Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

His leaden eyes drooped, too heavy for his face and his voice lowered, speaking to himself. “The hill tribesmen told me that the tigers were growing up without learning how to hunt. They just fed on all the dead monkey meat laying around. So they grow up and don’t know how to teach their young to hunt…”

Cyrus LaPorte caught himself and laughed. “Do you know that they give recruits these stress cards now in Marine boot camp? If they’re feeling abused they hold them up to the drill instructor. God in heaven; the new gadgeted-up American tiger that never learned how to hunt.”

LaPorte became aware that Broker was staring at him and asked softly, “Does it really matter what happened that night?”

“It matters to Nina Pryce.”

LaPorte grimaced and exhaled slowly. “Phil, she really doesn’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

“Okay.” LaPorte brought his palms down on the wire arms of the chair as if to rise. But it was meant as an emphatic gesture. “I’ll fucking tell you then. Our former worthy foes are less worthy since they opened the door to the west. I’m doing some business over there, building a hotel in Hoi An; great site, virtually untouched. Which means I’ve had to spread the dash around. Take a few ranking party members out to dinner. Some long cruises on my boat.

“So I asked one of these gentlemen to do a little digging for me and it turns out we didn’t know half of what was going on that night.”

“Like what?”

LaPorte pointed his finger. “Who was the key to pulling former assets out of the central provinces?”

“Trin.”

“Correct. And what was Trin’s first rule?”

“Trust no one.” Broker felt his shoulders curl forward, body-armoring against the tug of LaPorte’s will.

“And who did Trin trust?”

“Pryce.”

“Now, back to my Commie bureaucrat, who was panting like a bitch in heat for the new Land Rover I was going to buy him. He checked around. Didn’t take much. A number of people made their reputations capturing Trin. According to this guy, Trin was grabbed in a secure house in Hue because the North Vietnamese were tipped by an American…”

LaPorte paused. “This alleged American arranged a clandestine meet, through a double agent. On the coast. To give up Trin. And hear this. My informant said it was written right in the report: The American was described as having a gold cigarette case.”

“What did this guy get in return for handing over Trin?” asked Broker.

LaPorte smiled thinly. “Bastard wouldn’t tell me. That’d probably cost another Land Rover.”

“Hearsay,” said Broker.

“My ass. It was planned in depth. First position Trin as the bait. Then send you in as the decoy. And I tried to defend that sonofabitch…” His eyes scanned the rustling foliage and he said softly, “For which I paid a very steep price.” LaPorte stood up abruptly and seized the railing until his knuckles turned white. “Give me a cigarette, please,” he asked softly.

There was a time when Broker could not imagine Cyrus LaPorte losing control. He shrugged and held out his pack. LaPorte took one and a light from Broker’s lighter.

LaPorte inhaled, blew a stream of smoke and immediately rested two fingers on his left wrist to test his pulse. Broker remembered what his dad had said and he wondered if LaPorte, who was in his early sixties, had glimpsed death creeping the iron lilacs, staking out squatter’s rights on his estate. LaPorte tossed the smoke away and made a face. “I haven’t had one of those in eight years.” He spun on Broker. “So you can see why I’m not crazy about Nina Pryce nosing around in my affairs.”

“What do you care. You’ve found your helicopter.”

“Goddammit, man, we’ve gridded the bottom and sonar mapped the whole area. We’ve been all over that wreck and we’ve got bones and coral-wrapped hand grenades, but we’ve only brought up seven bars of gold,” said LaPorte. “It’s not there.”

“And you think Tuna knows where it is?”

With a glare like point-blank muskets, LaPorte fumed, “Of course I do. Don’t fuck around. So do you!”

The woman walked out from beneath the balcony, staying to the dappled shadows along the right side of the pool deck. Divots of sunlight peeked through the hedge and caught in her dark hair and flowed in snake-skin patterns on her olive arms and legs. She wore a high-necked T-shirt and light shorts like a coat of black cotton paint and she carried a faded blue rubber mat under her arm. She used absolutely every muscle in her body in the simple act of walking.

Broker’s eyes stayed fixed on the woman as she knelt and smoothed out her mat.

“I don’t know about Minnesota, but down here it’s not considered polite to stare at a man’s wife,” said LaPorte.

“Very attractive,” said Broker.

“Really? All you can see is her back.”

“And young.”

LaPorte snorted. “No, Lola’s merely well preserved.”

Impolitely, Broker continued to stare at Lola LaPorte as she swung her body through a continuous series of postures. Her limbs swung light as balsa, but they were anchored in the tension of driven pilings.

Yoga. Irene Broker studied it to file down the teeth of aging. But Mom did it on rocks.

LaPorte leaned over the balcony and called out, irritably, “Lola, cut that shit out and come over here.”

Lightly she unwound from a pose and stood, staring up at them. Her large eyes, wide cheeks, full lips, and perfect shoulder-length hair communicated a certain taboo physical range: rich guy’s wife. As cool in the tropical heat as a pristine winter shadow Lola LaPorte walked halfway to the balcony and put her hands on her hips. “What?” she said, annoyed, not turning her face up.

LaPorte rose and leaned over the balcony. “Mr. Phillip Broker is up here, he’s the detective from Minnesota we discussed last night. I get the impression he’s embarking on a new career as a blackmailer.”

“Is he here to study or to practice?” said Lola in a bored voice. Broker appreciated that the LaPortes, in conversation, volleyed a siege energy of contempt.

LaPorte made a face and lowered his voice. “You married, Broker?”

“Divorced.”

“Kids?”

Broker shook his head.

“I wanted kids,” said LaPorte in a sour tone. Then he called to his wife. “I was thinking of inviting Mr. Broker to supper.”

“Sorry, I have plans,” said Broker who didn’t want to seem too eager to curry LaPorte’s favor.

“So does Cyrus,” said Lola sweetly. She waved her wrist idly in parting and returned to her exercise.

LaPorte grimaced and then inclined his palm back toward his office and they went inside and sat in the chairs in front of the desk. This time their eyes were on the same level. “Let’s get down to it, Phil. I’ll tell you what I want. You tell me what you want.”

Broker waited, expressionless.

“I need Nina Pryce contained,” said LaPorte. “Bought off, diverted, made happy, whatever it takes. Things are too delicate right now to have a loose cannon on deck. Second, I have to locate Tuna.” He held up his hand. “Let me enlarge a bit: I’ve had Tuna watched for years. Every approach I’ve made to him he turned down. When Nina started visiting him I had her watched. So, after she went to see you last January, I’ve had you checked out in detail.

“Bevode can do more than drag his knuckles. He ran a credit profile on you. We know you’ve been trying to arrange large loans through your employees’ credit union. We’ve been in contact with Neil Naslund, the banker in Devil’s Rock. We know about your problem.” LaPorte steepled his fingers. “If we can find a way to cooperate, I can make that problem go away.”