Giri (13 page)

“Ain’t all pigs,” said the other, who held a bagged bottle and wore a football jersey. “Ain’t all pigs, my man.”

Michi decided to leave.

One of the American girls left the washbasin and walked up to the pair. But before she could say a word the youth in the jersey shoved her against a stall and leaned on her, his glazed eyes just inches from hers. “Hey, if I told you you had a nice body, would you hold it against me.”

Michi walked toward the door. But the larger of the two, the one in the hockey jacket, blocked her way. “Hey, hey. Lady from the Far East. What’s shakin’, lady from the Far East? You want some ’ludes, man? Reds? Uppers? Downers? Shit, I got the world here in my pocket. Got drugs that won’t quit.”

“Let me pass, please.”

“Say pretty please.”

Michi bowed her head. “Pretty please.”

He looked at his companion. “Shit, man, this one’s mine.She’s fuckin’ pretty. She can sit on my face any time. Ain’t never had no Far Eastern lady.”

His arm went around Michi’s waist, drawing her to him. They were hip to hip. He was strong and reeked of liquor. “You and me, little mama. You pop one of these ’ludes and you gonna love me like I love you.” His other hand came out of his pocket with the Quaaludes.

Michi lifted her knee and brought her foot down, driving a boot heel into his instep.

“Shit!” Tight lipped with pain, he backed off. But he was still between her and the door.

Behind Michi, the jerseyed youth said, “Ho, ho. Wasn’t nice. Wasn’t nice at all.”

He loped forward, red eyed and half smiling. Dangerous.

Michi heard him. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him reach for her with both hands. She did it all in one motion. Crouched, sank below his arms, drove her elbow back into his stomach. He stopped in place, his eyes all white, arms clutching his middle. Still he staggered forward, left hand clawing the air after her. She caught his wrist in her small hands. Her right hand found his pinky finger. Gripping it tightly she bent it back with all her strength. Quickly. Broke it.

He squealed, clutched the damaged hand to his chest and lurched sideways, scattering the mesmerized teenage girls before crashing into the washbasins and falling to the floor. On his back, he rolled from side to side, moaning, left hand squeezed between his thighs.

“Oh, wow,” said one of the girls, shaking her head.

Michi turned to see the first youth hobbling toward her. He favored his injured foot, dragging it behind him. His face was tight with hatred.

Kihaku.
Spirit. There was nothing more essential to victory. And it was manifested in
kiai,
the yell.

The
kiai
from Michi was not merely a sound from her throat. It was a warrior’s cry from deep within her, a sound torn from her blood and nerves, from a thousand years of being samurai, and its eerie pitch was terrifying, hypnotic. The sound filled the room, bouncing from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling. In front of her, the youth froze, stunned.

He stared into Michi’s eyes and what he saw there frightened him. Blinking, he took one step backward and then
a
nother. He frowned, chewed his bottom lip, reached down to stroke his hurt foot.

Michi picked her purse from the floor and walked past him, never looking back.

Sparrowhawk said, “I see. And you’re all in agreement on what happened?”

The three girls looked at one another, then nodded. Said the girl who had emerged as the leader, “She was terrific. Like Wonder Woman, you know?”

Sparrowhawk winced. “Ladies, I thank you. And may I invite the three of you to be my guest for our Christmas show. Each of you may bring someone if you like.”

Squeals and shrieks of delight. Another rock star had booked for Christmas Day at the auditorium; he was almost as well known as the one onstage and, in Sparrowhawk’s opinion, equally as odious.

When the girls had been dismissed, he said to his guards, “Check the infirmary. See if any young men have reported injuries. We’re looking for a broken finger, a damaged foot. Should you locate these lucky lads, kindly inform me via radio. I’d like to talk to them in private.”

“What if they give us a hard time?” said one guard. “Like maybe they won’t cooperate. Or maybe they threaten to sue.”

Sparrowhawk aimed his jaw at the guard. “Dear boy, the gentlemen in question will do exactly as I say. For starters, I plan to threaten them with jail. As in attempted rape. Or assault. Or drug dealing. After they have signed a release, I intend to question them at length. And they will talk, I can assure you.”

“What about Wonder Woman?”

“You leave her to me. Just locate Laurel and Hardy, if you would be so kind. Off with you.”

Alone, Sparrowhawk removed a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket and using a gold pen carefully printed the name
Michelle Asama
on one blank page. Under it, he printed the word
major.
Then he wrote the word
fighter,
but crossed it out. Instead he printed
warrior.
Seemed more appropriate.

He thought of the last Japanese warrior he had met. It was in Saigon, and the warrior’s name was George Chihara.

D
ECKER’S PARTNER WAS THIRTY-THREE-YEAR-OLD
Ellen Spiceland, a light-skinned black woman with high cheekbones, reddish brown hair and a tough attractiveness in spite of a permanently flattened nose. Her nose had been crushed at thirteen, when she had resisted a rape attempt by a Harlem minister. She was married to her third husband, a Haitian artist who was just beginning to make inroads into New York’s art world. Since she was the stronger of the two and both feared loneliness more than subjugation, the marriage was a success.

In one of their first cases in a two-year partnership, Decker and Ellen Spiceland—the precinct called them “Black and Decker”—had tracked down the rapist of an eighteen-month-old baby girl. He was a Cuban who had entered America with the Cuban “Freedom Flotilla,” many of whom were criminals Castro had wanted to be rid of. The detectives had knocked on the rapist’s apartment door and were told to enter. They did. And found themselves staring at a thirteen-round Browning automatic. A shot was fired. Decker, expecting to die, tensed to receive the bullet.

But the shot hadn’t come from the Cuban: Spiceland had a habit of always entering certain bars, apartments, after-hours clubs with one hand in her purse. Today it had paid off. She fired through her cloth bag, briefly setting it aflame, scattering coins and keys on the floor and putting a .38 caliber slug one inch above the Cuban’s belt buckle. It took him thirty-six hours to die a very painful death. The killing was Spiceland’s first; she celebrated with a thirty-five-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon.

Outside of her immediate family, only Decker knew of the champagne. She said to him, “Twenty years I’ve been wanting to waste somebody like him. Twenty years.”

She waited for his reaction. There was none.

But on her desk the next day was a gift-wrapped parcel with a signed card from him. Inside was a lovely new bag from Henri Bendel. The precinct picked up on it; before the week was out Spiceland received eleven new bags, some of them gag gifts, others from good shops and all with a signed card from fellow officers. She had passed the test that made her a good cop, a dependable partner for anybody.

Six months later it was Decker’s turn to back her up when she said, “The Broom’s playing cop, badge and all, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

Every precinct had a broom, a janitor. Many were buffs, fans of real cops, who didn’t hesitate to pass themselves off as actual police officers.

Decker said, “You sure?”

“Kotlowitz told me. He’s afraid to talk to anyone else. The Broom scares the shit out of him.”

Kotlowitz, owner of a nearby clothing store, was new to the precinct. He was also something of an art collector; in addition to buying paintings by Spiceland’s husband he had also introduced the Haitian to gallery owners, some of whom had shown an interest in his work. As for fearing the Broom, Kotlowitz had good reason. The Broom weighed almost three hundred pounds and had moments of belligerence. Behind his back he was called Pork Butt.

Ellen said, “He’s getting free shirts, underwear, jackets, whatever he can from Kotlowitz, who doesn’t know any better. He thinks the Broom is for real.”

“Weird. The Broom can’t even fit into any of that shit. What’s he want it for?”

“Sells it, what else. Point is, it makes the precinct look bad and what do I do about it? I bitch to the captain and I’m a snitch. Manny, I can’t handle that. I mean it’s tough enough being black and a woman. Do I get tagged as a snitch, too?”

He looked at her carefully. “Just can’t let it pass, huh?”

There was no hesitation. “No, Manny, I can’t. I don’t think that’s what being a cop is all about. Maybe if I’d been around here for ten years or so, I could get away with dumping on ‘the Broom.’ But I can’t because I’m still the new girl on the block and, in a way, I’m still on trial. You were the only one around here who would have me as a partner, remember? I mean, I’m kind of accepted now, but shit, man, it’s still hard sometimes.

“Truth is, Manny, I don’t like the Broom. I don’t think he belongs here. He’s a bully, when he thinks nobody’s looking. Always throwing his weight around, which in his case is a lot. I’ve seen what he gets away with in the neighborhood. Never around cops, though. He picks out his targets very carefully. Neighborhood people. And nasty stuff that may not be criminal, but is still shitty. And the precinct knows it. Don’t tell me they don’t know. They goof on the man. They like keeping him around like he’s some kind of overstuffed toy. They get their kicks laughing at him and he loves it, so long as it’s cops who are laughing. Christ, what the hell do I do? Kotlowitz is a nice man. He didn’t survive Auschwitz to have to put up with assholes like the Broom. Besides, he’s been so nice to Henri and me.”

There were tears in her eyes.

Decker said, “I know somebody at the precinct who can handle it”

“Who?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to know. I just want the Broom’ gone, that’s all.”

He was gone less than twenty-four hours later. Decker, as a field associate, made a call to Ron at headquarters and Internal Affairs took over.

Later Ellen said, “Manny, you’re beautiful. And you’re right. I don’t want to know the somebody round here who’s keeping an eye on all God’s children. When you see him, kiss him four times for me, once for each cheek. But I never want to know who he is.”

With Michi back in his life, Decker wished he could dismiss Charles LeClair as easily as Ellen Spiceland had dismissed her unknown benefactor. LeClair made it impossible to stop seeing Romaine; the prosecutor wanted to make cases against Senator Terry Dent and Constantine Pangalos and Management Systems Consultants, because like many federal prosecutors he wanted to see his own name in the paper, because he loved power and because, Decker learned, LeClair was one of several men being considered for the post of deputy attorney general, under the U.S. attorney general in the Justice Department.

LeClair also had feelers from a Wall Street law firm that wanted to hire a black attorney capable of becoming a partner in less than two years.

LeClair had an explanation for the hard time he was giving Decker. “Necessity doesn’t leave a man a choice. They say the two worst things in this world are not getting what you want and getting it. I’ve had the
not
part. Now I want to see what the other part’s like. Don’t let Mrs. Raymond slip out of your life just yet, my man.”

For almost a week, since Michi’s return, the detective had given Romaine excuses for not seeing her. Now he began to resent her.

He saw Michi when she was free, when she was not involved with Pantheon Diamonds, which seemed to be most of the time. Two-thirds of the company was owned by a Tokyo conglomerate, with Michi controlling the remaining third. Like male Japanese executives, she put in long hours; she also gave business seminars to American corporations interested in Japanese managerial practices. The Wall Street
Journal, Newsweek,
the New York
Times
and three women’s magazines had all scheduled stories on her.

It was LeClair who suddenly made him more protective of her. Whenever the prosecutor telephoned Decker at the dojo, as he did tonight, it was a signal that he wanted to emphasize his control over him, an attitude many U.S. attorneys had toward cops and agents assigned to them. A call at the dojo also indicated LeClair’s desire for immediate information. LeClair was a black man in a world composed of WASP attorneys culled from prestigious Wall Street law firms. He wanted to do more than excel in that world; he wanted to rule it.

“Just want to remind you of the meeting tomorrow morning,” LeClair said. “Looking forward to seeing you.” Decker had seen him two days ago. And spoken to him yesterday. LeClair, obviously, felt pressured. “Heard anything from your girl?”

“You mean Romaine.”

“Far as I’m concerned, you only got one lady. Something else going on I should know about?”

“Nothing you should know about.”

“Flying to Washington this weekend for a meeting with the attorney general. Actually, it’s a dinner party he’s throwing for some Brazilian police officers, but I call it a meeting. I’ll be on trial to see just how I conduct myself among all those high-stepping folks. He’s been inviting guys eligible for the deputy spot down to D.C., with our wives, to see how we check out in social situations. My turn this week. Sure would be nice to drop some hard news on him, so he can see how well the third world acquits itself when it comes to important cases. You heard about DeMain and Benitez.”

“No.” They were two New York City detectives assigned to the task force. Decker knew DeMain, an experienced cop getting close to retirement. Benitez he had met on the task force. He was a quiet man, a hard worker with aspirations of one day going to law school.