Obsession is medicinal poison.
— CHRISTOPHER MOLINEUX
KOJIMA WASN’T ABOUT TO LET any grass grow under his new protégé’s feet. He sent Ted Nelson an e-mail immediately after their Starbucks meeting. Would Ted look at a Web site called InsectNet.com that also auctioned butterflies? It might give him some ideas. Kojima followed that up with a phone call later that evening. Once again, it was after hours and Newcomer wasn’t at his office to answer the undercover phone. Kojima left a message that Nelson should return his call ASAP.
Newcomer was learning the joys of having a government job. Agents are expected to handle as many cases as they can juggle, along with all the paperwork and a continual backlog of reports to be filed. Papers had already begun to breed rapidly on Newcomer’s desk, where they were well on their way to mutating. One wrong move and the piles would come tumbling down. Picking up the phone and placing a call was about the last thing that Newcomer wanted to do at the moment. Besides, that’s what e-mail was for. He dashed off a quick note to Kojima.
I’ll take a look at the site. Is InsectNet’s setup the sort of thing you have in mind? I have a meeting in Long Beach this afternoon but can speak with you tonight or anytime tomorrow.
Kojima promptly read the e-mail. Nelson was crazy if he thought that Kojima would be kept waiting. He immediately picked up the phone and called.
Newcomer just missed knocking over a jumbo cup of Coke and a bag of Doritos as he lunged for the phone.
“Ted, this is Yoshi.”
No fooling. Maybe it was Kojima’s tone of voice, but Newcomer felt like a schoolboy who was about to be scolded. “Hey, Yoshi. What’s up?”
“We need to meet again for another few hours. There’s still much to discuss about eBay. I want to start our new business as soon as we possibly can.”
Newcomer was anxious to do it too, but didn’t this guy ever get tired of talking? They’d just hashed things out for over an hour at Starbucks. How much more could Kojima possibly have to say on the topic? Especially since he supposedly didn’t know anything about eBay.
“Besides, I may have some butterflies for you before I leave on my Costa Rica trip.”
That did the trick. Newcomer agreed to meet outside Starbucks on Friday and go to lunch from there.
“And don’t forget to do research on how eBay works before then,” Kojima reminded him, cracking the whip.
Terrific. Newcomer now had two taskmasters, and Kojima was proving to be just as demanding as the government.
He stuck his head inside Palladini’s office. “Hey, boss. I’ve got another date lined up with Kojima. Do you think I could get an agent to provide backup?”
What the heck. It was worth a shot. After all, Adam-12 had partnered Reed and Malloy, and then there were Starsky and Hutch. It seemed like the right thing to do. Just by luck, San Diego agent John Brooks planned to be in L.A. that day. Brooks would follow Newcomer from Starbucks to lunch, where he’d wait outside in his car.
“Great. I’ll signal you if there’s a problem,” Newcomer told him.
Brooks offered in turn to call during lunch and make sure that everything was cool.
“Other agencies think we’re nuts for some of the stuff we do,” explained Brooks, a twenty-six-year Fish and Wildlife veteran. “We go in by ourselves, no backup, no contact, no weapons, no nothing.”
The Service is notoriously hampered by a lack of manpower and money, with fewer than two hundred special agents in the country. Those working cases tend to play the Lone Ranger, minus Tonto and Silver. Brooks had been in plenty of crazy situations himself and knew that having backup was rare. That makes it a deadly game of Russian roulette when it comes to dealing with poachers and smugglers. Fish and Wildlife agents had just been plain dumb lucky so far. There’d come a time when their luck would run out.
Newcomer pulled up to Starbucks on Friday to find Kojima already waiting for him. The guy could have been a transplant from Miami dressed in his usual khaki shorts with sneakers and white socks. Kojima hurried over and hopped into Newcomer’s car.
“It’s easier if we go together. I’ll show you the way. Just keep driving down Venice Boulevard,” Kojima said, while his fingers fiddled with something in his fanny pack.
Newcomer just hoped he wasn’t about to pull out some butt-ugly bug. He glanced back stealthily to make sure that Brooks was still there.
“Look at this e-mail I just got,” Kojima bragged, and began to wave a piece of paper in Newcomer’s face.
Newcomer perused it while waiting at a series of stoplights. Holy shit. Kojima had a laundry list of insects that had been recently gathered for him in Central America. National Geographic was sending him to Costa Rica the next week, and he planned to pick them up while he was there.
Hercules and horned beetles were at the top of the list, along with scarabs in a rainbow of colors. The bugs were itemized in tempting hues of silver, semi-pinks, reds, and rare gold as though they were tantalizing shades of nail polish. There were also boucardis and tapantinas, bugs that he’d never heard of. He couldn’t quite believe what he read. The grand tally came to seventy-nine insects for a whopping total of only $225. It was Kojima’s version of shopping at Walmart.
“Oh, I’m so happy! Some of these will sell for between three to five thousand dollars apiece,” Kojima gloated.
Newcomer’s fingers tightly gripped the paper, not wanting to let go. This was his first glimpse into Kojima’s global network and the bargain-basement prices that he paid for insects. “Wow! So who’s doing all this collecting for you?” he asked, the paper beginning to feel moist in his hand.
“Oh, that’s from my Mexican guy. He worked as a gardener here in L.A., but Immigration catch him and he got deported. That’s okay. Now he works for me. He’s such a nice boy.” Kojima retrieved the note and played with his fingers as if counting all the money that he would make. “I send him all over Central America to get butterflies and bugs that I want. Then I go and pick them up. I pay him two thousand dollars a month, plus all expenses. It’s very cheap.”
No wonder he was the go-to guy for butterflies that nobody else could get. Instead of a girl in every port, Kojima had a bug catcher in every corner of the world.
They pulled up to Natalee Thai Restaurant, and Kojima stepped out of the car. Newcomer was about to follow when he froze and caught his breath. Kojima’s shopping list of bugs was lying on the seat. Kojima must have left it there by accident.
Was it possible? Could Kojima really be that forgetful?
Newcomer had a choice. He could swipe the list or prove himself to be a trustworthy associate. Screw that. As far as Ted Nelson was concerned, it must have somehow blown out the window. Newcomer snatched the paper and slipped it into his pocket, snagging a piece of evidence.
Kojima launched into business as soon as they sat down at the table.
“Did you get an eBay account yet?” he prodded.
Man, this guy was like a pit bull. They’d just begun doing business together, and already he didn’t let up. Newcomer shook his head. “Nope. I plan to do it while you’re out of the country. Don’t worry. It will be ready to go when you return.”
Kojima studied Newcomer as if sizing him up. Perhaps the boy wasn’t as confident as he pretended to be. “If you’re afraid, we can start off using my former company name, Butterfly and Insect World. But to be honest, using ‘Ted Nelson’ would really be better.”
I’ll bet, Newcomer thought. Kojima was clever as a fox.
“So, exactly how is this going to work?” Newcomer asked.
“I’ll supply all the butterflies. You collect the money and ship the merchandise to the customers. Then we’ll split the profits fifty-fifty,” Kojima explained.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Newcomer was still waiting to hear the catch. “What about permits? Will there be any problems that I should know of?”
“I don’t have permits, but there’s nothing to worry about. You won’t be reported. Most people don’t even know to do that. Besides, no one really cares about getting permission for butterflies,” Kojima assured him with a wave of his hand.
That was interesting to know, but something else caught Newcomer’s attention as his eyes locked on Kojima’s hands. They looked like they hadn’t been washed in a week; a strip of dirt lay buried beneath each fingernail like an animal hibernating for winter. Oh, Christ. Just let me get through lunch, he silently groaned.
“Listen, I don’t mind selling exotic butterflies. I just don’t want to get caught, is all.”
Kojima irritably shook his head. “Why are you so scared? I tell you there’s no problem. I send all my packages Express Mail from Japan. The Customs people never bother to check.” Kojima had been relishing his food, but his appetite now started to wane. “You worry too much. I already explained. We’ll start with common butterflies. As you work, you’ll get to know the customers. Then we can sell CITES material to them. That’s where the real money is.”
Perfect. He’d gotten Kojima conspiring on tape. Now all he had to do was to catch him in the act.
“That’s great, Yoshi,” Newcomer agreed. “As long as you’re sure that everything will be okay, then I’m absolutely fine with it.”
Kojima’s appetite perked right back up. “I can’t wait to get started! I sold a CITES II butterfly for eighty dollars to a guy that turned around and sold it on eBay for five hundred bucks a few weeks ago,” Kojima revealed.
He cautioned there might be one problem, however, once they began offering CITES material.
Wasn’t there always something? If smuggling was that easy, everyone would be doing it. “What’s that?” Newcomer asked.
“All birdwing butterflies are listed as Appendix II. Some people might ask questions and want CITES permits from us. If so, you must immediately drop them like hotcakes,” he warned in his thick Japanese accent.
“Why? What can they do about it?” Newcomer asked, extracting information bit by bit.
“They might be bad people that want to report us to Fish and Wild. You let me know if they bid on any butterflies, and I’ll outbid them using a different name. That way they’ll have no proof. Also, you must keep a list of their names so that we never sell to them,” Kojima advised.
“Yeah, but what if they ask where I get the butterflies from? Should I say they come from you?” Newcomer inquired.
“No, absolutely not! Just say that you get them direct. Don’t ever use my name,” Kojima admonished.
Wasn’t Kojima the careful guy? This was becoming more and more interesting. “How come? Because they’ll think you got the butterflies illegally?” Newcomer asked, fishing carefully.
“Yes. Another thing you should know is how to get around Fish and Wild if they contact you. Just say your boss has all the permits in Japan and that you only ship things out. But don’t worry. Only once did they send their very top guy to my house.” Kojima grinned, as if relishing the memory. “It was so funny. This guy came with a gun and handcuffs on his belt and tried to scare me. He didn’t have a warrant, but I let him in anyway because I never keep illegal material in my L.A. home. That’s because I’m smart.”
Keep bragging, Yoshi. We’ll see just how smart you are.
Newcomer was feeling like the cat that was about to eat the canary. He figured that lunch was over and it was time to get rolling. Only Kojima wasn’t quite finished with him yet.
“Let’s go to my apartment. Maybe I have some mounted butterflies that you can put up on eBay while I’m away,” he suggested.
How cool is this? I’m now being invited to the world’s most notorious butterfly smuggler’s place! Newcomer could barely contain a laugh.
The stakes had just been ratcheted up. Kojima clearly trusted Ted Nelson. It was unexpected, but he and Brooks should be able to roll with it. Besides, no way was he about to let this opportunity drop. After all, how many people got to go inside a smuggler’s lair?
“That sounds great, Yoshi. Just give me a minute to hit the head,” Newcomer said, and excused himself.
He dashed to the bathroom, locked the door, pulled out his cell phone, and gave Brooks a call.
“Hey, there’s been a change of plan. I’m going to Yoshi’s place. Be ready to follow. We’re coming out in a minute,” Newcomer whispered. He barely heard Brooks’s response over the beating of his heart as someone started to turn the knob. Newcomer slipped his cell phone back in its holder and went out to join Kojima to discover he’d already paid the bill.
“Okay, let’s hit the road,” he said, and the two men left the restaurant and got into his car. Pulling out, he made a sharp left onto a busy boulevard.
So far, so good, Newcomer thought, excited to be making headway so quickly with Kojima. He was in for another surprise as Kojima pulled a CD-ROM from his fanny pack. The pouch was proving to be a never-ending treasure trove. It was nearly as good as a magician’s hat. Newcomer never knew what was going to come out of it.
“This is for you. It has all of my picture files with thousands of butterflies. You can use it to post photos on eBay of the butterflies that we offer,” Kojima instructed.
Newcomer would soon learn that among the bugs on the disc were not only many protected species but also endangered ones.
Kojima was chatting away when Newcomer stopped at a light and glanced back in his rearview mirror. Damn! John Brooks’s car was nowhere in sight. What in the hell had happened to him? His eyes frantically searched the road. He must have been swallowed by traffic or gotten stuck at a light. Either way, Newcomer was in trouble without backup. He did the only thing he could immediately think of. He slowed to a crawl, hoping to give Brooks a chance to catch up.
But it was as if Kojima could read his mind.
“You go too slow,” he scolded, and then issued a command. “Turn here!”
Just great, Newcomer thought as he found himself entering an underground garage. Brooks is never going to be able to find me here. Now what do I do?
He quickly hit upon a plan. “Hey, I’ve got to call a buddy that I’m supposed to meet. I want to let him know I’ll be a little late,” he informed Kojima. He’d casually mention Kojima’s address, and that would get Brooks there on the double. He gave himself a mental high-five as he stepped out of the Tahoe and reached for his cell phone only to have the damn thing pop out of its holder, bounce like a spastic gymnast, and land smack on the ground.
Hell! He tried to turn it on, but the phone was dead. Now he not only had no backup, he had no cell phone either. Could things get any worse?
Yep. There it was, that familiar sickening feeling. A wave of panic hit and paranoia wormed its way into his gut as Newcomer now began to have a conversation with himself. Oh, come on. There’s nothing to worry about. You can easily take this guy. Except there’s always a chance that someone else could be in the apartment. And what if Kojima has a gun? Kojima had checked Newcomer’s car as thoroughly as if he planned to buy it, and Newcomer had no idea whether he might have figured anything out. He didn’t trust Kojima for a New York minute. This could very well be a setup.
What Newcomer did know was that the situation was dangerous and he had to think fast.
“Would you look at this? The phone’s just a lousy piece of plastic,” he said, showing it to Kojima while stalling as long as he could.
“The next time you should buy Japanese,” Kojima replied with a laugh, walking toward the building’s stairwell. Newcomer was running out of time and had to quickly decide what to do.
He could always pretend to be hit by a sudden attack of stomach cramps and postpone the visit. Or he could suck it up like his heroes Reed and Malloy, G.I. Joe, and Kwai Chang Caine. God knows, he’d learned as a boy how to instantly invent a story, come up with a good excuse, and spout just the right line. He’d bluffed his way through plenty of situations before.
Newcomer made up his mind. He was bound and determined to get inside Kojima’s apartment. He wasn’t about to back down now, but it would have to be quick. He probably had twenty minutes tops before things could get ugly. Brooks would most likely call the LAPD if he couldn’t find Newcomer or reach him by phone. Then the police would come looking for him and kick down Kojima’s door. Once that happened, Newcomer’s cover would be blown and the case would be game, match, and over.
He glanced at his watch and marked the time. I guess this is what I signed up for.
He followed Kojima inside the white stucco building.
Kojima opened the apartment door, and the stench that raced out took Newcomer by surprise. Good Lord, what was that smell? It was nearly palpable, as if something had died inside and never been removed. A shudder ran down Newcomer’s spine as the scent wrapped itself around him tight as a shroud.
He took a step inside the dark apartment, and his skin began to crawl. There was something in this place that definitely creeped him out. Another step and whatever was sour now took root in his stomach. There was no escaping it. The putrid odor most likely permeated the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, and hall. It contaminated the air and seemed to cling to the walls like an invisible veil of fog. Then it dawned on him. It was the reek of insects. The place had to be filled with bugs, both dead and alive. It was Newcomer’s worst nightmare come true.
He took a quick look around. What in the hell was this place? The movie set for Psycho? The living room was a cluttered jumble of junk, and the soiled curtains were closed. Maybe it was a good thing. At least that way he couldn’t see all the dirt. What he did see was that almost every available spot was piled high with Tupperware containers and wooden boxes for transporting butterflies. The remaining space was littered with an assortment of empty fast-food cartons. As for the floor, it was fertile ground for a mountain of Japanese newspapers and magazines.
A rumpled blanket partially covered a shabby old couch whose fabric was a pop-art array of stains. One cushion was gently caved in like a fallen soufflé. It must have been where Kojima sat and watched TV. The only items out of place were the antique Japanese screens lining the walls. There were also a few beautiful old vases hidden like gems among all the crap.
Newcomer’s fingers crept to the back of his neck, where he was certain a bug had begun to crawl on him. Nope, nothing there. It was the feeling that he was being watched. He craned his neck and peered down the hall. He could see into the bathroom, where a black ring of grime encircled the tub. A layer of dust and dirt seemed to cover everything. Even the doorknobs looked filthy. There was probably a bedroom, but no way was he about to go explore. He had no backup, no phone, and no gun. It wasn’t worth the risk just to satisfy his curiosity. The wiser choice was to stay put by the front door, when he realized that Kojima had disappeared.
“Come here. I want to show you something,” Kojima called out, sounding excited as a child.
Newcomer followed his voice into a room that was more a science experiment gone wrong than a kitchen. There were no dishes, pots, or pans in sight. Instead, plastic containers were haphazardly stashed everywhere. They were precariously balanced in the cupboards and on the counter. Kojima opened a decrepit refrigerator and containers filled all the shelves. What made it particularly macabre was that bugs were entombed inside. Some were trying to climb out of their plastic mausoleums, while others had simply given up and died.
Kojima reached for one box, his fingers seeming to transform into ten wriggling worms as they eagerly lifted the lid and slid down into the dirt. Watching him poke among what looked like dozens of slithering grubs, Newcomer now knew why Kojima’s fingernails were black.
“These are Dynastes. They’re building their cocoons. When I return from Costa Rica they’ll be ready to hatch. Then I can kill them and take them back to Japan to sell,” he said, his voice gurgling with delight. “I’m the only person in the world who can successfully breed them because I know the trick.”
Kojima placed the box back in the kitchen cupboard next to hundreds of other bugs waiting to cocoon. Then he grabbed a container that held a dead black beetle the size of his fist.
“This is Dynastes hercules,” Kojima nearly crooned while prodding it with his fingernail. “They fly at midnight, so I have to shine a bright light to catch them. They don’t bite, but they grab on to my hands and it’s very painful.”
The sharp stench of mothballs seared Newcomer’s nose as Kojima now tried to hand the bug to him. Was he out of his ever-loving mind? No way was he about to touch that thing. I’ve got to get out of here now! Every fiber in Newcomer seemed to scream as Kojima brought the bug closer. Newcomer’s arms remained plastered by his side, and he did his best not to flinch. Enough was enough. It was time to get down to business. “So, do you have some butterflies for me?”
Kojima put the bug down and walked into the living room, where he began to rummage through a pile of boxes.
Phew! That was close.
“Sorry everything is so messy,” Kojima mumbled. “But I’m packing to move back to Japan.”
“You’re going back to Japan?” Newcomer asked, caught by surprise. “But what about our business deal?”
Kojima thought it was sweet. The boy actually seemed to care about them working together.
“It’s no problem. The Internet is the future for selling butterflies. Business will be very good,” Kojima assured him. “Besides, I’ll still keep an apartment in L.A., but not this one. Oh, look what I just found.”
He pulled an eight-by-ten photo from a cardboard box. It was a picture of himself dressed in a slalom suit skiing through a gate decorated with little Olympic symbols.
“I used to be a very good skier when I was young. In fact, I was an alternate on the Olympic team in Sapporo,” he boasted.
Kojima next produced a head shot of a well-known TV actor.
“And here’s a photo of my very good friend Sonny. We met at Sports Club/LA in Beverly Hills. I have this apartment for another two months. After that, I might move into one that he owns in Marina del Rey. It’s much nicer. There are some very bad people in this building. I’ve had a lot of trouble with one guy in particular. This is not a nice place.”
Kojima was referring to his neighbor and former friend, Alexander Denk.
DENK IS A BODYBUILDER who has won the titles Mr. Vienna-Austria, Mr. Natural Universe, Mr. World Musclemania, and Mr. Natural Super Bowl Champion, among scores of others. His résumé of skills reads like a laundry list. He’s a personal trainer, a professional chef, a nutrition expert, and a real estate investor, along with being an actor and a stuntman. He’s actually been Arnold Schwarzenegger’s body double in five films. Denk even looks a bit like the Austrian-born bodybuilder California governor. He calls himself “the Denkster” and has an old video running on YouTube. He once wanted to be the next reality fitness star.
His biggest claim to fame, however, is having worked on Anna Nicole Smith’s reality show. He went from being her chef, to her personal bodyguard, to her lover. He announced after her death that there was a good chance he was also the father of her baby.
Kojima and Denk met at a popular breakfast spot when Kojima still had his travel agency. He snagged a discount airline ticket for Denk, and a friendship ensued. According to Kojima, Denk was usually short of cash, and Yoshi frequently paid for his meals. Kojima lived in Mount Olympus at the time and would hire Denk to watch his pets whenever he went away. He once told Denk that he had to leave on a trip because National Geographic was going to do a story on him.
“Yoshi had three or four dogs in cages for months on end and there was shit all over the place. One dog was all white, and the other was a pure black German shepherd. The poor things would go crazy whenever he’d finally let them out. He didn’t treat them right,” Denk complained.
But what amazed him most were all the bugs in Kojima’s place. There were beetles in containers that took up every square inch of the kitchen. It was one reason why Kojima never ate at home. The other was because none of the cooking appliances worked.
“He also had two parrots and betta fish in amazing colors that no one had ever seen. The guy made money at whatever he touched. But the house was a total pigsty. In truth, I don’t know how he could live that way,” Denk confided.
What now looked like a slum had once been a beautifully maintained luxury home with a million-dollar view, a large pool, a black stone floor, and expensive Japanese antiques. That was when Charles Hanson used to visit. Denk had seen photos of the two together and had even met the tall, elegant man with a shock of white hair a few times. Kojima and his father-in-law were no longer as close but still remained good friends. The only thing Denk didn’t know about was Kojima’s wife and son.
Except for when he was with Denk, Kojima now spent all his free time at home alone mounting butterflies
“For me, he was a genius, this guy. Yoshi had a brilliant mind. He gave me butterflies and a big Sony TV,” Denk reminisced.
But there was another side to Kojima, which came out whenever he felt he’d been double-crossed.
Denk became determined to learn everything there was to know about the insect business, and for that there was no better teacher than Kojima. He was especially fascinated by the thousands of butterflies that Kojima kept stashed in his walk-in closet. Collector’s wooden boxes filled shelves that stretched all the way up to the ceiling. There were even a few Queen Alexandras, an endangered species, among the lot. Another closet held hundreds of plastic containers with still more butterflies piled high, their wings folded as if they were sleeping.
The two men began to travel together to Payson, Arizona, to collect Grant’s rhinoceros beetles. People were always amazed to see the Japanese dealer chasing after bugs with the large muscle-bound Austrian bodybuilder by his side. They looked like a modern-day version of Mutt and Jeff. The two would gather eight hundred bugs at a time and wipe the area clean. However, the men eventually had a falling-out, over money.
Kojima’s travel agency took a nosedive after 9/11. He soon began dodging not only creditors but also the state of California. He hadn’t paid state income tax for the previous four years, and the amount due had climbed to $42,656.33. Kojima had managed to cleverly elude the tax collector so far by listing his address as what turned out to be a drop box. But some creditors had caught a whiff of his scent and were beginning to close in on him.
Kojima decided it was time to put the house up for sale, get what money he could, and vamoose. It just so happened that Denk knew the right buyer. He also thought it was understood that Kojima would pay him a commission for his part.
Kojima received six hundred thousand dollars. But his problems weren’t over just yet. He now had nowhere to live. It was impossible to rent a place without a credit check, and Kojima was still on the run from creditors. Denk flexed his muscles and once more came to Kojima’s aid. This time he pulled a few strings with the owner of his apartment complex.
There was just one hitch. Kojima explained that the apartment would have to be in Denk’s name, along with the phone and utilities. After all, he was still dodging creditors. Denk had yet to receive the commission he felt was due him and had little choice but to reluctantly agree.
Kojima proceeded to ditch the two parrots, the remaining fish, and most of his dogs. He moved in, bringing with him a couple of thousand bugs and butterflies, one German shepherd, and all his antiques.
Five months later, Kojima filed a police report claiming that some of his things had started to vanish. He suspected the culprit was Denk.
An investigation was launched and police interviewed witnesses who denied Kojima’s account and questioned his credibility. As a result, Denk was never charged. The two men haven’t spoken since.
“I THINK I MIGHT HAVE FOUND something for you,” Kojima said, and opened a wooden box.
Newcomer gazed at each luminous birdwing butterfly inside, finding it hard to believe they were real. They looked like multicolored rainbows fallen from the sky, their wings a fantasia of Technicolor glory.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry. These are no good after all,” Kojima said abruptly in what seemed a deliberate tease. He closed the box and quickly put it away. “I must have already sent the ones that I was thinking of back home to Japan.”
What? Newcomer looked at him in disbelief. Kojima had to be kidding. Wasn’t this why he had brought him to the apartment in the first place? “That’s okay, Yoshi. They look fine. We can start with these,” Newcomer said, itching to get his hands on them and leave. Time was ticking away.
“No, no. They don’t have the proper species identification you need for writing descriptions. Besides, these are not perfect. We can only sell flawless specimens on eBay, otherwise customers will complain. Don’t worry. I’ll bring new ones back for you from my trip,” he promised.
Newcomer snuck a look at his watch. His hourglass had officially run out. He had to leave now or risk blowing the case.
“Then I guess it will just have to wait,” he reluctantly conceded, and began to inch his way toward the door. “Listen, I have to meet my friend, so I’m afraid I have to go.”
“Really? You need to leave so soon?” Kojima asked, clearly disappointed. “I guess you probably also have a girlfriend to see, right?”
Newcomer stood still for a moment as every nerve in his body strained. That wasn’t a siren in the distance, was it? “Sure. I have lots of girlfriends, Yoshi. I like to play the field.” Keep it vague, Newcomer reminded himself.
“That’s good,” Kojima mumbled glumly, appearing to be momentarily distracted. Then he snapped back to attention. “I think we should meet once more before I leave for Mexico and Costa Rica. We still have some things to discuss.”
Sure, whatever. Just get me out of here before the troops arrive. “That sounds great, Yoshi. Why don’t you give me a call?” he suggested while reaching for the door.
Newcomer’s palm itched as soon as it touched the knob. The surface felt gritty, and his nerves were about to explode. He beat a hasty retreat out the door, ran down the stairs, jumped into his Tahoe, and raced to the nearest pay phone. He had to reach Palladini before what had turned into a comedy of errors ended with a police visit.
His words flew out in a rush when Palladini got on the line. “There was a screwup! Brooks lost me in traffic and my cell phone broke,” he said in one breath
Palladini took it in stride. “It’s okay. We’re in the middle of L.A. I knew you could handle yourself and that everything would be fine.”
It was Brooks who chewed him out. “Hey, you were only supposed to have lunch with Kojima. Going to his place wasn’t part of the plan. What the hell happened to you after that?”
“What do you mean, what happened to me? What happened to you?” Newcomer shot back.
He discovered that things had quickly gone awry after Brooks hit a stoplight.
“By the time it turned green, you were gone. Worst of all, you didn’t answer your damn cell phone! What’s wrong with you? I had no idea what was going on,” Brooks exploded.
He’d freaked out while trying to locate Newcomer’s Tahoe for the next thirty minutes. There was no way for him to know the vehicle was safely tucked away in an underground garage. Making matters worse, Brooks had attempted to do a one-man surveillance in unfamiliar territory. He’d called Palladini for the address, but Kojima’s former Mount Olympus home was all that was listed on his license. There’d been no choice but to let the situation play out.
Things slid downhill from there. Not only did Brooks get lost in traffic and Newcomer’s cell phone break, but Newcomer then learned that his digital recorder had accidentally shut itself off. There was no official record of the meeting. It was Newcomer’s initiation into the dangerous world of undercover work.
He drove home with the stench of Kojima’s apartment filling his nose and clinging to his clothes like stale cigarette smoke. He raced into his place and jumped into the shower, but no amount of scrubbing could seem to take the smell away. Nor could he erase the image of those bugs desperately trying to climb out of their containers. It made no difference that he’d never touched them. The sensation was as if he had bugs crawling all over him.
He went to sleep that night still hearing their legs scratching futilely against the plastic until the insects slowly cocooned and finally metamorphosed. Only then could Newcomer finally go to sleep. He dreamed of fields of dead butterflies, rigid as tin soldiers, all perfectly lined up in rows.