Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

The first shot missed. Moto stood, backed against the balcony railing, flinched away from the shot. The second bullet caught Moto on top of his left shoulder. Blood sprayed. The impact pushed Moto back. He fell.

Over the railing.

And down.

Toshi blinked. He heaved himself up, forced air into his lungs, and stumbled out onto the balcony. He leaned over the railing, looked down. It had been a six-story plummet. Palm trees and bushes obscured the view. What was down there? Toshi tried to remember. A patio area, a tiki bar. His instinct was to run downstairs, make sure Moto was finished. But already he heard a woman scream. A crowd would gather. An ambulance. Police. Toshi wanted to avoid all that.

No, he decided. He would not need to check Moto’s pulse, look into his dead, unblinking eyes. The fall had killed him. Toshi was sure. He returned his automatic to the shoulder holster, buttoned his jacket. Now to contact Cousin Ahira, inform him the task had been completed.

The phone rang. A series of beeps, and the fax machine across the room hummed to life. Toshi went to see what was coming in. It was from Moto’s informant, Becker. A picture of a man. Conner Samson. Name, address, and a short note from Becker. He might know something.

Toshi retrieved his switchblade before leaving the room. He lamented not being able to slide it between Moto’s ribs. Nothing felt so good as the easy glide of steel into flesh.

Tyranny’s husband, Professor Dan, had hired parking valets. The teenager in the red jacket looked at Conner’s Plymouth like it was a spaceship from Planet Crap. As Conner handed the kid his keys, he thought he caught a whiff of ganja.

“Be careful with the car,” Conner said.

The kid grunted, parked the Plymouth between a Land Rover and a Mercedes.

Conner’s tuxedo fit perfectly. He’d even shaved, cut his fingernails. He looked good but still felt out of place. These weren’t his people. He didn’t belong here. He almost didn’t knock on the front door but rapped quickly before he changed his mind. He almost turned around, almost sprinted for the Plymouth. The door swung open.

If it had been anyone but Tyranny, he’d have bolted. She looked stunning, loose black evening dress, V-neck plunging low, skin tan and glowing. Her eyes were soft. She sighed at him, an indulgent smile spreading warm on her face.

Conner’s longing was a palpable thing. It made his head buzz, traveled the length of his spine and burrowed into his gut. He wanted to gather her into his arms, run his hands all over her, dig his fingers into her soft flesh. He wanted to bawl like a little kid because he couldn’t.

He said, “Hi.”

“You came.” She turned the smile on full blast now, caught his sleeve, and led him into the house. “You look good in a tux.” She ran her hand down the lapel. “Like James Bond.”

“Which one? Connery or Moore?”

“The new one. Remington Steele.”

She led him into the throbbing ebb and flow of the reception. Other tuxedos and evening gowns milling about, sipping champagne and exchanging prefabricated party chitchat. The place squirmed with culture and wealth and influence. One lady wore diamonds as big as peanuts around her neck. Conner expected to see the Monopoly guy wearing a top hat and a monocle. The whole scene gave him the heebie-jeebies.

But then there was Tyranny. She led him across the house, gracefully weaving a path through the mingling mass, nodding to various guests. Finally, they arrived at a small salon where three paintings sat on easels behind a velvet rope.

She stood close to him, whispered in his ear. Her breath was warm silk. “These are the Dybeks. Aren’t they magnificent? Last week in New York one of his pieces sold for eighteen thousand dollars at auction. He’s up-’n’-coming.”

Conner squinted at the paintings. Each was the size of a Denny’s place mat with a large, ornate wooden frame. Fuzzy blotches of bright color streaked with darker colors. To Conner it looked like a chimpanzee high on model airplane glue could have painted all three of them in about twenty minutes. What he said to Tyranny was, “Yeah. They’re great.”

“Jasper Dybek is around here somewhere,” Tyranny said. “I’ll try to introduce you later.”

“I tingle with anticipation.”

Tyranny ignored the sarcasm, looked past Conner to a chubby young man who stood gawking at the three paintings. “Randy, are you enjoying the Dybeks?”

Randy saw Tyranny, and his round face lit up with a gap-toothed grin. He waddled over, stood next to her. His tuxedo fit awkwardly, stretched across his belly, the sleeves just slightly too short. A zit the size of a jawbreaker perched on the tip of his nose. “Well, you know, Tyranny. Not really my cup of Earl Grey.”

She smiled. “I know, but it was good of you to show up. Randy, this is my friend Conner. Entertain him a moment while I check with the caterer, will you?”

Conner cleared his throat. “Uh…” He didn’t want to be entertained.

To Conner, Tyranny said, “Randy Frankowski is one of Dan’s grad students. Just hang out for a while, okay? Dan’s trusted me with arranging everything, and we have almost two hundred guests. It’s very important to him that this evening goes well. I’ll be right back.” She vanished among the partygoers.

Conner looked down at the thing called Randy, groped for conversation. “So you’re an artist, huh?”

“Yeah, but not like this.” He nodded at the Dybeks. “That’s way too abstract.”

“If by abstract you mean a waste of everybody’s time,” Conner said, “then I agree.”

Randy started to laugh, then let it trail off.

A white-jacketed waiter glided by with a tray of champagne glasses. Conner snagged a glass in each fist when the waiter came within range. Randy looked at one of the glasses expectantly, but Conner made a point of sipping from each one. Every man for himself, dude.

Conner had thought he was doing a good job of ignoring Randy, but the guy stood there staring at him. Anybody else would have drifted away by now, but Conner realized what was happening. Tyranny had asked the guy to entertain Conner while she was gone, and like a trained spaniel, Randy stood there wagging his tail. Conner felt suddenly awkward and rude. He’d let his bad mood take over. He didn’t have anything against Randy. Might as well try to be polite.

Conner said, “So what kind of art are you into?”

“Dynamic displays of the human figure in fantastical contexts.”

“And what the hell does that mean in English?” He was trying to be polite. He really was. He drained both champagne glasses, looked around for the waiter. Maybe he could drink Professor Dan into bankruptcy.

Randy smiled. The guy wasn’t easily offended. “It’s basically fancy talk for comic-book art. In grad school, you have to translate simple things into fancy talk to make people believe you’re worth a damn. You may have noticed I’m not hobnobbing with the other grad students. They don’t really consider me a real artist.” He made air quotes with his fingers around the word real. “My dad says he’ll only keep paying my rent if I’m in school and earning passing grades. What I really want to do is start my own comic-book company and graphic novel publisher.”

Conner sighed inwardly, resigned himself to hearing the guy’s life story. The waiter came through again, and Conner grabbed two more glasses. He gave one to Randy this time. “I used to read The Hulk when I was a kid,” Conner told him.

“That’s okay, I guess, but the indy companies are putting out the really cutting-edge stuff.”

Conner realized Randy was going easy on him. It wasn’t cool to like The Hulk.