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  “The whales?”

  “You know, the whale-killing, Save the Whale. He hates the Japanese for what they’re doing to the whales. And the Russians, he hates the Russians. I swear, if he ever saw a Russian, he’d tear him to pieces.”

  Skrolnik nodded. “I see. Is that what he does to people when he’s mad at them, tears them to pieces?”

  “Oh, sure. I mean, he’d tear anybody to pieces.”

  Detective Pullet was standing by the door with his notebook. Skrolnik turned around and gave him a jaundiced look. “What are you doing, detective? Taking down evidence, or sketching? You heard what the girl said. When he gets mad, he tears people to pieces.”

  Detective Pullet said, “On, sure,” and jotted a few notes.

  Sergeant Skrolnik looked around the bedroom. “This your room, miss?”

  “It’s my friend’s room. But she lets me use it when I meet Maurice.”

  “Can you tell me your name please?”

  “Oh, sure. Beverly Krauss, Bitzi for short. I live at 1803 Taft Avenue, with my parents. Walter C.

  Krauss, Consultant Pediatrician.”

  “Sure. I see. Have you known Maurice long?”

  Beverly Krauss shrugged. “I guess a year, almost. Ten months. Maybe longer. I met him at the circus last spring. His circus name is El Krusho the Great.”

  “Sure. El Krusho.”

  “You’ve been lovers all that time?”

  Beverly nodded. “Could you do me up, please? This catch is kind of fiddly.’’

  Detective Pullet stepped smartly forward, but Sergeant Skrolnik gave him a sharp stare which sent him smartly back again. Skrolnik fumbled at the back of Bevcrly Krauss’s dress with his fat, insensitive fingers, and at last managed to nudge the hook through the eye.

  “Did you ever hear Maurice talk about any of his previous girlfriends?” asked Skrolnik.

  Beverly frowned at him. “Sure. I talked about my old flames, he talked about his. What’s he supposed to have done wrong?”

  “Just bear with me for one moment,” said Skrolnik, as reassuringly as he could. “Did Maurice ever mention a girl named Sherry Cantor?”

  “Well, sure. I knew Sherry Cantor. I mean, I met her once or twice. Maurice said that he’d always had a kind of a crush on her. That was, until he met me.”

  Skrolnik sniffed dryly. “Did Maurice ever mention to you that Sherry Cantor and he and another man had all gone to bed together, a threesome?”

  Bcverly shook her head. “He never told me anything like that.”

  “Did Maurice ever say that he was sorry because he wasn’t seeing Sherry Cantor any longer?”

  “Un-unh.”

  “Did Maurice ever say that he disliked Sherry Cantor for any reason? Did he ever say anything about her? Anything at all?”

  “Once,” she said.

  Skrolnik glanced at Pullet. “Can you remember what he said? This could be very important.”

  “Well,” Beverly hesitated, “I don’t really know if it’s relevant or anything. We were sitting watching Our Family Jones because nothing else was on... and she came on the screen, Sherry I mean, and he said it. He was pretty drunk at the time.”

  “What did he say?” insisted Skrolnik.

  “He said, ‘I don’t know why she’s acting so pure and innocent, I gave it to her up her ass once.’

  Sergeant Skrolnik lowered his head and took a deep breath. “Miss Krauss,” he said, “how old are you?”

  “Seventeen, and a week.”

  “Seventeen and a week,” Skrolnik repeated sadly. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It was a warm night, warm and close, and there was no air conditioning in the room.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ll call a patrol car and have you taken back to... Taft Avenue. Meanwhile, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take your boyfriend in.”

  “Take him in? You mean, arrest him?”

  Skrolnik nodded.

  “But for what–I mean, why”>“

  “Homicide, Miss Krauss. The first-degree murder of Sherry Cantor.”

  “Are you joking? Maurice could never even...”

  “Swat a fly?” said Skrolnik. “Is that what you were going to say? The man who tears people to pieces when he’s angry? He could never even swat a fly?”

  “But that was only a figure of speech” protested Beverly. “I didn’t mean he actually does it!”

  “No, sure,” said Skrolnik. “Pullet, will you call up the local cavalry and ask them, nicely, if they could take Miss Seventeen-and-a-Week here home to her folks?”

  “But you can’t arrest Maurice!” cried Beverly. “He hasn’t done anything! He never killed anybody!”

  Pullet said, “Just watch us.”

  Skrolnik made a quick check of the bedroom, opening drawers, opening the wardrobe, checking the lipstick and the makeup on the cheap varnished dressing table. He opened one drawer and produced, between two fingers, a white satin G-string.

  “Well, what do you do to prevent embarrassing panty lines?” Beverly demanded.

  Skrolnik grunted. “Seventeen and a week, huh?” he said. He took one last look at the room, and then he went downstairs to the hallway, where Maurice Needs was still lying on the floor, his ankle handcuffed to the newel post. The elderly lady in the blue scarf was standing nearby, sucking nervously at her dentures. “All right, El Krusho,” said Skrolnik. “I’m going to release you now, and I want you to come peacefully with me to the police precinct, where you will have the opportunity to call your lawyer. You understand me?”

  Maurice Needs nodded. He was very big–bigger than Skrolnik had imagined he would be, from his photograph. Six foot six, at least, and built like Arnold Schwar-zenegger’s older brother, all trapezoids and deltoids and overdeveloped triceps. He had dark curly hair, and he was dressed in jeans and a slim-fitting black shirt that probably would have flapped around Skrolnik like a bedouin tent.

  Maurice Needs painfully stood up. There was a large red bruise on his forehead, and he had the beginnings of a black eye; but he was a good-looking boy, a mixture of Clark Kent and a young Elvis Presley, with a hint of Clint Walker around the eyes. He hopped a little, and then bent over to massage his ankle.

  “Sorry I hurt you,” said Skrolnik. “Had to keep you tied down somehow.”

  El Krusho shrugged. “You needn’t have bothered, you know? If I’d wanted to, I’d have torn that newel post out by the roots.”

  Pullet, coming down the stairs, gave Skrolnik a sick little smile. “Seems we’ve got our man, sergeant.”

  Skrolnik said, “Let’s go. We can talk about this down at the precinct.”

  Pullet frowned, and began to say, “You don’t think that–?”

  “I’ve charged him now, fuckhead,” snarled Skrolnik. “But, no, I don’t.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Over Inca’s aji de galliha and anticuchos, Mr. Esmeralda carefully explained to Gerard Crowley about Admiral Thorson.

  “He was in Japan during the war, and became very friendly with some of the doctors who later worked on the Tengu program for the Tokyo Olympics. He found out about the research simply by accident. He may suspect nothing, but we cannot risk him blowing the whistle on us.

  “What I really want to know is this,” Gerard said. “When do we stop killing people, and when do we start getting on with building up this team of bodyguards?”

  ‘‘We have to take everything by orderly steps,” said Mr. Esmeralda. He forked up some of his barbecued beef and chewed it assiduously.

  “Nancy Shirariuka is getting distinctly restless,” Gerard remarked. “She doesn’t like this killing any more than I do. If you were intending to create a hit squad of homicidal maniacs, you should have told us. At least we would have known what we were letting ourselves in for. I’m no angel, Esmeralda, and neither is Nancy Shiranuka; and we all know about the good Commander Ouvarov. But the only reason any of us agreed to submit to your rotten blackmail was because we thought we were in on a shady
but highly profitable bit of merchandising. Hired thugs for the protection of the wealthy. Now what’s happened? We’ve taken an innocent young actress to pieces, as well as a cop, for no reason at all; and two days later you’re asking me to take a Tengu out to Rancho Encino Hospital and rip some poor old retired admiral to shreds.”

  Mr. Esmeralda pushed his plate away, then changed his mind and drew it back again, so that he could fork up a last piece of beef. He kept his eyes on his food and spoke to Gerard lightly, almost absent-mindedly. “The very first day I approached you, Mr. Crowley, I warned you that you had very little option but to do as you were told. I also warned you not to question my instructions.”

  “Maybe you did. But now I’m questioning.”

  “My clients will not be happy about that,” smiled Mr. Esmeralda. “They’re very particular people when it comes to secrecy and security.”

  Gerard snapped his fingers at the waiter and said, “Scotch.” Then he folded his arms and leaned forward across the table. “Death comes at a pretty high price in California, Mr. Esmeralda, and I’m beginning to think that perhaps you’re not paying enough for it.”

  “You know what your reward will be when the Tengu program is completed.”

  “A million six? I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s worth it. I’m also beginning to wonder if you’ve really been giving me the whole picture about these so-called bodyguards.”

  Mr. Esmeralda watched Gerard caiefully. “It does not pay, in your business, Mr. Crowley, to be too curious.”

  “Is that a statement or a warning?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds like a warning, Mr. Esmeralda, and I also think that I’m beginning to get a hook into you the same way you’ve got a hook into me. There’s such a thing as plea bargaining, you know; and if I were to make a clean breast of everything I happen to know about Sherry Cantor’s death to the police... well, there’s a good chance that I wouldn’t get more than one-to-three.”

  “You are not deceiving me for one instant, Mr. Crowley.” Mr. Esmeralda smiled. “Go out to the ranch tomorrow with Kemo and pick up the Tengu. Doctor Gempaku will be waiting for you.

  Oh–and by the way, we are expecting a new consignment of volunteers on Monday from Kyoto. I will let you know the details tomorrow morning. Fifteen of them. So you can see that the bodyguard program is actually getting under way.”

  “I think I’m dreaming this,” said Gerard.

  “No,” said Mr. Esmeralda, and nodded to the waiter as his dessert–platanos fritos–was set in front of him. “It’s not a dream. It’s simply a manifestation of the peculiar violence inherent in modern living. The world is in imbalance. Mr. Crowley, between those who have and those who want; and the greater the imbalance, the more violent the confrontation between the two. The people who have the most will always be the prime targets for the people who have the least; and that is why they will pay anything for one of our Tengus. The ultimate weapon is personal security–that is how we are going to advertise them.”

  Gerard swilled his Scotch around in his glass. “I don’t believe you, Mr. Esmeralda. Something’s happening here. Some really big caper that you’re not telling me about. And, you take notice, sooner or later I’m going to find out what it is.”

  “I have already taken that into account,” said Mr. Esmeralda, thinking of Evie–drunk, in her underwear.

  “Well, you take notice,” Gerard repeated. “I’m on to you, and if you start pushing me too hard, you’re going to regret it. I suspected you from the start. This Tengu thing–if it’s such a big secret, why did you tell me so much about it, right from the beginning? This killer-bodyguard story–it’s just that, a story. If that was all there was to it, you wouldn’t have told me anything about it. But you’ve told me everything. You’ve answered every question I might have had about it, even before I’ve asked them. And that smells to me like a decoy.”

  “You are drunk,” said Mr. Esmeralda. “Why don’t you go away now, nurse your hangover, and think about it again in the morning?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Gerard. “I’ll do what you want me to do. I’ll take out this Thorson character. I’ll take him out like a dream. That’s always provided the Tengu behaves himself, and goes to the correct address. But take notice that I’m on to you, Mr. Esmeralda. Too much pushing from you, and it’s plea-bargain time.” Mr. Esmeralda glanced around the restaurant to make sure that nobody was listening. “You’ve talked to Nancy?”

  Gerard nodded. “Nancy is an interesting lady. More interesting than I first understood.”

  “Beware of Nancy Shiranuka,” said Mr. Esmeralda. “Nancy Shiranuka is by no means everything she appears to be.” Mr. Esmeralda ate some of his fried bananas in silence. Then he said, “Mr.

  Crowley, have you ever heard of a Japanese demon called Kappa?”

  “You’re the second person who’s talked to me about Japanese demons tonight.”

  “Nancy Shiranuka mentioned them?”

  “Nancy Shiranuka’s an expert, as far as I can gather. And, yes, she did mention a demon called Kappa. Some kind of water demon, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Esmeralda nodded. “A small, hideous creature with the limbs of a variety of different creatures, like lobsters and rabbits, all mixed up. A huge, saucer-shaped head. I looked it up in the Huntington Library.”

  “Why did you do that, Mr. Esmeralda?”

  Mr. Esmeralda put down his spoon and laced his fingers together. The band in the restaurant was playing “Samba Pa Ti.”

  “No particular reason. The Tengu, as you know, is named after a Japanese devil. I suppose I was just curious.’’

  “I thought you said that curiosity didn’t pay in this business, Mr. Esmeralda.”

  “Maybe. It depends on the circumstances. But the Kappa is a particularly interesting demon because it has one fundamental weakness.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Esmeralda?” Gerard took out a cigar and clipped the end off it, watching Mr.

  Esmeralda all the time.

  “In its saucer-shaped head, the Kappa keeps a quantity of water, magical water which gives it its strength. The way to defeat the Kappa is to approach it without fear, bow to it, and say, ‘Good morning.’ In accordance with Japanese custom, it will bow in return, and it will spill the water out of the top of its head, thereby weakening itself so much that you can pass by unscathed.”

  Gerard’s expression was concealed for a moment behind curls of blue cigar smoke. Then he spat out a fragment of leaf and said, “What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Esmeralda?”

  “I am giving you a chance to save yourself,” said Mr. Esmeralda. “I am telling you that the way in which you can survive in this particular adventure is to remain calm and polite, and to observe all the necessary courtesies.”

  “In other words?”

  Mr. Esmeralda raised a single warning finger. “In other words, Mr. Crowley, you are in danger of your life, and you ought to be aware of it.”

  Gerard thought about that, and then crossed his legs and sniffed. “What are those bananas like?” he asked Mr. Esmeralda.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When Mr. Esmeralda left Inca’s restaurant at 11:17 P.M., a little over a half-hour after Gerard Crowley’s departure, he was watched intently from the shadows of Inca’s parking lot by Nancy Shiranuka’s houseboy, Kemo. Kemo had been sitting patiently in his red-striped Toyota for almost three hours, smoking menthol cigarettes and listening to a tape of Stomo Yamashta. As soon as Mr. Esmeralda appeared, white-suited, his hair shining in the neon light of a Los Angeles night, Kemo started up his engine and crushed out his latest cigarette.

  Mr. Esmeralda’s metallic-blue Lincoln appeared from Tengu the darkness on the other side of the parking lot, with Kuan-yin at the wheel, and Mr. Esmeralda climbed quickly in. The Lincoln then swerved north on Berendo, with a squeal of tires, and ran two red lights on its way to Beverly Boulevard. Kemo, alert and sweating, took a fast right at 3rd Street, then
a left at White House Place, and managed to end up only two cars behind the Lincoln as it turned west on Beverly Boulevard and cruised through the Wilshire Country Club toward Highland Avenue.

  Only one car apart, the Lincoln and the Toyota sped north to Laurel Canyon. Kemo was tense and sweating as he drove, although the Toyota’s air conditioning was set to cold, and whenever he was forced to slow down, his fingers drummed impatiently on the wheel.

  Follow him closely, Nancy Shiranuka had ordered Kemo. Follow him and don’(let him go.

  At last, unexpectedly, just past Lookout Mountain Avenue, the Lincoln screeched off to the right without making a signal. Kemo, who was being tailgated by an impatient procession of home-going valley-dwellers, was forced to drive on for another few hundred yards and make a right at Willow Glen. He parked his Toyota close to the side of the road and climbed out, looking nervously from right to left to make sure nobody had seen him. But why should anyone have seen him? he asked himself. He was nothing more than one more pair of headlights in a night bustling with headlights. He wished he could suppress the fear which kept rising inside him; the feeling that death was very close at hand.

  Running silently on rope-soled slippers, Kemo went back down Laurel as far as the driveway where the Lincoln had turned off. There were no signs there, no house numbers; only a mailbox with its flap hanging down and an overgrown hedge of bougainvillea. Kemo squinted up through the trees and saw a large wooden house in which two or three lights were shining. He also glimpsed, for an instant, the Lincoln’s taillights, before Kuan-yin switched them off. He glanced back up the road to make sure that nobody had been following him; and then, momentarily concealed by the darkness between two passing cars, he rolled over sideways into the shrubbery.

  It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to get close to the side of the house. He crept through roots and foilage as silently and unobtrusively as a lizard. He noted each of the television cameras as they emotionlessly inspected the driveway and the surrounding bushes; and he also noted Mr. Esmeralda’s Chinese driver, waiting in his Lincoln limousine. She was listening to Barry Manilow on the radio.