half-empty city bus rolled out of the fog, its lights spearing the darkness, and then it was gone, red tail-lights growing smaller. A man, coughing and spitting, passed, pulled by a collie on a leash toward Harrah’s. Minutes later an empty cab cruised by.

The New York detective left his car, locked it, then walked the few yards to the Porsche, where he used a cigarette lighter to check the plates.
ALAN B,
front and back. Nothing like a little flash to impress the broads.

Dorian walked to the front of the Porsche, looked around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then crouched beside the left front tire. He stabbed it three times with an ice pick, and the Porsche settled closer to the ground, angling slightly to the left. Dorian stood up, tucked his hands into the front pockets of his sweat shirt and walked back to his car. Too bad he couldn’t spend some time in Atlantic City. The casinos didn’t close until 6:00
A.M.
and he knew a couple of warm ladies, a black croupier in particular, who loved to party. Next time.

Back in the car, he lit a cigarette and settled down to wait. He was in his early thirties, a large man with a meaty handsomeness and receding red hair. He wore a jogging outfit, which was a joke because he hated running, hated all exercise. He wore dark trunks over gray sweat pants and a down vest over a hooded sweat shirt. His eyes were watchful behind pink-tinted, rimless glasses and his hair was covered by a green woolen ski cap. Before leaving the car again Dorian would exchange the cap for a black and yellow ski mask.

In New York, he worked out of an East Side precinct not far from Gracie Mansion, where he sometimes pulled special duty at official functions. Dorian Raymond was shrewd, a seasoned survivor in a world of weaker men. He was a confirmed gambler and womanizer, traits that had ended his marriage to the woman he still loved.

As a gambler, he was a consistent loser and rarely out of debt. To a gambling addict like Dorian Raymond, losing was almost as satisfying as winning. In all things, he lived for the moment and distrusted the future.

Love frightened him; the more you loved, the more someone wanted from you. And he felt there wasn’t that much to him. Sooner or later he feared someone would find that out. A series of meaningless affairs was designed to hide this vulnerability. Unfortunately, they also destroyed his marriage.

Only at the end did he tell Romaine how much he cared for her.

“You don’t love me,” she said. “You love your version of me.”

“No shit. And what version is that?”

“The one you get from fucking every woman you can lay your hands on. The one you and your cop friends have of all women. Madonnas or whores, nothing in between. I’m talking about the version that hasn’t a damn thing to do with what I really am.”

He suddenly realized that what truly mattered about his wife were those things he had never wanted to know.

In the Chevrolet, Dorian snapped his fingers. He had forgotten that today was Romaine’s birthday. Separated or not he should have sent flowers, a card or telephoned. He hated himself for having let it slip his mind. Another mistake to be paid for. Angry, he beat the steering wheel with the heel of his palms. Wasn’t losing Romaine payment in full for everything?

Lighten up. Now wasn’t the time to get bent out of shape; he had work to do. He reached for the flight bag beside him, took out a pair of jogging shoes and put them on. They were a size too small. No matter. Dorian wasn’t planning to run a marathon. He reached into the bag again, this time removing the piece, a Hi-Standard .22, the smallest and one of the deadliest-caliber handguns made. A .22 caliber bullet traveled a thousand feet a second. It was the CIA’s preferred handgun, as well as the favorite of professional hit men. It also took a silencer.

There was a photograph of Baksted in the flight bag, not that Dorian needed one. He had met the casino owner a few times in Atlantic City and liked the man. Baksted had a sense of humor, had fixed Dorian up with a few dancers from the line at the Golden Horizon, and given him a line of credit at the casino. Dorian had even eaten at his house and played with his children. None of which stopped him from accepting a thirty-thousand-dollar contract to kill him.

Handsome and in his late twenties, Baksted wore the frizzed hair and drooping mustache that made him resemble the Philadelphia Italian hoods he ran with. He was sharp, good with numbers and good at putting deals together. Somehow he always found the money to cover his end, no matter how big the deal. And he never owed money. He showed respect, which the “Mustache Petes”—the mob guys left over from the days of Capone, Luciano and Genovese—appreciated. He would do favors, but often he was too greedy for his own good. He played around, flaunting his infidelity in front of his wife. Tonight he was with a seventeen-year-old dancer from one of the boardwalk resorts.

Baksted had it all: money, good looks, family, women, a future. But he wanted more. It was Dorian Raymond’s job to see that he didn’t get any more—ever.

“I thought Alan was protected,” a shocked Dorian had said to Sparrowhawk when the Englishman telephoned him from the Cayman Islands to inform him of the contract. Baksted fronted legitimate business for Carlos Maggiore, the Mafia don who controlled Philadelphia rackets and had interests ranging from Atlantic City to Florida to London casinos.

“He was, dear boy. But it’s now time to settle his account. An accord has been reached between Molise and Maggiore factions and Mr. Baksted, Alan, is redundant.”

“Since when?”

“Dorian, please don’t get your knickers in a twist. This isn’t exactly the end of civilization. Baksted’s made enemies, which carries with it a rather severe penalty. Your pay envelope for this one is thirty thousand.”

Dorian whistled. He turned his back to the crowds trudging by in the snow and slush on Lexington Avenue and jammed a forefinger in one ear. He listened carefully.

“I sense I have your undivided attention,” said Sparrowhawk. “By the way, how’s the weather up there?”

“Sucks.”

“Yes. Well, it’s quite nice down here. Sunshine, salt air, rum punch. Marvelous, really. Anyway, on to Mr. Baksted, God rest his soul.”

Through Marybelle Corporation, the Molise family had bought the Golden Horizon from Alan Baksted and six partners, all legitimate businessmen. Price: just under twelve million dollars. Baksted decided to keep the pigeon list for himself, letting his partners divide the twelve million. When they complained, he threatened them with Carlos Maggiore. A mere mention of that name was enough.

Baksted then proceeded to act tough with Paul Molise, Jr. To impress New Jersey’s gaming commission, the Molise family wanted Marybelle partnered in Golden Horizon with legitimate businessmen. In a world of tight money, only Murakami Electronics seemed willing to buy a 10 percent interest in the casino.

“However,” said Sparrowhawk, “the Nips insist on seeing the casino’s list of freewheeling gamblers before handing over any yen.”

“What’s the big deal?” said Dorian. “Paul buys the list from Alan and that’s that.”

“Not quite, old boy. Paul offered the bugger two million for it, then three. Alan accepted three, then changed his mind. He upped the price to five and said take it or leave it. I should add that the name of Don Maggiore was bandied about to scare young Paul.”

Dorian whistled. “Schmuck. Didn’t Alan know he was risking a war with that kind of talk?”

“Ignorance is bold. Mr. Baksted’s selfish behavior jeopardizes the acquisition of a major casino and manages to insult the wops into the bargain.”

“Fine and dandy. That’s the why of it. Now let’s hear the how. I want to know how Paulie got Maggiore to dump Alan.”

“Simple.
Auri sacra fames,
says Virgil in
The Aeneid.
The accursed hunger for gold.”

Closing his eyes, Dorian nodded. It had to be. What Alan forgot was that in the underworld guys who despise each other will sit down for money. And money was the reason that nighttime was about to fall on Alan Baksted’s dreams.

Maggiore was to have points in the Golden Horizon, nothing big, but an interest nevertheless. His corporations were to furnish the casino with insurance, cigarettes, croupiers and he could wash money through the casino if necessary. Paul would get the pigeon list, paying Maggiore a “finder’s fee” of one million dollars. And there would be no full-scale war in Atlantic City to scare away the tourists. Only one hit. After that, business as usual.

Paul junior played one more trump; that card sealed the deal.

“There is the matter of a certain file,” said Sparrowhawk. “It’s in the office of a commission set up by the governor of New Jersey. The file deals with a secret investigation into Maggiore’s dark kingdom. He would like to have a copy of it Paul junior has promised him that Management Systems Consultants will deliver the file two days after Mr. Baksted gets the chop.”