Suicide Squeeze

16

Joellen Becker knew a hired thug when she saw one, and the big black guy who’d pushed Samson into the Lincoln was definitely a leg-breaker. No wonder Samson needed cash. He probably owed a loan shark. Or maybe he was behind with his dealer. Samson didn’t seem like a junkie, but it was hard to tell these days.

She’d put her car into gear and followed them at a safe distance. They’d ended up in front of Playerz. Becker knew about the place, knew who owned it. If Samson was going in there, then there was a good chance he wouldn’t come out again. She mentally scratched Conner Samson off her list of leads.

Just for the record, she grabbed her digital camera out of the glove compartment, zoomed in, and snapped a picture of Samson. She flipped open her laptop, downloaded the picture from camera to computer. Her computer and software, like all of her equipment, was top-of-the-line. She brought up the photo, cut it down to a shot of Samson’s head and shoulders. She fiddled with the contrast a bit, but really it was a pretty good shot. Then she added some text underneath, an off-the-cuff, thumbnail profile. Now she had a brief record in case she might find Samson useful in the future.

Her cell phone twittered, and she flipped it open. “Becker.”

“I want a progress report.” It was Billy Moto.

“Not now, Moto. I’m on top of it. Call you later.” She flipped the phone closed and tossed it into the passenger seat.

The last thing she needed was the prim half Jap breathing down her neck. She’d gotten nowhere fast finding Folger. It was frustrating. She considered herself a good investigator. This should have been simple. Perhaps it was time to drop in on the ex-wife. Maybe Becker would get lucky. Pissed-off spouses and lovers were often fonts of information. Hate made people talk.

Then she reconsidered the picture she’d just taken. Moto wanted a progress report. Okay. No problem. Anything to get the man off her back. She’d send Moto the photograph and the brief profile. Let him chew on Conner Samson for a while.

Toshi X watched Billy Moto’s face go blank. Moto was stoic, hard to read, but Toshi sensed a deep frustration in the man. Toshi believed Moto’s frustration stemmed from the man’s own weakness and inefficiency. He did not have the will to carry out Ahira Kurisaka’s wishes. Unbeknownst to Moto, Toshi had orders. Orders that he was dangerously close to implementing. Kurisaka was not a patient man, and so far Moto had been a disappointment.

Toshi sat on the sofa in Moto’s hotel room, wondered if Moto could feel Toshi’s hard eyes watching him. Toshi wanted nothing more than to hold the half-breed’s still-beating heart in his iron fist. He felt the hatred and rage surging in his veins. Toshi was not ashamed of these impulses. They gave him strength.

Moto closed the cell phone, slipped it slowly into a jacket pocket. “I think the Becker woman has failed us. We must think of something else.”

Toshi stood. “You were wrong to place such faith in an outsider.”

Moto went to the French doors, which opened onto the room’s balcony. He threw the doors open. The sounds of Pensacola traffic flooded the room. “First of all, we are the outsiders here.” He stood with his back to Toshi, took in a calming lungful of fresh air.

I’d expect a half-breed to say such a thing. Toshi took a quiet step toward Moto. He could smell the salt water even though the Gulf was several miles away. The switchblade dropped out of his sleeve and into his right hand. He held his breath, took another silent step toward Moto.

“Second,” Moto said, still facing away from Toshi. “I’m well aware of your opinions, but the roughshod way you handled Teddy Folger produced no results, as you might recall. Folger’s tolerance for pain was lower than you thought. Now if you don’t have anything constructive to say, I’d appreciate your remaining silent. I need to think of what to do next.”

I’m happy to relieve you of that responsibility. He planned to take Moto from behind, stick the man like a pig. In Toshi’s mind, it was what Moto deserved. Toshi thumbed the button on the switchblade, and it flipped open with a small snick.

Moto’s shoulder’s tensed, and Toshi realized immediately that Moto had recognized the noise. It all happened in a fraction of a second, Toshi deciding to leap at Moto while he still had some advantage. Toshi lunged, knife outstretched for a strike under the ribs.

Moto spun fast, blocked the knife thrust, locking wrists with Toshi. Moto kicked hard, caught Toshi in the chest, and knocked him back. Toshi tumbled over a coffee table, landed across the room. He picked himself up, went into a fighter’s crouch, the knife moving from side to side in front of him.

Moto had also gone into a crouch, hands at the ready, chin down, eyes up in perfect black-belt form.

“Did you think it would be so easy?” Moto’s voice was rough with anger. “Just because I’m not a rabid dog like you does not mean I am without a bite. What do you think Mr. Kurisaka will say when I report your behavior?”

Toshi rubbed his chest. “Idiot. Who else would have ordered your demise?”

Confusion passed over Moto’s face, but only briefly. “So that’s how it is. Then I must tender my resignation when I take Mr. Kurisaka your head.”

Moto hurdled the coffee table and swung a fist at Toshi. Toshi ducked it easily, but realized too late it was a feint. Moto kicked Toshi’s left knee. Pain lanced up his leg, and he grunted, went down. Another fist from Moto. It slammed into Toshi’s jaw. He tasted blood.

He ducked under another punch, rolled away, and sprang to his feet. He put weight on the bad knee, tested it. It hurt, but it would support him. He’d underestimated Moto. A bad mistake. The two men stood facing each other a few feet apart, breathing heavily.

This time Toshi struck first, slashing wildly with the switchblade, then jumping into the air, spinning, landing a kick on the side of Moto’s head. Moto came right back with a flurry of punches. The two men traded blows and blocks. Toshi tore a deep rent in Moto’s jacket with the switchblade, but it didn’t touch skin. As Toshi pulled the knife back, Moto caught his wrist, dug a thumb into a pressure point, and twisted.

Toshi yelled, dropped the switchblade.

Moto dove on him, connected a solid jab on the point of Toshi’s chin. Toshi blocked another punch but missed the one that landed in his gut. Toshi sucked for air. He jumped back, overturned a chair between himself and Moto. This wasn’t going well. He needed a moment to regroup.

Moto pressed the attack, lunged hard and fast. Toshi tried to catch Moto by surprise, reversing his retreat, charging forward. A warrior’s scream tore from his throat. He brought both fists down hard toward Moto’s head.

Moto grabbed Toshi’s arm. A twist. A shift in weight. Toshi was in the air, looking at the ceiling. The room spun past. He landed flat on his back. The air whuffed out of him.

Toshi more sensed than saw Moto coming from behind. Toshi kicked out hard and got lucky. The heel of his shoe landed square into Moto’s balls. Moto grunted low and guttural, stumbled back several steps onto the balcony, bent in half, hands cupping his testicles.

Toshi gasped for breath, propped himself up on an elbow and reached inside his jacket and pulled out his.380 automatic. He knew now he couldn’t take Moto in a fight. Moto was better. He lifted the automatic, fired twice.

The first shot missed. Moto stood, backed against the balcony railing, flinched away from the shot. The second bullet caught Moto on top of his left shoulder. Blood sprayed. The impact pushed Moto back. He fell.

Over the railing.

And down.

Toshi blinked. He heaved himself up, forced air into his lungs, and stumbled out onto the balcony. He leaned over the railing, looked down. It had been a six-story plummet. Palm trees and bushes obscured the view. What was down there? Toshi tried to remember. A patio area, a tiki bar. His instinct was to run downstairs, make sure Moto was finished. But already he heard a woman scream. A crowd would gather. An ambulance. Police. Toshi wanted to avoid all that.

No, he decided. He would not need to check Moto’s pulse, look into his dead, unblinking eyes. The fall had killed him. Toshi was sure. He returned his automatic to the shoulder holster, buttoned his jacket. Now to contact Cousin Ahira, inform him the task had been completed.

The phone rang. A series of beeps, and the fax machine across the room hummed to life. Toshi went to see what was coming in. It was from Moto’s informant, Becker. A picture of a man. Conner Samson. Name, address, and a short note from Becker. He might know something.

Toshi retrieved his switchblade before leaving the room. He lamented not being able to slide it between Moto’s ribs. Nothing felt so good as the easy glide of steel into flesh.