Stephen Coonts - Combat

“And we’d prefer they didn’t sail before we have another long talk with Park,” Medler said. “I’m told the FBI has equipment like an unobtrusive lie detector.”

“Voice-stress analyzer,” Dana corrected. “Old hardware, new twists. But chiefly, we’re on edge because Park has dropped out of sight.”

Quent: “But I thought he told you why.”

“He told me why he was worried,” Medler agreed. “But he also said the Ras Ormara will be bound for Pusan with California-manufactured industrial chemicals, a nice tractable cargo, to his own homeport. He was determined to stay with it, worried or not. Of course it’s possible he simply changed his mind.”

“But we’d like to know,” Dana said. “We want to know sufficiently that — well.” She looked past us toward the ceiling as if an idea had just occurred to her. Suuure. “Sometimes things happen. Longshoremen’s strike, — ” She saw my sudden glance, and she’d always been alert to nuance. “No, we haven’t, but little unforeseen problems arise. Sonmiani is already dealing with a couple of them. Assuming they don’t have the clout to build a fire under someone at the ambassador level, there could be one or two more if we find a solid reason. Or if you do.”

“I take it Harve and I can move overtly on this,” Quent said, “so long as we’re not connected to government.”

Medler looked at Dana, who said, “Exactly. Low-profile, showing your private investigator’s I.D. if necessary. You’re known well enough that anyone checking on you would be satisfied you’re not us. Of course you’ve got to have a client of record, so we’re furnishing one.”

I noticed that Quent seemed interested in something across the room, but he refocused on Dana Martin. “As licensed privateers, we aren’t required to name a client or divulge any other details of the case. Normally it would be shaving an ethical guideline.”

“But you wouldn’t be,” Dana said. “You’d be giving up a few details of a cover story. Nothing very dramatic, just imply that our missing man is a prodigal son. Park Soon’s father in Pusan would be unlikely to know he’s put you on retainer.”

Quent: “Because he can’t afford us?”

Dana, with the shadow of a smile: “Because he’s been deceased for years. I’ll give you the details on that tomorrow, Quent. Uhm, Quent?”

But my pal, whose attention had been wandering again, was now leaning toward me with an unQuentish grin. “Harve,” he said softly, “third counter stool from the front, late twenties, blond curls, Yamaha cycle jacket. Could be packing.”

“Several guys in here probably are,” I said.

“But I’m not carrying certified copies of their bail bonds, and I do have one for Robert Rooney, bail jumper. That’s Bobby.”

Dana and Medler both looked toward the counter, at me, and at Quent, but let their expressions complain.

“You wouldn’t,” I said.

“It’s my bleeding job,” said Quent. “Wait outside. I’ll flush him out gently, and if gentle doesn’t work, don’t let him reach into that jacket.”

I was already standing up. “Back shortly, folks. Don’t forget my pie à la mode.”

“I don’t believe this,” I heard Medler say as I moved toward the old-fashioned revolving door.

“Santa Clara County Jail is on Hedding, less than a mile from here. We’ll be back before you know it,” Quent soothed, still seated, giving me time to evaporate.

I saw the bail-jumper watching me in a window reflection, but I gave him no reason to jump. I would soon learn he was just naturally jumpy, pun intended. Can’t say it was really that long a fight, though. I pushed through the door and into the San Jose night, realizing we could jam Rooney in it if he tried to run out. And have him start shooting through heavy glass partitions, maybe; sometimes my first impulses are subject to modest criticism.

Outside near the entrance, melding with evening shadow, I listened to the buzz and snap of Joe’s old neon sign. I could still see our quarry, and now Quent was strolling behind diners at the counter, apparently intent on watching the chef toss a blazing skilletful of mushrooms. Quent reached inside his coat; brought out a folded paper, his face innocent of stress. Then he said something to the seated Rooney.

Rooney turned only his head, very slowly, nodded, shrugged, and let his stool swivel to face Quent. He grinned.

It’s not easy to get leverage with only your buns against a low seat back, but Rooney managed it, lashing both feet out to Quent’s legs, his arms windmilling as he bulled past my pal. I heard a shout, then a clamor of voices as Quent staggered against a woman seated at the nearest table. I stepped farther out of sight as Bobby Rooney hurled himself against the inertia of that big revolving door.

He used both hands, and he was sturdier than he had looked, bursting outside an arm’s length from me. Exactly an arm’s length, because without moving my feet, just as one Irishman to another I clotheslined him under the chin. He went down absolutely horizontal, his head making a nice bonk on the sidewalk, and if he’d had any brains they would’ve rattled like castanets. He didn’t even pause, bringing up both legs, then doing a gymnast’s kick so that he was suddenly on his feet in a squat, one arm flailing at me. The other hand snaked into his jacket pocket before I could close on him.

What came out of his right-hand pocket was very small, but it had twin barrels on one end and as he leaped up, Rooney’s arm swung toward me. Meanwhile I’d taken two steps forward, and I snatched at his wrist. I caught only his sleeve, but when I heaved upward on it, his hand and the little derringer pocketgun disappeared into the sleeve. A derringer is double-barreled, the barrel’s so short its muzzle blast is considerable, and confined in that sleeve it flash-burnt his hand while muffling the sound. The slug headed skyward. Bobby Rooney headed down San Carlos Avenue, hopping along crabwise because I had held on to that sleeve long enough that when he jerked away, his elbow was caught halfway out.

I’m not much of a distance runner, but for fifty meters I can move out at what I imagined was a brisk pace. Why Bobby didn’t just stop and fire point-blank through that sleeve I don’t know; I kept waiting for it, and one thing I never learned to do was make myself a small target. Half a block later he was still flailing his arm to dislodge the sleeve, and I was still three long steps behind, and that’s when a conservative dress suit passed me. Quentin Kim was wearing it at the time, outpacing me despite that limp. He simply spun Bobby Rooney down, standing on his jacket which pinned him down on his back at the mouth of an alley.

I grabbed a handful of blond curls, knelt on Bobby’s right sleeve because his gun hand was still in it, and made the back of his head tap the sidewalk. “Harder every time,” I said, blowing like a whale. “How many times — before you relax?” Another tap. “Take your time. I can do this — for hours.”

As quickly as Bobby Rooney had decided to fight, he reconsidered, his whole body going limp, eyes closed.

“Get that little shooter — out of his sleeve,” I said to Quent, who wasn’t even winded but rubbed his upper thigh, muttering to himself.

Quent took the derringer, flicked his key-ring Maglite, then brought that wrinkled paper out of his inside coat pocket and shook it open. “Robert Rooney,” he intoned.

Still holding on to Rooney’s hair, I gazed up. “What the hell? Is this some kind of new Miranda bullshit, Quent?”

“No, it’s not required. It’s just something I do that clarifies a relationship.”

“Relationship? This isn’t a relationship, this is a war.”