Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

With the knuckles of one hand, Ryder brushed at the drops of sweat on his upper lip. Stark knew he had him scared, but not scared enough to talk-or at least not scared enough of him. Ryder had Phillip Bloch to worry about; the sergeant didn’t have any of Stark’s scruples getting in his way.

“I should have tossed your stupid butt out of my ship in Vietnam after the stunt you pulled then.”

“Get out, Matthew,” Ryder said hoarsely. “Damn you, get out!”

Stark’s dark eyes never wavered. “Make sure I don’t get a second chance at you, Sam. I might not resist.”

Shuji’s mouth was a grim, thin line, and his black eyes were two tiny pits of fury. He looked just as she’d envisioned he would at this moment-as if he was going to go after someone with one of his authentic short swords-namely, his sole student, one Juliana Fall, aka J.J. Pepper.

“Hello, Shuji,” Juliana said, surprised at how relaxed she sounded.

He looked at her. “A turban,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, a rhinestone-studded turban.”

“Usually I leave my hair down.”

“And no one recognizes you?”

“No, because it’s never blond. It’s pink or lavender. Sometimes blue.”

“Goddamnit,” Shuji said.

“How did you find out?”

“I have friends who frequent SoHo clubs and Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall. One thought he recognized you, but he believed he had to be seeing things. I…my God, you look ridiculous.”

Juliana tried to smile. “I know. Fun, isn’t it?”

“It is not fun, Juliana.”

“It is for me. Why are you here?”

“I had to know if this black rumor were true.” He drank some of his martini, too much. “My God. Jazz, pop, blues.”

“Don’t be so damned sanctimonious. I happen to like jazz, pop, and blues.”

He sighed. “Do you have any idea what this will do to your reputation?”

“I’ve only been in this business since I was eleven years old. Since I’m so damned dumb, why don’t you tell me?”

“Juliana-”

“I know what I’m doing, dammit. I don’t care what this does to my precious reputation. That’s right, I don’t care. I enjoy playing the Aquarian, and if people don’t like it, well then to hell with them. Being J.J. Pepper gets me out of myself, out from under the pressures of being Juliana Fall all the time. It’s important to me, Shuji. And if I’m in a funk, this is helping me, not hurting. I need an outlet. And musically, playing here is enriching me, not ruining me.”

Shuji was unimpressed. “Your work in the practice room should be your outlet.”

“My work is my work. I don’t want to give that up-I can’t. But I need this, too.”

“Let me hear the Chopin,” he said, tight-lipped.

“Now?”

“Yes, why not?” He nodded to the baby grand. “There’s a piano.”

“I’m J.J. Pepper here.”

“Play the Chopin, Juliana, or I walk out of here.”

His gaze was hard and direct. Shuji wasn’t one to pussyfoot around, and she knew he meant what he said. “And then what?”

“And then I’ll remember fondly the eleven-year-old girl who begged me to teach her, not the thirty-year-old ingrate who has turned her back on me and everything we’ve worked for together for almost twenty years.” His tone was scathing, filled with bitterness, edged with sadness. “You’ve been J.J. Pepper for eight months. Eight months, damn you, and not a word.”

“I wanted to tell you.”

“You didn’t.”

She stiffened. “You’re right-I knew what a jackass you’d be about it.”

“The Chopin,” he said.

She got up and walked over to Len. “That’s Eric Shuji Shizumi at the end of the bar,” she said, whipping off the turban. Her blond hair tumbled onto her shoulders. “I’ve lied to you, Len. My real name’s Juliana Fall. I’m a concert pianist.”

Len folded his arms on his chest. “Names aren’t what’s important here. It’s who you are, babe, what you want to do, that counts.”

“I don’t know the answer to that.”

“Well, until you do, it’s okay by me if you want to keep up with your J.J. Pepper act. Just no hairy-assed stuff, okay?” He grinned at her. “Unless you want to do brunch.”

She managed a smile. “That would really kill Shuji. May I play now?”

“Piano’s yours, Juliana Fall, muddy bass and all.”

She glanced over at Shuji. He was still working on his martini, not smiling, not understanding, wrapped up in his own hurt and anger. A pang of horror sliced through her as she tried to imagine going on without him. What would she do?

She sat at the piano and played the first chord of Chopin.

But she couldn’t continue. She couldn’t betray Len, her Club Aquarian audience-J.J. Pepper’s audience. She couldn’t betray herself. And, finally, she couldn’t betray Shuji. Playing the Chopin now, here, would be a lie. He wouldn’t see it that way, of course, but she couldn’t help that. She switched to a short Duke Ellington piece she thought everyone might like, even Shuji.

But when she finished and turned around, he was gone. In his place at the bar there was only a half-drunk martini.

Hendrik de Geer blew on his frozen fingers as he stood at the edge of Central Park opposite the Beresford. It would be a bitterly cold night. He longed for a bottle of gin, but he had forsworn drink. Sentiment and drink would make him careless. He couldn’t permit that to happen. It was clear to him, now that the coward Ryder had told Bloch everything, that the sergeant would have to find out for himself if the Minstrel was lost. He would never settle for anyone else’s word; the possibilities for the stone were too tremendous. Hendrik well understood that kind of thinking.

It left him with two choices. One, he could walk away. Two, he could act.

But first, before he made up his mind, he must gather information. He had already discovered that Catharina was being watched. Now he was at the Beresford, and he could see one of Bloch’s men standing out at the bus stop in front of the Museum of Natural History, stamping his feet in the cold.

So the daughter was being watched, too. Bloch was taking no chances-he never did-but he was not yet prepared to make his move. The sergeant was a hard, unyielding man with no apparent weakness. He was just starting out in this business, but already he had a solid reputation. He paid well and on time. That was what had drawn Hendrik to his employ. Profit and survival. They had been his chief interests for many years, and if Phillip Bloch wished to make them possible, then Hendrik would work for him.

Several well-dressed men and women, in tuxedos and furs, came out of the Beresford, followed by a stout old woman in an unremarkable wool coat, a scarf tied peasant-style around her head, and ankle boots.

Across the street, Bloch’s man threw down his cigarette.

Hendrik squinted as the woman came into the glare of the street lamp, and he saw the plain, square face.

Wilhelmina!

He almost laughed aloud. Of course she would be here! Even given the underworld in which he’d operated for forty years, Wilhelmina Peperkamp remained the most suspicious person he had ever encountered. Ah, Willie. He could see she’d already spotted Bloch’s man. Once Hendrik had been attracted to her bluntness and competence and had found her plainness comforting, even appealing. She was so reliable. For a while, that had been enough.

She went across West Eighty-first, walking at a good clip, and Bloch’s man started after her. Hendrik stayed where he was. He wasn’t worried. Willie had outwitted the Nazis for five years. She would have outwitted them until the end, had she not trusted Hendrik de Geer.