Honorable Rooster's eyes flickered, but he bottled his anger and bowed graciously.
'Kindly permit me to explain,' continued Honorable Ox. 'The barbarians' tastes have recently undergone a change for the better.'
'Yes?' Still seething at his suggestion being dismissed so out of hand, Honorable Rooster nevertheless managed to feign respectful interest. 'How so, Honored Elder?'
'For two decades we have watched the South American coca plant seduce our customers, while the demand for our poppy has continuously dropped off.'
'Honorable Ox speaks the truth,' interjected Honorable Dragon. 'Only by raising our prices have we managed to prosper, while those motherless lumps of Colombian dogmeat have amassed mountains of gold by merely sitting around lazily and scratching their piles!'
The old lung tao nodded. 'Now, however, the wheel of fortune has once again turned in our favor. The consumption of the coca powder has dropped markedly, while our poppy has once again regained popularity. The abundant harvest with which the gods have seen to bless us is in much demand. Thus we need not worry about regulating the market.'
'Perhaps not the market,' grumbled Honorable Dragon, 'but moving the vast amounts of additional currency is a most vexing problem. My secret banking system has branches all over civilized Asia and is much respected. But in the West? Ayeeyah! There, banking is a minefield! Ten thousand laws, controls enough to confuse all the gods, and government interference at every turn! You would think they would welcome enormous transactions, heya!'
'One would assume so,' said Honorable Rooster. 'Don't they?'
'No, they do not!'
Honorable Dragon turned his head, hawked loudly, and spat the evil god spirit on the floor lest it choke him.
'Those duck-fornicating bankers quiver before the authorities like virgins in a waterfront brothel! Imagine, being so choosy! It is a wonder they make any profit at all!'
Honorable Rooster could only shake his head in bemusement. More often than not, the folly of the barbarian devils was beyond his grasp.
Honorable Dragon summed up the situation: 'Perhaps now you can appreciate why we need the woman's hotels so urgently,' he said. 'How else are we to launder, transfer, and legitimize the immense sums such a heaven-blessed harvest will bring?'
'Honorable Dragon is right.' The old lung tao nodded sagely, then looked at the government minister from Beijing. 'Honorable Snake?'
'Yes, Esteemed Elder?'
'Has everything been done?'
'Yes. My sources contacted certain elements in the former Soviet Union. Art treasures, grenade launchers, uranium, nuclear warheads'—he cackled—'those foul, apelike pieces of dung will sell anything as casually as a dog farts—even their own mothers as whore- strumpets if the price is right!'
'Then I take it you offered the right price for something useful?'
'Something highly useful. A tiny phial of a most ingenious substance.'
'Indeed!' The old lung tao leaned forward. 'Do tell.'
Honorable Snake smiled his thin smile. 'Lowly bacteria.'
'Ah!' Honorable Ox steepled his root like fingers and tapped them against his lips. Tilting his head, he said, 'Hopefully one which cannot be traced back to us?'
'Neither to us nor to anyone else!' chortled Honorable Snake. 'It shall truly confound the experts and have them chasing their own tails!'
'How so?'
'Its beauty lies in its simplicity. They are bacteria unknown to germ warfare, but much feared in occasional outbreaks. They were procured through the hairy apes' disease control center, where samples are kept for research and study.'
The old lung tao nodded with satisfaction. 'As all gods bear witness, you have done well, Honorable Snake. Were these bacteria unleashed according to plan?'
'The plan was blessed by the gods of fortune,' Honorable Snake answered. 'It was completely successful.'
There were nods and murmurs of congratulations around the table.
The old lung tao nodded with satisfaction. 'Good. Now that the woman has tasted of our power, we shall extend her an offer she dare not refuse.'
'And if she does?' asked Honorable Rooster. 'What then?'
The old lung tao blinked. 'How can she? She is deeply in debt, and the notes for seven hundred and fifty million dollars come due on the twenty-first day of August. More immediately, she also has a rescheduled interest payment of fifty million dollars coming due on the Ides of May. Clearly, her back is to the wall.'
'Yes, but is not a cornered tigress more dangerous than one in the wild?'
'Under ordinary circumstances, yes. However. With our acquisition of Pan Pacific Commonwealth Bank, have we not purchased eight percent of the voting stock in AmeriBank?'
Honorable Rooster nodded.
'And has Pan Pacific not bought up the woman's notes?'
Honorable Rooster nodded again.
'There you have it. The hotels are her collateral, we hold the paper, and come May, we twist the faucet, cut off her cash flow, and in August we call in her notes and reach heaven with one step!'
There was an awed silence.
He half smiled. 'I believe by Western standards the woman is considered a most fair flower, although everyone knows barbarians are stupid about such things. But wait and see. She will soon learn that so delicate a flower belongs in a garden, not on the battlefield with men!'
Honorable Rooster bowed. 'Ten thousand apologies for questioning your superior wisdom.'
The old lung tao nodded. Then he turned to the Burmese. 'Honorable Horse, you have been most wise in selecting this site for our meeting. As our host, you will see to it that the usual precautions are observed?'
'Have no fear, Illustrious Elder. My bodyguard is a man of many talents. The explosives are already in place. The moment we are gone, this spot will be but a memory.'
'I am honored to have such gifted brethren.'
The old man pushed back his chair and slowly rose to his feet. The others rose also.
'We shall depart at the usual intervals,' Honorable Ox said, with a deep bow.
The others bowed even more deeply to show their respect.
'May the gods of fortune attend each and every one of you,' he said.
'And may you enjoy ten thousand summers.'
'Doh jeh,' said the old man in thanks.
The meeting was over.
25
Same old song, different tune.
'Jimmy, Jimmy,' Joel rasped over the phone. 'Youse killin' me with yer losses. You know that?'
Some things never changed.
'Yeah, yeah.' Jimmy Vilinsky had trouble standing still. He bopped up and down, the pay phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. 'I know. Your fuckin' heart's bleedin' for me.'
'Lemme ask you one.' Joel sounding like a big brother.
Jimmy wanted to say, Hey, Joel? Cut the crap. You mind? Like you really give a shit. . . unless bookies are suddenly in the business of hoping their marks will win and fleece 'em?
Right. That would be the day.
'It's been what now,' Joel was saying, 'since your markers was paid. Six days? Seven?'
Jeez! Jimmy thought, hopping in place with agitation. Like I need this crap!
'Somethin' like that,' he said pugnaciously. 'Why?'
All the while standing with his back to the wall, twitchy little raisin eyes darting here, there, everywhere. Watching the bustle and the hustle.
Port Authority.
As usual, the bus terminal was teeming—only more so today, the cold having driven all the riffraff in off the streets.
Port Authority.
Happy hunting grounds for pimps in search of new beaver—plus all the other low-lifes and fuckups. Hungry-eyed jail bait on the make; nervous junkies looking to score; pickpockets working the cash-carrying crowd—these travelers too poor to afford cars or plane tickets or credit cards or checking accounts. Forced to leave the driving to Greyhound and Trailways—and running the gauntlet of circling sharks. And, here and there,
he could see pairs of big-hipped uniforms on foot patrol, acting like they were keeping law and order, except that they didn't really give a shit, either.
Just like Joel . . . who was turning up the rasp now, saying, 'Hey? Jimmy? You still there?'
'No. I took a whatchamacallit. You know. One o' them astral voyages?'
'Huh?'
'Course I'm here! Christ! Now, you gonna put my six grand on the Dolphins, or what?'
'Your six grand?' Joel sputtered, sounding like he'd swallowed his cigar. 'You know how much you're already in the hole for? Just since this past week?'
'Yeah, sure.'
'Twenty-seven fuckin' grand, that's how much!'
'Joel? Since when did you start freakin' over chickenshit amounts like that? Huh?'
Jimmy playing with him. Giving Joel's balls a good squeeze.
Sure, he'd suffered big losses. Big fuckin' deal.
'Lemme get this straight,' Joel said. 'You calling twenty-seven grand chickenshit? Whatcha do, Vilinsky? Win the lottery?'
'Lottery, shit, I got me a job.'
'That right?'
'Yeah.' Jimmy's eyes kept hopscotching, caught two purse snatchers choosing their victims. 'Real high-payin', too.'
'Mind tellin' me what this, ah . . . job entails?'
'Wish I could, Joel. Really do, buddy. But it's confidential, see.'
That got a chuckle.
'Hey, go ahead!' Jimmy huffed. 'Laugh your fuckin' head off. See if I care. They don't call me 'KO' for nuthin'!'
Joel guffawed. 'You the one's gettin' KO'd! Lookit what happened. One week an' whammo! Wipe-out! You and the Rodriguez kid. Both o' you down for the count.'
'Hey, Joel?' Setting him up.
'What?' Joel walking right into it, eyes wide open.
'Shove it up your ass. Six grand on the Dolphins!' Jimmy having the last word and quickly hanging up.
Goddamn, he wished he could have told Joel how he was going to divvy up! That would've impressed him, all right. Especially after that crack about being down for the count. It would have felt real good, making him eat his words. The bastard.
The trouble with that was, Jimmy really did have to keep his lips zipped. Shooting his mouth off was one surefire way of nuking a good thing.
Well, fuck Joel! he growled to himself. Fuck him and the horse he rode into town on! For that matter, fuck the whole bunch o' them!
Feeling a little better, Jimmy decided he might as well go take a stroll. Maybe check out a peep show or porn flick.
Whatever. He had nothing better to do.
Cutting across the bus terminal, he exited through the Eighth Avenue doors.
Whoa!
He couldn't remember it being this freakin' cold. The way the wind was blasting down from up north, it was like hitting a wall of ice. Almost instantly, the snot in his nose crystallized.
But Jimmy Vilinsky wasn't about to be put off. It took more than a little windchill factor to slow him down.
Wrapping his scarf around the lower half of his face, he hunched forward into the wind and headed uptown on foot. Managing, despite the cold, to put a strut in his step, a cocksure bounce that declared these mean streets to be his.
Which, if truth be told, they were.
Hadn't he been born and raised just a few blocks north of here, over toward Ninth Avenue? And wasn't Hell's Kitchen still home sweet home?
Fuckin' A, it was!
To hear Jimmy tell it, the City That Never Sleeps was it, man. Day or night, rain or shine. 'The only place worth livin' or dyin' in,' the way he liked to put it.
Never having a clue how prophetic those words would be . . .
Death was stalking Jimmy Vilinsky.
Carmine was just another well-bundled pedestrian on the opposite sidewalk, across multiple lanes of noisy, belching traffic.
Despite the weather, it was commerce as usual on Eighth Avenue's gaudy midway of peep shows and porn parlors. Whores in miniskirts huddled in doorways, panhandlers rattled their paper cups, and shills stamped their feet in an effort to keep warm while halfheartedly trying to lure suckers into their establishments. And, wherever a building's hot air exhausts happened to vent, there were the homeless, those pitiable human bundles of rags who fought a minute-to-minute battle for mere survival.
Carmine, watch cap pulled low and scarf wound protectively around neck, mouth, and nose, scowled with disgust. Wondering, as always, what this city had come to.
Everywhere you looked, you saw the dregs of humanity. And every year, the refuse of society just kept on multiplying.
Like rabbits, Carmine thought, with a shudder. Heaven help us. Somebody ought to do them a favor and put them out of their misery.
Across the street, Jimmy Vilinsky had stopped outside a dive where flashing neons advertised LIVE SHOWS! BURLESK! GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!
Carmine slowed, watching Jimmy ignore the shill and study some photos on display before moving on again. Obviously unaware that his time on earth was running out.
Not that Carmine was in a hurry.
Take your time, the hired killer projected across the busy lanes of traffic. It's no skin off my back. Unlike you, Jimmy, I've got plenty of time. All the time in the world.
The place Jimmy chose, a dump that ran porno flicks, wasn't because he was anxious to get in out of the cold, or because the movie they were running, a flick called Wet Dreams, was one he was particularly dying to see. What decided him was a simple matter of economics.
Jimmy had priorities. The way he figured it, why stand in an upright coffin and keep feeding money into a mechanism that raised a window- shade—and for what? Just to see some stoned bimbo jiggling her knockers? Or fork over cold hard cash in order to watch a 'live' stage show that was obviously faked? Or, worse yet, be served overpriced, watered- down rotgut just to watch a broad clinging to a chrome pole like a fuckin' monkey?
Why indeed?
At least with movies you got your money's worth. Sometimes you even got to see real semen squirting all over the place, and if you were lucky, you could whack off and squirt some of your own.
An appealing bargain.
He paid the entrance fee at the ticket window, said, 'How you doin'?' to a guy who couldn't care less, and pushed his way through the turnstile.
The small theater was dark and nearly empty, and the action onscreen involved two well-endowed young women making out, licking each other's titties and bumping pussy.
He took a seat near the back, unbuttoned his coat, and settled down to enjoy himself.
Now this is more like it! he thought, feeling the stirrings of a generous erection.
Unzipping his fly, he dug out his penis and started to masturbate. The girls on-screen getting it on—Look at that. Not the least bit inhibited.
Feeling his juices starting to rise, Jimmy ascertained that he'd better stop and give it a rest. Don't want to shoot my wad too soon. Hell, no. Want this to last . . .
The celluloid events continued to hold him in thrall—so much so that he never noticed someone slipping quietly into the seat behind his.
Now one of the girls in the film was lying back and parting her legs, the better to be eaten—and for the camera to zoom in real nice and close. Talking dirty as her partner dove, tongue flicking, between her splayed thighs:
'Oh, yeah. Oooooh, baby. That's right. Eat me . . . eat me good . . .'
Behind Jimmy, Carmine sketched a swift sign of the cross and murmured, 'Forgive me Father, for I have sinned by entering this den of foul iniquity . . . .'
Carmine knew all about the pitfalls of pornography and the evil to which it inevitably led.
If people only remembered that God created sex for procreation, not recreation, how much better off we would all be. Instead, we've permitted the world to become one big Sodom. Is it any wonder that disease, abortion, and birth control are epidemic?
As for self-abuse, what was masturbation if not birth control by another name?
The slaughter of the unborn, that's wha
t it is, Carmine thought grimly, reaching into a pocket and slipping out a length of piano wire attached to two wooden handles. For this alone, Jimmy Vilinsky deserves to die.
Carmine was quick as a flash.
The instant Jimmy continued to masturbate, the garrote was around his neck and Carmine was twisting the wooden handles with practiced flicks of a wrist—choking him to death.
What the fuck?
It took Jimmy several seconds to realize what was happening, and by then it was too late. The wire was already digging into his neck, cutting off the flow of oxygen to his brain.
He gasped for air, his mouth gaping wide, his fingers scrabbling desperately at his throat. But it was futile. No matter how hard he struggled, he was unable to loosen the ever-tightening wire or even whisper for help.
Tears trickled from his bulging eyes. And all the while, he was getting weaker and weaker even as his head seemed to expand, feeling as if it were getting bigger, bigger, as though someone was pumping it full of air.
Then, just when he thought his skull would surely burst, a pleasant lightheadedness came over him, and his erection was fiercer than any he had ever experienced.
But perhaps strangest of all was the sudden euphoria: the lack of oxygen to his brain brought on a languid muzziness, and the borders between fantasy and reality merged.
The girl on-screen had ceased to be a mere projection. For Jimmy, she had become his very own living, breathing sex goddess. Her parted thighs embraced his face, and he could feel the moist dark patch of her pubis writhing against his mouth, hear her crying out to him, her distant voice echoing in his head: 'I'm coming! Oh, God! Jimmy! Jimmmmmy . . . '
And Jimmy realized that the reason he couldn't breathe was that her legs were locked so fiercely around his head. Then he tasted her nectar— all sweet honey and myrrh, and he no longer cared about breathing. A rushing, surf like noise crescendoed and deafened his ears, and he could feel the torrent rise in his loins.
Jimmy was unable to contain himself. His testes seemed to explode and he screamed soundlessly in exquisite agony, and then the veil dropped down and the world went dark.
Second Love Page 24