Authors: Marc Olden
“Can you?”
“Dear boy, we’ve had that file in our data bank for the past month. Information is the most valuable currency of all, something every police officer should be well aware of.”
“No argument there. What about the pigeon list? I assume you want me to bring it back to New York.”
“I strongly recommend that you do. Mr. Baksted will have it on him.”
“How can you be sure?”
“By agreeing to Mr. Baksted’s terms. By arranging a meeting he will rush to, list in hand. You will intercept him near the home of his latest paramour and prevent him from reaching journey’s end. Don Maggiore’s minions in Philadelphia will aid you in your task. Car, weapon, the address of Mr. Baksted’s current morsel and so on. Attend to this matter immediately. We don’t want the Nips to lose interest, do we?”
“Wouldn’t want that to happen,” said Dorian.”Too bad. Alan’s not such a bad guy.”
“The meek shall inherit the earth, but not its pigeon lists. Oh, incidentally, Robbie’s going to be fighting in Atlantic City in four days. Full-contact karate, no holds barred. Some champion or former champion is coming out of retirement to challenge him. Should be a jolly good show. Can’t be there myself. Have business in Dallas.”
“If I’m in Atlantic City, you’ll pardon me if I don’t go near the fight. Lots of New York people go down to gamble and I don’t want to be recognized. I just want to burn Alan, then split.”
“Of course, dear boy, of course. Just like Vietnam. Hit quick, then melt into the bush.”
“Tell Robbie I said good luck.”
It was just as well that Sparrowhawk kept Robbie away from contract killings. Dorian needed the money; he was fifteen thousand in debt to the shys, not counting the vigorish. The thirty thousand for whacking out Alan would pull him out of a very deep hole.
As for Robbie killing to order, he had done that in Vietnam, sometimes too well. Sure it was war, but Robbie put his heart and soul into it, doing things that even Dorian and Sparrowhawk wouldn’t do. If Robbie ever started blowing people away in the States as he had done in Nam, there would be sleepless nights in quite a few places.
Dorian outweighed him by almost forty pounds but would no more think of fighting him unarmed than he would of turning queer. In a Saigon bar, Dorian had watched him destroy four Green Berets, two of whom had k-bars, combat knives, and knew how to use them, or thought they did. One had been crippled for life.
Dorian and Robbie ran into each other occasionally, but no longer had the closeness found among men in combat Nam was in the past. These days it was a good thing Robbie got his jollies from karate competition. Sparrowhawk or no Sparrowhawk, God help the world if Robbie didn’t have a private war to wage.
Dorian stood in front of the Chevrolet, ski mask on, the .22 in his waistband and hidden by the down vest. His watch read 9:10; Alan’s “appointment” was at 9:30, downtown in a suite at the Golden Horizon. Business is business, Alan. No hard feelings.
Dorian began jogging, his big body leaning forward, toes turned in, elbows tight against his sides. He ran flat-footedly, mouth open, fists high. Christ on a cross. One block and he was out of breath.
He leaped on the sidewalk, out of the path of an oncoming panel truck, then back in the street again. For the life of him, he couldn’t see why anybody ran if he didn’t have to. One more block, only one and then he turned. Baksted was at his Porsche. It had to be him, though in the fog it was impossible to see from this distance. What if it was somebody trying to break into the car, a nigger working the lock with a coat hanger. Terrific.
He ran, feet slapping the asphalt, wet fog licking his face. Another car came up behind and caught him in its headlights, then passed and lighted up Alan by the Porsche, kicking the tire and cursing.
He heard Dorian. He waved, flagging him down with a brown envelope. “Hey, got a flat here. Give me a hand, okay?”
Dorian withdrew the .22 from under his vest, stopped running, crouched, both hands cupping the butt, and from only four feet away fired a head shot The .22 made a gentle
pop,
nothing louder than opening the top on a can of beer. Alan bounced off the Porsche and went down, one leg under him. The envelope lay on the hood of his car.
His throat burning from the three-block run, lungs on fire and adrenaline pumping, Dorian looked down at Alan. He fired two more shots into his head, then two more into Alan’s heart before shoving the .22 back into his waistband. In the dim light, the blood on Alan’s face appeared to be glittering strips of black cellophane. Dorian was fucking depressed already.
But he wasn’t finished. He had to leave a message behind.
He reached into the pockets of his sweat shirt, took out several fifty-dollar bills and tore them in half. Deliberately, he tucked halves of the torn bills in Alan’s jacket pocket and under the gold chains around his neck.
The message was clear. Greed.
Dorian stood up, took the envelope from the car hood and felt the hard shape of a notebook inside. He tried not to think of Alan’s twin five-year-old sons.
Minutes later, in Ocean City, Dorian hung up the phone, stepped from the booth and brought the bagged vodka bottle to his mouth. Empty. Disgusted, he flipped the bottle over his shoulder into a snowbank. Romaine had been polite, thanking him for calling on her birthday. But she had also been cool, withdrawn, obviously not wanting to be hurt anymore. Finally she said she had to go; she was busy.
From Atlantic City, Dorian did not drive straight back to New York. First, he had to change cars, which meant driving fifteen minutes south to Ocean City, a quiet little town on the Jersey shore. Here he parked the Chevy on a side street, changed back into his own clothes, then crossed the street to a dark Ford. The .22 was in one overcoat pocket, the silencer in another. Let the Philly people dispose of the Chevrolet; Dorian disposed of the guns. From inside the Ford he watched a young man in an army overcoat and Phillies baseball cap leave the restaurant, get behind the wheel of the Chevy and drive off. The Chevy, like the Ford, was a stolen car and would end up in a chop shop, broken down into dozens of pieces and sold in Europe and South America.
Dorian needed a drink. He went back into the restaurant. Fucking unbelievable. Ocean City was a dry town. He would have to drive across a bridge to find a liquor store.
When he had his bottle, he sat in the car in a deserted area and drank. He thought of Romaine and of Alan, poor bastard, and Dorian knew he couldn’t make the drive back to New York without speaking to Romaine. There was a public telephone booth in front of the liquor store.
But she had been
busy.
Hearing, her say that word tonight, when he really needed her, was like being kicked in the heart.
Back in his Ford, Dorian slammed the door and was about to turn the ignition key when ahead of him he saw a man leave an isolated house and start jogging toward him, moving in and out of patches of moonlight and darkness. He almost dismissed the man, but something about the runner caught his eye. The man glided, moving with a practiced stride. No strain. He looked familiar, but how could he be out here in the middle of nowhere? And he carried an attaché case in one hand. He was in very good shape.
Robbie.
Shocked, Dorian acted reflexively. He hid, ducking down in his seat. A count of two and then he straightened up, turned around and stared at the runner after he had passed. Definitely Robbie. But what was he doing in the boondocks when he was supposed to be fighting tonight in Atlantic City, in front of a sold-out house? Was he running to get there on time?
It made no sense. There was nothing around but scattered houses, trees, wide sandy beaches and down the road a bridge leading to Ocean City. Robbie usually carried his
gi
and protective gear in that attaché case; each year Sparrowhawk got him a new one from London, monogrammed, with a combination lock.
Dorian watched Robbie get into a car, make a U-turn and speed toward the bridge and Ocean City. And, he guessed, Atlantic City. Swiveling around, he stared at the one-story wooden house Robbie had just left and shook his head. Strange. Tonight was a big night for Robbie in Atlantic City.
So what the hell was he doing here?
“ROB-BIE!”
“Rob-bie!”
“Rob-bie!”
They chanted his name rhythmically, clapping on each syllable and filling the arena with screaming sound. But
zanshin,
concentration, demanded that a fighter watch his enemy with eyes, mind, spirit, searching for any weakness that could be used against him. Robbie Ambrose denied himself to the thousands who called for him. He sat in his corner, his breathing even, and from under hooded eyes stared across the ring at Carl Waterling.
Waterling bled from a cut over a swollen left eye and there were angry welts on his left side, the target of Robbie’s kicks. A ring doctor leaned over and gently touched Waterling’s ribs. The fighter stiffened and winced, inhaling through clenched teeth. I bet it does, thought Robbie.
A card girl, blonde and pretty, mouth wet with lip gloss, began her walk around the ring, arms overhead holding a white card reading Round Three. Through the whistles and obscenities she continued smiling, but to Robbie the smile was genuine. “Good luck,” she whispered. Her eyes told him something more.
Robbie concentrated so hard on Waterling that he scarcely heard the thousands of voices shouting for a knockout. Instead he heard another voice, the warrior voice.
Namu Amida Hachiman Dai-Bosatsu.
Hear, o great Bodhisatva, god of war. I am your sword, your will, your deed. The four elements—fire and water, metal and wood—are in me.
I am strong in your strength.
I have performed
Chi-matsuri,
the rite of blood.
I am the true
bushi,
the thousand-year-old samurai.
I am strong in your strength.
“Rob-bie!”
“Rob-bie!”
“Rob-bie!”
He blinked, pushing from his mind what he had done earlier tonight to the woman in Ocean City; he had performed the ritual murder that would ensure his victory here. Like the others, she had been easily fooled by the detective’s badge and in the end she had given her body to the god of war.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Seth, his cornerman, holding the mouthpiece. Robbie took it, feeling the rubber hard against his gums and teeth. He bit down hard. And as he stood, the roar from the crowd warmed him. He was Robbie Ambrose, with the uncanny ability to find his opponent’s weakness and exploit it. He stood poised, expectant, the adrenaline moving in him, with seconds to go until the bell. …
It was professional full-contact karate, America’s fastest-growing sport, a combination of Western boxing and karate techniques. In less than ten years it had emerged as the modern version of the historic Japanese fighting form, offering contests that outdrew the traditional karate matches (point fighting), where the techniques stopped just short of the target. Also called kick boxing, the young sport had adopted several safety measures: instead of striking with bare fists and feet, the fighters wore gloves and foam rubber kicking pads and were forbidden to strike at the groin, throat or joints.
Attacks were limited primarily to the waist and above, with strikes permitted to the thighs and calves. Each round was limited to two minutes. A fighter lost points on fouls or by failing to meet the minimum of eight kicks per round. Wins were scored as in Western boxing, by knockout, technical knockout or decision.
Tonight’s fight, sold out weeks in advance, was a grudge match between two of the most glamorous names in full-contact karate. Before retiring, former champion Carl Waterling had been the only man who had ever defeated Robbie, taking a split decision from him in a close match. In his heart, Robbie knew he had won. But Waterling had been the champion and the fight had taken place in his hometown.
Two years later, Waterling, avid for the higher purses paid professional full-contact fighters, decided to come out of retirement and meet the number-one challenger, the golden boy Robbie Ambrose. Robbie was overrated, said Waterling. He was going to cut Golden Boy down to size. The popular ex-champion, with his record of sixty wins, no defeats and forty-three knockouts, was going to make a comeback against the charismatic fighter with a record of thirty wins, twenty-eight knockouts and only one defeat.
The fight generated money. An Atlantic City hotel casino underwrote the bout. Scalpers asked and got eight times the face value for tickets. A television network paid to film the fight. The martial arts press published ratings lists of fighters and covered the hundreds of tournaments held yearly worldwide, but only a handful of fights held the excitement of this one. The promoters called it “the Seaside Shootout”
As light heavyweights, the fighters weighed in between 167 and 175 pounds. Robbie Ambrose drew the most attention with his lean, handsome, blond looks and the golden stud in his right ear. Several Hollywood celebrities came to his dressing room to wish him luck. He was a star, too. Waterling was sought after, but by fewer people, none of them famous. His hatred of Robbie increased.
The crowd groaned when Waterling entered the ring. At thirty-two he was beefy, balding, noticeably out of shape. A hairy stomach hung over the black belt tied around the top of his blue silk
gi
pants and he breathed through open lips, his mouthpiece loose in front of teeth. It was obvious he had not trained. Robbie knew it and was going to make him pay for it.
In the first round Robbie attacked with a flurry of kicks, going for the soft, flabby body. He spun, turned his back to Waterling and lashed out with a kick that caught the ex-champion in the stomach and drove him into the ropes. The kick took the wind out of Waterling, and he backpedaled on rubber legs. Pursuing, Robbie shoved his right hand into Waterling’s face, driving his head back, and then lashed out with a front kick, the leg fully extended, which again caught Waterling in the stomach.