High Chicago

CHAPTER 39

"WWell, that was disappointing," Birk said. "I always believed that about Mohawks, that they had no fear of heights. I suppose I should respect them all the more if they are afraid and still walk out on beams as if they weren't, but the bottom line is, I don't like being fooled. Getting bad intelligence or information I can't trust." He was wearing a tan overcoat and he shivered slightly in the wind then tucked his hands in his pockets. "You, on the other hand, haven't fooled anyone, have you, Geller? You've been as transparent as a soap bubble ever since you got here. Even before that."

I wondered if Jericho Hale had sold me out-if the invitation for a meal had been a ruse to draw me into the open-or if they had simply tailed me from the Hilton.

"You like pirate movies?" Birk asked.

"What?"

"Pirate movies. Not the Pirates of the Caribbean crap-although they did make a lot of money for Disney, which I have to respect. The old ones. The classics. The Sea Hawk. Captain Blood. Treasure Island. Captain Kidd. The Black Swan with Tyrone Power. I watched them all as a kid. Not you, huh?"

"I saw Wall Street," I said.

"Wiseass," Curry muttered.

"Let him have his fun, Francis," Birk said. "What did you think," he said to me, "watching our Indian friend walk out on that beam? Think you could do it? Think you could hold yourself together a thousand feet above pavement?"

I said, "Maybe."

"Maybe. Hardly a vote of confidence in yourself. And confidence, I'm told, is everything in that situation. So let's give it a try, shall we?" He held out his hand as if inviting me into his parlour. "Go on."

I didn't move.

Birk grinned. Whoever had capped his teeth had done a good job. They gleamed brighter than any star in the night sky behind him. "Not so keen? Well, this is where we get to the pirate part. Walking the plank. Francis, would you mind pointing your pistol at Geller's head? That's it. Nicely done. So here's your choice, Geller. Walk the beam. Or take a bullet. More than one if need be."

I looked at the beam stretching out in front of me. I knew I could walk out and back without falling. I was a martial artist. I had good balance-better than good. I had the ability to focus my mind. When I worked on katas I often challenged myself to begin and end them on the same spot, like a gymnast nailing a landing.

"As an added incentive," Birk said, "I give you my word. If you can walk out to the end of the beam and back, you'll be free to go."

"Like that's worth anything."

Birk gave me an aggrieved look, drawing his chin in and arching his thick brows. "I've closed billion-dollar deals on my word," he said.

"And had people killed with it."

"You keep saying that, but if you had one shred of proof-"

"What do you call this? Having Francis put a gun on me?"

"Ripping entertainment."

"And the little escapade in the park today?"

"What escapade? Which park?"

"Grant Park. The guy who tried to shoot me in the head. The guy you sent with Tom Barnett."

"Detective Barnett? I haven't seen him in years, not since he led the investigation into the robbery of my home."

"So capably too. Never caught anyone or found anything."

"At any rate," Birk said. "I'm getting chilly. Wind pressure increases with height, of course, but nothing quite prepares you for it eighty-plus storeys up. So what's it going to be, Geller? Come on, it's only twenty feet long. Well, twenty each way, assuming you make it back."

Only forty feet. Only eighty-five storeys to fall. Seven times the height Maya Cantor fell and her body had been virtually destroyed on impact.

"You can't say I'm not sporting," Birk said.

I stepped out onto the beam-Birk watching me like a wolf who'd found a stray lamb trapped in a bed of mint-and immediately had to adjust to a gust of sudden wind funnelled through neighbouring towers. Maybe Mohawks were afraid of heights, maybe they weren't; this Jew was fucking terrified. Look ahead, I told myself. Never down. One foot in front of the other. I was glad I had running shoes on, not loafers with a slick sole. The studded surface of the beam gave some grip. Halfway out, another gust almost sheared me off into the darkness. I put out my hands, wavering like a tightrope walker; heard Curry laugh until I had regained my balance.

"Bravo," Birk shouted. "All that was missing was a drum roll."

I reached the end of the beam, where it joined an I-beam.

"Now let's see the turn," Birk said. "A little tricky, if you're not used to it. But you're doing very well, so far."

"Beats American Idol," Curry said.

"Maybe the early rounds," Birk said.

The beam was wide enough, I told myself. Looked to be twelve inches across. I visualized a move that occurs about a third of the way through a tensho kata, where the fighter pivots around from front to back. I had done it hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I tried to feel it in my body, how it would take my feet, my legs, my core right around, and did it, breathing out, using the traditional hand movements to keep my balance.

"You learn that in ballet class?" Curry said.

If only he'd been close enough to hit.

I walked back along the beam, watching Curry more than Birk, but so far he was keeping the gun pointed down. I reached the end of the beam and stepped back onto the temporary flooring.

"Well done," Birk said. "You might be short on strategy, Geller, but you have nerve and everyone knows I like that in a man. And so I am going to surprise you, my Canadian friend, by keeping my word. You're free to go. The game is no longer afoot."

I kept watching Curry's gun hand.

"Go on," Birk said. "About your business. Chop-chop."

I started toward the elevator.

Birk said, "Francis."

Curry's gun came up.

"I said you could go," Birk said with a cold grin. "I didn't say you could take the elevator."