Victor Gischler: Suicide Squeeze

“Again, I apologize for being tardy,” Hyatta said, “but I was waiting for a special delivery. I hope you don’t mind if I boast a little about my latest find, but I knew this would be something you’d appreciate.”

Hyatta took a small plastic case out of his jacket pocket, placed it reverently on the table between himself and Kurisaka. He opened the case. A gold coin within.

Kurisaka shoved more shrimp into his mouth, leaned forward to look at the coin. A gold American Double Eagle. Kurisaka was not impressed. He had a few of these coins himself. The US government had started minting them about the time of the gold rush. Kurisaka kept the smile off his face. If Hyatta thought this was worth boasting- Kurisaka spotted the date on the coin. His mouth fell open. Shrimp dropped out.

“Is that a 1933?” he asked.

Hyatta smiled and nodded.

“But I can’t-it must be a replica,” Kurisaka sputtered. “ Roosevelt had them all melted down. The Secret Service tracked down the ones that were stolen.”

“It’s genuine,” Hyatta said. “An interesting story actually.”

Hyatta dove into the story, how the coin had turned up during a renovation of a basement in San Francisco. Hyatta had good contacts with dealers throughout the United States. When the construction worker who’d found the coin sold it for five hundred dollars to a dealer in Oakland, the shop owner had immediately recognized what the coin was. But he’d needed to be careful. Otherwise, the US Treasury Department would claim the coin. The shop owner had contacted people who contacted other people until finally Hyatta had arranged to purchase the coin.

Kurisaka barely listened. His eyes were fixed on the coin. A sickening, mixed feeling of admiration and envy settled in his stomach. He desperately wanted to ask Hyatta if he could hold the coin but didn’t want to give his rival the satisfaction. He simply said, “Congratulations.”

Hyatta offered a modest shrug. “We are fortunate to be men of means. We can afford to pursue our passions. What of you, Ahira? Any new additions to the collection?”

Kurisaka brightened. He knew Hyatta had a special weakness for baseball memorabilia. Now here was his chance to make Hyatta jealous. “I’m negotiating the purchase of a baseball card. It’s one of a kind, quite special.” He picked up the dropped piece of shrimp, put it back in his mouth.

“What a coincidence. I’m also in the middle of acquiring a baseball card. My people are in contact with a Florida man who claims to have something unique.”

Kurisaka choked on the shrimp, went into a coughing fit.

“Are you all right?” asked Hyatta.

Kuriska washed down the shrimp with a glass of water. “I’m fine.”

They finished lunch, and Kurisaka returned to his limousine, surrounded by four bodyguards. He sulked in the back as the long black vehicle slid through downtown Tokyo. The thought that Hyatta might get his Joe DiMaggio baseball card made him physically ill.

He picked up the car phone and dialed Billy Moto. “Billy, pack a bag and arrange for one of the company jets. I’m sending you to America.”

Conner Samson bounced a check for a dollar draft in Salty’s Saloon and decided it was time to get serious about looking for work.

Sid, the eternally bald and surly bartender, set the draft beer at Conner’s elbow and handed him the phone from behind the bar. Sid took Conner’s check and frowned at it before crumpling it into a tight wad and tossing it over his shoulder. He wiped the length of the bar with an old rag, muttering in his amiable cranky way.

“Thanks, Sid.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Conner looked up again at the TV hanging over the bar to see if the nightmare was true. Maybe the whole thing had been a bad hallucination. The score: Atlanta 6, St. Louis 7, and Chip Carey telling everyone about the outfielder’s error, which had cost Conner five hundred bucks.

Hell.

Salty’s Saloon was old and dark and filled with quiet regulars who wanted to watch sports, nurse drinks, and be left alone. Conner’s kind of place. Salty’s had been through a few transformations: a disco, a Chinese takeout place, a pool hall. A wooden cricket bat still hung on the wall from the brief period Salty’s had masqueraded as an English pub. Conner liked the current incarnation. Neon beer signs, a jukebox nobody played, a TV with a ball game always on, and cheap suds. And Sid. A crusty retired Marine, but a good guy who knew the names and life stories of all his regulars.

Sid glanced at the television, shook his head. “You got the worst luck of anybody I’ve ever known.” He was still shaking his head as he stacked clean glasses behind the bar.

Conner drank his beer and looked at the phone.

He didn’t want to make the calls yet, so he stalled, paged through the Wall Street Journal. DesertTech was up three points. A friend of a pal of a guy somebody knew had suggested the stock a week ago. Conner kept tabs. The stock was going up and up. That would have been great, except Conner hadn’t bought any. He’d been trying to put some bets together, get a stake so he could buy a hundred shares. Then the stupid fucking Atlanta Braves…

“I guess you ain’t a millionaire yet,” Sid said.

“Would I be in this dump if I were a millionaire?”

“Yeah, I sorta think you would,” Sid said. “My sister owns an alpaca farm in California. Says it’s the latest thing.”

“No animals.”

“They always need guys on the offshore oil rigs.”

“I want my money to work for me. Not the other way around.”

“Yeah, but it takes money to make money.”

“That’s clever,” Conner said. “I’m going write that down.”

“Oh, blow it out your ass.”

Conner couldn’t stall anymore. He dialed Harvey Sterling at Sterling ’s Bail Bonds. Harvey sometimes paid well whenever he sent one of his guys to chase down a skip. Conner didn’t consider himself a tough guy or anything like that, but he was tall and had some shoulders, and sometimes just the sight of a big guy standing there would keep somebody from running or putting up a fight. Harvey didn’t have any work for him. Conner left his number in case anything changed.

Next, Conner dialed Ed Odeski at Gulf Coast Collections. He really didn’t want to, but repossessing cars for Odeski was usually worth a couple of bucks. Last time, Conner had to hot-wire a Jaguar. The delinquent owner had caught him in the middle of the job. He hit Conner, and it hurt a lot. Conner hit him back a few times, but it didn’t seem to bother the guy. They went on like that for a little while. By the end, Conner had managed to get away with the car. What he got paid for the repo almost covered the cost of his stitches.

“ Gulf Coast Collections,” said the secretary.

“Tell Ed it’s Conner Samson.”

“Hold please.”

Conner held.

Ed’s gutter ball voice came on the line. “You must need work, Samson.”

“What? A guy can’t call up an old buddy?”

“No.”

“Okay, so I need work.”

“Ain’t got none.”

“Come on.”

“None.”

“Awwwwwww, come on.” Sometimes just being pathetic was the best way to get a job out of Ed. He liked to save most of his repo work for a squat little hunk of meat he called his kid brother. “I’m not picky here, buddy. I just need some folding money.”

“No. You always bust up the cars. Bring them back all banged.” He was from Albania or Lithuania or some kind of ania. Conner always forgot where, but Odeski’s accent was thick with spit.

“It was only that one time,” Conner said.

“All headlights smashed real good.”

“The guy had a tire iron. He was trying to cave in my skull.”