Boxing the Octopus, page 14
“The general gentility.” Vincent fanned the fingers of his right hand. “Business leaders, political donors, real estate developers, two tech entrepreneurs, one state senator, a Superior Court judge, and a former assistant to the mayor.”
“No shit?” Cape looked at Beau, whom he’d known the longest.
“You see the problem.”
Cape took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. “You haven’t found the drivers.” He looked at his half-empty second beer. “So, no visible progress on the case, therefore no probable cause for interrogating a group of highly connected people with vested interests in protecting their pristine reputations.”
“And the reputation of the pier,” added Vincent.
“But you have a dead body.”
“Who might’ve had a stroke,” said Beau.
Cape said, “So you want me to make trouble—”
“—isn’t that what you do for a living?” asked Vincent.
Cape sighed. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
37
“I guess it’s too much to ask if we have a plan.”
Sergey glared indignantly at his little sister. “Of course we have a plan, Eva.”
Eva chewed her gum loudly and blew a bubble the size of a softball. When it finally popped, she asked, “Is it a secret plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was just wondering.” Eva swung her legs back and forth over the edge of the roof. They had climbed the service ladder from the walkway behind their family store to the roof, knowing the security guards rarely paid attention to the back of the pier. From this vantage they overlooked a huge swath of the bay, the seductive undulations of the water a welcome contrast to the cacophony of the pier below. “I thought Nastya was keeping it a secret, since telling us to cause trouble didn’t sound like much of a plan.”
“We put a dead man in a fish tank,” said Sergey. “That took quite a bit of planning.”
“That only took me distracting a security guard while you wheeled an industrial garbage can up a ramp.” Eva smacked her lips together.
“I never asked what you did to distract him.”
“I offered to give him a blow job.”
“Охуеéть!” Sergey lurched forward as if stung by a wasp. “You didn’t!”
“Of course I didn’t,” said Eva, working her jaw as she positioned her tongue to make another bubble. “There wasn’t time.” Eva’s cheeks swelled as a perfectly pink sphere emerged. “But the subject came up.”
Sergey scooted backwards before he fell off the roof. “As your older brother—”
“—you’re a hypocrite.” Eva popped her bubble loudly.
“Have you not noticed how I’ve cleaned up my act since Nastya put me in charge?”
“She did not put you in charge.” Eva elbowed him in the ribs. “And I noticed you cleaned up your language around Nastya, but I doubt you’ve cleaned up your act. I read an article that says the average man thinks about sex every other minute.”
“What does he think about the rest of the time?”
“Funny,” said Eva.
“Besides,” said Sergey, “I am above average, in every way.” He laid his right hand over his heart. “I’m taking this plan very seriously.”
“What plan?” demanded Eva.
“Nastya wants to force a meeting.”
A seagull landed nearby. Eva popped another bubble and scared it off. “Wouldn’t it be easier to send an email?”
“We have more than one business partner,” said Sergey, “so who do you send it to?”
“To whom do you send it,” corrected Eva. “You really need to work on your English grammar, starshiy brat.”
Sergey didn’t take the bait and congratulated himself on his self-control. He chalked it up to his masturbatory regimen and made a mental note to jerk off again as soon as his sister left him alone. “Nastya said we don’t know who stole from us, so if we approach anyone directly, then we show our ass too soon.”
“Hand,” said Eva. “We show our hand too soon.”
“You can show whatever you want,” said Sergey testily. “If we cause enough trouble—”
“—without calling attention to ourselves—”
“—then maybe the ublyudok who stole from us will get worried and call a meeting of the partners to settle things down.”
“So whoever calls the meeting is the traitor?”
Sergey shrugged. “That’s the idea.”
“Sounds like a plot point from The Godfather.” Eva used the thumb and middle finger of her right hand to pull a long string of bubble gum from between her clenched teeth, then she snapped it back and started chewing again. “The person who calls the meeting could be any partner trying to keep the peace.”
“True,” said Sergey reluctantly. “But either way, we won’t be seen as weak for panicking and calling the meeting first.”
“Won’t that make us seem guilty?”
Sergey held up his hands. “That depends on who calls the meeting, doesn’t it?”
“You realize this is a circular argument, Brother?”
“Is that an idiom?”
Eva sighed. “Let’s just say it’s not a plan.”
“All I know,” said Sergey, “is that we need to cause more trouble.”
Eva looked over the bay. A container ship was passing under the Golden Gate, and only a quarter mile away, a ferry bounced along the waves on its way to Alcatraz. She didn’t want to play by the rules, but she also didn’t want to go to jail.
It had been Eva’s experience that what she wanted and what her family needed were not always the same.
“Okay,” she said. “Where will trouble strike next?”
“Let’s climb down from this roof,” said Sergey. “And I’ll show you.”
38
Sally climbed down from the roof onto the fire escape and jumped.
The building she used as a springboard was adjacent to her own, the two structures separated by a narrow alley. Each building had its own fire escape, which cut the distance to less than eight feet.
She landed on the opposite fire escape as softly as a cat wearing Converses. Sally waited until her breathing fell beneath the sounds of the night city. Then she padded up the stairs to the roof of her building.
Her loft was on the top floor, divided into an apartment and a dojo, a martial arts school where Sally taught nice young girls how to kill with their hands.
Had Sally entered by the main entrance and climbed the stairs from the street, she would have come to a sliding wooden door that opened onto the dojo, but when locked was virtually impregnable. The skylight was the obvious choice for covert entry, which is why Sally designed booby traps that would deter, maim, or kill the average burglar.
She knew her visitor was anything but average, so Sally walked around the skylight to the base of the water tower. It was a classic wooden structure shaped like a giant barrel, with a curved ladder leading to a conical top. Silhouetted by the moonlight, it resembled a giant ice cream cone.
Water towers were common to rooftops in New York City but rarely seen in San Francisco. This one had been custom built shortly after Sally moved in. The salvaged wood chosen for its weathered exterior made it seem as if the tank had always been part of the building, so nobody questioned its utility, nor did they suspect that it was empty.
Sally knew the importance of having an escape route, and having a back door into her apartment sometimes came in handy. This was definitely one of those times. She climbed the curved ladder, hidden by shadows cast from the overhang of the tower’s lid. Halfway up and around, Sally pressed against a cedar shingle that swung open to reveal a metal handle. One pull opened a small door to her left.
Sally slid inside the tower and climbed down to her apartment. The passage terminated inside the wall behind her closet. She listened closely to the sounds of her home before passing through the bedroom into a hallway that led to the large, open chamber of the school.
The skylight was closed, but trip wires controlling spring-loaded guns had been activated. Each wall of the chamber had a wooden dart sticking out of it. The shaft of the darts glistened in the moonlight with a narcotic gleam. In the center of the room, a padded mat was positioned to catch anyone who fell in a tangle of paralysis. Sally would have been disappointed if her visitor let herself get caught that easily.
Like any good host, Sally had disabled the barbed arrows and poison gas.
Her guest sat in the center of the mat, cross-legged and calm, as harmless as a sleeping scorpion. She stood as Sally entered the chamber, rising like a gentle wave, her hands never touching the floor. She bowed respectfully but kept her eyes on Sally.
“Rènshi nì zhēn róngxìng.” Her Mandarin sounded like music, the inflections polished and smooth. “An honor to meet you, little dragon. My name is An.”
The corner of Sally’s mouth twitched at the name. The Chinese word for peace was not an uncommon girl’s name, but the irony wasn’t lost on either woman. Sally was tempted to invite An into the other room and serve her tea, as was custom, but under the circumstances it seemed prudent to keep things informal. There was always the chance An might try to kill her, and Sally wanted room to maneuver.
Sally gestured at the mat and sat down, assuming the position An had taken moments before. An flowed back to a cross-legged position ten feet away.
“I was waiting for the door to open,” said An, “but you came out of the closet, didn’t you?”
“I came out of the closet a long time ago,” replied Sally neutrally. “But I suspect you already know that much about me.”
An nodded almost imperceptibly, a subtle lowering of her chin. “Your story is not taught at the school, it would be considered…” She took a moment to choose the right word. “…subversive. But all the girls know about—”
“—the one that got away?”
“The one who left,” replied An.
Sally said nothing but let her eyes share her opinion on the distinction.
“It is a matter of perspective, ma?”
“I’d say it depends on whether you’re the one in the story,” replied Sally, “or the one telling it.” Moonlight turned to shadow as a cloud passed overhead, obscuring the expression on An’s face. Sally decided she wasn’t feeling nostalgic and changed the subject. “Getting a job at the museum was excellent cover.”
Another slight nod. “You visit the sword often.”
“Yes.”
“You’re thinking about stealing it.”
“It isn’t anyone’s property,” replied Sally, resisting the urge to say: and neither are you. “No one living, at any rate. And it doesn’t belong in a cage.”
“Security at the museum isn’t bad.” An looked up at the skylight as the clouds parted, then let her gaze drift to the darts stuck into the wall. “But I’ve seen better.”
Sally grudgingly admitted she was impressed. One of her old instructors used to speak of taking on a life before you take a life—the art of studying someone so thoroughly, you could see through their eyes, even anticipate their thoughts. An was making assertions, not asking questions, so there was the very real possibility she had watched Sally long before Sally had noticed her.
“You’re here as insurance.”
A small smile barely visible, then a reluctant nod as An acknowledged the slip.
“If you came to kill someone,” continued Sally, “they would be dead already. If you’re meant to be protecting someone, you’re leaving them rather exposed by coming here.”
“Unless the threat is very specific, ma?”
“There are far bigger threats than me in this city.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should get out more,” said Sally. “But that’s not it. Something is meant to happen, and you are here to make sure it does.”
An didn’t flinch. Sally had her answer, but it raised another question.
“This has nothing to do with me,” she said. “Why should I care?”
An arched an eyebrow. “That is the one thing the stories never explain, little dragon. Why do you care?”
Sally remained impassive. The question was bigger than both of them.
“Do you ever wonder why I left?” she asked.
“It would be rude—”
“Do you even know why you stay?”
“I wanted to meet you,” said An, deflecting the question as she rose from the floor. “And pay my respects.”
“I’m honored you did.” Sally uncurled like a cat and stood.
An bowed. “If we meet again…”
“Let us hope that doesn’t happen.”
An tilted her head to one side, taking the compliment as it was intended. “Thank you.”
Sally walked to the main entrance of the dojo, a pocket door made of oak that was half the length of the wall. It was four inches thick and weighed over eight hundred pounds but slid effortlessly once she worked the latch. “This might be easier than the roof.”
“The roof wasn’t so bad.”
“It will be next time.”
An smiled and stepped through the door. The two women almost brushed against each other as she passed. Given their backgrounds, this kind of proximity was the equivalent of a goodbye hug that lasted a lifetime, since a true embrace was too dangerous and therefore out of the question.
Sally watched An descend the stairs until she blended with the darkness below, her footfalls silent from the first step. For a long time Sally stood holding the door, listening to sounds from the street below. She didn’t want to cut herself off from the world just yet.
A siren broke her reverie, and reluctantly, Sally slid the door shut. As she crossed the dojo floor she noticed a card laying on the mat where An had been sitting. Sally picked it up and turned it over. The back was jade green and the facing side jet black, with silver calligraphy forming two Chinese characters.
Weeping house.
The building that cries.
It was a clue, maybe an invitation. A safe place to meet or an obvious trap. But which? She would puzzle on it later, but for now, Sally couldn’t help but wonder if she really cared.
39
Cragg wondered if anyone really cared about the dead.
It was past closing when he stood alone in the undersea tunnel and regarded Oscar, the giant octopus staring back with a disapproving gaze that reminded Cragg of his late mother. Mom could radiate the warmth of the sun, then in the next instant, cut your balls off with a single stare, often with no more warning than a sudden squall at sea.
Cragg often thought his mother would’ve made a good pirate, like Anne Bonny, who terrorized the Caribbean in the 1700s. When Anne Bonny’s pirate husband—Calico Jack Rackham—was taken captive because he was too drunk to fight, she visited him in prison and said, “had you fought like a man, you need not have been hanged like a dog.”
Cragg’s eyes welled up when he thought of having a woman in his life who would tell him the unvarnished truth like that. That’s when he missed Mom the most. But that was just him feeling sorry for himself.
He wasn’t really wondering whether Mom would ever make it out of purgatory. He wasn’t even sure he believed in any of that bollocks. Memories of the dead were just receptacles of self-pity. And if the dead were past caring, maybe the living should stop caring too.
All the rending of clothes, moaning, and second-guessing, even the guilt, that drama only lasted till the living felt a sense of closure. The only logical thing to do was move forward, leaving behind feelings for anyone who couldn’t keep up.
Cragg often thought about the quick and the dead. The dead weren’t quick, and the quick had to keep moving.
Oscar wasn’t moving. He looked like an orange gargoyle, his flat stare implying he was miffed that a corpse had been dumped in his lap. Cragg didn’t blame him, even as he debated whether it was time to add another body to Davy Jones’s locker. No matter how he looked at it, Cragg was either going to have to kill Lou or let him go free.
The wily driver was a conundrum, a liability if the cops ever found him, yet Cragg couldn’t shake the feeling that Lou was holding something back. The shark attack may have scared the plankton out of his shorts, but the interrupted interrogation only raised more questions.
Then Cragg had gotten him drunk, and that was a mistake.
Go figure, but Lou wasn’t much of a talker after surviving a swim with a shark. So once again Cragg ran aground with his questions. Plus, Cragg was a soft touch after half a bottle of rum, and damn if he didn’t start liking Lou. By the end of the night they were singing karaoke. Lou knew all the lyrics to every Hall & Oates ditty ever sung—even “Maneater”—and what’s not to like about that?
But that was Lou among the living. He was still a guest, staying on Cragg’s boat, out of sight and under his control. But as a corpse, would he still be someone Cragg cared about, or just another pile of bones at the bottom of the ocean?
As for the dead guard, Cragg forced the head of public relations for the aquarium—a total nincompoop—to talk to the cops. Cragg merely eavesdropped on the interview. The PR team didn’t know their offices were bugged, of course, but it was for their own protection. If credit card companies could monitor calls “for quality assurance,” why couldn’t Cragg monitor his own employees to make sure he wasn’t sold down the river? The PR guy followed the script, answering all the questions earnestly while dropping names of influential board members like gold dust. By the time the interview ended, Cragg was sure the police would check with their superiors before banging on his door again.
But how did that dumbfuck guard get himself killed in the first place? Marty had a simple task—send the police on a wild goose chase and set up Lou to take the fall. Instead, Marty winds up in Oscar’s bedroom wearing a tentacle necklace. Cragg glared at Oscar and tried to make a telepathic connection but got nothing.
