‘Yes.’
‘To continue this Jove affair at this time could be very risky.’
‘Love affair?’ she said. The words hung in the air as though she were listening to them in instant reply. She frowned.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘call it what you wish. Infatuation?’
’Trite. Trite words and trite phrases.’ She was scowling at him.
DeLaroza chuckled. ‘Far be it for me to accuse you of being trite, my dear,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘It is just that I know both of you so well,’ DeLaroza said. ‘I’ve known Donald for sixteen years and you . . . for two....’
‘Almost three.’
‘Yes, almost three.’
His gaze moved past her, settling on the foliage outside his office. Three years. At their first meeting he had acted on what he thought at the time was an impulse. A very lucky one, he had come to realize, although totally out of character for him. The first time he had ever seen Domino she was standing in a fleamarket in Buckhead, staring intently at an antique Morris chair. A stunning woman, though her clothes were not quite right, her hair a little too long, and yet. . . And yet.
He had ordered Chiang to turn the Rolls around and go back. He had found her, still contemplating the chair.
‘The chair is overpriced,’ he had told her. ‘You should be able to purchase it for half what they are asking.’
She smiled at him. ‘I’m not very good at that kind of thing,’ she had told him.
‘Then I shall act as your agent in the matter.’
Her education had begun that day. Now even he had to marvel at what Domino had become. And now, too, in retrospect, he understood that meeting her that day had not been mere impulse. Domino had fitted his plans perfectly.
‘Hello,’ she said.
DeLaroza looked back at her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking about the fleamarket.’
She laughed. ‘I still owe you twelve dollars for the Morris chair,’ she said.
‘I consider that one of my better investments.’
‘You were saying?’
‘Uh. . . what was I saying?’ he was slightly embarrassed that he had forgotten his point.
‘You were saying that you know both of us very well.’
‘Oh, yes. Perhaps love was too strong a word. There is a need there, for both of you.’
‘Of course. I guess it really isn’t fair to say we don’t love each other. I love Donald. And I love you.’
‘You love power, my dear. It is your passion.’
‘Maybe I’m just turned off by the lack of it.’
‘My point is, after Monday night you will become a luxury Donald can no longer afford.’
A half-smile played briefly over her face.
‘You know I’m really surprised that you’re sharing the spotlight of your beloved Pachinko! — even with the next president of the United States.’
DeLaroza looked away from her. She was quite astute. Pachinko! was DeLaroza’s grandest achievement, an amusement park like no other in the world. It had taken years to conceive and build it. But Donald Hotchins’s announcement at the opening of the park was part of his plan. Even Domino was part of it. DeLaroza did nothing without a plan. He finally waved a hand in the air.
‘It will be a delicate situation,’ he said. ‘I hope you can handle it. I admit if anyone can, you can. But the Chinese have a saying: The peacock should not strut when the tiger is about. There will be many tigers about, waiting for him to make a mistake so they can devour him. It could destroy him.’
‘Then I’ll have to be very clever.’
‘You can be that.’
‘I’m sorry. Am I hurting you? I wouldn’t hurt you.’
‘Of course not. I know you would never hurt anyone knowingly. It is just that I seem to have — how do you say it?
— bit off my nose?’
‘Cut off my nose to spite my face, It’s a stupid saying.’
‘Yes, but true. I will not see you again, will I? That is what you are really saying to me, is it not-?’
‘Of course I’ll see you. We’ll all be good friends.’
‘Not business acquaintances.’
The remark stunned her, as if he had slapped her. ‘Is that what it’s been to you?’ she said. ‘I hoped it was more than just business. You’re very special to me. Don’t you know that?’
He watched the smoke curl towards the ceiling, swirling in and out of the pools of light from the recessed lamps. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘I do.’ She reached out and touched his hand with her fingertips. ‘You are quite something,’ he said. ‘You have what we call in Brazil beleza inexplicada. A quality that cannot be described.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Does he know about you? All about you?’
‘No. Is that really necessary?’
He shook his head. ‘But if he should find out?’
‘Someday I’ll explain it all to him.’
‘No, no, you will not, my love. It is a thing you will never be able to do. But that is your problem.’ Then: ‘So this meeting was all for talk, eh? Conversation. I will be disappointed this last time.’
She moved closer to him, so close he could feel her warmth. She leaned over him and her breasts touched his chest. She brushed her lips across his eyelids. It made him tremble.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re very special to me. You’ve been very good to me and I know what makes you happy, Victor. I want our last private meeting together to make you happier than you’ve ever been before. A very special night. Tonight you will come to my apartment at eight o’clock and I’ll give you your farewell present, mui bita?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I understand.’ He sighed, staring at her open blouse, at the tinted edges of her nipples, feeling her perfume hypnotizing his senses. Her fingers moved lightly across his neck and drew his head to her, his cheek against her breast.
‘And why are we waiting until tonight?’ he asked, his voice trembling.
‘Because,’ she said, and her voice was a husky, inviting, ageless whisper, ‘I want you to think about it. All day long. It will be much sweeter that way.’
He closed his eyes, turning his head so her dress fell away from her breast, and he was tasting the tartness of her hardened nipple.
‘You are a masterpiece,’ he whispered. ‘On Ipanema, you would steal the beach away from the sea.’
‘You should have been a poet, Victor,’ she said softly. ‘You are a poet, my dear.’ But even at that moment the old fear crawled back inside him again and the horror of what had to be done was like an angry voice hissing in his ear. And he could not ignore it.
Chapter Four
The Vice Squad was located deep in the bowels of the main station house, a windowless, airless, cramped, messy space hardly big enough to accommodate the sixteen men who called it home. It was a forgotten hole, away from normal traffic, a place nobody bad to pass or see or contend with. Prison-grey pipes rattled overhead. The place was too hot in the winter and frigid in the summer.
Barney Friscoe sat in a closet of an office, a short, chunky lieutenant with eternal five o’clock shadow and thinning brown hair, dressed in chinos, Adidas, a Wings Over America tee-shirt, and a yellow windbreaker. His cluttered desk looked like a combat zone. As Sharky entered the cubbyhole, he stood up, peering over the reading glasses that were perched halfway down his nose and smiling in a row of crooked, off-colour teeth. He offered Sharky a hairy paw.
‘Welcome to Friscoe’s Inferno,’ he said. ‘You’re Sharky, right? One o’clock, right on time. I hardly recognize you without all that hair on your face. Grab a chair there, throw that shit on the floor. You had lunch?’
Sharky shook his head, nodded yes to the question, and moved a pile of debris from one of the two battered chairs in the small room.
‘Jesus,’ Sharky said, ‘what’d you do to deserve this?
‘Dirtiest digs for the dirtiest squad. Oh, well, nobody gives a shit. We don’t spend any time around here anyhow.’ He waved outside the office at the bullpen where half a dozen desks were jammed together in a space hardly big enough for four. On the corner of one was an antiquated coffeemaker. Sugar and powdered milk formed pools around it and a dirty communal spoon lay forgotten nearby.