The Sudden Star (29 page)

He said, "Damn it, look happy. You just bought a beautiful bracelet. Corazon's waving at us."

The redheaded woman was standing in the doorway. Aisha waved back limply; her arm was weak. Arne stood up and offered her a hand. She took it as she rose. "Look happy," he said again. "You whores ought to be used to acting, come on." She walked with him toward the party, forcing herself to smile.

Although it was still night, the sky seemed brighter. Aisha climbed out of the cart and waved good night to Corazon. "Now aren't you glad you came?" the small round woman said, sinking back against the seat.

"Oh, yeah," Aisha responded, straining to smile.

Corazon said, "See you. I want a look at that bracelet before you stash it." The driver flipped his whip lightly and the horse clomped away from the curb.

Aisha strolled toward her entrance, exhausted by the effort she had made to be cheerful. Arne had been smart, he had himself covered, and by asking her to Lou-Lou's party, he'd made sure no word was likely to leak about their meeting. The motel dwellers were tight, unwilling to talk much with the more affluent types living farther down. He'd covered himself and cut her loose at the same time. She knew now she'd have to cooperate with Simon. Her only hope was that Titus would take care of Ortega before she found out about Takaishi.

The night watchman greeted her. "You got a visitor," he said, pointing at the entrance. "Arrived just a few minutes ago."

"Mr. Takaishi?"

"Nope, some guy I never seen."

"You didn't let him in?" she said, thinking about her pearls.

"Nope. He has police papers, though. He's waiting in the hallway." He shook his head. "Hope you ain't in trouble."

She shook her head, hoping she wasn't either. She went in and climbed the stairs wearily. She was getting a headache again and she was beginning to resent the unknown visitor.

She stopped in front of her door, fumbling in the darkness for the key in her pouch. A dark shape moved toward her. "Hello, Miss Aisha."

It was Officer Rabe. Clutching her key, she stepped back. "What do you want?"

"Open the door."

"We can talk out here."

"Open the door." He grabbed her arm and twisted it. She unlocked her door and stepped inside. The room was gray and shadowy, lit only by the dim light outside the window. Rabe slammed the door behind him. She backed away.

"What do you want?" Her voice shook. She swallowed.

"Oh, well, it's just a personal visit. I been meanin' to see you again, but I just couldn't find the time before. Remember, you owe me."

"I don't owe you anything any more."

"You're always goin' to owe me," he said softly, "and you better just think on that, and be nicer, or I'll have to teach you how."

She stood still, suddenly conscious of the heat in the room. It enveloped her, almost burning into her skin. Rabe was aglow. A red aura clung to his big body and shimmered. She blinked. Her hands were shaking. Her ears buzzed.
Can do what I want, just like before, just do what I say, always goin' to owe me, so get over here, get over here.
The words were inside her, scraping against her brain. The part of her mind she had always pushed outside herself before, to protect it, to keep at least part of herself untouched, was deep inside her now, a tiny bright spot being crushed and ground up by the words scratching at her. She felt Rabe's breath and smelled the beer and sweat. She had given in passively enough before, it didn't matter, it would be over, he would go. Her ears buzzed more loudly. The bright spot inside was being destroyed. Frantically she tried to save it, push it from her. Rabe's fingers touched her left arm, searing it.

She jerked away.
He's killing me.
Her right arm came up and fell toward his chest, lifted and fell again. The nerves along her spine screamed.

Rabe bellowed. Blood spurted over her arm. She gazed at it in shock, realizing she held her knife. Rabe bent over, clutching his chest; his right arm reached for his holster. Her arm came up again, then down, stabbing him in the back. He screeched and fell heavily to the floor. She stumbled against the wall, clinging to it. Her body hummed and shook. The wall felt cool. The glow around Rabe disappeared.

She was unable to move. She heard a loud tapping; someone in the apartment below was banging on the ceiling. Her arms seemed pinned to the wall. At last the banging stopped.

Her back was against the wall. She was seated on the floor, arms around her knees. Morning sunlight gleamed obliquely through the window, brightening the red of the couch. Her eyes burned. She saw the body and closed her eyes. She tried to stand, but could not move. She put out her hands, tucked her legs under her rump, and crawled slowly toward her bedroom. She was suddenly weak.

She curled up on the floor, stretching her arms out. She felt numb; there was a gap somewhere inside her, a void. She tried to locate it, unable to tell whether it was inside her head or her chest. It seemed as though she should feel more than that. It wasn't me, she thought desperately, it wasn't me, it was someone else, I didn't, I didn't.

Someone was knocking on the door. She lifted her eye toward the bedroom window. The sun was higher in the sky, its warmth bathed her arms. She heard the knocking again. It sounded like Simon. Her arms were stiff, her leg paralyzed. The knocking stopped. After a while, she heard his sandals slap the floor as he returned to his own apartment. His door clicked shut.

She gazed down her outstretched arms at one leg of her bed. It was an old iron bed, painted gray. The paint was streaked. She squinted, peering at the streaks. At first they reminded her of reeds, the reeds she had seen near shore as she and Simon traveled downriver in their boat. They wavered as she looked. The blotches and tiny bumps along the streaks suggested shapes; the tilt of a nose, a slim female body, a bent knee, a man's muscular leg.

She moved her legs. One foot felt prickly as she moved her toes. It was still light outside, but she could no longer see the sun. She bent her arms and moaned. She rolled over slowly, then sat up. She was dizzy, she clutched her head. Slowly she got to her feet, pulling herself up by
clinging to the bed. She took a deep breath.

There was a tap at the door. Startled, she smashed a leg against the bed and cried out in pain. The gentle tapping resumed. Takaishi, Werner Takaishi, the gentle knock of a quiet man. "Aisha?" he said through the door. He had heard her, he knew she was here.

At last she was feeling something; she felt fear. She wrung her hands. "Aisha?" he said again. She was going to answer the door. She forced herself to move toward it. It wasn't me, she cried to herself, it wasn't me. She reached for the knob and opened it.

He peered at her with his small eyes. She heard him take a quick breath. He slipped inside quickly and closed the door. He looked first at her, then down at Rabe. She turned away, unable to look at what she had done.

"What happened?" Takaishi said softly. She couldn't speak. She opened her mouth and heard a high whining sound. He took her by the shoulders and propelled her back into the bedroom, seating her on the bed. "What happened?" he said again. She shook her head.

He left the room and came back with a glass of the whiskey she kept for guests. He thrust it at her. "Drink it."

She stared up at him. "But I don't drink."

"Drink it."

She took the glass. Her teeth clattered against the rim. She gulped some whiskey, then gasped and choked. Takaishi patted her back. "It was self-defense, wasn't it? His hand's still on his holster." He sat down next to her and for a moment she was afraid he would touch her again. She shook her head.

"Wasn't it?"

She said, "I don't know. He was waiting for me, I owed him, he did it once before, but I thought he wouldn't want me again, but he did, and I—" She crumpled, pressing her hands against her knees.

"It was a kind of self-defense, then," he said. "Listen, you have to answer me. Did anyone else see him come in here?"

"I don't think so. The night watchman did. He told me a policeman was here, but nobody else."

"Did anybody else hear you?"

She tried to remember. "I think the people downstairs did." She stared at Takaishi's scuffed brown shoes, unable to look at his face. "You're going to turn me in, aren't you?"

He sighed. "No. No, I'm not."

"But he's a policeman. They'll find out."

"They won't find out, I'll take care of it." She glanced sideways at him. He still looked meek, but thoughtful. He ran a hand over his graying hair. "Now listen to me. You're going to go into your washroom there and clean up, and put on clean clothes, and then we're going to lock this door and I'm going to take you over to the Americana and get a room for us. We'll have dinner in the room, and you'll stay there while I come back here and take care of things. If anyone asks why you're there, you're going to smile and say I decided to surprise you with some new furnishings, and that is all. Do you understand?"

She nodded. Then she remembered the night watchman, the only witness. She reached out a hand to Takaishi. "The night watchman," she said quickly. "You won't do anything to him, will you? He's old, he probably won't even remember, he just runs his mouth if you ask him a question anyway."

His eyes grew even smaller. "Why do you think I'd hurt him?" he asked in his quiet voice.

She drew back, recalling what Arne had said and afraid to speak. '"I don't know," she said finally.

He got up and helped her to her feet. "You'd better get ready."

At first, Aisha didn't know where she was. She lay under a sheet, staring out a large window at a beach and the ocean beyond. She rolled over on her other side, her back to the window. She heard the sound of panting. She sat up and moved to the edge of the bed. Takaishi, naked, was doing push-ups on the floor. His muscles bulged as he strained, his veins were long, thin, blue tubes entwined over his pale brown skin. She remembered where she was and why she was here. Her head drooped. She thrust her hands under the sheet.

Takaishi got up and walked over to the window on his short sturdy legs and stood there, gazing out at the ocean. She considered how he usually appeared in his wrinkled suits; short and meek, a little out of shape, ugly pocked face on a squat neck in a too-tight shirt collar. Too bad, she thought, that he can't just walk around naked. He turned and came back to her. He patted her shoulder.

"I'm going over to your apartment to finish up," he said. "I'll be back this afternoon."

"What are you going to do?"

"Move some more furniture in, of course. That's what I said I was doing there. I had to get rid of the rug and the table anyway. They—" She winced. "Anyway, I have to show the guys where to put it."

She said, "I can't go back there."

"It won't even look like the same place, Aisha. It won't bother you."

"I can't."

He sat down next to her and held her arms. She kept her hands under the sheet. "Look, we'll go over this afternoon. If you still feel that way, you can stay here a bit longer."

She hung her head, feeling ashamed. He was risking something for her, and she hadn't really paid him back. She was in his hands now anyway, she had to speak. She took a deep breath and said, "I was at a party the other night."

He drew back, looking confused. She peered at him from under her half-closed eyelids. "I was told something about you," she said quickly. "You're trying to kill Isabeau Rasselle's bodyguard, Kathleen Ortega. I knew her in New York. This person found out about you by accident, and Ortega's trying to get to you first, but she doesn't know it's you yet, but this person does, and I think sooner or later he'll sell the information to someone else too." She sank back against a pillow. "I didn't know if I could tell you, I thought if I did, you'd get rid of me too, but it doesn't matter now, after what I did, and then I thought you should know so you could do something about it, you probably thought she couldn't find out, but now she can." Now that she'd finally spoken, she was babbling. She waited, wondering what he would do, not really caring.

He sat stiffly and silently for a few moments, staring past her. He was very still. The wrinkles near his tiny eyes were deeper. At last he said, very quietly, "Who told you this?" and she knew he was angry. She did not speak. His arm suddenly snaked toward her; his fingers gripped her arm. "Who told you?"

"Don't make me say," she pleaded. "You'll do something to him, and it'll be my fault."

"When did he talk to you?"

"The night when—" she paused. "The night when I—the night I—"

"All right," he said. He got off the bed and paced across the room. "He's probably already talked to someone. He may already be dead, for being a bit too clever." He turned and looked at her threateningly; there were furrows between his eyebrows. "If you don't keep quiet about this, there could be a lot of trouble for me. You know that."

"If I say anything," she said despairingly, "you can turn me over to the police, too." A thought occurred to her. "That's why you started seeing me, isn't it?" she murmured, not knowing quite how to express herself. "It had something to do with Ortega, didn't it? It must have."

He pulled his clothes off a chair and began to dress. "It's partly true," he said as he pulled on his shirt. "When Negron first set up a practice here, and I heard through a police friend about his record in New York, I thought I'd better watch him. He could identify Ortega and she would have known that too. You came here with him, you lived across from him, it was a way of watching him. I didn't know anything about you. But that isn't the only reason." He sat down and pulled on his socks.