Too Damn Rich (72 page)

Sure you ain,t hungry, Ferraro?" the deputy
chief asked. "Best grub on earth's right 'round here."

They were pushing their way through the dense
Chinatown crowds, Ditchek's nose on full alert even as he gnawed on
a sweet-and-sour rib.

Charley gave a sickly smile. "Thanks, Chief,
but I'll pass."

That earned him a scornful look and a
shrug.

Deputy Chief Tyler Ditchek was Charley's
direct superior. A hefty beer barrel of a man, he was neither
muscular nor flabby, had hard, suspicious eyes, a rumble of a
voice, and a bullish, pockmarked face. Plus a cast-iron stomach,
judging from what he'd already put away—a container of fried dim
sum, two fatty whole duck legs, plus the bag of greasy, baby- back
ribs he was working on.

Gnawing on the last one, Ditchek stuffed it
in the bag, sucked on his fingers, and ditched the bag in a trash
bin. He wiped his hands with paper napkins and produced a robust
belch.

"All right, Ferraro. I got a tight schedule."
He flicked a sideways glance. "Whaddya wanna see me about?"

"This pilot program I'm stuck in," Charley
said.

"Whaddabout it?" Ditchek's stony face showed
what he personally thought of it, which wasn't much.

Charley said, "Interpol and the Job don't
mix. I want out."

Ditchek snorted. "Shit," he said. "You got
the cushiest job on the entire force." He eyed a row of crisp whole
piglets hanging from hooks. Seemed to have trouble deciding. He
said, "They're better on down a ways," and continued on.

Charley looked back at the piglets. "Least
there you know what you're eating, Chief."

Ditchek said, "Fun-nee. Gonna hit me with
that If-It-Moves-They- Eat-It shit?"

"Actually I wasn't, but now that you mention
it—"

"Best grub on earth," Ditchek pronounced,
cutting him off. "Couldn't ask for fresher."

"Yeah. Like going to a pet store to buy
groceries."

"That's what I mean by fresh."

"Yeah," Charley said. "Around here, fresh
means it hops. It crawls. It swims. It slithers. I should come down
here at Easter, buy little chicks and rabbits."

Ditchek laughed. "Don't have to wait for
Easter," he said. Then he got serious, his brows drawing together
and beetling. "Now, what's this shit about you wanting out?
Huh?"

Charley's face tightened. "I've had it,
that's all."

"Yeah, but why've you had it?"

" 'Cause this NYPD-Interpol shit sucks!"

"Yeah?" Ditchek chuckled. "Tell me something
else that's new."

Charley drew a deep breath. "Way things are
headed, me and the Finn are going to kill each other."

Ditchek looked at him sharply. "Thought the
two a you had a marriage made in heaven."

Charley scowled. "Had's the operative word.
It's time we got a divorce, and it had better be a quickie!"

"This all happen overnight?"

Charley shook his head. "Nah. It was a while
in coming. Just took me some time to wake up."

"To what?"

"The guy's screwing my girl."

"I hear right?" Ditchek squinted at him. "You
both porkin' the same broad?"

Charley thrust his hands into his coat
pockets. "Yeah," he scowled. "And I'm supposed to trust him to
watch my back? No way!"

Ditchek shook his head. "Life's a bitch."

"Christ, but I'd like to take that bastard
and hang him out to dry!"

"Must be some broad," Ditchek said
admiringly, "huh?"

"Listen, Chief," Charley growled.

"All right, all right." Ditchek held up his
meaty paws. "Don't be so goddamn touchy! Hell, I'm not porkin'
nobody."

Ditchek stopped walking, his eyes on greasy
clumps of mystery meat being scooped out of a deep fryer.

Charley waited as Ditchek gestured to the
Asian vendor, saying: "Gimme a bag a those."

Money exchanged hands, and Ditchek took the
bag and walked on, tossing crispy morsels in the air and catching
them in his mouth.

"Now, getting back to serious shit. I want
you to listen to me a moment, Ferraro." Ditchek squinched his eyes.
"Hear me out. Okay?"

Charley resigned himself. "Yeah. Sure."

"You know what we have in this here city?"
Ditchek asked rhetorically. "Well, I'll tell you. We have a bad
case a 'the gots.' "

" 'The gots.' "

"Right. We got everything, see. We got us a
crack epidemic. We got us a hundred thousand heroin addicts. We got
us a million people on welfare. We got us gun-totin'
eight-year-olds shootin' each other dead in the schools. We got us
nine-year-olds tossing six-year-olds outta twenty-story windows. We
got us hordes a homeless, and as if that's not bad enough, we got
kids dousing 'em with gasoline and setting 'em on fire."

Charley waited.

"And you," Ditchek said caustically, "you
would rather be on the mean streets? That what you're telling
me?"

"If that's what it takes," Charley said,
"yeah. I would."

"Asshole," the Chief said, without malice.
"Okay. Lemme list the reasons why wanting out's too much to ask
for."

"Come on, Chief—"

"Unh-unh." Ditchek scowled. "I got the
floor."

"Christ, Chief, you don't expect me to just
sit back and—"

"Ah, shut the fuck up, Ferraro. Lemme say my
piece." Ditchek crunched a morsel between his molars. "Now, you're
good at what you do. Hell, ain't nobody else on the force can tell
a Picasso from chicken scratch. That, my friend, is reason Numero
uno."

Ditchek tossed another morsel in the air,
caught it in his mouth, and chewed.

"Numero dos. You can work both sides a the
art scene. You can fit in at an opening without screaming, 'Lookit
me, I'm a cop!' and, you can go undercover, pass yourself off as
one a the bad guys. Not many guys good at that, either."

"Chief," Charley pleaded.

Ditchek tossed and caught another morsel.

"Numero tres. This NYPD-Interpol thing's a
pilot program. You know—" he pointed a thick index finger at
Charley "—and I know—" he jabbed it in his own chest "—that it's
the mayor and the PC's pet project."

"Like I give a shit," Charley mumbled.

"Maybe you don't," Ditchek growled, "but I
sure the hell do! Wanna know why?"

Here goes, Charley thought, knowing what was
coming. At one time or another, everyone who was answerable to
Ditchek had heard the same unvarying routine.

Ditchek said: " 'Cause I'm retiring next
year, that's why. 'Cause I don't want to be on the PC's shit list
for all that time. 'Cause I don't want your dick—or anybody
else's—fucking up my retirement!" He vented a noisy breath. "Got
that?"

"Yeah, Chief," Charley sighed.

"You're what? Six months into a one-year test
program?"

"About that." Charley nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, goddammit, detective! Stop sniveling,
get your ass in gear, and toe the line! Six months ain't
nothing."

"But that cocksuck—"

"Yo, hold it right there." Ditchek held out a
hand like a traffic cop stopping traffic. "Personally, and off the
record," he said softly, "I can't blame you. I were in your shoes,
I'd feel the same way. Okay?" "Gee, thanks, Chief."

Ditchek's voice hardened. "But
professionally, and on the record, save me the sob story. Whatever
grudges you got, my advice is, clear the air and bury the hatchet.
Translation: I don't give diddly squat. And you'd better not make
this into a bigger issue than it already is. You do, and I'll have
your ass!"

The furnishings at the art theft squad office
were standard city issue. Gray metal desks. Gray metal swivel
chairs. Dented black filing cabinets. The computer, on a
workstation shoved against the far wall, would have looked
incongruous, save for the familiar, sticky dirt which had coated it
gray. Ditto the fax machine. Hardly the most cheerful of
surroundings.

But then, Hannes was not exactly conducting
very cheerful business. He was, in fact, typing up his letter of
resignation.

When he was done, he read it through, signed
it, and faxed it to Paris:

03/24/1995 12:36 NYPD ART THEFT DIV PAGE 01

FACSIMILE MESSAGE

TO: M. Christophe Boutillier, Interpol, Paris

FROM: Hannes Hockert

M. Boutillier:

Due to circumstances I would rather not go into, I am
sorry to inform you that I am experiencing severe difficulties with
the Interpol/NYPD pilot program. I know that we were very excited
about it initially, but that enthusiasm has since waned.

Furthermore, I fear my continuance with this project
will result in more harm than good. I therefore respectfully ask to
be reassigned and replaced immediately.

Respectfully,

Hannes Hockert

After the fax was transmitted, Hannes got his
coat and left the building. He took the subway up to Times Square.
Walked briskly over to Eighth Avenue, ignoring the peep show shills
with all the brusqueness of a born New Yorker. Amazing, he thought,
how quickly one adapts.

His destination, the West Side karate dojo,
was on the second floor, above a vacated storefront. No sign
advertised its function; it was not even listed in the telephone
directory.

Once upstairs, he felt as he always did, that
he was crossing a threshold and stepping into another world.

The loft was bright, airy, high-ceilinged,
and functional, the city kept at bay by shoji screens covering the
windows. The wooden floor was varnished, and gleamed with a mirror
finish. Mats covered half the area.

On three of them, pairs of fighters thrust,
feinted, and parried, their shouts and expelled breaths mingling
with the noise of body slams.

Unlike most dojos in the city, visitors were
not welcome, which was what had attracted Hannes here in the first
place. To him, the martial arts were not spectator sports, nor were
they to be taken lightly. They were solemn rituals requiring a
lifetime's commitment, and he honed them with a religious fervor.
They demanded the concentration of all one's powers— peak physical
condition, a deep, emotional intensity, superb intelligence,
razor-sharp alertness, timing, and speed.

The reward was confidence, fearlessness, and
caution. Plus the powerful knowledge that one's body was ready to
give its ultimate performance, anytime, anywhere.

And while practice made perfect, it did more
than keep him in mere fighting shape. The physical and mental
workouts cleansed his mind and mended his spirit.

So it was for all who came here. None of them
were beginners. None of them showed off unneccesarily. In one way
or another, budo, the martial path, was a way of life.

"Ah. Mr. Hockert." Hannes was greeted with a
polite bow by a slight, white-haired Japanese who was dressed in
the traditional loose white cotton pajamas and a black cotton
belt.

"Good afternoon, sensei," Hannes replied,
bowing even lower, to show his respect to the other man.

Yoshihira Fujikawa, the founder of this dojo,
did not look dangerous, but he had a seventh degree black belt in
karate, and was a master of Jun Fan kickboxing, judo, and jujitsu,
as well.

"If you wish, Mr. Hockert, I have time to
give you a personal workout."

"I would be much honored, sensei," Hannes
replied humbly, bowing again. "But today I came to work off my
aggression."

The sensei locked eyes with him, and nodded.
"Hai. Then it is best you practice alone."

Hannes went into the locker room and changed
into the same white outfit which the sensei wore. He, too, was a
black belt. Then he walked out into the dojo and selected an empty
mat.

First, the warm-up.

He rolled his head from side to side, then
stretched his neck and arms frontward, backward, and from side to
side. Hunched and unhunched his shoulders. Made certain he missed
nothing—legs, spine, ankles, knees. No tendon was unimportant, no
part of the body skimped upon.

Finally, twenty minutes later, he launched
himself against an imaginary opponent, in today's case, Charley
Ferraro. Pummeled him with high kicks—front, back, sideways.
Switched to lightning punches, pulverizing the air with blurring
hands and fists, putting the power of his hips behind him, always
bracing himself against the envisioned impact with the enemy.

Soon he was exercising at peak form, one foot
firmly anchored, his torso perfectly balanced. Focusing his
muscles, he transmitted an awesome power, his mind and body a
superb machine.

Finally he whipped himself up into a
devastating fury of smooth kicks and punches, swiveling on one leg,
lashing out high with the other.

In his mind he saw Charley stunned,
staggering around in a jerking dance of death until he slowly
collapsed in a lifeless heap.

Hannes became absolutely still, took a series
of deep breaths, and then turned and headed to the locker room.

"Mr. Hockert," Yoshihira Fujikawa called
quietly.

Hannes walked over to him. "Yes, sensei?"

The Japanese's face was expressionless. "I
was watching you. Your form was the best I have yet seen."

Hannes bowed. "Thank you, sensei."

"Tell me," Fujikawa said, "were so many
killing strikes truly necessary?"

Hannes looked down. "I let myself get carried
away."

"Indeed. You must have battled a true
enemy."

"Yes, sensei, I have."

"One word of caution, Mr. Hockert. Do not
forget what Sun Tzu has written. 'To subdue the enemy without
fighting shows the highest level of skill. Thus, what is supreme is
to attack the enemy's strategy.' "

"I shall not forget, sensei," Hannes said
softly.

When he returned to the office from the dojo,
he ignored Charley, who sat with his feet casually up on a desk,
taking giant bites out of a shiny red apple.