by Tim Maleeny
He gasped.
The jeans Michael Long was wearing were so tight that Cape felt himself chafing just looking at them. The leg seams strained on their journey toward the lace-up crotch, which was held together by leather laces that looked like they might snap at any minute. And though Cape wasn’t in the habit of staring at other men’s packages, he found it hard to tear his eyes away. Something wasn’t quite right, or at least not exactly anatomically correct.
Long chuckled as Cape wrenched his eyes back to the man’s face. “Most people react that way at first,” he said proudly as he stepped forward. “But you get used to it.”
The effect of the jeans was exaggerated, Cape realized, because Long was not exactly someone you’d call in shape. The paunch of his stomach protruded over the waist of the jeans, unimpeded by a wide leather belt.
Cape had stopped wearing Levi’s 501s several years back because they were too damned tight in the thighs. It was a tough decision. It meant admitting he’d hit middle age, since those jeans were cut for men in their twenties. Michael Long looked like he wanted to recapture both his lost youth and the body lost along with it, but that was obviously a long, long time ago. He was balding, with close-cropped black hair ringing his head and a wide handlebar mustache flecked with gray. He smiled as he stepped closer, stopping just three feet in front of Cape.
“Here,” he said, reaching toward his crotch. “Check this out.” Cape stood, speechless, as Long quickly undid his belt and untied the laces. Spreading the front panels of the fly apart, he reached into his pants.
Cape unconsciously took a step backward and shot a glance toward the door, but by the time he turned back, Long had already completed the motion and held something cupped in the palm of his hand.
Cape blinked in disbelief, but before he could react, Long jerked his hand upward, sending something flying into the air.
Cape caught it by reflex. Turning it over in his hand, he saw that it was a polished wooden rod, roughly the size and shape of a small cucumber.
Or a big cock.
“Lace-up jeans are one thing,” said Long, his face beaming with pride. “Diesel’s got ’em, so does Levi’s. And chicks love ’em-they say sexy without saying it too loudly, you know what I’m sayin’? But for guys, well…” He let his voice trail off before continuing. “A lot of guys lack the confidence to wear jeans like this, ’cause they might not have the inventory in the sausage department. That’s why I invented the crotch pocket. A hidden pocket to add some heft to your package.”
Cape stared at Long, not sure if he wanted to laugh or run from the room. “That’s really something,” he said politely, reaching forward to hand Long his wooden dowel.
“Ain’t it, though?” nodded Long, replacing the dowel and walking back around his desk. “Some people thought I was nuts, but men want to look sexy, too, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” said Cape amiably as he sat down, forcing a smile but suppressing a laugh.
“Some even said I was obsessed with the male anatomy,” said Long, a disgusted look on his face. “Like I was gay or something. Do I look like a pole smoker to you?”
“Sorry?” said Cape, baffled by the expression.
“A pillow biter?” demanded Long testily.
Cape shook his head, more in bewilderment than agreement.
“An ass bandit?” said Long defensively.
Cape held up his hands, the international symbol for calm. Lecturing Long on his lack of sensitivity, political incorrectness, or his conflicted feelings about his own sexuality wasn’t going to help the case one iota, so Cape took the high road and lied through his teeth.
“A visionary,” he said. “I’d say you’re a visionary.”
Long, suddenly appeased, sank back into his chair. “Fuckin-A,” he said.
“No wonder your jeans were so popular,” added Cape.
“What do you mean, were?” snapped Long, coming forward in his chair again.
Uh-oh, thought Cape. Wrong tense.
Cape sighed, letting his eyes wander past the madman while he tried to collect his thoughts. He scanned the shelves behind Long, looking at the trophies again. What he had assumed were fashion industry awards were actually bowling trophies, set back on the shelf so the details of the figures were lost in shadow. The plaques all seemed to come from rotary clubs from towns across the Midwest.
Cape shook his head in amazement. He’d met some corporate blowhards over the years, but this guy made used-car salesmen look respectable. He looked back at Long, studying his florid expression for a while before making a decision.
The friendly reporter act was a waste of time. This guy was certifiable, and if he had anything to do with what Cape had seen in his warehouse, he was also a major-league scumbag.
“I said were,” said Cape deliberately, “because you had some success initially with your women’s line, before the real players like Diesel and Levi’s got into the category. But your men’s line was a joke from day one, only sold as novelty gifts for bachelor parties.”
Long’s face reddened as he came out of his chair and around the desk, as if Cape had just insulted his manhood. And, in a way, that’s exactly what Cape was doing.
Cape remained seated, egging him on. “Your stock price is in the toilet,” he said, “and you’re carrying inventory that’s almost a year old, because none of your distributors will take it off your hands.”
“How did you-” Long almost choked on his rage. He thrust his right arm forward, his hand pointing as if he were going to poke Cape in the chest and demand that he leave or threaten to sue him or maybe challenge him to a duel.
Cape gave him something better. Before Long could react, Cape sprang from the chair and grabbed Long around the throat with his left hand while his right hand grabbed the laces around Long’s crotch. Cape pushed forward with his left arm and pulled back-hard-with his right. Long’s eyes bulged, making him look like a character in a Tex Avery cartoon.
“Wh-who are you?” It was Long’s turn to gasp as Cape tightened his grip on the laces. “Puh…puh…police?”
“No,” said Cape, pulling him closer. “Someone much more dangerous-cops have codes of conduct.” Another pull on the jeans. Long’s expression went from shock to horror. “Tell me everything you know about smuggling, asshole, or your crotch pocket is going to be empty for the rest of your life.”
Long squealed, his eyes darting to the door. Cape knew they could get interrupted at any moment, but he didn’t take his eyes off Long. He could smell the man’s sweat mingling with his aftershave, and it wasn’t pleasant. Time to move the conversation along.
“Your company’s imploding, and you needed cash,” said Cape, breathing through his mouth. “So you agreed to let them use your warehouse….how’s that for starters?”
He released his grip on Long, who fell as if he’d been deflated. His face was white, his brow lined with sweat as he looked plaintively up at Cape.
“They’ll kill me,” he said simply.
Cape stood expressionless, waiting.
“I’m not kidding,” whined Long, sitting back on his haunches.
Cape leaned down and cupped Long’s face in his right hand, forcing eye contact. “Remember the part where I was going to tear your ’nads off? You want to try that again?”
Long flinched involuntarily and shook his head.
“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Cape.
Long shook his head again. “I don’t know-” He caught himself, seeing the skeptical look on Cape’s face. “No shit. I was desperate. I didn’t know what they were into….I just wanted the cash. Told them they could do whatever they wanted with the warehouse, as long as they paid me.”
“Who paid you?”
“I don’t know-just a guy,” replied Long, still on his knees. “A Chinese guy…came to my office one day and said he wanted to make me a rich man.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know who you’re doing business with,” said Cape.
“They paid cash,” replied Long, as if that explained everything.
“What was this guy’s name?”
Long shook his head. “You’re not listening. I got paid to look the other way. I didn’t give a fuck what the guy’s name was, as long as his money was green.”
Cape spared a glance at the door. “Describe him.”
“What the fuck?” muttered Long. “I said he was Chinese.”
Cape looked back at him, eyes flat. “And they all look alike, is that it?”
Long shrugged.
“Stand up,” said Cape quietly.
Long put his hands up, a pudgy supplicant asking for mercy.
“OK, OK,” he said. “He was big-looked like he hurt people for a living, you know what I’m saying?”
“Details,” prompted Cape. “I want details.”
Long nodded. “He had long hair-wore it in a ponytail. Dressed sharp, only the suits always looked a little stupid on him.”
Cape cocked an eyebrow. “How come?”
“He had big fuckin’ hands,” replied Long, extending his own fingers for emphasis. “Incredible Hulk hands. They stuck out the end of his sleeves like catcher’s mitts.”
Cape took a step back, images of his trunk flashing across his eyes, Freddie Wang’s bodyguard lurking in the shadows. He reached into his jacket pocket.
Long saw the motion and raised his hands up again. “You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?”
Cape smiled as he took the photograph out of his pocket. “Not today,” he said, letting a little disappointment creep into his voice. “This the guy?” He let the picture fall into Long’s outstretched hands.
Long dropped the picture on the rug when he saw the condition of the man propped against the wall, the dead man’s eyes staring at Long accusingly.
“Jesus…you killed him?”
Cape didn’t answer the question, knowing his only leverage was an implied threat he’d never carry out. “So that’s him-that’s what you’re saying?”
Long glanced nervously from the photograph back to Cape. “Yeah…absolutely.”
Cape nodded, bending down to retrieve the photo. Without looking at Long again, he stepped around the desk and picked up the phone, dialing 911. He waited for several minutes before someone came on the line.
“I’d like to report a murder,” he said simply. Cape gave the address of the warehouse, said “yes” to a few questions, and then nodded when they asked for his name.
“My name’s Michael Long,” said Cape pleasantly. “No, I’m calling from my office.”
Long was on his feet, staring with his mouth open as Cape hung up the phone.
“What was that all about?” he demanded. There was panic in his voice and a hint of madness in his eyes.
“I forgot to tell you,” said Cape, moving to the door. “You’re fucked. I found a dead body in your warehouse last night.”
Long followed him across the room, as if the bearer of bad news also had the power to make it go away.
“But what am I supposed to do?” he asked desperately.
Cape looked back over his shoulder. “I’d change my pants if I were you, Michael,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be wearing those when I got arrested.”
Walking out through the reception area, Cape smiled at the pretty girl in the tight jeans but didn’t linger, wanting to put as much distance between himself and GASP as possible before the cops arrived. The street beckoned, and Cape knew he was running out of time.
He exited the lobby and stepped onto the sidewalk, looking across the Embarcadero toward the bay. The morning fog had burned off, but the bow and arrow sculpture across the street cast a long shadow, throwing Cape and the building into darkness. His car was parked halfway down the block to his left, where sunlight still held dominion over the city.
He had taken a single step toward the light when he felt a gun press hard against his spine.
Chapter Thirty-five
Hong Kong, 10 years ago
Sally and Xan leapt into hell together.
By the time they cleared the steps, flames were erupting out of the second floor windows of the guesthouse, and the great room on the first floor was already filled with smoke. The room consisted of hardwood floors wrapped around a large, open brazier-glowing hot coals providing heat for the house in a style reflecting the anachronistic architecture of the school. Above the brazier was a square hole cut in the ceiling, revealing a similar room on the second floor, designed to sit at the center of the guest rooms. Normally large tapestries hung on the walls of the first floor, elaborate embroidery depicting famous battles. But tonight the walls were alive, flames licking the exposed beams and wrapping around the open ceiling to devour the second floor.
But Sally saw none of that, because her eyes were focused straight ahead. The smoke was so thick she could only see in patches, brief glimpses of floor or flames only a few feet away, the open staircase to her right. She saw Xan dart up the stairs, but she could no longer hear him over the roar of the flames.
Yet even with all the confusion, the scene in front of her was all too clear.
Facedown in front of the brazier was the headless corpse of a man, his arms outstretched and twisted-as if he had tried to catch himself, but realized too late he couldn’t see the floor because he was already dead. Squinting through the smoke, Sally saw an egg-shaped ball sitting in the hot coals, its surface bubbling in the heat, the egg collapsing inward as she watched. Coals knocked free of the brazier had burned little craters in the floor, sending sparks and flames to dance on chairs, climb up the sides of tapestries, and fill the house with death.
Sally’s eyes took all this in without emotion, her mind telling her the obvious, that the man had been decapitated as he lunged, his head sailing backward as he fell forward. But her heart ignored the scene entirely, telling her to keep looking. To find the source of the scream that had brought her running.
She almost tripped, the swirling smoke making it easier to see a few feet away than directly in front of her. As her foot brushed something, she crouched down, extending her hands. What she felt was terribly, horribly familiar.
Jun was kneeling as if in prayer, her body curled in on itself, her head bowed. Next to her was a katana, a Japanese-style long sword, its curved blade bright with blood. As Sally’s hand touched her back, Jun collapsed sideways, a small groan escaping her lips. Sally’s hand came away sticky, but she didn’t pause to look; she already knew what color it would be.
By the time Sally knelt, Jun had rolled onto her back. Twin rivulets of blood ran from either side of her mouth and down her cheeks, and her eyes stared up at the ceiling. Her chest didn’t move. Sally saw that Jun’s shirt was soaked through and realized the wound on her back had started in her chest. Looking back toward the headless corpse, she saw a gun a few feet away, a small caliber semi-automatic that could easily be concealed under a man’s suit jacket.
He had fired as she swept the katana across her body toward his neck, and her momentum carried her forward to finish the strike. He was dead but she got hit anyway. If he had used a sword, she wouldn’t even be scratched.
Guns were the only weapon not used at the school, considered the tool of cowards, not warriors. But guns could kill just as quickly as a sword, and it took no great skill to pull a trigger. The reality of the situation hit Sally like a sledgehammer, and she felt her own breath leave her body, the flames above her roaring in anger as they tried to suck the oxygen from the room and the life from her lungs.
She collapsed next to Jun, their faces touching. Gasping, Sally grabbed Jun’s face in her hands and turned her head so she could look into her eyes.
Jun blinked.
Sally propped herself up, cradling Jun’s head in her lap. Jun’s eyes lurched drunkenly in their sockets before focusing again on Sally.
“What happened?” Sally asked, her voice hoarse from the smoke, barely audible above the flames.
Tears sprang from Jun’s eyes an
d ran down her cheeks. Sally’s vision blurred and she blinked furiously, not wanting to miss an instant of what Jun was saying. As she watched, Jun’s lips moved, but Sally couldn’t hear a single word.
“What happened?” she repeated, desperate, her mouth pressed to Jun’s ear. “What can you tell me?”
Jun’s eyes rolled upward and closed.
Sally stopped breathing. She shook Jun and pressed her face against her cheek, tasting the salt of blood and tears. After a long, endless second, Sally felt fresh tears running down her cheek and pulled back to see Jun looking right at her. With a surging panic, Sally put her ear to Jun’s lips.
Every word was seconds long, a helpless agony of anticipation and dread.
“I,” she started, then stopped again. “…love you.” Her mouth formed the words again in slow motion, as if she were carving each syllable into eternity.
Jun’s voice was barely a rustle of fabric, with no breath to carry the words. Years later, Sally would sometimes wonder if she’d heard them at all, or if Jun’s last gift had been her final thoughts, sent to Sally in a dream.
As Sally lifted her head to answer she saw Jun start to smile just as the life drained out of her eyes. Sally’s mouth was open but there was nothing left to say. She closed her eyes and held Jun, feeling the heat devour her as the entire house started crying out in rage.
A massive hand grabbed Sally by the collar, yanking her upward. She heard Xan shouting her name, but her arms were still wrapped around Jun and she locked them, unwilling to let go. She felt Xan release her and watched as he bent down and grabbed Jun’s sword.
With one fluid motion, Xan tossed the katana into the brazier, the blood sluicing across the blade and hissing as it hit the coals. And despite her shock and despair, Sally realized Xan was covering his tracks, removing any sign that the sword belonged to Jun. Erasing any connection back to him.
Sally managed to stand, Jun’s head lolling backward, her eyes dull, the fleeting smile lost somewhere in the smoke and ashes. Xan stepped behind Sally and picked them both up, staggering through the wreckage of the house.