Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

“You all set?”

Conner nodded.

“Okay, good luck. Don’t take any wooden Injuns.” Pear-shape’s head vanished back through the window.

“Wait!” Conner had to know.

Pear-shape stuck his head out again. “Yeah?”

“You don’t seem to mind I’m stealing these paintings.”

“Nope.”

Conner asked, “Don’t you think Jasper Dybek will be upset?”

The guy laughed. “I am Jasper Dybek.”

Conner looked at the paintings, back at Dybek. “Don’t you need these? I heard you get paid a lot for them.”

“An obscene amount,” he said. “But I only manage to unload two or three a year. It’s not exactly a steady paycheck. If you steal them, I can collect the insurance. Now get moving. In about twenty minutes, I’m going to raise holy hell.” He ducked back inside and shut the window.

Conner scooped up the paintings and ran around the house. He told the valet punk on duty to fetch his Plymouth. The kid brought it around within sixty seconds. Conner popped the trunk, loaded the paintings. The valet didn’t seem concerned.

“I’m taking these out to be cleaned,” Conner said.

“What? Huh?” The kid’s eyes were red and glassy, and Conner definitely smelled marijuana on his clothes. The valet didn’t know what planet he was on.

“Keep up the good work,” Conner said.

The kid grinned stupidly, held out his upturned palm. “How ’bout a tip, dude?”

Conner had zero cash. He patted his pockets, looked apologetic. He found the napkin wad of pigs in a blanket, put it into the kid’s hand. “Bon appétit.”

The kid shrugged, popped one into his mouth.

Conner climbed in behind the wheel, cranked the Plymouth ’s V-8, and slammed it into gear. He squealed the tires down the driveway, took the turn onto the road too sharply, and exploded a small statue of a naked lady into dust. One of the Plymouth ’s headlights winked out.

Visualize driving drunk. Visualize not wrapping the Plymouth around a telephone pole.

He drove fast until he was well away from the house. He forced himself to slow down, drive straight. Getting pulled over now would be stupid. More stupid. Now what? He didn’t want to go back to his puke-smelling apartment. It symbolized everything weak and worthless in his life. Going back would smack of defeat, and tonight was about taking charge of his life. The new Conner Samson was a go-for-it, damn-the-torpedoes kind of guy.

So. Visualize what the hell to do next, smart guy.

Ahira Kurisaka’s hot tub had been custom-made to accommodate his massive girth. There was also room for the three blond gaijin women. They were white and soft and their large breasts floated amid the bubbles and steam. They lounged, the women surrounding him, idly rubbing his body as they talked and giggled among themselves. They sipped Budweiser beer and listened to KC and the Sunshine Band on CD. Candles flickered and reflected in the room’s wall-to-wall mirrors.

Ahira was only distantly aware of the naked women, their blond chatter fading into background noise. He thought about Billy Moto and his hotheaded cousin Toshi and the DiMaggio card. Had Ahira made the right choice about Billy? Had he been unfair? Perhaps he’d made a mistake, placing so much trust in Toshi. The whole situation was unfolding on the other side of the globe, and all Kurisaka could do was wait by the phone for sporadic progress reports.

Ahira felt restless, frustrated. He needed another distraction. He thumbed the intercom at the side of the hot tub. “Send in the redhead.”

A voice through the intercom. “At once, Mr. Kurisaka.”

Ahira clapped his hands twice. The blondes ceased their talk, rose from the tub, left the room, grabbing towels on the way out.

The red-haired woman entered from the other door. She dropped her robe, skin so white that Ahira’s erection was immediate and painful. Round green eyes. She’d been specifically selected for these characteristics. Round hips, full breasts with pink nipples like oversized pencil erasers. Her copper hair fell straight to the center of her back.

Ahira licked his lips. His voice nearly breathless, he said, “Come to me.”

Her smile was somehow simultaneously demure and aggressive. She circled the hot tub, approached him from behind, knelt. She massaged his shoulders. He felt her breasts pushing against him. Ahira leaned his head back into her fleshy goodness, closed his eyes. He had to resist reaching for his own erection. Patience. She would be there soon enough.

Through half-closed eyes, Ahira glimpsed the redhead in the mirror, her hands high in the air. She held something, brought her hands down. His adrenaline surged, and his hands flew up in front of his face just as the piano wire tightened.

It had been meant for his throat, Ahira realized. The wire bit deep into his hands, drew blood. She pulled hard on the wire, grunted. Pain, stinging and wet.

Ahira sat up, gripped the wire, forced it away from his face and over his head. He twisted, grabbed at the woman, caught her ankle. She kicked with the other leg. Her heel smashed against Ahira’s mouth. He spit blood, but didn’t let go of her ankle. He pulled her toward him. She thrashed, but he kept pulling, grabbed a fistful of her copper hair, and yanked.

She flipped into the hot tub, water washing over the edges, dousing several candles. He slammed a fat hand down on the back of her head, pushed her underwater. She flailed, clawed at his hand and wrist.

Ahira’s heart beat a mile a minute. An assassin! Right here in his home, where he thought himself safe and secure. She was supposed to have been searched. Had she been? Or had someone on the inside helped her get past security? Maybe one of the household servants had been bribed to hide the garrote wire among the bath towels. If he wasn’t even safe in his own home…

She struggled wildly now, panicked. Ahira leaned forward, using his full weight, and pushed her to the bottom.

Of course, a powerful man like Ahira had many enemies, but the attacks had been more frequent as of late. Why now? Could Hyatta…? Would he…? Could Hyatta want the DiMaggio card so badly that he would go to such extremes to keep Ahira from obtaining it? The thought made him shiver despite the steam.

There was no time to lose. He pressed the intercom button.

“Yes, Mr. Kurisaka?”

“Ready one of my jets,” Ahira said. “I’m going to America.”

“Right away, Mr. Kurisaka.”

The woman’s struggles had ceased. He held her under another minute to be sure, then released her. She floated to the surface, swirled in the hot tub’s water jets.

He grabbed a towel, dabbed at his bloody lip, wrapped his hand.

The time had come for him to attend to matters personally, Ahira decided. He would have his DiMaggio card, and he’d wave it triumphantly in Hito Hyatta’s face.

The sensation was new.

Conner had previously experienced the day-after head-pounding and the obligatory room-spin and dry mouth and all sorts of discomfort associated with ye olde hangover, but he’d never before awoken to a gentle rocking, a slow sway that almost lulled him into a false sense that maybe his hangover would be relatively mild. When he tried to sit up, his eyes throbbed in his skull. Electric alarm bells shrieked in his ears. This was more like it.

Conner looked around and immediately understood the rocking. He was aboard the Jenny. Bright morning light washed through the master cabin, gentle waves lapping the hull. Last night’s misadventures snapped back into focus.

Conner had decided to make Folger’s boat his new hideout for the time being. It was well hidden, stocked with food, and smelled better than his apartment. He hadn’t been all that drunk when he’d parked the Plymouth in an out-of-the-way spot and found the inflatable dinghy where he’d left it tied up under some low-growing elephant ears. He’d rolled up the pant legs of his tuxedo and hung his shoes around his neck after tying the laces together. At first, he’d thought the sailboat had been discovered and taken away, but eventually he’d found her, boarded, and made himself at home.