Victor Gischler: Suicide Squeeze

Arlo scratched his chin. Folger held his breath.

Arlo said, “Unfortunately…”

Folger’s heart stopped.

“… it’s difficult to predict how much such an item would fetch at auction,” Arlo said. “It all depends how eager collectors would be to get their hands on such an item. Certainly the rarity and importance of the item would drive the price up a good bit, but one never can tell.”

Folger felt sick. His fake smile hurt so much, he was afraid his face was going to detach and fall on the floor. He cleared his throat. “Well… that’s interesting.”

“It is an irreplaceable item,” Arlo said. “For obvious reasons. For insurance purposes, I’d value the card and the letter together at close to a hundred thousand dollars. At auction, it would be anyone’s guess, but I’d certainly get this insured without delay.”

“Thanks,” Folger said. “I’ll look into some insurance right away.”

Ahira Kurisaka was a fat billionaire in a leather jacket. Kurisaka stood in front of a full-length mirror, turning from side to side, admiring himself even though the jacket was clearly five sizes too small.

Billy Moto watched, trying to suppress the disgust he felt. It was sometimes difficult to maintain respect for his employer. The newspapers were kind in merely referring to him as eccentric, but Billy knew Kurisaka more completely than perhaps any other person in the world. Ahira Kurisaka was one of the strangest, most paranoid people Moto had ever met.

“How does it look?” Kurisaka asked.

“It’s too small.” There was no point in lying. His boss would know. Lying wasn’t something Billy Moto would do anyway.

“Perhaps,” Kurisaka said. “And this was actually worn by Fonzie during the television series?”

“Our sources are positive. The Smithsonian would not sell us the one they have on display, but it was simple enough to contact the studio people and purchase another.”

Kurisaka looked in the mirror, slicked back his hair, and stuck his thumbs out. “Aaayyy.”

In the past five years, Billy Moto had performed a variety of services for his master. The most trivial of which, in Billy’s opinion, was his overseeing of various purchases of… well… nonsense. One of John Wayne’s saddles, a Joe Namath football helmet, a speedboat owned by the Kennedy family. Fingernail clippings from Elvis (of dubious authenticity, Billy thought). Just a few of the recent acquisitions. Ahira Kurisaka was one of the richest men in Japan, yet on any given day, Billy could find the man stuffing his face with Big Macs and Chicken McNuggets. Billy’s boss was obsessed with American culture.

Billy’s grandfather had been an American G.I. In spite of Billy’s impressive qualifications, he strongly suspected Kurisaka had hired him simply because he liked the name Billy.

“What of the card?” asked Kurisaka.

Billy cleared his throat. “There have been complications.”

“I want the DiMaggio card,” Kurisaka said. “Hyatta will turn green with envy.”

Kurisaka maintained a semifriendly (meaning semiunfriendly) rivalry with fellow billionaire and Americana collector Hito Hyatta. Hyatta continually one-upped Kurisaka at every opportunity. One time, Kurisaka had bragged about his recent purchase of an autographed picture of General Douglas MacArthur. It was a good photograph, the general wading ashore upon his return to the Philippines. Hyatta had congratulated Kurisaka on his purchase before casually mentioning he had a signed, first-draft manuscript copy of the general’s memoirs. It seemed Hyatta’s acquisitions were nearly always more expensive and more rare than Kurisaka’s. Moto believed if Kurisaka had JFK’s underwear, Hyatta would produce the former president’s brain in a jar.

Moto said, “There have been conflicting reports. Our eBay bid of twenty-five thousand dollars was clearly in the lead, but it turns out the card has been destroyed.”

Kurisaka gasped, eyes growing wide.

“One of our underground sources reports an offer coming through a third party. Apparently, someone is offering the card for sale at one million dollars.”

“And how can this be possible if the card has been destroyed?”

Billy shrugged. “Perhaps the card is a counterfeit. I’m only guessing, Mr. Kurisaka.”

Kurisaka slipped off his Fonzie jacket, hung it carefully on a hanger. He paced the floor for several minutes before taking his plush chair behind a gigantic oaken desk. Both chair and desk had belonged to Ulysses S. Grant. Kurisaka picked up an Etch-A-Sketch and began drawing random lines, deep in thought. “The man’s name in Florida? The one who owns the card?”

“Teddy Folger.”

“It’s him,” Kurisaka said. “The card has not been destroyed. Folger has some scheme to drive up the price.”

“Perhaps.” Billy could really give a shit.

Kurisaka scratched his chin, glanced at his watch. “I’ll be late for my lunch with Hyatta. Find out what you can about Folger. I don’t like being tricked, Billy. I didn’t get where I am today by allowing myself to be screwed.”

High atop Tokyo ’s Mitsubishi Building, in a window seat of an elegant restaurant, Ahira Kurisaka ignored the breathtaking view of the city and instead contemplated a gigantic platter of shrimp. After thirty minutes of waiting for Hyatta, Kurisaka had decided to order. He didn’t enjoy being stood up. Was it a deliberate snub? Should he be insulted? He was so upset, he almost lost his appetite.

Almost.

He shoved shrimp into his mouth.

Kurisaka had come up the hard way, working his way from street tough, up through the Yakuza ranks until he was one of the most powerful crime bosses in Japan. He took his ill-gotten gains and began investing legitimately, buying out corporations, reinventing himself as an upstanding member of the community. But it was sometimes difficult. Although he now ran in mostly legitimate circles, he often felt his peers were whispering about him behind his back. Rumors of his former underworld life circulated.

And so now, when Hyatta had failed to show for a routine luncheon, Kurisaka had to wonder. Was Hyatta weary of associating with him? Was Kurisaka not fitting into the upper echelons of Japanese society as he’d hoped?

Indeed, Kurisaka’s Yakuza past refused to vanish completely. He’d made many enemies. Two or three assassination attempts a year were to be expected. There were many who wanted revenge, and many more still who would benefit from the power vacuum should Kurisaka be killed. And it wasn’t just his criminal past that engendered these attempts on his life. A few of his corporate competitors would be delighted at his demise.

Kurisaka still retained many of his connections. One never really retired from the Yakuza, and many of Kurisaka’s legitimate businesses still laundered money for the syndicate. If need be, Kurisaka could call on those connections at any time. If someone were bad-mouthing him to Hyatta… Well, Kurisaka was not the sort of man to sit still for an insult.

Hyatta appeared in the restaurant, spotted Kurisaka, and waved. Kurisaka forced a smile and stood as Hyatta took the chair opposite him.

“I apologize for my lateness,” Hyatta said.

“Oh, are you late? I hadn’t even noticed,” Kurisaka said.

Kurisaka waited politely for Hyatta to give the waiter his order. “And a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks,” said Hyatta. Both he and Kurisaka drank American whiskey.

Hito Hyatta was a proper, formal Japanese gentleman. He wore a conservative and expensive gray suit, hair white and perfect. There was always an air of royalty about the man. Kurisaka became aware of his own attire. A red sports jacket the size of a circus tent, jade buttons on his black silk shirt-more suitable for a Las Vegas casino. Too many rings. Garish. He made a mental note to call his tailor. Kurisaka was uneasily aware that quiet elegance was something he had yet to master.