Suicide Squeeze

Kurisaka’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, possession can be a tricky concept. I would like to submit that my claim of ownership is the stronger by virtue of the fact my cousin Toshi is currently pointing a large-caliber pistol at your head.”

Co

“You’re a practical man, Mr. Samson.”

“How did you find me?”

Kurisaka explained the homing beacon in the specially made attaché case.

Co

“What sort of explanation would satisfy you?” Kurisaka said. “Would you like the Sydney Greenstreet speech from The Maltese Falcon? The stuff dreams are made of?”

Co

“No,” Kurisaka said. “I won’t bore you. I’m too tired. You helped tire me, Mr. Samson. This whole business has worn me down, rattled my belief in who I am.” He rubbed his eyes, suddenly looked ten years older. “They used to make religious paintings, little golden icons of saints. Many no bigger than a baseball card. People kept them in their homes, built little altars. It seems the icons have changed. Perhaps it’s a mistake when we build altars to them.”

The billionaire sighed. “Never mind. Let us conclude our business. I want only to return to Tokyo as soon as possible. Mr. Samson, you will now hand over the DiMaggio card.”

Co

“I don’t think so,” Kurisaka said. “How about I have my cousin shoot you both in the head, then I’ll take the card from your dead body?”

“I just had a great idea,” Co

Gently, Kurisaka picked up the card, examined it. His face was unreadable. He placed it within the special attaché case.

Co

“I have a new deal,” Kurisaka said. “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble. You and your associates were responsible for the deaths of several of my men. This ca

Co

“So, I’ve decided my cousin Toshi here will shoot you both in the head after all,” Kurisaka said. “Toshi, kill the woman first, so Samson can watch. I think that’s only fitting since-”

The office door swung open. “Hey, guys, if it’s going to be much longer, I can run the limousine though the car wash.” It was the chauffeur, the one Co

“Dammit, driver,” Kurisaka snapped. “Wait outside. We’re in the middle of some very important business.”

The chauffeur’s hands moved like a blur, went into his jacket, and came out with a pistol. He put the pistol into Toshi’s back. “Drop it.”

Toshi tensed but dropped his gun.

The driver took off his hat, stepped out from behind Toshi.

Toshi’s eyes popped.

Kurisaka’s mouth fell open. “Billy Moto!”

“That’s right,” Moto said. “Back from the dead and very pissed.”

50

When Billy Moto had flipped over the balcony during his battle with Toshi, the world had blurred. Moto had braced himself for the crunching impact that he would surely not survive. But then the slapping palm fronds. He’d bounced off branches, little cuts on his face and hands.

He hit canvas. It ripped but held. He’d slid to the bottom, went over the side, and landed with a thud on the sidewalk. A pair of women sipping umbrella drinks at a small table screamed. More people rushed to him, crowded around. He gasped for breath, pushed himself up.

“Jesus, buddy, you okay?” someone asked.

He didn’t answer, looked up at the palm trees, the canvas tarp stretched tight over the poolside bar. He grabbed an umbrella drink from one of the women. “Pardon, but I think I need this.” He tossed back the drink.

A miracle. Or at least very good luck.

“Sure,” said the woman. “You scared the crap out of me.”

Billy Moto pushed his way through the crowd. He already knew what he would do. He would watch and wait and have his revenge.

“You guys seem like you have things to talk about,” Co

“Don’t move, Mr. Samson,” Moto said. “This will all be sorted out soon enough.”

Tyra

“This is a mistake, Billy.” Kurisaka stood, spread his hands. “I feel only relief to see you alive and well. I owe you an apology. And an explanation. Put down that gun, and let’s talk about what’s troubling you.”

“I think you know exactly what’s troubling me,” Moto said. “You ordered your lapdog here to kill me. Why? I wasn’t fetching your collectible nonsense quickly enough. You are a spoiled, evil, fat man. I officially give my notice.”

He looked at Toshi. “As for you, I believe I owe you this.”

Moto put the pistol further into Toshi’s back and pulled the trigger twice. The shots shook the room, blood erupting from Toshi’s chest. Tyra

Moto turned the gun on Kurisaka.

“Billy, I can see you’re upset,” Kurisaka said. “But I know you. You are an intelligent, reasonable man. And I am a very rich and powerful man. Name your price. How much do you believe yourself wronged? We’ll call it severance pay.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Then you’ll just have to kill me, Billy.” Kurisaka stood straight, put his hands in his jacket pockets, and puffed out his enormous chest. “Go ahead. I suppose I deserve it. I’m a big enough target. You won’t miss.”

Moto held his arm out straight, the pistol pointed at Kurisaka’s heart. He sucked in breath, held it.

“Well?” Kurisaka said.

The fat man sounded cool, but Co

Moto glanced down, saw Toshi’s hand rise and fall. He drove the switchblade into Moto’s foot. Moto screamed, pointed the pistol at Toshi’s head, and pulled the trigger three times. The bullets shattered skull. Moto grimaced, hopped on one foot, turned the pistol back to Kurisaka.

Too late.

Kurisaka had drawn his hand from his jacket pocket, a silver revolver in his fist. He squeezed the trigger, shot Moto in the chest. Kurisaka shot twice more, the chest again and the belly. Moto convulsed, spit blood, and pitched forward on top of Toshi.

Kurisaka spun, took aim at Co

But Co

A perfect shot.

The giant billionaire fell across the desk, scattered papers, the telephone, bottles of cheap booze.

Silence. Smoke hung in the air.

Co