'Nothing,' he said automatically.

  'All right, then.'

  He stood where he was for a moment, feeling an outsider in this plush yet intimate landscape. In his mind, he tried to summon up clear images of what she did here but he could find nothing. He had an active imagination; at the moment it had shut down entirely.

  He walked to the doorway, stood looking in on the threshold, a voyeur at his first peep-hole.

  She stood with one leg up on the bedspread, putting on a stocking. A stocking, he thought, not panty hose. The perfect foot was dark, the flesh shining through the silk mesh so that the black was made pale, an altogether new colour. The toes indented the spread as if she had stepped along the crest of a sand dune. Her legs seemed endless.

  She wore bikini panties, a girdle, both flesh-coloured, soft and lacy. Otherwise, she was nude. The effect was startling.

  She twisted her head over her shoulder to look at him. Her topaz eyes were very light. She smiled ingenuously. 'There.' The voice was but a wisp. 'That wasn't so bad, was it?'

  'I wish you'd put on some clothes.'

  She walked across the room. He tried not to stare at the movement of her breasts at each step but he had given himself an impossible task. When she reached the wardrobe she raised her arms and his temperature at the same time. She drew out a forest-green satin robe, came towards him. 'Is that better, Lew - I can call you Lew? After all, I threw up all over you in the van; I ought to be able to call you by your first name. At the very least.' She brushed by him, went into the living room with the ghost of a smile.

  He detached himself from the doorjamb, wondering what he was doing still here; always on the job, that's me, he thought. But what was really on his mind was his dark apartment crouching as deserted as Wall Street at a weekend waiting for him to return. Going home to that seemed as out of the question as when it had been filled with Alison's scent.

  'Should we go to bed now or after the food gets here?' He could not quite keep the anger out of his voice. There was a degree of control he felt had abandoned him some time when his attention had been elsewhere.

  Gelda turned in the middle of the room. Her belted robe opened as if on cue and he saw the gleaming length of one leg. 'Is that what you think?' She was still smiling softly, like the gentle glow from a heavily shaded lamp.

  'It's obvious, isn't it?'

  'Is it?' One eyebrow arched. 'You know my sexual preference.'

  Of course, he had forgotten. Deliberately? He felt an idiot. He put his hands in his pockets again, turned away too embarrassed to apologize. Mental sets, he thought savagely. Isn't it odd how the eyes see one thing and the mind - that great complex monstrosity - makes leaps of illogicality to form conclusions. He felt, abruptly, just as he had that scorching summer's day in Hell's Kitchen when not even the turned-on hydrants helped, when the steaming air hung like layers of blankets your well-meaning but misguided mother had wrapped you in when sick, impossible to take off. Tempers were short and incendiary as if everyone had an itch they couldn't scratch.

  The cry came through the wide-open window and he was racing down the dark narrow stairs and into the baking sunshine. Just two doors away, he lay in the alley, his uniform dark with sweat and blood. Trash cans lay tumbled around him, having divulged their slimy secrets as if in one last paroxysm. The grey eyes were open and already glazing; eyes that had always reminded him of a storm-tossed sky. Gentle eyes.

  So this was how it ended for Martin Croaker. After twenty-nine years on the New York City Police Force, lying sprawled in an alley piled high with garbage, surrounded by summer stink, fearful rats and incurious roaches, the wail of sirens forlorn in the distance, closing, shot four times forty feet from his own home.

  He stared down at the corpse of his father and the world had spun around, canted dangerously on its axis. He felt that, at any moment, its momentum and crazy angle would combine to throw him off.

  That's what he wanted, of course, to run far, far away from this stinking hole; never to return. Never.

  But that was the easy way out; the coward's way. Not Lew Croaker's way. His father had taught him too well.

  So he stayed on. To join the police. Old and grey, his mother had come to his Academy graduation and had cried as he was sworn in.

  He had never found the man responsible for his father's death but, after a time, that pain, too, had been put to rest.

  He felt her touch his arm; he hadn't realized the wound was still sensitive. After all this time.

  Tm sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't have teased you. I was just...'

  'What? You were just what?'

  Her eyes lowered. 'Happy to be with you.' She tried to make a half joke out of it, failed. 'You make me feel..."

  'What?'

  She looked up. 'Just feel.'

  He felt torn. 'I bet you could do that and not feel a thing.'

  She nodded. 'I could. I'm an actress, of course. Do you distrust me? You couldn't. Not after what you said to me in the van. You took an enormous chance, telling me what you suspect about my father. It was an idiotic thing to do.'

  'That's me. Always the idiot.'

  'Yes.' Her voice was as soft as silk.

  'You know, you could sell me anything.' He said it defensively, because she was so close. He wanted her to know he knew. He felt he needed that precaution now.

  'No,' she said, 'I couldn't. Not now, anyway.' She put her fingers along his arm; they seemed very warm. The challenge, for myself, is to be honest with you. It's what will make me happy."

  There came the sound of muted chimes.'

  She disengaged herself from him, disappeared into the old fashioned foyer. Her voice floating, 'Hi, darling. Come on in.' Returning with her arm around a rather tall boy, dark-haired, almond-eyed. Philip. Croaker turned his back on the proceedings, stared out at the dazzle of the water. A long barge laden with garbage wallowed slowly up-river, a tug at its side. A man in a red and white tracksuit was jogging along the promenade. He passed the barge, going the other way, and disappeared from view. He and Gelda in bed - flash of flesh against flesh.

  'What happened to you, darling? Your face looks awful.'

  Her voice was like the background chatter of a TV left on at low volume. He wanted that calico come in so bad he could taste it: the satisfaction of putting a bastard like Tomkin away for twenty years.

  'What in God's name happened to you, darling? You look like you've been in a fight.'

  'No fight, G.'

  'Well, what then?'

  'Nothing. I fell down...'

  There was a sailboat out there - can you imagine? In the middle of the goddamned week. The sail white against the patchwork colours of the buildings on the far shore, scudding along as effortlessly as a cloud. No pressure out there on the river, just the wind and the salt spray and a long way until you reach port. Your own master. Her breasts heavy in his hands; her lips parting.

  '... In an alley. The garbage cans -'

  'Don't be an idiot, Philip. And don't lie to me. Darling, you must tell me what happened. Here, let me put some ice on it -do as I say.' A soft clatter. 'There.'

  There would be time, after Tomkin was put away, to take some time off. Go to the sea as Melville did when he was sick at heart and he felt like screaming at anyone who came too close. Yes, the sea. Not to fish; he hated fishing. But to sail, perhaps. He'd never done that and it might be time now to try it. Try her.

  'At Ah Ma's - I worked there last night.'

  'Well, she'd never do that to you.'

  'No. A man -'

  'A bastard, that's what. Here, keep the ice on for a little longer. I forbid you to go there again.'

  'But the man is coming here again tonight. She wants to be there -'

  'I don't care what Ah Ma wants, you're not going. She'll have to learn to do without you.'

  'It won't be any good without me.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'The man wants me. That's how he - ejaculates. I said that right, didn't I?'

  'My God - who is this man?'

  'I don't know. A Japanese. A very strange man. Eyes like dead stones - you know, like he was from another world.'

  But Croaker was already turning, his face flushed with the adrenalin building in his body. 'Talk to me, Philip,' he said slowly and carefully, masking his excitement. 'Tell me about the Japanese with eyes like dead stones.'

  Croaker was waiting for them at the tower's Park Avenue side. His big figure was leaning negligently against the side of his unmarked sedan. The detachable red light revolved atop the car, piercing the long twilight's sapphire haze like a lighthouse beacon's unerring warning.

  Nicholas emerged from the limo as soon as it pulled over to the kerb just to the uptown side of Croaker. As he went quickly towards the detective, he was acutely aware of Tomkin's presence blooming behind him as Tom, the thin chauffeur, held the heavy door open.

  He was aware, too, of the city around him, everything shrouded in blue. The sun was just a memory but its heat refused to leave the asphalt under his shoe soles. The atmosphere was thick with exhaust fumes. The strings of dull yellow cabs along both sides of the avenue seemed like streaming caravans entering and leaving the bowels of the gilt-edged Helmsley Building.

  'How's your boss?' Croaker's voice was flat and hard and unyielding; he stared past Nicholas's right shoulder.

  Nicholas, feeling the live-wire buildup of tension, said, 'Leave it alone, Lew. Forget about -'

  'Too late for that, buddy.'

  He felt the presence directly behind him even before he heard

  Tomkin's voice say, 'Still patrolling the streets, I see, Lieutenant. Keeping New York safe for us citizens?' The note of sarcasm was unmistakable.

  'This city's still dangerous for some," Croaker said pointedly.

  'What the hell's that supposed to mean?'

  'Figure it out for yourself, Tomkin.'

  'I don't like veiled threats, Lieutenant. Not from anyone. Perhaps I should have another talk with the commissioner and -'

  'I knew it was you, you dirty -'

  '-we'll see how long you remain a lieutenant -'

  '-reassigned now to this case Nicholas was hired for, so I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other.'

  'What?'

  There was a malicious grin on his face now, his skin alternately lighter and darker yellow, with the wash of passing headlights from the traffic flow.

  Brake lights turned Tomkin's face reddish. 'My God, I won't be saddled with you again!'

  'Nothing you can do about it now, I'm afraid. The transfer came" down directly from the commissioner himself. Even you won't get him to change that order. He'd look far too foolish, scurrying to rescind a reassignment.'

  'Christ, haven't I had enough of you already? You've hounded me about -'

  'I'm only here to protect you,' Croaker pointed out, 'and to nail the ninja before he gets you.'

  Tomkin's, eyes narrowed. The peculiar monochromatic light had washed out all colour from his eyes; they looked oddly pale. 'Wouldn't you just love to sit back and let him do your dirty work? Sure, sure. You could say, "Well, I'm sorry, Captain, but I did my best. I got beaten, is all. Can't blame me for that."'

  'Listen, you bastard' - Croaker lunged forward, trying to get around Nicholas's body - 'I do my job better than anyone else in this creepy city and if that means making sure you don't buy it, I'll do it. When I nail you, buddy, it's gonna be for the same reasons -'

  'What reasons?' Tomkin snarled. 'You got nothing -'

  'No, but I will have,' Croaker shouted. 'And when I do, I'll

  be coming for you with a warrant that'll stand up to any of your high-priced attorneys I'

  'You've got nothing," Tomkin sneered, 'and you'll get nothing. I was nowhere near Angela Didion the night she was murdered. There's nothing linking me to -'

  They were pushing and shoving now. Nicholas heard swift reports on the asphalt as sharp as rifle shots as Tom headed their way. He shouldered the two roughly apart, said, 'Knock it off, both of you.'

  Then Tom had hold of his boss and was pulling at him. Tomkin allowed himself to be drawn away from the confrontation but lifted a finger, swung it in the air in Croaker's direction. "I'm warning you,' he cried, 'this is harassment. I don't want you near me I' And then, lowering his voice, he said to Nicholas, 'He's after me. I don't know why. It's a vendetta. I've done nothing, Nick. What's he doing to me?' He turned away abruptly, walked silently back to the limo with Tom at his side casting a worried glance or two over his shoulder. The revolving red lights played on their backs intermittently.

  'Well, that was pretty stupid,' Nicholas said, turning round.

  'Oh, who gives a fuck? What are you, my nanny? Jesus!' Croaker disappeared into the car.

  Nicholas went slowly around to the passenger's side. He took his time climbing in. Croaker stared fixedly out through the windshield.

  'Sorry,' he said, after a time. And then, "That bastard really boils my blood.'

  'The antagonism isn't going to make anything easier.'

  Croaker turned his head; looked at Nicholas for the first time since he had got in the car. 'You know, I worry about you, Nick, I really do." Their reflections in the windshield like a neon sign, blinking on arid off in the backwash of traffic headlights, a product advertisement. 'You're a man who never loses control. Don't you ever get angry? Or sad?'

  Nicholas thought about Justine. He wanted to see her now, to talk to her more than anything.

  'Because I feel sorry for you if you don't.'

  'No cause to worry,' he said softly. I'm as human as the next person. All too human.'

  'Hey, you know I'd swear you're making that sound like a liability. We're all born into it, buddy.'

  'But me,' he said. 'I grew up thinking there was no room to make a mistake; that it was some kind of failure if I did.'

  'But you made them -'

  'Oh, yeah.' Nicholas laughed softly, without humour. 'I made plenty of them, especially when it came to women. I trusted when I shouldn't have; now I guess I'm afraid to try it again.'

  'Justine?'

  'Yeah. We had a heavy row. It's mostly my fault, I see now.'

  'You know what I think, buddy?" Croaker said, starting the engine.

  'What?'

  'I think the problem's not with you and Justine but in the past. What's so wrong in trusting someone? Like I said, we all do it. Sometimes it pays off and sometimes..." He shrugged. 'But what the hell, right? It's worse never to trust anyone.' He put the car in gear and they edged past Tomkin's limo, pulling over to the left to make the U-turn downtown.

  'The flood was coming, Nicholas knew. His face was awash in yellow and red, blue in the shadows between light sweeps. The tsunami, his personal tidal wave, was roaring blackly just behind him, looming over the world. The past will never die, he thought. Pain surged inside him, threatening to engulf him. All the bitter days, hanging like frost on the ledges of his soul, were returning again despite his careful compartmentalizing; the agony returning like a dull river of lead, climbing through him once more. He lacked the strength to push the memories away any more.

  Come 1 he thought savagely. Here I am; let it happen.

  But before the tsunami hit, he heard Croaker saying triumphantly, 'But cheer up. We got a break. We may not know who this ninja is but I know where he's gonna be at exactly 9 p.m. tonight.

  'We're gonna be mere, buddy, waiting. You and me and two blue-and-white backup units. We're gonna nail this bastard before he even gets a chance to get to Raphael Tomkin.'

  II

  Osaka/Shimonoseki/Kumamoto/Tokyo Suburbs, Winter 1963

  At this time of the year the countryside was bleak and pale. The searingly spectacular deep reds and oranges of the autumnal foliage had already faded, dropped away to dull brown mulch under animals' hooves, and the first snow had obstinately yet to fall to leave the sere land hidden beneath its crisp albescence.

  Rolling by rail under a low sky full of incipient rain reminding him of a child's face full of an emotion unacknowledged, it seemed sad to see the lines of bare trees like rough wire approximations of next year's model in among the eternal dark green of the sentinel pines. So forlorn, almost as if God had, after much effort, at last given up on this part of the world.

  Nicholas allowed his eyes to focus on the far horizon. The speed blur of the landscape passing closer to hand became dizzying, a brown-black sensation of being whirled about on a funfair ride. Yukio, leaning half across him to get a better glimpse, pressed the side of one hard breast against him. Fingers spread on his thigh to brace herself against the rocking. Nails digging in, giving her purchase. Warmth spread upwards into his groin and he wondered, half-afraid, half-expectant, if her hand would move up with it to cup him.

  Opposite, on a seat facing them, a Japanese businessman in a dark-coloured pinstripe and a scrubbed face, calfskin attache' case placed carefully on the seat beside him as mute company, surmounted by a charcoal-grey cashmere overcoat folded meticulously and, atop that, like the miniature couple on a white wedding cake, a black bowler hat - in all, an arcane archaeological pyramid offering no ancestral clues - glanced up from reading the paper. His eyes were given an unnatural size and annularity by his thick round glasses. He blinked much as a fish might upon encountering an unexpected foreign object close to hand. Was he staring at the proximity of her fingertips to his crotch before he returned to his reading? The paper rustled slightly. It might have been a brick wall.

  Nicholas could see the flash of reflected light from the curving edge of the thick gold ring. He imagined the man to be an important member of the zaibatsu. But which one, he wondered? Mitsubishi, perhaps? Or Sumitomo or Mitsui? Not one of the groups, surely, Fuyo, Sanwa, Dai-Ichi Kangyo. Of the seven lesser konzerns, he was obviously not from Nippon Steel, Toyota or Nissan. No, he had the look about him of the burgeoning electronics firms like Toshiba-IHI, Matsushita, Hitachi - on second thoughts, scratch Hitachi - or Tokyu. Did Tokyu manufacture electronics, come to think of it? He wasn't all that certain.

  Perhaps this man's family had started Mitsubishi - the families, he knew, were back-running the zaibatsu as they had since the beginning. The American laws that had forced a hiatus had been stricken after only a brief term.

 

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