“I don’t
understand, it was an accident,” protested Mr. Esmeralda.
“This has
nothing to do with the accident, sir,” the cop told him in that same even
voice. ‘
‘You’re under
arrest for attempting to murder a man named Gerard Arthur Crowley.”
I
t was nearly seven o’clock the following morning before Olive’s
husband called back from Honolulu and told them what they wanted to know. He
sounded tired, and more than a little slurred. “I’ve been drinking all night
with this Japanese guy, Hachiro Nakamata.
Suntory whiskey on
the rocks.
Hachiro used to work for the memorial museum in Hiroshima,
indexing and filing the names of survivors. He knows more about the people who
escaped from that blast than anybody. What happened to them, how they tried to
live their lives afterward.”
Olive said,
“Did he know anything about societies for crippled people?”
Robin Nesmith
burped into his first, a burp that carried 2,000 miles, and said, “Sorry. Yes,
he did. He knows all of them.
The Society for the A-Bomb
Handicapped, the Hiroshima Benevolent Group, dozens of them.
But he
particularly mentioned something that I’d never heard about before, the Circle
of Burned Doves.”
“The Circle of Burned Doves?
What’s that?”
“It’s a group
of people who were born deformed because of the effects of gamma radiation when
the bomb dropped. All of them, in one way or another, have become wealthy and
influential, and they apparently have wealthy contacts in several of the
largest and best-known Japanese industries. When you consider that many of the
chairmen and managers of the big Japanese industrial combines were officers in
the Japanese forces during the war, it’s not surprising that they’ve been
diverting some of their money and energy into getting revenge. The Japanese are
not as fatalistic as many Western people seem to think; they’re fiery and
emotional, and they never forget. The general feeling in Japan is still, even
today, that the dropping of the atomic bombs was unnecessary and unjustified,
apart from all the moral questions involved.
And the Circle
of Burned Doves is dedicated to making America pay for what she did–through
economic attack and through any other means at their disposal.
According to
Hachiro–although I can’t say how true this is–our car industry was sunk almost
entirely through the economic planning of the Circle of Burned Doves.’’
Jerry, who had
his ear pressed to the phone so that he could hear what Nesmith was saying,
asked Olive, “Find out what ‘any other means at their disposal’ might mean.”
Nesmith said,
“I asked Hachiro that myself, but he was incredibly vague. All he said was, ‘It
could mean an eye for an eye.’ “
“You mean
dropping an atomic bomb on America?”
“He wouldn’t
say.”
Olive gave
Robin her love, and then put down the phone.
“Well,” said
Mack, “where does this get us?”
“Nowhere at
all, much,” said Jerry. “Have you heard of the Circle of Burned Doves, Gerard?”
Gerard hadn’t
slept very well on Jerry’s sofa. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, and he
was breakfasting off crackers, cheese, and Chivas Regal. He shook his head. “It
doesn’t ring any bells.”
Maurice said,
“I’m going out for some muffins and stuff. Anybody want anything? Olive?”
“No, thanks, Maurice.”
Jerry, rolling up his shirtsleeve and nervously scratching at his
elbow, walked across the window and stared out at the sunshine.
“It
looks as if we’ve been guessing right up until now, but I still don’t see why
they’ve brought back the Tengus. They didn’t spend all that money and set up
that center just to kill off me and Admiral Thorson. They’ve got to have
something really catastrophic in mind.”
At that moment,
the phone rang again. It was Sergeant Skrolnik, sounding as tired as Robin
Nesmith. “Mr. Sennett? I thought you might like to know that we’ve arrested a
man in connection with the murder of Sherry Cantor, and with several other
murders.”
“You’ve
arrested someone? Who is it?”
“I’d like you
come down to headquarters, if you don’t mind, and take a look at him. His
name’s Jesus Carlos Esmeralda, he’s a Colombian. We picked him up after a
tipoff from the CIA.”
Jerry said,
“I’ll be right down,” and hung up the phone.
“What’s going
on?” asked Gerard.
“That was
Sergeant Skrolnik. He’s arrested your man Esmeralda. Apparently he was tipped
off by the CIA.”
“Francesca,”
snapped Gerard angrily. “She agreed to give me some goddamned time.”
Jerry said seriously,
“Come on, Gerard, I think this is the time for us to throw in our hand with the
police. We’ve come so far, but there isn’t very much else we can do, not on our
own. If they’ve picked up Esmeralda, the police must be quite close to clearing
this up themselves.
Maybe we could
help them.”
“They didn’t
say anything about my wife and daughters?” asked Gerard.
Jerry said,
‘‘No
. They just said Esmeralda.”
“Fucking
Esmeralda,” said Gerard.
Mack put in,
“Jerry could be right, you know? Maybe there’s some clue that we have that the
cops don’t know about. And maybe they’ve got a whole of information that we
don’t know.”
Gerard opened
his cigar case and found that it was empty. He tossed it onto the table, and
stuck his hands into his pockets with undisguised glumness. “All right,” he
said. “But you realize that I’m heavily implicated in all of this? If I go down
to police headquarters with you, they’re going to bust me, too.”
“You stay here,
then,” said Jerry. “Maybe you can do me a favor and keep an eye on David;
although why I’m entrusting you with the same boy you just kidnapped, I don’t
know.”
“You can trust
me,” Gerard told him. “Just give me a call if you hear anything about Eva and
the girls.”
“Sure,” Jerry
told him. “Mack? Maurice? Olive? You want to go?”
Down at police
headquarters, accompanied by a sweaty and pasty-faced Skrolnik, who was
exhausted after a long and futile night of questioning, arguing, and
delicatessen coffee, they stared at Mr. Esmeralda through the two-way mirror in
the side of his cell. Jerry said with certainty, “That’s the man I saw at
Orchid Place, the day Sherry Cantor was murdered.”
“You’re sure of
that?” asked Skrolnik.
“Positive. He
was standing in the street, watching my house. I remember thinking that he
looked like somebody out of an old Humphrey Bogart movie.”
“We think he’s
the ringleader,” said Skrolnik.
Detective
Pullet came into the room just then and gave Maurice a funny, half-apologetic
smile.
“We’re still
getting in data from the CIA on Esmeralda’s activities abroad. Apparently he’s
been dealing with arms and drugs and stolen antique furniture like he’s Ralph’s
or something. Hello, Mr. Needs. Glad you could be here.”
“The pleasure’s
mutual,” said Maurice. “How’s the lateral thinking?”
“Still going
strong,” said Pullet. “We’ll crack this business before you know it.”
“Not if you
think that Esmeralda is the ringleader,” Jerry told him.
“What’s that
supposed to mean?” Skrolnik demanded.
Jerry said, “Is
there some place where we can talk?
In private?”
“Sure,” grunted
Skrolnik. “Come across to Welch’s and watch me eat breakfast. You like
corned-beef hash? They do the best.”
M
r. Esmeralda was released on $50,000 bail at two o’clock that
afternoon, and told that he was not to leave the city of Los Angeles. His
attorney told Judge T. N. Slattery that his client was “a pillar of
international goodwill.” The prosecution raised no objection to the granting of
bail, especially since Mr. Esmeralda had no previous criminal record in the
United States, and had once been decorated by President Sukarno of Indonesia
for “services to the people of Djokjakarta and Surakarta.”
Immediately
after he left the courthouse in the company of his lawyer, Mr. Esmeralda caught
a taxi to his address on Camden Drive, where he stayed for two hours, until
just after 4:20 P.M., talking on the telephone. All of his conversations during
this period were tapped by the police, under the jurisdiction of a special
warrant.
His first call
was to Mercury Custom Air Services, at Torrance Municipal Airport, confirming
his booking of a Gulfstream III for 7:45 that evening. Destination: Liberal,
Kansas.
“Liberal,
Kansas?” asked Skrolnik, wrinkling up his nose.
Pullet said,
“I’ll check with the private air services at Liberal. He’s bound to be using it
as nothing more than a stopover.’’
The next call
that Mr. Esmeralda made was to Twentieth-Century Bandbox, a dry-cleaning
company, asking them to send over his two white suits and six shirts.
The third call
was more mysterious. It was traced to the number of a house in Laurel Canyon.
Mr. Esmeralda
said, “Tell Kappa I was picked up by the police for a traffic offense.
A rearender, nothing serious.
I’m out now, and everything’s
fine for tonight. Everything’s arranged. Kappa can leave immediately away for
Marina
del
Key. Yes, I know. But tell him everything’s
fine. I’ll come to the house at seven precisely and make sure that everything’s
going smoothly. How’s the Tengu? You did the Hour of Fire? He’s fine? Okay,
doctor. Okay. That’s good. Tonight’s the night, then. I’ll see you when I see
you. Just one thing–Kuan-yin’s all right? What? You’re sure about that?
Very well.
All right.
Take care of
that Tengu.”
The fourth call
was to a man called John O’Toole, of O’Toole’s Luxury Yachts, at Tahiti Way,
Marina
del
Key.
“The yacht is
ready, Mr. O’Toole? That’s excellent. My clients will be ready to leave in less
than an hour.
Very well.
No, you have no need to do
that. Good. And, listen, you don’t have to worry about yesterday. I know who that
man was, the one who answered the phone at the ranch.
You have
nothing to worry about. Yes. That’s right. Thank you.”
Skrolnik
listened to the last conversation and sat back in his swivel chair. “Tonight’s
the night, then? And they’re going to do something with that Tengu of theirs?”
“That’s right,”
Jerry nodded.
“He didn’t give
any indication, did he? No indication at all.”
“I’d bust him
now, if I were you,” said Mack.
Skrolnik shook
his head. “I’ve learned my lesson often enough, Mr. Holt. You don’t jump on
anybody until they’re actually involved in the commission of a crime, in
flagrante. The times I’ve gone to court with wiretaps that would make your
curly hair stand on end, and had them thrown out because conspiracy to commit a
crime, without the crime having actually been committed, is one of the hardest
imaginable offenses to prove. All Esmeralda has to do is say, ‘I was joking,
Your
Honor. I was fooling around with a friend.’ And anyway,
you take a look at a transcript of those conversations, and you won’t see
nothing
, nothing indictable. He spent most of his time
saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘okay,’ and unless you can establish exactly what it
was he was talking about, you won’t get anywhere.”
Jerry said,
“What are you going to do?” Skrolnik grimaced. “I’m going to do my duty, Mr.
Sennett. Ordinary, functional police work. I’m going to have Esmeralda tailed,
and arrested if he attempts to leave Los Angeles in contravention of the terms
of his bail. I’m going to assign a team to track down that house in Laurel
Canyon and follow the Tengu wherever he goes. Any attempt by the Tengu or any
of his assistants to commit any kind of violent crime, and
shazamI’m
going to throw his tail in jail.”
There was a
silence. Then Mack said, “How?”
“How what?”
asked Skrolnik crossly.
“How are you
going to throw the Tengu’s tail in jail? I thought the Tengus were pretty well
unstoppable. Look what you had to do at Rancho Encino. The thing was dead,
supposedly, and it still came after you.”
“You weren’t
there at Rancho Encino,” said Skrolnik.
“No, I wasn’t.
But from what Jerry’s told me, it sounds like these Tengus are pretty
invincible characters.”
Skrolnik stood
up, wrapping his beefy arms around his chest. “Let me tell you something,
junior,” he said. “When that Tengu came for me at Rancho Encino, it had no
head.”
“No keacft”
asked Jerry.
“That’s right.
Calsbeek’s men had blown its head clean off its shoulders. But that didn’t stop
it. It came right on in there, headless. We burned it, but if we hadn’t, it
would probably have torn us to pieces. So I know what I’m talking about, and
when I say that I’m going to throw that Tengu’s tail in jail, that’s exactly
what I’m going to do.”
“What did you
do with the ashes?” asked Jerry.
“What?” frowned
Skrolnik.
“Even a Tengu’s
ashes are capable of being revived by the appropriate ceremony,” said Jerry.
Skrolnik made a
dozen faces, each one more grotesque than the last. “Just leave this fucking
thing to me, will you? That’s all I ask. If I make a mistake, let it be my
mistake
,not
yours. You got me?”
“You’ll keep us
in touch?” asked Jerry. “Sure, I’ll keep you in touch. Now, why don’t you get
back home and watch the whole thing on television. You’ll be warmer and safer,
and you won’t be getting under my feet.”
Mack said,
“Wait a minute...” but Jerry took his arm and raised a finger to tell him that
he should keep quiet.
They went
across the street to Welch’s, and ordered hamburgers and beer. Jerry went to
the pay phone and called David. Gerard was being the prefect babysitter, David
told him. They had been playing checkers together, and so far David was ahead
by nine games to six. “He told me what he did in Cuba, and all about the time
when he was a boy on a tobacco farm.”