Suicide Squeeze

45

Ahira Kurisaka stood naked in his hotel bathroom, the wind on his sweaty skin raising goose bumps. He’d exerted himself almost to the point of collapse. Knocking down the door, ripping the pedestal sink from the floor, and heaving it out the window was all more exercise than he’d had in a long time. He stood at the windowsill, sucking air and looking at the gathering police vehicles below.

Someone cleared his throat. Kurisaka turned, looked down at Toshi standing in the bathroom’s ruined doorway. The Yakuza killer looked bruised and bloodied. His jacket was torn. But the man stood at attention, waited for Kurisaka to speak.

“Tell me what’s happened,” Kurisaka said.

“An attempt on your life, Cousin,” Toshi said. “I personally dispatched two of the killers, which is why I was not at your side when the third man broke into your suite. I apologize for the dereliction.”

“No,” Kurisaka said. “Not an assassination attempt, not this time. They took the DiMaggio card. Your killers were a diversion.”

Toshi’s stoic expression wavered in obvious disbelief. He composed himself quickly. “We might have a more immediate problem, I’m afraid. The local authorities will be here soon.”

“We’ll use the diplomatic credentials,” Kurisaka said. “Why else would I have two ambassadors and the deputy minister of the foreign office on the payroll?”

Toshi doubted it would be that simple but said nothing.

Kurisaka turned back to the open window, gazed at the cityscape. “I don’t know what to think, Toshi.” He’d believed his DiMaggio card a prize to be envied. Then Hito Hyatta had yanked the rug out from under him, had made him feel naÏve, idiotic. He’d called the card cute. And then, in the middle of the night, someone had felt the card worth a daring raid on Kurisaka’s heavily guarded hotel suite. Kurisaka no longer understood his world.

Toshi cleared his throat. “Cousin?”

“Yes?”

“Do Yakuza generally suffer such an attack unanswered?”

Kurisaka thought for long seconds, understanding dawning in his eyes. “No,” he said. “No, we do not.”

Kurisaka did not see Toshi’s wide, wicked smile.

“Gather the men,” ordered Kurisaka.

Toshi’s smile fell. “They are dead, Cousin. Every last one of them.”

Tyranny Jones’s insomnia had led her to the blank canvas in the breakfast nook. She did much of her painting late at night, her mind racing, unable to find sleep amid the lace and satin in her bedroom, a separate bedroom from Professor Dan’s. She’d begun by painting the canvas, ended up painting herself. First, black toenail polish, then the fingernails black too. She liked it, found a tube of black lipstick, and did the lips.

In the bathroom’s full-length mirror, she stripped naked and looked at herself. Tyranny was too tan to go gothic, so she resolved to stay out of the sun until she was nice and pale. She would buy a long, lacey black dress and a pair of combat boots. Yes, a good decision. It felt right, a timely reinvention of herself. Shake things up a bit. What would Dr. Goldblatt say?

She went upstairs, looked at Dan while he slept. His mouth hung open, a little drool on the chin. He appeared comatose and oblivious. She envied him. She went down the hall to her bedroom, took all the black clothing out of her closet, laid it out on the bed. She understood as a matter of course that she was inventing a project for herself, trying to trick her mind into paying attention to trivia, sorting clothes into piles, slacks and blouses and underwear and pajamas.

She put on the black pajamas.

In her bathroom mirror, she studied herself. She looked like a Marilyn Manson fan at a slumber party.

Her image makeover was interesting but not fully distracting. So Tyranny did something she almost never did. She went downstairs and flipped on the television. Maybe an old movie. Or music videos. It had been ages and ages since she’d zoned out in front of music videos.

Instead, a windblown news reporter told Pensacola that all hell had broken loose downtown.

“-have responded with fire trucks and ambulances. All off-duty police are asked to report in. The slaughter follows on the heels of a similar incident that happened only a few hours earlier at a downtown gentlemen’s club.” The reporter paused, touched his earpiece, a wire hanging past his shoulder. “I’m being told authorities have not ruled out the possibility of a terrorist attack. Apparently there is a contingent of Japanese dignitaries staying at the hotel. It hasn’t been determined yet if-”

Tyranny flipped the channel, trying to find better pictures of the calamity. The Channel 2 news copter circled the Intercontinental Hotel, but without flames or smoke billowing from hotel windows it was a fairly boring view. Another channel showed the remains of a pedestal sink embedded in the smashed roof of an SUV. More interesting. She watched awhile longer, hoping to see some bodies.

The doorbell chimed.

At this hour?

She went to the front door, looked through the peephole. It was too dark to see anything more than a vague shape. Instead of reaching for the light switch, she said, “Who is it?”

“Tyranny, it’s me. Please open the door.”

“Conner?” She glanced up at the ceiling, wondered if Dan had heard the doorbell. It was a big house, and Dan was a sound sleeper. She’d told Conner to stay away. Was he here to cause trouble, pick another fight with Dan? He was such a fucking fucking fucking stubborn, stupid- “Conner, what are you doing here?”

“Jesus, Tyranny, just open the damn door.”

She opened her mouth, wanted to tell him to fuck off. Go away. She didn’t want to see him, couldn’t endure any more of his pleas or professions of love. Couldn’t stand breaking his heart, didn’t have the energy to figure out how their lives would fit together or even if they could. It was all too much, and all Tyranny wanted was to hide in her room and try on black clothes and listen to a Duran Duran CD over and over again and pretend she wasn’t a fucked-up head case. But no, here was Conner fucking Samson throwing reality in her face in the middle of the night like a selfish goddamn asshole, and yet part of her brain wondered if he’d like the new look, the black lipstick, and she wanted to kill him and kiss him and why wouldn’t he just fuck off?

He pounded on the door. “Tyranny!”

“Shit!” She opened the door. “Fine. Get your ass in here. But stop yelling or you’ll wake- Oh my God!”

Conner fell into the light, sprawled facedown in the foyer. He looked like hell, blood-smeared and pale as death. He clutched a metal attaché case.

“Oh, Conner, oh Jesus, what happened?” She knelt next to him, gently turned him over, pulled his head into her lap.

“It’s been a long night,” Conner said. “I think… if it’s okay maybe… I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.” He passed out.

“Conner!”

Professor Dan walked in, rubbing his eyes. He spotted Tyranny holding Conner’s head in her lap. “This is just typical. In my own house.” He took a closer look, saw the blood. “Oh, man. He doesn’t look so good.”