Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Toshi’s stoic expression wavered in obvious disbelief. He composed himself quickly. “We might have a more immediate problem, I’m afraid. The local authorities will be here soon.”

“We’ll use the diplomatic credentials,” Kurisaka said. “Why else would I have two ambassadors and the deputy minister of the foreign office on the payroll?”

Toshi doubted it would be that simple but said nothing.

Kurisaka turned back to the open window, gazed at the cityscape. “I don’t know what to think, Toshi.” He’d believed his DiMaggio card a prize to be envied. Then Hito Hyatta had yanked the rug out from under him, had made him feel naÏve, idiotic. He’d called the card cute . And then, in the middle of the night, someone had felt the card worth a daring raid on Kurisaka’s heavily guarded hotel suite. Kurisaka no longer understood his world.

Toshi cleared his throat. “Cousin?”

“Yes?”

“Do Yakuza generally suffer such an attack unanswered?”

Kurisaka thought for long seconds, understanding dawning in his eyes. “No,” he said. “No, we do not.”

Kurisaka did not see Toshi’s wide, wicked smile.

“Gather the men,” ordered Kurisaka.

Toshi’s smile fell. “They are dead, Cousin. Every last one of them.”

Tyranny Jones’s insomnia had led her to the blank canvas in the breakfast nook. She did much of her painting late at night, her mind racing, unable to find sleep amid the lace and satin in her bedroom, a separate bedroom from Professor Dan’s. She’d begun by painting the canvas, ended up painting herself. First, black toenail polish, then the fingernails black too. She liked it, found a tube of black lipstick, and did the lips.

In the bathroom’s full-length mirror, she stripped naked and looked at herself. Tyranny was too tan to go gothic, so she resolved to stay out of the sun until she was nice and pale. She would buy a long, lacey black dress and a pair of combat boots. Yes, a good decision. It felt right, a timely reinvention of herself. Shake things up a bit. What would Dr. Goldblatt say?

She went upstairs, looked at Dan while he slept. His mouth hung open, a little drool on the chin. He appeared comatose and oblivious. She envied him. She went down the hall to her bedroom, took all the black clothing out of her closet, laid it out on the bed. She understood as a matter of course that she was inventing a project for herself, trying to trick her mind into paying attention to trivia, sorting clothes into piles, slacks and blouses and underwear and pajamas.

She put on the black pajamas.

In her bathroom mirror, she studied herself. She looked like a Marilyn Manson fan at a slumber party.

Her image makeover was interesting but not fully distracting. So Tyranny did something she almost never did. She went downstairs and flipped on the television. Maybe an old movie. Or music videos. It had been ages and ages since she’d zoned out in front of music videos.

Instead, a windblown news reporter told Pensacola that all hell had broken loose downtown.

“-have responded with fire trucks and ambulances. All off-duty police are asked to report in. The slaughter follows on the heels of a similar incident that happened only a few hours earlier at a downtown gentlemen’s club.” The reporter paused, touched his earpiece, a wire hanging past his shoulder. “I’m being told authorities have not ruled out the possibility of a terrorist attack. Apparently there is a contingent of Japanese dignitaries staying at the hotel. It hasn’t been determined yet if-”

Tyranny flipped the channel, trying to find better pictures of the calamity. The Channel 2 news copter circled the Intercontinental Hotel, but without flames or smoke billowing from hotel windows it was a fairly boring view. Another channel showed the remains of a pedestal sink embedded in the smashed roof of an SUV. More interesting. She watched awhile longer, hoping to see some bodies.

The doorbell chimed.

At this hour?

She went to the front door, looked through the peephole. It was too dark to see anything more than a vague shape. Instead of reaching for the light switch, she said, “Who is it?”

“Tyranny, it’s me. Please open the door.”

“Conner?” She glanced up at the ceiling, wondered if Dan had heard the doorbell. It was a big house, and Dan was a sound sleeper. She’d told Conner to stay away. Was he here to cause trouble, pick another fight with Dan? He was such a fucking fucking fucking stubborn, stupid- “Conner, what are you doing here?”

“Jesus, Tyranny, just open the damn door.”

She opened her mouth, wanted to tell him to fuck off. Go away. She didn’t want to see him, couldn’t endure any more of his pleas or professions of love. Couldn’t stand breaking his heart, didn’t have the energy to figure out how their lives would fit together or even if they could. It was all too much, and all Tyranny wanted was to hide in her room and try on black clothes and listen to a Duran Duran CD over and over again and pretend she wasn’t a fucked-up head case. But no, here was Conner fucking Samson throwing reality in her face in the middle of the night like a selfish goddamn asshole, and yet part of her brain wondered if he’d like the new look, the black lipstick, and she wanted to kill him and kiss him and why wouldn’t he just fuck off?

He pounded on the door. “Tyranny!”

“Shit!” She opened the door. “Fine. Get your ass in here. But stop yelling or you’ll wake- Oh my God!”

Conner fell into the light, sprawled facedown in the foyer. He looked like hell, blood-smeared and pale as death. He clutched a metal attaché case.

“Oh, Conner, oh Jesus, what happened?” She knelt next to him, gently turned him over, pulled his head into her lap.

“It’s been a long night,” Conner said. “I think… if it’s okay maybe… I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.” He passed out.

“Conner!”

Professor Dan walked in, rubbing his eyes. He spotted Tyranny holding Conner’s head in her lap. “This is just typical. In my own house.” He took a closer look, saw the blood. “Oh, man. He doesn’t look so good.”

Conner awoke on cool, clean sheets. His shirt and shoes off, gauze and surgical tape on his slashed forearm. He lifted his head, looked around the room. The Kevlar vest and Batman utility belt sat on the chair in the corner, the metal attaché case leaned against a leg of the chair. His entire body ached.

He remembered. Tyranny’s house. It must be a guest room. Conner took in his surroundings, dark wood paneling, plaid bedcovers. A wooden duck on the nightstand. Some kind of L.L. Bean nightmare.

The hazy early-morning light seeped in through the open drapes. Barely after dawn. Clouds on the horizon, thunderstorms later in the afternoon, Conner predicted. Good. Maybe they’d cool things off.

Tyranny entered the room, sat on the side of the bed, put a hand on Conner’s good arm. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not dying in my lap, you asshole. I really didn’t need a funeral with me all sobbing and snotty and red-eyed. Anyway, you were mostly just shocked and exhausted. The cut on your arm isn’t very deep. Dan wanted to call an ambulance. Or the police.”

“You stopped him?”

She nodded.

“Thanks.” Conner looked at her fingernails, her lips. “It wasn’t a dream then.”

“Huh?”

“I dreamed you were a zombie,” Conner said. “Like in Dawn of the Dead.”

“Fuck you.” But there wasn’t much venom in it. She lightly stroked his bandage. “Conner, what happened? I saw something about terrorists on TV.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have anything to do with terrorists. I… well, I was in on this deal. The details aren’t important.” He sat up in bed, winced at his protesting muscles. “I’m going to have some money.” Without Rocky or Becker, Conner wasn’t sure how he’d go about selling the card. “I need to work out the particulars, but I thought… I know you were mad at me before, but-”