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Chapter 4

An elegant cocktail lounge, humming with activity. It was the season between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and suburbanites were in Manhattan to see the tree in Rockefeller Center, to stroll down Fifth Avenue, and do a little shopping. It was cold outside and it was the holidays, so we weren’t the only people in the hotel lounge having an afternoon cocktail. Deep down, I knew we were being boozers. But we were being stylish boozers.

The waitress brought us our drinks, setting them down on napkins with great care. A glass of Jameson’s is, after all, a beautiful thing and worthy of a certain reverence. Art, however, was having a martini. He saw my questioning look and shrugged.

“I’m expanding my horizons,” he said. He was big and pleasant looking, and above the serious cop mustache his eyes crinkled easily with amusement. They were bright eyes: blue and clear. But if you looked closely, you saw these eyes never stopped moving. He had been a cop for twenty years and, even in retirement, he never lost the habit of watching.

My brother Mickey sipped his drink, taking care not to spill any on his suit. He and Art had been, and still were, partners. Mickey was thinner, darker, and, if I were to be honest, sourer than Art. He, too, had the same cop mustache and the same cop eyes. After leaving the NYPD, the two of them had started their own security firm. In post–9-11 New York, it was wildly successful in a way that left both men mildly astonished. They shouldn’t have been. They made a perfect team. Where one was all heat, the other was calm. They could play good cop/bad cop like nobody else. They were tenacious, and so deeply experienced in the ways of people that nothing surprised them anymore. Except me.

I explained about the visit from Ito, the Miyazaki and their wayward daughter, her sleazy boyfriend, and the family’s need to save her. An old pledge that had to be honored.

“Well,” Art began, “it’s not the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

“But that’s only because you are the king of moronic adventures,” my brother cracked.

He should know. Both he and Art had been in some dark, wild places with me. Mickey, my older brother, felt that I was congenitally predisposed to getting in way over my head, and that he had an obligation to pull me out. In my defense, it wasn’t always my fault. But that didn’t change anything. Mickey was a man who walked through life deeply convinced of his own competence and wildly suspicious of the ability of almost everyone else. Especially me.

“Hey, come on,” I told them. “I’m not here to get dumped on.”

“You’re here to drink some fine liquor on our expense account,” my brother pointed out.

“You invited me,” I said. Mickey opened his mouth to say something else, and then thought better of it. He looked across the booth to Art, who was draped along the padded seat like a man on his living room sofa. Art was smiling slightly, listening to us talk, but watching the people come and go.

“What?” Mickey prodded.

Art jerked a chin. “See the woman in the black parka who just came in?”

Mickey took a peek. “Fur-lined hood, red boots?”

Art nodded. “We’ve seen her before, but I can’t place her.”

Mickey squinted in thought. They had seen a lot of people in their time. Some were crooks. Some were just familiar. “She a pro?” he asked, meaning a prostitute.

Art closed one eye and tilted his head. “I don’t get that vibe …” he said. He sighed. “Well, not my problem, I suppose.” He turned to look at me. “You, on the other hand …”

“You idiot,” my brother added.

I rested my drink on the napkin and looked down at it as I slid the glass in small circles on the wooden table. “Look, I’m not crazy about the deal, either. But it’s something I’ve gotta do for Yamashita.”

“Ooh, we’ve been to this movie before, eh Mick?” Art smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Mickey leaned forward, brushing his tie down with the flat of his hand. He had spent most of his adult life in crumpled sport jackets bought off the rack at Sears, and now success had made him curiously fastidious, as if the absolute chaos of the world he worked in could be somehow kept at bay through good grooming.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and took a sip of his drink. The two of them were deeply skeptical of the Miyazaki and their request. I had been there myself, but since I had agreed to help, I had the disorienting experience of repeating the same conversation with Ito all over again, only now I was arguing the exact opposite point of view.

“They just want this guy’s daughter found,” I explained. “She’s a wreck. They want her home.”

Mickey took a breath, but Art held up a calming hand. “Let’s walk through this step by step, Connor, OK?” I nodded in agreement.

Art came out of his slouch and sat forward. “They would like her found, yes?”

“Yes,” I said.

Art nodded. “Fair enough. But why come to you? There are any number of people who do this professionally.” He placed a big freckled hand on my arm. “And I don’t like to hurt your feelings, Connor, but they can probably do this better than you can.” Across the table, Mickey snorted in agreement.

“Look,” I said, “I pointed that out to them. But it’s a Japanese thing. It has to do with family reputation. They don’t want some stranger involved.”

“You are a stranger, you idiot,” my brother pointed out.

“No, I’m not. I’m Yamashita’s senior student and he’s got some connection with them. He owes them.”

“How? Why?” Mickey was skeptical.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I said.

“OK, leave that for a minute,” Art continued. “It might be useful to know more, but you know what you know. Let’s get to the heart of things here.” He leaned forward and took a sip of his martini. “Mmm. Shaken, not stirred.”

Mickey looked suddenly alert, and I knew we were about to take a detour into the odd version of Trivial Pursuit they had developed over years of stakeouts. “You mean, ‘shaken and not stirred,’” he said, eyes gleaming.

Art appeared affronted. “Surely you jest. The movie Goldfinger, my man—1964. Check it out.”

Mickey smiled wickedly. “And yet, when we go to the source, Ian Fleming himself wrote the phrase ‘shaken and not stirred.’ First uttered in the book Dr. No in 1958. They left the word ‘and’ out in the movies.”

Art was not impressed. “Like you’ve ever read a book, Mick.”

The two of them had an almost inexhaustible interest in pop culture trivia, especially when it came to action flicks. I let the bickering go on for a while, and then interrupted them.

“You know my favorite line by James Bond about martinis?” They stopped arguing and looked at me with the disapproval you give to people who let themselves in on a conversation without being invited. “Casino Royale, 2006,” I continued. “Someone asks Bond if he wants his drink shaken or stirred. Know what he says?”

Art smiled, his eyes crinkling almost shut. “Sure. He says, ‘Do I look like I give a damn?’”

“Exactly,” I said, pausing for effect before I continued. “Let me just say he speaks for many of us.”

Art looked at Mickey. “It seems not everyone shares our interests.”

“Go figure,” Mickey said. “Too busy getting tangled up in half-assed schemes, probably.”

“Well, it appears that I digress,” Art commented, and took another swallow of his drink. “Where was I? Oh, yeah. What do these guys really want?”

“They want her found,” I answered.

Art smiled. “Oh, my boy. So easily misled. Yes, they want her found, but that’s just the prelude. Once you find her, what then?”

“They want her to come home.”

Mickey leaned in. “But they’ve had this conversation with her, haven’t they? And she’s not home, is she?”

“She’s messed up, Mick,” I told him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Art said, shaking his head. “She’s not a minor. She’s not being held under duress that we know of. She’s free to be as messed up as she wants.”

“Which means,” Mickey put in, “what they want you to do is not just find her. They want you to take her. Against her will. And deliver her to them.” He looked at Art. “Now why would they want someone to do that for them, Art?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“Hmm, good question, Mick.” Art rested his chin in his hand, miming deep thought. “Perhaps because, hmmm, let me see, perhaps because, oh, I don’t know …”

“Because it’s kidnapping, you asshole,” Mickey hissed at me. “A federal offense. They want it done, but they don’t want to get their hands dirty doing it. They won’t hire someone to do it because they can’t trust them not to roll over if they get pinched.”

“I would,” Art said.

Mickey looked at me. His eyes are grey and can be terribly cold. “So they sell you a line about honor and favors owed by Yamashita and figure you’ll get it done for them.”

“Why would they ask me to do it, if I’m such an amateur?”

Art smiled. “Now, Connor. Don’t be sullen. You’re very capable in your own special way.” He paused to scan the room once more. “I also imagine these people are very well informed about your skills. Your persistence.”

“Your incredible knack for generating shit storms,” Mickey added.

“An unpleasant point, but true,” Art concluded. “And they are connected to the Kunaicho, which means they have a good line to various intelligence agencies.”

“Which means they know about us,” Mickey said. “We do enough work with the NYPD’s intelligence bureau to be known. They figure you can use us as an asset to locate the girl. Then you swoop in and get her. There may be some heads need knocking. Which, I have to admit, you can do.” The admission that I had any sort of competence seemed to pain him. “Once that happens, they can have her loaded on a private jet and out of the country well before anyone raises a stink.”

Art held up a finger. “Although a stink will be raised.” He nodded somberly at me.

“And you, you moron, will be left holding the bag,” my brother concluded.

I said nothing. I knew deep down they were right. But I also knew they didn’t get the whole picture.

“Walk away, buddy boy,” my brother urged.

“I agree, Connor,” Art said quietly. “We’re gonna pass on this one. You should too.” Nobody said much after that. Art looked down at his glass. It was empty. So was mine.

Even in a crowded room, Osorio seemed alone. It wasn’t just the minders who watched, unblinking, from the corners of the room. It wasn’t the regal solitude of the man as he sat at the best table in the house, savoring the bouquet that swirled from a brandy snifter. There was a space around Osorio at all times, a zone filled with threat and innuendo and the memories of old violence.

“Dr. Burke,” he said, smiling. His face was lined like old leather, his teeth square and strong looking. He swirled the brandy around the crystal glass, watching the languid wash of the liquid with deep appreciation. I stood a pace away from him, hands held at rest by my sides. I waited.

You don’t get too close to Don Osorio without an invitation. He’s a legend in Brooklyn’s criminal underworld. And the stories of his rise to his current undisputed prominence as a Latino crime boss made Macbeth seem squeamish. You can say his crazy days were long behind him. And looking at him, dapper and placid, an old lion at rest, you might almost have believed it. But don’t be fooled. Yamashita had once confided to me that Osorio was the second deadliest person he knew.

“Who’s the first?” I had asked Yamashita.

He had almost smirked. “I am, Burke.”

We had done Osorio a favor once and he had reciprocated. He understood deals. He even might have understood honor, if the cost were not too high. I thought he might be willing to help me with the Miyazaki, so I arrived unannounced at his dinner table. He might have been surprised—it was hard to tell—but the old gangster was certainly amused. And that and only that explained why I had gotten this far at all. I saw the subtle dismissive wave he gave his bodyguard. The man sat back, coiling down into stillness, but not into rest. His eyes never blinked. In contrast, Osorio’s eyes crinkled in expectation.

I needed help finding Chie Miyazaki and her low-life boyfriend. There are two types of people who have the information that can help with problems like this. You can go to the good guys—people like my brother. Or you can go the other way—to people like Osorio.

I apologized to Osorio for my intrusion. “I’ve come seeking help, Don Osorio.” I could tell that he liked that, the way I called him “Don,” the archaic title of respect. Osorio knew nine-tenths of successful intimidation is reputation alone. He worked hard at cultivating his aura of Old World menace, and pleasing him was always a good strategy for any supplicant. Osorio didn’t smile at the flattery, yet he waved a hand in invitation and I sat down.

And waited. The crisp table linen, the image of the old man caressing a brandy snifter, the hum of the conversation of the other diners could almost lull you into relaxing and speaking your mind. But that wasn’t the way the game would be played. It wasn’t exactly Japanese in approach, but it was close enough so I understood the dynamics.

“And how is my sister’s son?” the old man inquired.

Some time ago, Yamashita had agreed to train Osorio’s nephew, an aspiring young martial artist. It went against most of my teacher’s standards for admission to the dojo, but at the time it seemed a small price to pay for the help we needed. Osorio had delivered the requested service, and his nephew picked up the sword with us. Surprisingly, young Ricardo had endured.

“Fine,” I said evasively. I remembered my recent class demonstration and what I had done to Rick, but kept it to myself.

“And Yamashita Sensei?”

“Aging gracefully.”

Osorio smiled tightly. “Grace … a welcome companion in old age, Dr. Burke. But do not be fooled. Old tigers are often the most dangerous.” His eyes were brown and knowing.

“Indeed they are, Don Osorio.”

A waiter arrived, seemingly unbidden, and set a second brandy snifter down in front of me.

“Salud,” the old gangster said, extending his glass.

“Salud,” I answered. I sipped carefully, letting the fumes engulf my face. A drop of brandy pooled on my tongue. Warmth. The scent of oak and vanilla. A fine drink, shared with a vicious felon. But you take the good things in life where you can find them.

“You mentioned help?” Osorio said. He set the brandy down on the table and was very still.

“A minor thing,” I shrugged, “some information. Nothing more.”

Osorio’s head tilted to one side as he watched me. “There is information and there is information.”

“This matter has nothing to do with your immediate …” I paused to think of a good euphemism, “… concerns.”

His lips tightened in displeasure. “My concerns are many, Dr. Burke. I doubt you are intimately familiar with them.”

I held up a placating hand. “I meant no disrespect. As far as I know, the information would not directly impact upon you. Nor would it be used that way.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. He sat forward slightly. “We shall see.”

So I explained about Chie Miyazaki and her boyfriend Lim, and how I needed to find them for her father.

“A father’s concerns are to be respected,” Osorio said, nodding. “But why come to me?”

I didn’t fidget, although I felt the need. “This Lim, the boyfriend,” I ventured. “He’s a conduit for drugs.”

“And you thought?” Osorio left the question dangling.

“I thought someone with your … wide range of acquaintances might be able to find some hint as to his whereabouts.”

Osorio smiled then, big square teeth. “A wide range of acquaintances. I like that, Dr. Burke.” He sipped his brandy and his eyes narrowed. “And in return?”

I sensed the whisper of warning swirling up inside my head. “As you know, Don Osorio, I am a man of limited resources and poor skills.” He smirked at that, but he let me continue. “I can offer my goodwill, my services as a teacher …”

Osorio was not impressed. “I left the schoolroom many years ago, Dr. Burke.” I started to speak, but he held up a hand.

“Please. Let us simply say I may call upon you in the future for a discussion if I have the need for you?” He gave it the intonation of a question, but there was nothing interrogative about the statement. The message was clear. I was in his debt.

I took a deep breath, sure I had made a terrible mistake. “Thank you.”

Osorio shook his head. “Please. Who is to say my own ‘limited resources’ will be of any use? Let us simply say it is my pleasure to offer this gesture to un maestro de la espada.”

I stood up and nodded my thanks. But our eyes locked and we both knew what had just happened. I owed him now. And he never forgot a debt and never failed to collect payment.

I left the murmur of the restaurant and headed out into the cold. As I pulled my collar up around me, I shivered.

I remembered seeing a film once about someone who raised wolves. When the interviewer saw how the wolves appeared tame in their owner’s hands, he asked whether the animals were capable of affection, whether they loved him.

The trainer ruffled the thick neck of one of the animals. Its eyes were clear and wide and totally unfathomable. “Love me?” he asked. “They tolerate me because I feed them.”

I thought of Osorio then: similar eyes, similar appetites.