Jake Maroc - Shan Part 35

It took Neon Chow a moment to realize that he was responding to her own words, so enthralled was she by the import of this fantastic piece of intelligence.

"This evening," she whispered, licking his ear, "come to bed early. I feel that you are in need of nightlong comfort." Her hand snaked down between his legs, squeezed inward. She felt him give a little shiver and she laughed, leaving him then, forgetting him immediately, her mind filled with the accolades she would receive from Bluestone when she delivered to him this fantastic prize.

The young woman, her head bowed to watch her tiny feet in traditional tabi and geta, came silently toward them. She wore a kimono of pure white, embroidered with pale peach peonies. Clutched to her breast was a small wrapped package. As they watched, she knelt before a vault where the image of Kannon reposed, an object of such extreme sacredness that it was displayed to the penitents only once every thirty-three years.

The sad-faced young woman bowed in obeisance to the G.o.ddess of mercy. Around her, dishes of food and flowers spread color and scent in profusion. Her lips moved in silent prayer, to what kami they did not know until she slowly unwrapped the small package and reverentially placed the tiny girl doll amidst the white and yellow camellias arranged on a fired clay plate.

Then her sadness became as clear to them as the sunlight that spread itself over the valley below them. This woman's young daughter had recently died and the doll she had brought to the G.o.ddess of mercy was the little girl's most prized possession.

Jake and Mikio Komoto sat side by side, their eyes filled with the woman's delicate features, her dark eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with pain. And then, as she rose and took one last look at the perfect features of the doll, a solitary tear slipped down her cheek.

"This is where they all come," Mikio said, "the women of Kyoto. To Kiyomizu-dera." The two of them were here alone without Yakuza soldiers because of the attention the added men would bring. Besides, Mikio was supposed to be dead. "Oh, they come from all over, really, to pet.i.tion Kannon for a safe childbirth or in the case of this one to protect the kami of their dead child."

Jake said nothing. Instead, he savored the seemingly limitless view from this mountain Buddhist temple of all of Kyoto, the verdant forest slopes up the mountain thick with burgeoning greenery and, beyond, the precisely ordered geometries of farmland through which tiny figures, black with distance, made their way.

"My wife used to come here quite often."

Jake listened carefully. He had not known Mikio's wife and, in any case, for a j.a.panese to embark upon such a personal topic commanded respect and a special attention. He closed his mind to his aches and pains. Concentrate, he demanded of himself.

"She came," Mikio went on, "to pet.i.tion the Compa.s.sionate One to allow her to have a child. It was a difficult for her. The doctors said that her uterus was tilted in such a way that it made conception unlikely." Mikio put his hands together almost as if he were praying. "They recommended artificial insemination but we found that somehow a distasteful. So she came here and prayed to Kannon. On this exquisite promontory where this temple was dedicated in seven ninety-eight, she felt the G.o.ddess resided. She felt that here the G.o.ddess would hear her."

They were on the temple's vast cantilevered veranda, which had been designed and built to view sacred dances. Nearby was melodious Otawa, one of the most renowned waterfalls in all of j.a.pan.

Abruptly, Mikio rose and went to the edge of the veranda closest to Otawa. Jake followed him and they both looked down upon the white-clothed pilgrims, their mittened hands raised as, drawn within theprotective barrier of the water spray, they prayed to Fudo-Myo-o to guard against the deeds of their enemies.

"We should be down there," Jake said. "We both need a lot of protection these days." After a time, he said without looking at his friend, "Did Kannon answer your wife's prayers?"

"You see me as I have always been, Jake-san, sadly childless."

It was not enough to say he was sorry so Jake said nothing.

"Perhaps," Jake said after a time, indicating the supplicants within the rain of the waterfall, "they know something that we do not."

"If so," Mikio said, "then we'll never know it."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a single tear sliding down his friend's cheek and he thought of the young woman and her parting from her child's cherished doll. He knew now why Mikio had brought him here. He still felt that he was responsible for Jake's almost having been killed in Tokyo. It did not matter to him, Jake knew, that it had been Jake's pig-headedness that had been responsible. Jake knew that Mikio had done all in his power to remove Jake from the red sector. Jake had simply not paid any attention to the repeated warnings.

In Mikio's mind when Jake was in j.a.pan he was the oyabun'sthe Yakuza boss'sresponsibility. Period. It was that simple. And that complex. Now Mikio owed Jake a debt that he could never realistically repay. Gin as much as friendshipgiri entangled in friendshipwas what bound them so intimately, Giriwas what obliged Mikio to open up a most personal and undoubtedly painful part of his past to Jake. That had been an extraordinary moment and it was not lost on Jake.

"But love endures, Mikio-san," Jake said. "Like the mountains and the seas, love never dies." He watched the pilgrims, purifying themselves in Otawa's shower, covering themselves with the glory of G.o.d. "Perhaps that is all that keeps us going at times, neh?"

Mikio, never taking his eyes from the falls, nodded wordlessly. He understood.

Silencethe silence of natural soundcovered them as completely as if they were standing at the bottom of Otawa, immersed in water. Within that camouflage Jake saw a gray plover lift off from one branch to another. Without thinking his eyes followed the graceful line of the bird's flight as it lifted and fell across the weight of the dark green forest, rising ever upward until it crossed over their heads and disappeared behind the burnished facade of the bell pavilion.

The plover's motion remained, transmitted to the two men in dark suits who came down the wide steps on the east side of the pavilion.

Both had closely cropped hair, angular faces. They wore wraparound sungla.s.ses with mirrored lenses. They made no secret of the objects of their interest.

"Mikio-san," Jake said softly but urgently, "I fear the war has found us."

Speeding down Miami's Intracoastal Highway in his rented black Corvette, Tony Simbal did not hear the noise until it was almost too late.

Doing eighty-five with the windows down, the rush of the wind almost drowning out the rock beat of the Stones coming over AM, turned up to deafening volume, it was perhaps natural. Natural but inexcusable.

Because it was the Cuban calling to him, Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa in a fire-red Ferrari, coming up alongside the *Vette, screaming his lungs out.

One hand was on the wheel, the other held straight out the open pa.s.senger's window a Magnum .357 that could blow a man's head open like a ripe melon. The gun was aimed at Simbal's left ear.

"Pull over! You G.o.dd.a.m.ned sonofab.i.t.c.h! Isaid pull the f.u.c.k over!" Snapping back the Magnum's hammer.

The valet at La Toucana had done his work, reported to the Cuban the make, model and license number of Tony's rented Corvette.

Pastel high-rises, pink, powder blue, seafoam flashing by, interspersed with clawed marinas where glossy white-and-blue yachts and fishing boats swung in lazy arcs, sending bubbling wakes, little clouds of diesel running after them. Girls in string bikinis, cool sun visors over their pulled-back hair, Nivea cream ma.s.saged into their sunburnt shoulders, laughing with silver-haired millionaires, Hawaiian shirts open to the navel to display 24-carat chains, white ducks, glossy white shoes anyone in New York City or Washington would sneer at. They hadn't a care in the world but Tony Simbal was being forced off the road by an animal Ferrari and the black hollow muzzle of a hand cannon.

The quiet of the landscape seeped into the open windows of the *Vette, the engine ticking over and, to his left, the traffic whizzing by at hummingbird's speed.

The red Ferrari, sun spinning off its long hood, crouched just behind him as if it were manned by a traffic cop.

Heard a car door slam and the crunch of shoe soles over the coma"

position of the verge. Then the sun was blotted out as the figure of Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa leaned into the Corvette. Simbal felt the cool muzzle of the Magnum pressed against his temple.

"You little piece of worms.h.i.t," the Cuban said in his clipped, slightly skewed English, "I ought to blow your motherf.u.c.king brains out but I got too much respect for the interior of this automobile."

"Down, boy," Simbal said. He was careful not to move his head toward the Cuban. "Let's have a chat and"

"I wouldn't shat with you on a bet, Worms.h.i.t."

"cool down."

"You got some f.u.c.king nerve, uh, coming down here, putting your nose up my business."

"I don't even know your business."

Magnum jammed painfully against this temple. He could smell the Cuban's musky cologne, a bit of his sweat; was he frightened of something? Of Simbal?

"You think you're gonna scare the s.h.i.t out of me? Hijo de puta."

"Til have you know my mother was quite a lady, Martine," Simbal said. "The only wh.o.r.e I ever knew was your sister."

The Cuban ripped open the Corvette's low door. He growled low in his throat. "Get the f.u.c.k out of there."

Simbal did as he was told. "What are you going to do," he said, "shoot me with a score of witnesses pa.s.sing by every thirty seconds? Listen, we can trade insults all day, if you want. Me, I've got more important things to do."

"Like poach on my property."

"Mako's all yours, buddy." Simbal raised his hands. "h.e.l.l, I could've walked up to you in La Toucana. I knew if I did that I'd blow everything."

"What kind of everything?"

"Come on, Martine. This heavy s.h.i.t that's going down with Mako and Eddie."

The Cuban's hazel eyes narrowed. "What the f.u.c.k do you know about it? And what the f.u.c.k are you doing here, anyway?"

"Quarry sent me down," Simbal said. There was no point in bringing the DEA into it at this stage. "There was a diqui hit in Chinatown last month. Big one. Their main man, Alan Thune, got blown away by party or parties unknown. Then one of the DEA hounds by the name of Peter Curran gets his limbs separated from his torso in Paraguay and the n.a.z.i subculture is blameless. Diqui again. Now I'minterested. So's my boss, the head honcho. The Big Kahuna. So here I am."

"Why here?"

"Let's go somewhere nice and quiet and discuss this like men. Over a stiff drink."

The Cuban lifted the .357 so that the muzzle was aimed straight at Simbal's face. "Why here?"

Simbal sighed. "Because this is where Edward Martin Bennett is. Isn't that right?"

The Cuban directed them to a little place on Key Biscayne with a spectacular view of downtown Miami, if one was fond of watching the decay that follows greed setting in. Great granite, marble and smoked-gla.s.s towers rose up in the same profusion that hen's teeth sowed into the ground produced an invincible army. Hotels built almost overnight during the feverish years when it was thought gambling would be legalized in Miami. Multimillions sunk into lumbering leviathans that now stood nearly empty, silence filling up their cavernous interiors, all in receivership, functioning like limping men old before their time.

But beneath the shade of a faded striped umbrella, the bay was bright and sparkling, the powerboats streaking its surface like water spiders, setting a low background rumble.

The Cuban sipping at his rum and c.o.ke and saying, "You know, I think they were insane, man, to change this thing, this great American thing."

"What thing?"

"Coca-Cola, dude." The Cuban looked at Simbal as if he were an idiot. "An American tradition, uh? What the f.u.c.k they have to go and mess with that, tell me? Now none of that s.h.i.t tastes right, no matter what they call it. I mean, what's tradition for, anyway?"

Simbal went at his vodka tonic judiciously. "Murder has a habit of making me a little testy, Martine," he said. They both wore dark gla.s.ses because of the sun and the glare off the bay. That was bad for a negotiation but, thought Simbal, it was a d.a.m.n sight better than having a Magnum . 357 pressed against the side of your head. He counted his blessings and was grateful for progress.

"Murder happens every day in our line of work, don't give me any bulls.h.i.t here, uh."

"It doesn't always trace itself back to a SNIT," Simbal said. "A member of one agency wiping out a member of another is very likelyto get me bent." Simbal leaned forward. "See, Martine, Curran's demise has gotten me a little p.i.s.sed off."

"So go kick a trashcan around the block."

"I tried that with your sister."

The Cuban got red in the face. "You f.u.c.king piece of worms.h.i.t, I should've smeared you all over the highway while I had the chance."

"Maybe you should've," Simbal said, "but that's all over and done with, I'm sitting here with you now and we've got some business to get done.

"Anyway, killing me's not going to do you a whole h.e.l.luva lot of good. I'm not with DEA anymore. The Quarry's got its teeth into the diqui. Right now I'm the rabid dog that's chomping away but there's plenty more where I came from. My Kahuna answers to only one man and that's the President of the United States, buddy. The Quarry's got power the SNITs only dream of. I don't think it's to your advantage to get your bowels in an uproar with me. Not when I could be your friend."

The Cuban said nothing for some time. The maitre d' led a family of three past their table and nothing was said until there was empty s.p.a.ce around them.

"Then you'd best tell me more about it, dude. I don't think I'm ready to believe you're down here because of a murder. Got the Fat Boys Inst.i.tute for that, man."

"The FBI couldn't solve this one if I handed them a map and said Professor Peac.o.c.k in the drawing room with the knife."

But the Cuban was already shaking his head. "You a heavy hitter, dude. You get sent in when things is all fallin' to s.h.i.t." He had ceased to drink, Simbal noticed; merely rolled his gla.s.s around on the table. "That what's happening here?"

"You and Mako," Simbal said.

The Cuban shrugged. "He and Bennett've hooked up together. That's what I'd heard, so I needed to get it firsthand."

"And?"

"What did Mako tell you?"

The Cuban turned his attention back to Simbal. "He and I, we moving boatloads of s.h.i.t in and outta coves all around Miami. What more d'you want?"

"I want to know what he and Bennett are up to."

The Cuban grunted. "Why don't you ask him right out then? I'm sure he'd oblige you." He shook his head.

Simbal took a conversation pace backward. "What do you suggest?"

The Cuban feigned astonishment. "You askin' me?" His eyes got big around. "Madre de Dios! What could us po' folk stuck in the trenches with our noses in the mud these guys rake up tell you, the Great White Hunter?"

"Cut the comedy, Martine."

"Jesus, you really got a nice pair of cojones on you, dude."

Simbal ignored him.

"What're Bennett and Mako up to?"

The Cuban shrugged. "I don't know. You tell me."

"You'd better let me in on it,' Simbal said.

After a time the Cuban said, "s.h.i.t," took a swallow of his drink. "He's got a party going later tonight, after midnight. Real exclusive bash. I'm supposed to hook up with the two of them there. Dealing with Mako's been strictly dust city."

"Bennett," Simbal said reflectively, "I suppose if you're in I'd better brief you," the Cuban said a bit sourly.

"I've already read Eddie's file," Simbal told him.

"That means there's a lot about Eddie Bennett you don't know."

"Oh?"

"You don't know this hombre personally, you don't know s.h.i.t about him."

"Meaning?"

"Edward Martin Bennett's one mean motherf.u.c.ker."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I'm tryin' to, dude." The Cuban reached for his drink, took another healthy swallow before he said, "It was this way: Eddie and Peter Curran had a falling out."