Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Becker remembered the first time she’d met Samson, the state he’d been in, hungover to his yellow eyeballs, his apartment reeking of sick. She remembered thinking that might be a typical morning for Samson. How did people do it, live like this, boozing as a lifestyle? Never again.

Never mind. A lapse. Becker was more in control of her life. Or she was trying to be.

Even as she did all this-the Advil, the water, the.25 caliber pistol, contemplating Samson’s self-destructive lifestyle-the part of her brain that was always working sorted the final details of her scheme. She had a good shot at the bounty on Kurisaka’s head, and the two chumps sitting in her living room would provide the perfect diversion.

It didn’t mean anything to Becker if Conner Samson and his giant pal got themselves shot full of holes.

Ahira Kurisaka sat alone in his hotel suite. He gazed lovingly at the baseball card on the desk in front of him. It was his. He alone possessed it, this one-of-a-kind thing. One-of-a-kind. Kurisaka paused to consider what that meant. No amount of money, no level of power, nothing could re-create this thing. There was a certain magic in that.

And Hito Hyatta would be positively green with envy.

Kurisaka was sorely tempted to take the card out of the protective plastic casing. He wanted to feel the naked cardboard in his hands, sniff it to see if he could detect traces of the bubble gum. He could not wait to take the card back to Tokyo, so he could casually place it on the table during one of his lunches with Hyatta. He looked at his wristwatch, did the math. Perhaps a phone call…

He couldn’t wait. He was nearly giddy, reached for the phone, and dialed Hito Hyatta’s number. Kurisaka’s eager smile was so wide, it hurt his face.

He had to get past a secretary and another assistant before Hyatta answered the phone. “Hello? Is that you, Ahira?”

“Good to speak with you, Hito. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“I always make time for you, Ahira.”

“I just had to call and share news of my latest acquisition.” Kurisaka relished the anticipation, this moment, the second before telling Hyatta about the DiMaggio card. Hyatta’s brain would be spinning, wondering what amazing thing Kurisaka now had in his possession. Kurisaka let the moment stretch another second, then said, “You might recall we were both looking to add baseball cards to our collection.”

“Oh, yes. You have been successful?”

“Completely,” Kurisaka said. “I’m actually calling from Pensacola, Florida, in the United States. I have this wonderful Joe DiMaggio card. It’s autographed by the player, naturally, but it’s also been signed by-”

“Marilyn Monroe and Billy Wilder,” Hyatta said. “Yes, I’m aware of that one. A cute card. My agents made me aware that one was available sometime ago, but it just wasn’t my style. All that Hollywood and sports stuff mixed together. More of a fun novelty than a serious collectible, I thought.”

“Oh. I see.” A lead weight landed in the pit of Kurisaka’s belly. “When you said you were interested in a Florida card… I thought maybe…”

“You thought perhaps we’d be competing for the same card.” Hyatta chuckled. “Then we would have to fight it out, eh? Maybe have a good old-fashioned bidding war. Not to worry, the card I was interested in was in Orlando. Someone turned up a nearly mint-condition 1911 Honus Wagner.”

“Ah.” Kurisaka felt sick.

“The owner asked an even million in American dollars,” Hyatta said. “But I took great pleasure in grinding him down to seven hundred thousand. A bargain, really.”

“I see.” So painful. Why wouldn’t Hyatta stop talking?

“To me,” Hyatta continued, “the Wagner card is more purely a baseball collectible. And I’ve always considered myself a purist.”

“Uh-huh.” Insufferable ass.

“But for you, well, I think the DiMaggio card is more in keeping with the tone of your collection. Your collection has always been-what’s the word I’m looking for- whimsical . Yes, that’s it. A sort of fun, whimsical collection.”

There wasn’t a trace of irony in Hyatta’s voice. He honestly didn’t realize that his every word was a dagger in Kurisaka’s heart.

Hyatta said, “There’s actually a very interesting story about Honus Wagner. Apparently he-”

“I’m sorry, Hito, but I have a call on the other line. Congratulations on the Honus Wagner. Good-bye.” He hung up.

Kurisaka looked at the DiMaggio card, but every drop of his enthusiasm had evaporated. He picked it up, examined it one last time, sighed, placed it in the custom-made attaché case. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it possible he might cry.

A knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Toshi entered, offered his cousin a nod of respect. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to move up our departure. The airport is behind schedule and unable to service the craft until midmorning.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kurisaka stood, his shoulders slumped. “I’m going to bed.”

“Is something the matter, Cousin?”

“It’s nothing. I’m tired. Just very tired.” He went into his bedroom, closed the door behind him.

Toshi wondered at his cousin’s sudden mood shift but finally shrugged and left the suite.

It took Joellen Becker three phone calls and forty-two minutes on her laptop to find the information she wanted. Becker still had good contacts, local law enforcement, federal. It had been easy to find out how many Japanese passports had recently come through US Customs in Pensacola. She found out Kurisaka was on the top floor of the Intercontinental, that he had more than a dozen men with him, and that his private jet was scheduled to leave for Tokyo.

Kurisaka. The man himself. Becker’s intuition had served her well. She thought the billionaire might be in America, all of those Japanese hired guns Samson had mentioned. It wasn’t just Kurisaka’s errand boy Moto anymore. She had hoped to obtain the DiMaggio card so she could use it to lure the billionaire to America. Becker didn’t have the card, but here was Kurisaka right in her own backyard. Kurisaka had a small army with him, but he wasn’t home in his big Tokyo fortress. This might be as vulnerable as he’d ever get.

A few taps at the computer, and she’d accessed the airport’s maintenance roster. She’d moved Kurisaka’s jet to the bottom of the list. That should hold him up until morning.

If she’d still been with the NSA, she could have had Kurisaka’s phone bugged within ten minutes. Now it might take a full day, and there just wasn’t time.

“Well?” Otis. The big man had stood behind her the whole time. Too eager. His brooding anger made Becker slightly nervous. There was rage in him ready to be tapped, bubbling just under the surface.

She spun her chair around, faced Otis. Samson had spread himself on the sofa. “I think I know a way,” she said. “I think we can get the card back, but we’ll need to act fast.” She explained what she’d done to delay Kurisaka’s departure.

“I told you I don’t care about no baseball card.” Otis shook his doctor’s bag. “I said I’d pay you.”

“I know.” She held up a hand. “You want payback. I think it’s a waste of time, but that’s none of my business. But hear me out. You don’t have enough cash in that bag, not compared to the reward for the card. I think my plan will satisfy your needs. Both our needs.” She explained briefly what she had in mind.

Otis nodded. “That’ll work.” His jaw was set. He looked determined.

She stubbed out her cigarette, lifted her chin at Samson. “Got an opinion on this, sport?”