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.
"Fax came for you," Charley said.
Hannes walked over to his own desk and uncurled the thermal paper. It was from his immediate superior.
The message was short and to the point:
24 Mar '95 18:55 INTERPOL PARIS PAGE 01
FACSIMILE MESSAGE
TO: Hannes Hockert, New York
FROM: Christophe Boutillier
Your letter requesting immediate reassignment was received. The request is denied.
C. Boutillier
Hannes showed no expression. He took the fax over to a filing cabinet and stuck it neatly in the appropriate folder.
Charley was watching him. "Funny, ain't it?" he said. "Seems we both tried to do the same thing on the same day. And we both struck out."
Hannes did not speak.
"Looks like we're stuck with each other."
Hannes shrugged.
"Way I see it," Charley said conversationally, taking another crisp bite out of his apple and talking while he chewed, "we can do either of two things. One, we can step outside and settle this like school kids. Or two, we can be gentlemen about it. Which is it to be?"
Hannes looked at him. "Since we obviously have no choice but to work together, we might as well behave like adults."
"My thoughts exactly."
Hannes smiled slightly. "And may the better man win."
"Good."
Charley swung his feet off the desk, tossed the remainder of the apple across the room, heard the satisfying clunk as it landed in the wastebasket, and got up.
"Now let's vamoose. Some Park Avenue princess is raising holy hell. Someone apparently broke in and stole her van Gogh. Might as well put her out of her misery."