Suicide Squeeze

Suicide Squeeze Page 11

16

Joellen Becker knew a hired thug when she saw one, and the big black guy who'd pushed Samson into the Lincoln was definitely a leg-breaker. No wonder Samson needed cash. He probably owed a loan shark. Or maybe he was behind with his dealer. Samson didn't seem like a junkie, but it was hard to tell these days.

She'd put her car into gear and followed them at a safe distance. They'd ended up in front of Playerz. Becker knew about the place, knew who owned it. If Samson was going in there, then there was a good chance he wouldn't come out again. She mentally scratched Conner Samson off her list of leads.

Just for the record, she grabbed her digital camera out of the glove compartment, zoomed in, and snapped a picture of Samson. She flipped open her laptop, downloaded the picture from camera to computer. Her computer and software, like all of her equipment, was top-of-the-line. She brought up the photo, cut it down to a shot of Samson's head and shoulders. She fiddled with the contrast a bit, but really it was a pretty good shot. Then she added some text underneath, an off-the-cuff, thumbnail profile. Now she had a brief record in case she might find Samson useful in the future.

Her cell phone twittered, and she flipped it open. "Becker."

"I want a progress report." It was Billy Moto.

"Not now, Moto. I'm on top of it. Call you later." She flipped the phone closed and tossed it into the passenger seat.

The last thing she needed was the prim half Jap breathing down her neck. She'd gotten nowhere fast finding Folger. It was frustrating. She considered herself a good investigator. This should have been simple. Perhaps it was time to drop in on the ex-wife. Maybe Becker would get lucky. Pissed-off spouses and lovers were often fonts of information. Hate made people talk.

Then she reconsidered the picture she'd just taken. Moto wanted a progress report. Okay. No problem. Anything to get the man off her back. She'd send Moto the photograph and the brief profile. Let him chew on Conner Samson for a while.

Toshi X watched Billy Moto's face go blank. Moto was stoic, hard to read, but Toshi sensed a deep frustration in the man. Toshi believed Moto's frustration stemmed from the man's own weakness and inefficiency. He did not have the will to carry out Ahira Kurisaka's wishes. Unbeknownst to Moto, Toshi had orders. Orders that he was dangerously close to implementing. Kurisaka was not a patient man, and so far Moto had been a disappointment.

Toshi sat on the sofa in Moto's hotel room, wondered if Moto could feel Toshi's hard eyes watching him. Toshi wanted nothing more than to hold the half-breed's still-beating heart in his iron fist. He felt the hatred and rage surging in his veins. Toshi was not ashamed of these impulses. They gave him strength.

Moto closed the cell phone, slipped it slowly into a jacket pocket. "I think the Becker woman has failed us. We must think of something else."

Toshi stood. "You were wrong to place such faith in an outsider."

Moto went to the French doors, which opened onto the room's balcony. He threw the doors open. The sounds of Pensacola traffic flooded the room. "First of all, we are the outsiders here." He stood with his back to Toshi, took in a calming lungful of fresh air.

I'd expect a half-breed to say such a thing. Toshi took a quiet step toward Moto. He could smell the salt water even though the Gulf was several miles away. The switchblade dropped out of his sleeve and into his right hand. He held his breath, took another silent step toward Moto.

"Second," Moto said, still facing away from Toshi. "I'm well aware of your opinions, but the roughshod way you handled Teddy Folger produced no results, as you might recall. Folger's tolerance for pain was lower than you thought. Now if you don't have anything constructive to say, I'd appreciate your remaining silent. I need to think of what to do next."

I'm happy to relieve you of that responsibility. He planned to take Moto from behind, stick the man like a pig. In Toshi's mind, it was what Moto deserved. Toshi thumbed the button on the switchblade, and it flipped open with a small snick.

Moto's shoulder's tensed, and Toshi realized immediately that Moto had recognized the noise. It all happened in a fraction of a second, Toshi deciding to leap at Moto while he still had some advantage. Toshi lunged, knife outstretched for a strike under the ribs.

Moto spun fast, blocked the knife thrust, locking wrists with Toshi. Moto kicked hard, caught Toshi in the chest, and knocked him back. Toshi tumbled over a coffee table, landed across the room. He picked himself up, went into a fighter's crouch, the knife moving from side to side in front of him.

Moto had also gone into a crouch, hands at the ready, chin down, eyes up in perfect black-belt form.

"Did you think it would be so easy?" Moto's voice was rough with anger. "Just because I'm not a rabid dog like you does not mean I am without a bite. What do you think Mr. Kurisaka will say when I report your behavior?"

Toshi rubbed his chest. "Idiot. Who else would have ordered your demise?"

Confusion passed over Moto's face, but only briefly. "So that's how it is. Then I must tender my resignation when I take Mr. Kurisaka your head."

Moto hurdled the coffee table and swung a fist at Toshi. Toshi ducked it easily, but realized too late it was a feint. Moto kicked Toshi's left knee. Pain lanced up his leg, and he grunted, went down. Another fist from Moto. It slammed into Toshi's jaw. He tasted blood.

He ducked under another punch, rolled away, and sprang to his feet. He put weight on the bad knee, tested it. It hurt, but it would support him. He'd underestimated Moto. A bad mistake. The two men stood facing each other a few feet apart, breathing heavily.

This time Toshi struck first, slashing wildly with the switchblade, then jumping into the air, spinning, landing a kick on the side of Moto's head. Moto came right back with a flurry of punches. The two men traded blows and blocks. Toshi tore a deep rent in Moto's jacket with the switchblade, but it didn't touch skin. As Toshi pulled the knife back, Moto caught his wrist, dug a thumb into a pressure point, and twisted.

Toshi yelled, dropped the switchblade.

Moto dove on him, connected a solid jab on the point of Toshi's chin. Toshi blocked another punch but missed the one that landed in his gut. Toshi sucked for air. He jumped back, overturned a chair between himself and Moto. This wasn't going well. He needed a moment to regroup.

Moto pressed the attack, lunged hard and fast. Toshi tried to catch Moto by surprise, reversing his retreat, charging forward. A warrior's scream tore from his throat. He brought both fists down hard toward Moto's head.

Moto grabbed Toshi's arm. A twist. A shift in weight. Toshi was in the air, looking at the ceiling. The room spun past. He landed flat on his back. The air whuffed out of him.

Toshi more sensed than saw Moto coming from behind. Toshi kicked out hard and got lucky. The heel of his shoe landed square into Moto's balls. Moto grunted low and guttural, stumbled back several steps onto the balcony, bent in half, hands cupping his testicles.

Toshi gasped for breath, propped himself up on an elbow and reached inside his jacket and pulled out his.380 automatic. He knew now he couldn't take Moto in a fight. Moto was better. He lifted the automatic, fired twice.

The first shot missed. Moto stood, backed against the balcony railing, flinched away from the shot. The second bullet caught Moto on top of his left shoulder. Blood sprayed. The impact pushed Moto back. He fell.

Over the railing.

And down.

Toshi blinked. He heaved himself up, forced air into his lungs, and stumbled out onto the balcony. He leaned over the railing, looked down. It had been a six-story plummet. Palm trees and bushes obscured the view. What was down there? Toshi tried to remember. A patio area, a tiki bar. His instinct was to run downstairs, make sure Moto was finished. But already he heard a woman scream. A crowd would gather. An ambulance. Police. Toshi wanted to avoid all that.

No, he decided. He would not need to check Moto's pulse, look into his dead, unblinking eyes. The fall had killed him. Toshi was sure. He returned his automatic to the shoulder holster, buttoned his jacket. Now to contact Cousin Ahira, inform him the task had been completed.

The phone rang. A series of beeps, and the fax machine across the room hummed to life. Toshi went to see what was coming in. It was from Moto's informant, Becker. A picture of a man. Conner Samson. Name, address, and a short note from Becker. He might know something.

Toshi retrieved his switchblade before leaving the room. He lamented not being able to slide it between Moto's ribs. Nothing felt so good as the easy glide of steel into flesh.

17

Tyranny's husband, Professor Dan, had hired parking valets. The teenager in the red jacket looked at Conner's Plymouth like it was a spaceship from Planet Crap. As Conner handed the kid his keys, he thought he caught a whiff of ganja.

"Be careful with the car," Conner said.

The kid grunted, parked the Plymouth between a Land Rover and a Mercedes.

Conner's tuxedo fit perfectly. He'd even shaved, cut his fingernails. He looked good but still felt out of place. These weren't his people. He didn't belong here. He almost didn't knock on the front door but rapped quickly before he changed his mind. He almost turned around, almost sprinted for the Plymouth. The door swung open.

If it had been anyone but Tyranny, he'd have bolted. She looked stunning, loose black evening dress, V-neck plunging low, skin tan and glowing. Her eyes were soft. She sighed at him, an indulgent smile spreading warm on her face.

Conner's longing was a palpable thing. It made his head buzz, traveled the length of his spine and burrowed into his gut. He wanted to gather her into his arms, run his hands all over her, dig his fingers into her soft flesh. He wanted to bawl like a little kid because he couldn't.

He said, "Hi."

"You came." She turned the smile on full blast now, caught his sleeve, and led him into the house. "You look good in a tux." She ran her hand down the lapel. "Like James Bond."

"Which one? Connery or Moore?"

"The new one. Remington Steele."

She led him into the throbbing ebb and flow of the reception. Other tuxedos and evening gowns milling about, sipping champagne and exchanging prefabricated party chitchat. The place squirmed with culture and wealth and influence. One lady wore diamonds as big as peanuts around her neck. Conner expected to see the Monopoly guy wearing a top hat and a monocle. The whole scene gave him the heebie-jeebies.

But then there was Tyranny. She led him across the house, gracefully weaving a path through the mingling mass, nodding to various guests. Finally, they arrived at a small salon where three paintings sat on easels behind a velvet rope.

She stood close to him, whispered in his ear. Her breath was warm silk. "These are the Dybeks. Aren't they magnificent? Last week in New York one of his pieces sold for eighteen thousand dollars at auction. He's up-'n'-coming."

Conner squinted at the paintings. Each was the size of a Denny's place mat with a large, ornate wooden frame. Fuzzy blotches of bright color streaked with darker colors. To Conner it looked like a chimpanzee high on model airplane glue could have painted all three of them in about twenty minutes. What he said to Tyranny was, "Yeah. They're great."

"Jasper Dybek is around here somewhere," Tyranny said. "I'll try to introduce you later."

"I tingle with anticipation."

Tyranny ignored the sarcasm, looked past Conner to a chubby young man who stood gawking at the three paintings. "Randy, are you enjoying the Dybeks?"

Randy saw Tyranny, and his round face lit up with a gap-toothed grin. He waddled over, stood next to her. His tuxedo fit awkwardly, stretched across his belly, the sleeves just slightly too short. A zit the size of a jawbreaker perched on the tip of his nose. "Well, you know, Tyranny. Not really my cup of Earl Grey."

She smiled. "I know, but it was good of you to show up. Randy, this is my friend Conner. Entertain him a moment while I check with the caterer, will you?"

Conner cleared his throat. "Uh..." He didn't want to be entertained.

To Conner, Tyranny said, "Randy Frankowski is one of Dan's grad students. Just hang out for a while, okay? Dan's trusted me with arranging everything, and we have almost two hundred guests. It's very important to him that this evening goes well. I'll be right back." She vanished among the partygoers.

Conner looked down at the thing called Randy, groped for conversation. "So you're an artist, huh?"

"Yeah, but not like this." He nodded at the Dybeks. "That's way too abstract."

"If by abstract you mean a waste of everybody's time," Conner said, "then I agree."

Randy started to laugh, then let it trail off.

A white-jacketed waiter glided by with a tray of champagne glasses. Conner snagged a glass in each fist when the waiter came within range. Randy looked at one of the glasses expectantly, but Conner made a point of sipping from each one. Every man for himself, dude.

Conner had thought he was doing a good job of ignoring Randy, but the guy stood there staring at him. Anybody else would have drifted away by now, but Conner realized what was happening. Tyranny had asked the guy to entertain Conner while she was gone, and like a trained spaniel, Randy stood there wagging his tail. Conner felt suddenly awkward and rude. He'd let his bad mood take over. He didn't have anything against Randy. Might as well try to be polite.

Conner said, "So what kind of art are you into?"

"Dynamic displays of the human figure in fantastical contexts."

"And what the hell does that mean in English?" He was trying to be polite. He really was. He drained both champagne glasses, looked around for the waiter. Maybe he could drink Professor Dan into bankruptcy.

Randy smiled. The guy wasn't easily offended. "It's basically fancy talk for comic-book art. In grad school, you have to translate simple things into fancy talk to make people believe you're worth a damn. You may have noticed I'm not hobnobbing with the other grad students. They don't really consider me a real artist." He made air quotes with his fingers around the word real. "My dad says he'll only keep paying my rent if I'm in school and earning passing grades. What I really want to do is start my own comic-book company and graphic novel publisher."

Conner sighed inwardly, resigned himself to hearing the guy's life story. The waiter came through again, and Conner grabbed two more glasses. He gave one to Randy this time. "I used to read The Hulk when I was a kid," Conner told him.

"That's okay, I guess, but the indy companies are putting out the really cutting-edge stuff."

Conner realized Randy was going easy on him. It wasn't cool to like The Hulk.

"I write and draw my own comic. It's really the ultimate medium for the modern renaissance man." He pulled a sheet of paper out of his ill-fitting tuxedo, unfolded it. A blue-skinned woman wielding a flaming sword. She had impossibly large breasts and a suit of gleaming armor that didn't seem to cover or protect her at all. "I draw it with pencil, ink it, then scan it into the computer, where I add the color. When it's slow at Planet X, I work on my own stuff."

"What's Planet X?"

"A comic-book and collectibles shop. I'm assistant manager." He produced a business card. It had the name, address, and phone number of the shop. In the lower corner was Randy's name followed by the words Superior Being.

Conner focused on the card. "Do you know a guy named Teddy Folger?"

"Oh, his shop's gone now," Randy said. "Besides, we've always had a better selection. More gaming stuff too, D &D, Gamma World, Shadowrun."

"Sorry to interrupt." Tyranny. She smiled at Randy, and the guy melted. "Randy, Dan is about to make a little speech to welcome our guest of honor. You don't want to miss it."

"Right. See you later, Conner."

"Good to meet you."

Randy left toward the sound of distant ringing. Somebody was tapping a spoon against a water glass. Tyranny took Conner's arm, walked him through the back of the house, out to the pool. "Come on. I want to show you something."

The view of the bay from the pool was perfect, moonlight glinting off water. A half dozen men and women smoked cigarettes, escaping the hubbub of the reception. Soft music wafted. Their eyes met, Tyranny nibbling her lips, looking at Conner like she was trying to decide something.

"It's sort of unreal, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Conner asked.

"The moonlight, the music. You in a tux. It's like we've taken a break from reality, like we're in a Cary Grant movie." There was something faraway in her eyes.

Conner agreed. It didn't seem real.

Nobody took notice of Tyranny leading Conner around the other side of the pool and into the little pool house. It was dark inside. Conner reached for the light switch. Tyranny stopped him.

"We only have about ten minutes. They'll start the buffet soon after Dan's speech, and he'll be looking for me." She kissed him long and softly, reluctant to part her lips from his.

She pushed Conner into a sitting position on the rattan sofa, fumbled for his belt. He couldn't believe it, so sudden, what he'd been wanting, needing. She was there with him now in the dark pool house, quiet except for their quick breathing. She pulled up her dress. Black stockings, garters. No panties. She sank on top of him, rocked, riding up and down.

He slipped a strap off her shoulder, lowered her dress, took an erect nipple into his mouth, bit lightly. She moaned, her head back. Tyranny slammed down on him hard now, sucking harsh breaths with each thrust until she was grunting like an animal, gritting teeth, digging into Conner's shoulders with her nails. Conner's sore ribs flared momentarily. He ignored it.

Conner thrust back, wondering how long the Cary Grant fantasy would last before reality came crashing down, not wanting to think about when they would be finished and she'd scurry back into the house to tend to Professor Dan's party. But he couldn't help it. He thought about it. Maybe this was finally it, what Conner had been waiting for. Maybe Tyranny was showing him right now her true feelings, demonstrating that she'd chosen him.

Tyranny's orgasm demanded his attention. He focused totally on the now. She locked herself around him, shuddering as she came. Conner came too. She collapsed against him. Breathing easier, their hearts thumping against one another.

Her hair smelled so nice.