Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

“A baseball card and a letter from Marilyn Monroe.”

“Is that something good?”

Conner explained. He told Rocky about the autographs, the insured value, the possibility of a collector out there willing to pay big money. It felt like a sales pitch, and that was okay to Conner. Conner Samson possessed this thing that so many other people were looking for. It felt good to be lead dog for a change.

Rocky picked up the phone, asked the person on the other end to get him his “associate in Chicago.”

Rocky put his hand over the phone, handed Conner a folded piece of paper. “We just ripped off a shipment from the Gap. Go find some dry clothes.” Rocky turned his attention back to the phone. “Sal? Yes, good to speak with you too. Listen, I have a specialty item, some baseball memorabilia and a Hollywood thing. Is that one phone call or two?”

Conner left the office, closed the door behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief, didn’t realize until now how tense he’d been. Rocky would know what to do, whom to call. Conner felt strangely comfortable leaving it all in the hands of the odd crime boss.

He ran into Julie on the way down the hall. She was thin and pale, pencils stuck in her wad of dishwater hair. She handed Conner two clean towels. He thanked her, and she went back to work.

The map led Conner through the warehouse maze, like a Super Wal-Mart, a mall, and a flea market all rolled into one. Except everything was hot. Otis had told him people had the wrong idea about criminal supergeniuses. People thought they were like James Bond villains, lasers from outer space and nuclear bomb extortion. Nope. The real criminal masterminds were born administrators, superbureaucrats. Rocky Big had to handle state and local officials, cook the books, duck the tax man, hide cash flow, organize travel schedules, trucks coming and going at all hours of the day and night. It was a logistical, pencil-pushing nightmare and Rocky Big was the best. The ebb and flow of stolen goods in and out of Rocky’s warehouse was a magnificent, criminal ballet.

Conner lingered longingly over a collection of plasma flat-screen televisions. Hook one of those babies up to a surround-sound system. Maybe if things worked out… Conner shook himself loose from the fantasy, found the boxes of Gap clothing. He dug around until he found his size, a pair of khaki pants and a forest-green V-neck T-shirt. Conner was wet, smelled brackish. He didn’t want to put the clean clothes on his dirty body. He walked back to Rocky’s office.

Pete had evolved to a copy of Sports Illustrated.

“Rocky still on the phone?” Conner asked.

“Yup.”

“Anyplace a guy can clean up around here?”

Pete told him there was an employee locker room on the second floor. Conner found a spiral staircase, climbed it, passed a Coke machine, and found the men’s locker room. Half the urinals had been ripped off the wall. The tile was an industrial green. He tried three shower stalls, found one that dribbled water that was almost warm. He rinsed off. No soap.

Even in summer there was just something about dripping naked on bare tile that made Conner shiver. He flashed on his baseball days in the locker room. Morons snapping towels. Idiots. He sort of missed it.

Rocky walked in. “I didn’t even realize the plumbing still worked up here.”

Conner quickly wrapped a towel around himself. “I needed to clean up.” For some reason, Conner wasn’t crazy about Rocky being too close to his naked body.

“You’ve done quite well!” Rocky said.

Conner raised an eyebrow, started edging toward his new Gap outfit draped over a stall door.

“There’s a million-dollar offer for the DiMaggio card,” Rocky said.

Conner’s mouth fell open. “What? But that’s-it’s only worth-” Any collectible is really only worth what somebody is willing to pay for it.

“Some tycoon has a collection. Looks like you’re gonna be in the chips, as they say.”

Conner forgot all about being naked. He was stunned.

“It’s a lot of money.” Rocky looked serious. “Try not to piss it away.”

Itchi sat in the tow truck outside of Playerz, watched for twenty minutes to make sure Samson wasn’t going anywhere, then called Toshi to report. Toshi ordered him back to their new headquarters, a suite at the Intercontinental just six blocks away.

Itchi drove there in three minutes. He abandoned the tow truck on the street, left the keys in the ignition. The doorman frowned at Itchi’s disheveled appearance but wisely said nothing. The elevator took Itchi to the top floor.

When he walked into the suite, he opened his mouth to tell Toshi everything was under control. What he saw made his eyes pop. He shut his mouth again, swallowed hard.

Ahira Kurisaka sat in an overstuffed chair like it was a throne, a dozen hard-faced men around him. Kurisaka looked distinctly cross. Kurisaka’s presence could only mean the big man was displeased or impatient or both. That he’d come half a world to see why he did not yet have his baseball card did not bode well for Itchi. Itchi sent a brief prayer skyward, prepared himself to be squashed.

Toshi cleared his throat. If he was as nervous as Itchi, it didn’t show on his face. Another awkward second of silence slipped past before Itchi realized they expected him to say something.

“Conner Samson is at a local strip club called Playerz. He’s still there as far as I know.” They knew this already, Itchi thought, but he couldn’t just stand there and not say anything.

Ahira Kurisaka said, “And the DiMaggio card. Did he have it with him?”

Itchi had no idea, but I don’t know weren’t words you said to Ahira Kurisaka. Itchi remembered the plastic bag Samson had carried. It was possible the card was in the bag. Itchi could almost convince himself the card had to be in the bag. Sure. Why else would Samson clutch it so tightly? In any event, it would please Kurisaka to tell him so.

“I believe so,” Itchi said.

“Then why did you not take it from him?” Kurisaka asked.

That was one hell of a good question, thought Itchi. He decided to take a kernel of truth and dress it up with a few strategic lies. The big black man with Samson had appeared formidable. He was big enough to be two men. Or even several men.

“Samson had his gang with him,” Itchi said. “I thought it best to follow and report back.”

“You did well,” Kurisaka said.

Whew.

Toshi snapped his cell phone shut. “I just spoke to our people. They ran down the information on the strip club. It’s a front for the local syndicate.” Toshi laid it out, Rocky Big, the warehouse, everything.

Kurisaka nodded, stared ahead at an invisible point in the distance, deep in thought.

Toshi leaned forward, spoke quietly into Kurisaka’s ear, but it was just loud enough for Itchi to hear. “In our blood we are Yakuza, are we not, Cousin? And Yakuza take what they want.”

Itchi watched Kurisaka’s face harden. The giant billionaire steepled his fat hands under his nose, narrowed his dark eyes. He stood slowly, like a massive planet dislodged from its orbit. Kurisaka lifted his hand, stretched it out, some lunatic god pronouncing judgment.

Itchi tensed, braced himself for the edict.

“Gentlemen,” Kurisaka said, “we go to war.”

Conner had dried and changed into his Gap clothes. He felt clean and human again.

Rocky drove them back to the office in the golf cart and explained how fencing the DiMaggio card would go. Rocky was half-apologetic. The deal had to go through a few layers of handlers and finders. Everyone wanted his or her cut, including Rocky himself. When all was said and done, Conner might clear $350,000. Give or take a few thousand.