Black_Tide (20 page)

The maître d' pulled his hand out of his jacket and placed the blackjack on the podium.

With a nod of approval, Matt turned away and walked over to stand next to Sakura. One hand on the back of her chair, he leaned just enough to look off-guard and raised his eyebrows at the sandy-haired guy who'd waved him over.

The man sized him up. "So you're feds."

Matt nodded. Close enough. "And you guys are damn touchy for happy hour. Just for the record, I don't care who any of you are, or who you work for, or what you're up to. I'm looking for information on a man who used to work here. That's all."

"We don't talk to cops."

Matt held up his hands. "I'm not a cop. She's not a cop. We just have some questions regarding a personal matter."

"And this guy you're looking for, who might he be?"

"Guy who did your books, now runs a pawn shop in Queens."

"Petey Salmonella," someone said.

All eyes turned to a young guy at the bar, his black hair slicked back with too much gel, his suit a little too big. He blushed and looked down, digging his toe into the floorboard.

Matt reached out his hand to the sandy-haired man, pulling his attention away from the kid. "Matt Rowley."

"Chris Gadadi. My uncle owns the place, but he doesn't know nothing you want to know." He jerked his head toward a small side room, with a single table set for twelve. "Lew, get us some clams and bread."

The bartender gave him a thumbs-up as they followed Chris into the private dining room. The other three turned back to the bar. Chris unbuttoned his coat and sat facing the door, leaning on the table to expose a shoulder holster with a small revolver, the mother-of-pearl grip inlayed with polished silver. "What do you want with Salomon?"

Matt pulled two chairs out from the table, then sat in one. After a moment's hesitation Sakura sat with him, seats turned forty-five degrees so they could keep an eye on the door. Nervous energy poured off her, every muscle tense, eyes blazing with promised violence.

Before Matt could answer, Chris spoke again. "You're an Aug."

Matt nodded.

"Nobody's augmented anymore. All that shit stopped working."

Matt's shoulders twitched, the barest hint of a shrug. Chris looked to Sakura, who sat too still for a normal human, then back to Matt. Matt waited. Chris broke first.

"Yeah, all right, your business. So what do you want with Salomon?"

"He's got an interesting résumé."

"You hiring? I don't think he's looking for work right now."

"We're trying to figure out how a restaurant accountant turned import/export tycoon got into hiring out mercenaries and weapons to extremist assholes."

Chris snorted at "tycoon" and his face lost all expression at the mention of mercenaries, his cadence taking on an artificial cast. "We have not been affiliated with Mister Salomon for a number of years, in the restaurant or in any other business venture. I'm afraid I can't help you regarding his current professional exploits."

Lew came in with a giant white platter, loaded with enough linguini in white clam sauce for ten people. Steam rose from the pasta, filling the room with the smell of garlic and clams and heavy cream. Behind him a young man in a stained white chef's coat carried a basket overflowing with crusty baguettes, sliced partway through, steam rising from them in soft clouds.

Matt helped himself to a huge serving and tore off three chunks of bread. Sakura took one slice and put a little sauce on her plate. They both declined the offered bottle of wine in favor of ice water.

Chris took nothing, but sat on the edge of his seat while they ate, drumming his fingers on the table and staring past them.

Sakura tore a bit of crust from her bread, dunked it in the sauce, and held it. "You nervous, Mister Gadadi?"

"Nah." Chris stopped drumming. "I got a lot of energy, and the attention deficit. How's the clams? Best in the world, am I right?"

"Delicious." She popped the bite in her mouth and half-turned so that she could more obviously face the door.

"Well," Matt said around a mouthful of linguini that somehow tasted even better than it smelled, "can you tell me anything about his transition from this job to his current one?"

Chris raised his hands. "Not so much. He made some business contacts—we get a lot of high-profile people in here, you know?—and built his current operation up slow, bringing stuff in and out of the country for people who want it. All on the up and up, totally legit, nothing the cops would even blink at. Started making so much money he quit."

Matt glanced down at his water and blinked, the illusion of a half-melted feather gone as soon as it had appeared. He looked Chris in the eyes. "Is he made?"

Chris chuckled and ripped the end piece off of a loaf. "You watch too many movies. There's no—"

"He hired men to rape and kill my wife and kidnap my son. I'm asking you if I kill him whether I'll have problems with your organization."

Chris leaned back, frowning, and set the bread on the table. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

Matt shook his head. "I interrupted them. My wife is okay, mostly, but I'm looking for my son. He's my only lead."

"You got a picture? I can put some feelers out."

Matt put his fork down, his hunger strangled by grief and rage. "Yeah. Give me a number I'll send you one. Thank you." He dabbed his mouth with the napkin and set it down. "Now what about Salomon?"

Chris grimaced. "The guys like him. He's been a fixture a long time, a lot of us grew up with him." He stole a sauce-soaked chunk of bread off of Sakura's plate and popped it in his mouth. "But he is not under our protection."

The pawn shop stood on the corner, a squat brick building painted white with iron bars across safety-glass windows and a blazing neon sign stating WE BUY GOLD. Salomon Imports took up the rest of the block, a maze of warehouses and cargo containers stacked six high, all surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire. A guard shack stood next to the only gate, just large enough for one bored-looking attendant half-asleep at the switch.

"You sure?" Sakura asked, her breath billowing white in the night air. "He'll recognize you."

"I'm sure." Matt jerked a thumb at the fence. "You want to play Minotaur while I see if Mister Salomon is in his office?"

"At eight o'clock at night?"

"He's self-employed. These entrepreneurial types work long hours. We'll meet in the middle."

Sakura sighed in a theatrical blast of frosted air, then ducked out of sight. Moments later a shadow slithered through the razor wire, over the top, and down the other side into the darkness. Matt pulled his jacket tighter, stepped over the curb to the pawn shop door and pushed his way inside.

Bright and clean, the interior boasted several rows of glass cases brimming with glistening watches, necklaces, rings, and other jewelry. Electronics lined the left wall, TVs and game consoles, laptops, and tablets. The right side boasted an impressive array of paintball equipment, guns of all sorts, plus helmets, bandoleers, holsters, and camo outfits. Behind the cash register swords hung on a giant pegboard rack, cheap katana knock-offs and huge Scottish broadswords made to imitate movie props.

"Excuse me, sir."

Matt turned to the enormous man perched on a stool next to the front door. His bulging chest and pecs threatened to burst out of the extra-large NY Jets jersey. Light blue eyes stared out from a face bearing not the slightest trace of fat.

"Oh, hi." Matt had seen him from outside, but played clueless. "I'm just looking."

The bouncer grabbed Matt's arm before he could step away. "No weapons permitted in the store."

"Oh." Matt pulled his pistol out with two fingers, flipping it around to hold it by the barrel. "It's loaded." He handed it to the bouncer, who put it in an otherwise-empty cardboard banana box on the counter next to him. "Any others?"

Matt pulled back his jacket and made a pirouette. The bouncer nodded in approval, so Matt wandered along the display cases, trying to do the math on how much merchandise Salomon kept up front. A couple hundred thousand dollars, give or take. Which meant security came in more flavors than "enormous Jets fan."

He approached the cashier, a chubby redhead, mid-forties with black lipstick and clothes to match. "Hey, is Peter here?"

She sized him up, a lingering wander of the eyes that a farmer might use to assess cattle. "Who's asking, beefcake?"

"Matt Rowley. He knows who I am."

She looked at her nails. "Lucky him. You a cop?"

"Only sort of. Can you tell him I'm here, please?"

"He expecting you?" She yawned over his reply.

"Doubt it."

She plucked the phone from its cradle, pushed a button, and stared out into the street. The other end rang four times before a male voice said, "Hello?"

"Yeah, boss, this guy's here to see you. Says his name is Matt something. Rolly. Looks like a cop. Talks like a cop. Says he's only sort of a cop."

Matt didn't catch the reply.

"Yeah, he's standing right here, looks kind of pissed off. No, Pooley's got his gun." Her voice raised in agitation. "Fuck, I don't know." She rolled her eyes at Matt. "Just a sec, I'll ask." She covered the receiver with her hand and raised her eyebrows at him. "You here to kill him?"

"That depends."

She took her hand off the receiver. "He says it depends. Yeah. Yeah. Uh-uh. 'Kay." She dropped the phone in the cradle and smiled up at Matt. "Top of the stairs. Third door on the left."

He turned to go but she stopped him with fingers on his palm. He turned. She leaned forward, plucked a matte black business card from her cleavage, and tucked it in his back pocket. "I'm Patty. And I'm free all weekend."

"Nice to meet you, Patty." He held up his left hand and waggled his ring finger at her.

She pouted.

Matt cut left through the only door up the narrow stairwell to a long hallway that had to bridge between the pawn shop and the warehouse adjacent. He walked down the hall to the third door, the only one open, the only one with a light on.

Peter Salomon sat behind a cheap desk, a .45 pistol disassembled next to his laptop, his fingers on the keyboard. A bronze, bald, spotted egg with prominent ears, his nervous, twitchy eyes betrayed the calm he tried to project with his easy slouch. "Come on in."

Matt stepped in but didn't take the only other chair. The room smelled of old lo mein and cigarettes. A shattered statue leaned in the corner, a white plaster angel in a dozen pieces, her face staring up from the floor by her feet.

"You got some balls, Rowley, but before you do anything stupid let me say a little something." He looked up to the security camera in the back corner, pointed right at the door, right at Matt. "First, that feed goes to the cloud, and the cops already know you're here, so you do anything stupid you're going to jail. Second, I didn't do whatever the fuck you think I did. This business with burning your town, with your wife and kid, I don't know nothing about it."

"But you know about it."

Salomon raised his hands, a plaintive gesture. "Yeah, Kellett and I don't like each other much, but he gave me a heads-up, professional courtesy like, said you might be stopping by. I didn't think you'd make it up from Texas so fast, but hey, you got your kid to worry about, am I right?"

"So you're saying I'm wasting my time." His phone beeped. He looked down, sent a quick reply to Sakura, and put it back in his pocket.

Salomon pulled open a drawer, produced a bottle of scotch, a pair of glasses, and a fat manila folder. "I didn't say that. I got a boy of my own, just went off to college. When I heard you might be showing up I put together a little something for you." He poured them both a couple fingers, apologizing for the lack of ice, while Matt looked through the folder.

Of the sixteen dossiers, Matt separated out the eight he recognized: Monica's rapist, the fat man he'd killed in the window, the three identified by Ronald Kellett, the man from the basement—the whispers cooed and tittered in remembered joy, drowning in shrieks of sweet agony and gushing fountains of hot blood—plus Gerrold and Burns, the two men who had attacked Kazuko's hospital room with Onnoleigh Sweetman.

Salomon finished his scotch, poured another, and nodded in approval at the pile. "All dead men."

"Who are the others?"

"Employees of mine who took some time off with these guys."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning my boys went freelance, in direct violation of their contract."

"Who hired them?"

"Don't know." Salomon downed his glass in one huge gulp, cleared his throat, and stood. "Let's go ask."

*   *   *

It came for Kazuko on wings of Jade, a billion crystalline feathers that drank the light. An IV of saline and morphine stood next to a beeping machine and both faded to unreality as it approached. A musky scent filled the room, like incense and wet dog, and old leaves under ancient, primal skies. It wore her mother's face, but Kazuko saw through the simple lie; Sakura Isuji did not smile, not like that, not even for her daughter.

"
Daitengu
, why do you come to me with the face of my mother?"

It scowled, an expression more familiar but somehow too deep and not deep enough.

Kazuko giggled, tried to put her hand to her mouth, but lacked the strength. "Your nose is so small. The legends say it would be much larger."

It spoke in all tongues and none, its voice a majestic symphony. "Are you not afraid, child? All fear death."

The ache took her, an ocean of pain where she floated in each waking moment, as familiar as breathing, dulled by the narcotics but ever-present. "I do not want to go, but no, I am weary but not afraid."

The wings enveloped her in a cocoon, a prison, eternal and cold. A bitter wind whipped straight through her, a maelstrom of unending screaming madness. It filled her mind with a million voices, whispers of pain and death and a false joy at pain and death.

Kazuko laughed. The bright joy couldn't coexist with the darkness, and proved far stronger. The wings shattered like glass, the symphony faltered in a groaning whine, the wind died and the whispers turned to dust.