Kim Oh 3: Real Dangerous People (The Kim Oh Thrillers)

by K. W. Jeter

  Out on the fire escape, having clambered down from the platform above, I was able to catch his surprised reaction when he saw that the elevator was empty, its wood-paneled walls pocked with the shots he’d just fired.

  I rapped my knuckles on the window glass –

  I must’ve already been developing a mean streak. But in my defense, it really only comes out when other people are trying to kill me first.

  But I just wanted to see the look on his face.

  Which was sort of wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and stunned. I only saw it for a second, before the glass shattered with the bullets from the .357 I was holding in both hands.

  When I was done firing, I climbed in through the broken window, went over to the bloodied corpse, and gave it one in the head as well, just for good measure.

  A couple seconds later, I was in the suite’s bedroom, knocking on the bathroom door.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Falcon. All clear –”

  I didn’t wait for her to come out. There had probably been some arrangement made with the hotel’s own security staff, so Karsh’s guys could do their thing – killing me, namely. But at some point, there would be people coming up here who I didn’t want to deal with.

  I ran to the kitchen, stepped over the body of the first one I’d nailed, and picked up my leather jacket. I shook the glass shards from it and gave it a look-over. There were three bullet holes in a tight pattern in the front, that went all the way through the back. Actually kind of a neat effect, like that big floppy coat Clint Eastwood wore in The Unforgiven, which was one of my favorite movies when I was a kid. But a couple of the spine protector plates had gotten splintered by the shots, so I figured I’d have to replace the whole jacket soon as I got the chance. But it’d have to do for now – only an idiot rides a motorcycle without covering as much of her skin as possible.

  For a moment, I wondered if I should try to find something to throw over the body on the kitchen floor. I felt a little bad that Mrs. Falcon might come out and find the guy all plugged and stuff here. But then again, given the nature of her husband’s business, maybe she was used to this sort of thing. Maybe that was why she drank so much. I would, too.

  So I decided to give that a skip. Pulling on the jacket and tucking my gun inside it, I headed for the door. I had my hand on the knob when I remembered what else I wanted to take with me. I ducked back into the bedroom and grabbed the bag from on top of the bed. A few seconds later I was out on the fire escape again and clambering down to the alley below.

  FIFTEEN

  Donnie watched me getting ready for the party.

  “So what happens at a restaurant opening?”

  “How would I know?” Getting ready didn’t consist of much more than loading up my backpack. Plus the bag I’d taken from the hotel suite, with the outfit that Mrs. Falcon had given me. “Never been to one before. I guess we stand around and look at the knives and forks.”

  “I bet they feed you.”

  “Don’t start,” I said. “There’s leftover meatloaf in the fridge. Make yourself a sandwich.”

  “Probably something exotic. They used to eat barbecued fruit bat on Guam. That’s an island.”

  “Fruit bat, huh? Yeah, that’s something worth looking forward to.” I slipped another box of ammo into the backpack. “If it was so good, how come they stopped?”

  “The brown snakes killed all the bats. Or most.”

  “Well, that was crappy of them. How come you know all this?”

  He shrugged. “How come you don’t?”

  One more reason to throw the laptop out the window. He’d been a smartass before we’d gotten it. Now it was like smartass on steroids.

  “Okay, I don’t want you waiting up.” I slung the pack onto my shoulders. “I don’t know how late I’ll be.”

  “But you’re coming back, right?”

  I hunkered down in front of his wheelchair.

  “Well . . . I’m gonna try.” I looked him straight in the eye. “But you know how it is.”

  “Yeah.” Donnie nodded. “But then I’m waiting up.”

  “Okay. Whatever.” I stood up and reached for the front door knob. “If I don’t come back, try to make the meatloaf last a couple days. Then give that Miss Thorpe person a call. She’ll sort something out.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Donnie. “That’s something worth looking forward to.”

  * * *

  Curt and the rest of the crew weren’t too impressed with the place when they got there.

  They were probably a little too old-school for a restaurant where the designer got equal billing with the head chef. That’s nearly always a bad sign. Plus, the food was being billed as "Polynesian Fusion" – I’ve learned that anytime you hear the word fusion, that usually just means the portions are small and overly dicked with.

  But at least there were palm trees. Kind of.

  “You know,” said Foley, “this doesn’t really seem like Hawaii.”

  They were standing in the restaurant foyer, looking around.

  “That was a long time ago.” Curt ground out a cigarette butt on the carpet. “When we were there. Maybe it’s changed since then.”

  The palm tree they were standing next to was actually something constructed of neon tubing, snaking up to brushed steel fronds studded with twinkling LEDs. That was friendlier looking than the one outside. Above the restaurant door had been the twenty-first-century equivalent of the little broken-down sign at Mae’s place. Which meant something that might’ve been assembled at a welder’s shop from old car parts.

  Inside, there was a lot more brushed steel. The whole place looked more like an auto factory that had just been cleaned with a power sander, than a little grass shack on some tropical beach.

  “Well, if this is what it looks like now –” Elton kept his elbows close to himself, as though he were afraid of being accidentally electrocuted by the decor. “I ain’t ever going.”

  “Excuse me –” Somebody lithe and officious, in an Armani jacket, came over to them. “I’m afraid we’re just not quite ready for the general public yet.” The maître d’ – the way he said general public, it might as well have been disease-ridden hordes. “We’re having a private function –”

  “That’s okay,” said Curt. “We’re on the list.”

  “Really?” The maître d’ took out an iPhone and zipped back and forth on its screen with a polished fingernail. “I thought all our guests had already arrived –”

  “This list.” Curt held open his jacket to show his gun.

  “Oh, dear –”

  “Don’t worry about it, pal.” He buttoned his jacket back up again. “We’re with Mr. Falcon. Security.”

  “He didn’t mention anything to us about anyone else coming tonight.” To the maître d’s credit, he held his ground. “I mean, any more of his people –”

  “Hel-lo, Curt!”

  The situation was defused by the appearance of Mrs. Falcon, happy as always, in the arched doorway beyond.

  “I was so hoping you boys would show up.” She managed to slosh her drink over its rim, even though it was only half full, as she ambled over. Somewhere along the line, a set of lurid plastic leis had been draped around her neck, but at least she wasn’t wearing the outfit with the birds on it. “Somehow – and I told my husband this – I just didn’t think it would be a real party without some of his long-time employees here. It’s a big night for everyone.”

  “Good to see you too, ma’am.” Curt was always polite.

  The maître d’ retreated as Mrs. Falcon led the crew into the restaurant.

  I pulled back from the spot just inside the doorway, from which I’d been able to eavesdrop on the little confrontation. I’d gotten to the restaurant just a few minutes before and I’d had no problem getting in. Being young and obviously female never hurt in situations like this. Just as I’d been told by my old mentor Cole. This was the first time I’d actually tried to cash in on it – and it’d worked fine. If it weren’t for
the predictability of human nature, people doing what I do would be out of business.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Mrs. Falcon plucked another drink from one of the trays being carried by the waiters in white shirts and black vests. “They seem to have just gone all out –”

  That meant there was an eye-aching assortment of colored lights swooshing around, mounted on a portable rig overhead. In addition to what seemed to be the permanent neon and LED arrangements, the effect was rather like drinking a gallon of coffee, then sticking your head inside a giant kaleidoscope. I would’ve been surprised if the crowd of well-dressed people could even see the food, let alone taste it.

  Plus, there was an actual band, not just a DJ working his PowerBook and mixing deck. They were cranking out over-revved, over-amplified Martin Denny cuts, complete with sampled jungle noises. So that made it like taking the kaleidoscope with your head in it and beating it against the table in front of you, over and over.

  A lot of people like that sort of thing – especially people with money, I’ve found. I’d rather have been at home, watching the NASCAR races with my brother. At least you can turn down the TV, if it gets too loud.

  The general chaos made it easy for me to keep tabs on the crew, without them noticing. Maybe if I’d been in my usual gear, complete with the now-punctured leather jacket, one of them might have been able to spot me. Dressed as I was, though, they didn’t catch it.

  Of course, Curt and the others also figured I was already dead. So it wasn’t as if they would’ve been expecting to see me there.

  With all that had happened at the hotel, though – with me having to take care of Karsh’s two security guys – I’d made the strategic decision not to let on to anyone that I was there. At least not until I found out exactly who it was that’d set me up.

  So I lurked back in one of the restaurant’s shadowed spots, where the colored lights didn’t reach, and listened to what Curt said to Mrs. Falcon.

  “Could you do me a favor?” He leaned in close to her.

  “Anything . . .”

  “I think you should leave now.”

  “But the party’s just started.” She pouted childishly. “And I haven’t had that much to drink.”

  “I know,” said Curt. “That’s not the problem. This isn’t like the other times.” Apparently, they’d had conversations like this before. “But this party’s gonna go on for a while, right? So why don’t you go back to the hotel for a little bit. Maybe take a nap. Then you can freshen up a bit and come back later. How does that sound?”

  “If I do that –” She went hazily flirty. “Will you dance with me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Falcon. I will. I promise.”

  “Okay, then.” She knocked back what was left of her latest drink and set the empty glass on the flat head of a chrome-plated tiki statue. “But I’ll just go back to the house for a while. I’m not going back to that hotel.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh . . .” Her gaze drifted away through the colored lights. “Some things . . . happened there . . .”

  Curt and the other crew members exchanged silent glances with each other. If they hadn’t been sure before that I was dead, that remark must’ve sealed it for them.

  Of course, what I thought when I heard Mrs. Falcon say that was that I had been right, she was used to that sort of thing happening. She and Falcon had been married for a long time. Probably the only people who had been upset about the number of bullet-drilled corpses I’d left lying around were the hotel maids who had to clean up the mess. Then again, given that Karsh owned a major piece of the place, maybe they were used to that sort of thing happening, too.

  Curt steered her back over to the foyer and handed her over to the maître d’. “Could you get Mrs. Falcon a cab? Thanks.”

  “If you see my husband . . .” She waved a hand behind herself. “Tell him I’ll be back . . .”

  Foley scowled when Curt came back to him and Elton. “Why’re you so nice to that old bat?”

  “Don’t know,” said Curt. “Maybe she reminds me of my mother.”

  “Your mother’s an alcoholic?”

  “Yeah, actually. She was. What’s it to you?”

  “Come on –” Elton turned away from them. “Let’s go find Falcon. This place is driving me nuts.”

  He started pushing his way through the crowd, with Curt and Foley following after him.

  Sometimes in a crowd situation, being a small person is a problem. But with a well-lubricated and basically genial bunch like this, my size actually gave me an advantage. I was able to snake through and snag Elton, pulling him over to the side before the other guys on the crew could see what had happened to him.

  “I’ll be damned – it’s Kim.” He stared at me in amazement. “What are you doing here?”

  “I think what you really want to ask me is what I’m doing, still being alive.” Looking past him, I could see Elton and Foley turning around in the middle of the crowded restaurant floor, wondering where he had disappeared to. “Right?”

  “Well, yeah . . . kinda. I mean, I’m glad you’re not dead and all –”

  “That’s cool. That makes two of us –”

  His brow creased as he looked down at me. “What the hell are you wearing?”

  “Never mind that. We got problems. Which I can’t go into a lot of detail about right now.” I knew I had to hurry before the other two men spotted me talking with him. “Here’s the deal. Falcon and Karsh are back there in the manager’s office.” I pointed to the doorway on the far side of the restaurant. “That’s where you and the other guys need to get to. Don’t say anything to them about me being here. But when it happens, you need to back my play. Got it?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Just do it. This is serious – I’m not joking around about it.”

  He regarded me for a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay –”

  I had already dropped my hold on his arm and was scooting away from the spot.

  What I figured was that it didn’t matter if he backed me up or not. In situations like these, you really can’t count on other people doing what you want them to do. But at least when it came down, if he didn’t go in on my side, he still might hesitate a second or two while his brain scurried through his options. And that might give me the time I needed.

  I knew a faster way to the office than fighting my way through the crowd, the way that Elton and the other guys on the crew were doing. I ducked through the kitchen’s swinging doors, following one of the waiters carrying an emptied tray above his head. The kitchen staff didn’t even notice me as I shot past them – they were too busy loading up more trays with whatever that Polynesian fusion crap was, that they were foisting off on the crowd outside.

  Just as I had figured, there was another door at the far end of the kitchen, that opened onto the corridor with the manager’s office. Peering around the door, I could hear Curt having another one of his typically persuasive discussions, this time with a couple more of Karsh’s security guys.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Falcon.”

  “He’s not here,” said one of them.

  “The hell he’s not.”

  The second security guy was about the size of one of the walk-in refrigerators in the kitchen I’d just sailed through. From behind, I saw him looming over Curt and the others.

  “Look, pal. Maybe you’d better just –”

  I could barely see past the security guys. But I was still able to watch as Curt reached into his own jacket, pulled out his gun, and clubbed the bulky security guy across the head with it. That was a fairly subtle move by the crew’s standards – but Curt probably just didn’t want to alert the people in the manager’s office by firing off a couple rounds.

  Curt stepped over the big security guy – there was blood trickling from his ear – and backed the other one up against the wall, pressing his gun muzzle under the guy’s chin.

  “You boys have already screwed up,” said Curt quietly.
“Why make it worse?”

  Foley patted them both down and found nothing.

  “We’ll only be a few minutes.” Curt put away his gun. “And actually – we work for Mr. Falcon. So don’t get worried.”

  I drew farther back behind the kitchen door, so I wouldn’t be spotted by Curt and the others as they headed for the manager’s office. When they pushed the door open and stepped inside, I slipped out and snuck down the hallway, back close to its wall. When I got to it, the office door was open just an inch, enough for me to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside.

  Karsh and Falcon were both in there, as expected. Karsh was in one of his sleekly tailored suits, but somebody had convinced Falcon – maybe his wife – that it had been a good idea to put on a wildly colored Hawaiian print shirt. Both men brought their gaze from the papers spread on the manager’s desk, looking up at the three crew members standing in front of them.

  “Curt –” Falcon smiled at him. “Good to see you. Sorry I didn’t leave your name on the guest list at the door. I really was hoping to see you here.” He looked at the others as Curt’s side. “All of you.”

  “I bet,” said Curt.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Falcon’s smile faded. “When I called up to Albany – up to Moretti’s place – and nobody answered, I started to figure you guys might be up to something. And then when my partner Karsh here sent one of his security guys up there and he found what somebody had done to poor old Moretti . . .” He slowly shook his head, feigning sadness. “You should’ve given him a break. He was only doing what I told him to.”

  “Right.” Elton’s face set into a glower. “That’s kinda the problem.”

  “You see?” Falcon looked over at Karsh. “You were right. This is the kind of people I’ve had to deal with. For all these years.”

  “Not any more.” Karsh shook his head. “We’ve just started making other arrangements –”

  The door at the end of the hallway opened, pushed by a waiter carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne and a couple of skinny glasses on it. Falcon and Karsh must’ve sent out to the restaurant bar for something to celebrate with.