Dark City

  “No. I am older and wiser and more experienced. He has opened my eyes.”

  She walked past him. “He has poisoned you. I am going to bed.”

  Kadir stared at the bedroom door after she closed it behind her. Was she blind? How could she not see?

  4

  As soon as the door to her apartment door closed behind her, Cristin pressed her hand against the small of Jack’s back.

  “Is that a gun or are you just—no, that’s a gun. Can I see it again?”

  “Different gun this time.”

  He pulled out the Glock, removed the magazine, and ejected the round in the chamber.

  “Why’d you do that?” she said, taking it from him.

  Cristin was unpredictable. She might pull the trigger—just for the hell of it.

  “It’s got no safety lever. Safer this way.”

  She turned it over in her hands, running her fingers over the black matte finish.

  “I liked the shiny one better. This one’s kind of … ugly.”

  “But easier to tote around.”

  She smiled up at him. “You always carry one when you’re with me?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “To protect you.”

  “Ohhhh, noooo.” She handed it to him. “When you’re with me, you’re the one who needs protecting.”

  Yeah, he thought, but not from you.

  “Dinner put me in a tequila mood. Care for a snort?”

  His night to pick the restaurant and he’d chosen a Tex-Mex place called the Coyote Bar & Grille.

  “Don’t mind if I do. I’ll accept only Cuervo.”

  “You got it.”

  As she swayed toward her liquor cabinet—which held only Cuervo Gold anyway—he looked for a place to stow the Glock. A low, Oriental-style chest sat against the hallway wall opposite the door. He pulled open the top drawer and saw a small beaded tote bag. The zipper was undone and he couldn’t help see the contents … oblong objects that looked like—

  Dildos.

  He was still staring when she returned with the shot glasses.

  “Hey, I saw in the Times today that Penn and Teller have a new show opening in a few weeks. We really should—” She stopped, followed his gaze, and laughed. “You found my toys!”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. But…”

  “Different sizes, one’s battery operated, and there’s even a strap-on in there. Hey, if you want me to I can put it on and—”

  He dropped the Glock into the drawer and slammed it shut.

  “No way. Don’t even finish that thought.”

  She handed him a shooter. “Well, feel free to borrow one to use on me should you ever run out of steam.”

  “With you? Impossible.”

  She clinked her glass against his. “That’s what I like to hear!”

  5

  “You know,” Cristin said as they lay together after exhausting each other, “I don’t want to lose this.”

  “Lose what?”

  “You and me. We’re too good together.”

  No argument there. She seemed to know instinctively how to bring him to peaks of pleasure, and she’d taught him how to do the same for her.

  “Why would that happen?”

  “Because I think you’re getting involved.”

  “Of course I’m involved. We’re both involved.”

  “I mean involved involved. You know, where we have to think about each other. I want you to go about your business during the week without wondering what I’m doing at any given moment, and I want to go about mine without wondering if you’re wondering about me. Because if I know you are, that’s going to work on my head.”

  He figured it best to tell her what she wanted to hear. “Okay. I don’t wonder about you during the week.”

  She raised her head. “You don’t? Why the hell not?”

  “What? Wait—”

  She laughed. “You’re waaaay too easy.”

  He stared at the ceiling. “Women.”

  She nudged him. “Hey! Don’t lump me with the herd. You’ve never known anyone like me, and you’ll never know another.”

  “No argument there.”

  “But you know where I’m coming from, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you really? Sunday is ours. But the rest of the week is yours. And the rest of the week is mine. Separately. We went into this saying neither of us wanted strings. That’s why it’s worked.”

  Jack still didn’t want strings—at least not any that weren’t of his own choosing. But he’d come to the point where he wouldn’t mind a few between Cristin and him. But she wanted no ties to anything.

  So he’d do it her way.

  “Okay. You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. No strings.”

  She nuzzled his throat. “Repeat after me: Noooo strings.”

  “Noooo strings.”

  The alternative to noooo strings was noooo Cristin, and that was not something he wanted to think about.

  MONDAY

  1

  After training to Doc Hargus’s to have his sutures removed—“You heal up good, kid” and “No charge for removal” had been pretty much the extent of their conversation—Jack donned his hoodie-cum-shades ensemble and trotted over to 10th Avenue, then walked down to the Meatpacking District. Overhead loomed the long-deserted tracks of the defunct New York Central High Line, scheduled for demolition … soon. Not a whole helluva lot going on down at street level either. Pre-noon was a little early for the locals, so Jack had the sidewalks mostly to himself.

  Hundreds of slaughterhouses and meatpacking plants had given the area its name. But the industry had moved elsewhere, and as the packers moved out, the place became a haven for pushers, gays, and transsexuals. BDSM clubs like the infamous Mineshaft dotted the area until the AIDS epidemic shut them down. The gays, transsexuals, and druggies stayed, but as the meat industry continued moving away, rents in the big brick buildings fell. Ishii-san had taken advantage of that.

  Word was out that the sensei was conducting a noon class in yawara technique and Jack didn’t want to miss it. Yawara were thick, short shafts of sturdy wood with enough girth to fit comfortably in the palm and long enough to leave an inch or so protruding from each end of a closed fist. Very nearly a concealed weapon, and Jack found that attractive. At various times he’d heard them referred to as kubotan, sometimes koga. He needed to learn more, which was why he was heading for the dojo.

  Up on the second floor he found a good two dozen students, the steroidal trio from last week among them. Not many sensei in the city taught yawarajutsu, so no one wanted to miss this class.

  Ever the entrepreneur, Ishii-san had stubby little yawara arranged on a table for sale, along with key-ring kubotans and hard plastic kogas. Jack found a wooden yawara with slightly flared ends that fit comfortably in his hand and bought it.

  To begin, Ishii-san had them all sit cross-legged on the floor while he explained the history of the yawara. He’d just started in about how it developed from the Buddhist Kongou when Preston showed up—again in full kabuki makeup but this time wearing a salmon kimono.

  “A thousand apologies, sensei,” he said, bowing. “We’re having another dress rehearsal but I rushed out because I didn’t want to miss this.”

  Ishii-san acknowledged the apology with a little bow of his own. “You have stick?”

  Preston reached inside his backpack and produced a ribbed stick that looked like polished redwood.

  “Of course.”

  As Pres kicked off his sandals Jack noticed he was wearing white, split-toe socks. Ishii-san waited until he’d arranged himself and his kimono at the edge of the group, then resumed his talk. After a brief history lesson, he reviewed the human body’s pressure points, most of which were sitting ducks for someone even minimally skilled in yawarajutsu.

  Then Ishii-san clapped his hands and had everyone line up to practice the moves. Pres stripped off his
kimono to reveal a tight mauve T-shirt and even tighter black bike shorts. Then he made sure to position himself next to the gym rat who’d had a beef with his makeup last week; Preston had easily won the ensuing verbal altercation. Jack hoped today would be quieter. Yawara were cool and he didn’t want the class disrupted.

  “Ooh, you look so big and strong,” Pres murmured to his pumped-up neighbor. “So much sinew.”

  The bigger guy turned red and Jack knew this was not going to turn out well. Not well at all …

  2

  Vinny’s stomach went sour when he recognized Tommy’s car in the Preston Salvage lot—parked in Vinny’s own fucking reserved spot, of course. But the car beside Tommy’s was a stranger.

  He pulled his Vic in beside the unknown and got out. He started for the office but stopped when he thought he heard Tommy’s voice through the side door of the garage. Tommy? In the garage? He might get his stubby fingers dirty.

  Curious, he walked over for a look and found Tommy and two strangers standing around a white 1988 Accord Integra hatchback. Immediately he knew what was up. The tool chest and the acetylene torch setup standing by the front bumper confirmed it.

  Honda had a policy of not changing its parts much over the years, so they were interchangeable up and down the Accord family line. Integras were always top targets for chop shops. This car was worth tons more in pieces than whole, and those pieces could be sold off in minutes.

  He felt his blood begin to heat up.

  “Ay, Vinny,” Tommy said. “Wasn’t expecting you till later.”

  Vinny pointed to the car and the equipment and played dumb. “What’s all this?” he said with a heroic effort not to talk through his teeth.

  “Found it sitting on a street in Bensonhurst last night and couldn’t resist. Andy Manganaro lent me a couple of his guys to take it apart.”

  “We already had this discussion.”

  Tommy smiled. “Yeah, I know, but it was just sittin’ there. How could I pass it up? It’s worth a small fortune in pieces. Andy’s already got buyers for the parts. We’re talking an easy coupla thou here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And then we cut off the VIN, stick the frame in the crusher, and sell it for scrap.”

  Vinny glanced around. He needed something to swing. A tire iron, maybe, even a baseball bat. Then he spotted the long-handle fire ax on the wall. Perfect.

  “What I say about this kind of activity here?”

  “Hey, Vinny, lighten up, okay. We’ll be outta here before the day is done.”

  Tommy was probably right, meaning the risk was small, but Vinny had said no chopping here and that meant no chopping. He grabbed the ax and moved toward the car.

  “This day is done right now.”

  “Hey, what—?”

  Vinny imagined Tommy’s face in the center of the hood as he raised the ax and sank the blade into his nose.

  Tommy started for him. “What the fuck?”

  Vinny spun and jabbed a finger at his face. “Don’t even think about it.”

  He then went around the car, driving the ax blade into all four fenders, both doors, and twice into the roof panel.

  When he finished, the car was worth shit.

  Resting the ax on his shoulder, he turned to the two terrified choppers.

  “Pack up your shit. One of you drives this out of here and leaves it on some street, I don’t care where. The other follows in the car you came in and I don’t ever see your ugly mugs again. I do and you end up like this car. Got it?”

  They glanced at Tommy, who was staring in shock at the ruined Integra, then nodded and got packing.

  Vinny, too, stared at the Integra. Maybe he was also a little shocked by what he’d done, but he had to admit it had felt damn fucking good. Suddenly the world seemed a brighter place.

  Keeping a grip on the ax, he headed for the door.

  “You can’t do this, Vinny! You can’t do this shit to me!”

  Vinny stopped and turned to him. “Hey, you know what? I think I just did. And so now what you gonna do, go crying to Tony? Or Junior? Tell you what, Tommy. You want a chop shop, you go start one. But none of that shit here.”

  With that he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him.

  Damn, that felt good.

  3

  To Jack’s relief the yawara class, although not entirely incident free, ended without Preston getting his nose punched to the back of his skull. Some pushing and shoving had gone down, though. Every time Preston got too close, the steroidal guy—whose name turned out to be Troy—would shove him away. Pres never shoved back, never offered the least resistance, just smiled and sidled closer.

  Troy’s two equally pumped-up buddies kept egging him on to flatten the faggot; Jack noticed a normally quiet guy he’d seen in other classes join the pack. He wondered why Pres was being so passive. It made him look weak and defenseless, an easy mark. And Jack knew he was anything but. He’d seen him in action.

  Ishii-san didn’t merely hold classes here. He gave personal instruction and members were allowed to come in whenever the dojo was open to practice on the equipment. Jack had been around for a couple of Preston’s workouts and he’d been impressed. The guy was lightning fast.

  As soon as the class was over he slipped back into his kimono, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the door.

  “Rehearsal calls,” he said as he hurried out the door in his clacking sandals.

  Jack noticed the three gym rats and their new hanger-on following in a pack. That prompted him to tag along too.

  An odd little parade heading along West 12th toward Tenth Avenue: a male geisha in the lead, followed by four guys in their twenties, followed in turn by a lone male.

  Led by Troy, the four increased their speed so that they caught up to Preston as he was passing a wide, recessed delivery bay between two abandoned warehouses. They shoved him in and followed.

  Jack sped up and arrived to see Pres facing the three gym rats as they blocked the dead-end recess. The hanger-on, in true hanger-on fashion, hung back.

  “All right, Tinkerbell,” Troy said. “You had your fun. Now we get ours.”

  Preston smiled as he dropped his backpack. His hands crossed and disappeared into the wide sleeves of his kimono.

  “Girl, I bet it took you the whole class to come up with that line. No, wait. Probably the whole week.”

  He removed his hands from his sleeves but only one of them was empty. He held a nunchaku with two ribbed handles of heavy-duty wood … painted pink.

  The three rats and the hanger-on burst out laughing.

  “Oh, shit, you gotta be kidding!” said one.

  “Looky-looky,” said another. “Nunchuk Barbie!”

  Even Jack couldn’t suppress a smile. Pres did look totally ridiculous: red-streaked whiteface, a kimono, and pink nunchaku. But Jack was smiling for another reason. The nunchaku meant he wouldn’t have to get involved here. He’d seen Pres work out with them.

  These guys had no idea what they were asking for.

  “They aren’t Barbie,” Preston said as he struck a pose. “They’re Hello Kitty, bitch.”

  Jack moved up beside the hanger-on.

  “You’re better off back here.”

  The guy looked at him. “No fucking way, man.” He unsheathed a tanto with an eight-inch blade. “If he’s got—”

  Jack grabbed his arm. “You know how the sensei feels about blades.”

  “This ain’t no dojo.”

  Jack’s right hand was in his jacket pocket, wrapped around his yawara stick. As the hanger-on moved forward, Jack pulled it out and rammed it down on the space just above his right collarbone. The tanto dropped from nerveless fingers and clattered to the pavement as the pain buckled the guy’s knees. He wouldn’t be doing much with that arm for a while.

  Clutching his shoulder he looked up at Jack with an agony-contorted expression. “What the fuck?”

  “You’ll thank me later. Trust me.”

>   The rats had made their move on Preston, charging as one, and he was responding. The nunchaku handles were pink blurs as they whizzed through the air, clacking against skulls. Troy went for a body tackle but Pres spun away and jabbed one of the handles yawara style into his right kidney as he passed. With a groan, Troy dropped to his hands and knees. He’d be peeing blood for a week.

  Pres danced among the other two, wreaking havoc on their heads. As one threw a punch, Pres locked the nunchaku chain around the exposed wrist and used the assailant’s momentum to swing him around and slam him facefirst into a wall.

  Two down.

  He advanced on the third, battering his head and breaking fingers when he tried to block the sticks. As he went down, Troy staggered to his feet again but one of the flying handles flattened his nose with a spray of blood. He fell like a tree, down for keeps.

  It seemed to be over almost as soon as it had started. Four men had been standing at the beginning, now three were out cold and the fourth was retrieving his backpack. He slung the nunchaku over his shoulder and walked toward Jack. As he approached he looked down and spotted the tanto.

  “Really?” he said, staring at the guy. “Really?”

  As the hanger-on, still clutching his shoulder, cringed away, Pres turned to Jack. “You?”

  “Didn’t see any need to add a blade to the equation. Plus I wanted to try out my new yawara.”

  He shrugged. “I could have handled him, but I appreciate the thought. How about I buy you lunch?”

  “I thought you had rehearsal.”

  “Fuck rehearsal. I know my part backwards, and we’ve got another full dress tomorrow. So, lunch?”

  Jack grinned. “You asking me on a date?”

  “If that’s the way you want to see it,” he said with an exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes.

  “How about Dutch?”

  “Even better. I’m a little short—in the money department, that is, not where it counts.”

  “That would be the yawara department?”

  “No, my dick, dumbass.”

  Jack shook his head. “Is this an example of the lunchtime conversation I can expect?”