was here?”
Shrug.
“We’ve got a job.”
“Yeah?” Pike loves to talk.
We walked down-range, collected his targets, then examined them. Every shot had been within two inches of center. He was delighted. You could tell because the corner of his mouth twitched. Joe Pike does not smile. Joe Pike never smiles. After a while you get used to it. I said, “Eh. Not bad.”
We gathered his things and walked back along the dim corridor, me telling him about Bradley and Sheila and the stolen Hagakure and the phone call from person or persons unknown that had scared the hell out of Sheila Warren.
He said, “Threat like that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nope.”
“Maybe there wasn’t a threat. Maybe somebody’s having a little fun.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe the lady made it up.”
“Maybe. But we don’t know that. I figure you can stay with the woman and the kid while I look for the book.”
“Uh-huh.”
Pike was pulling off his sweatshirt when we walked out into the lobby. The fat man said, “Well, it’s about goddamned time,” and then he saw Joe Pike and shut up. Pike is an inch taller than me, and more heavily muscled, and when he was in Vietnam he’d had a bright red arrow tattooed on the outside of each deltoid. The arrows pointed forward. There is an ugly pucker scar high on the left side of his chest from the time a Mexican in a zoot suit shot him with a gold Llama automatic, and two more scars low on his back abovehis right kidney. After the fat guy looked at the tattoos and the muscles, he looked at the scars and then he looked away. Rick Barton was grinning from ear to ear.
Pike said, “Use your shower, Rick?”
“No problem, bo.”
While Pike was in the shower I used a pay phone to call Sheila Warren. “I’m on the way over,” I said. “Bradley hired me to look out for you.”
“Well,” she said, “I should hope so.”
“I’m bringing my partner, Joe Pike. He’ll make sure the house and grounds are secure and be there in case there’s a problem.”
There was a pause. “Who’s Joe Pike?”
Maybe I had lapsed into Urdu the first time. “My partner. He owns the agency with me.”
“You won’t be here?”
“Somebody has to look for the book.”
“Maybe this Joe Pike should look for the book.”
“I’m better at finding. He’s better at guarding.”
You could hear her breathing into the phone. The breaths were deep and irregular and I thought I could hear ice move in a glass but maybe that was the TV. I said, “You were pretty gone last night. How’s your head?”
“You go to hell.” She hung up.
Five minutes later Pike came back with a blue leather gym bag and we drove across town, me leading and Pike following in the Cherokee. When we got to the Warren house, Pike parked in the drive, then got out with the gym bag, walked back, and climbed into my car. Hatcher and his T-bird were gone. I told Pike about Berke Feldstein in the Sun Tree Gallery and Nobu Ishida and the two Asian Task Force cops.
“Asian Task Force are tough dudes,” Pike said. “You think Ishida’s got the book?”
“I think that a couple of hours after I saw him, someone threatened the Warrens. If Ishida doesn’t have it, maybe he’ll want to find out who does. Maybe he’ll ask around.”
Pike nodded. “And maybe you’ll be there when he gets some answers.”
“Uh-huh.”
The twitch. “Nice.”
The front door opened and Sheila Warren stepped out. She was in Jordache jeans over a red Danskin top that showed a fine torso. She put her palms on her hips, fingertips down the way women do, and stared at us.
Pike said, “The lady of the house?”
“Yep.”
Pike opened the gym bag, took out a Walther 9mm automatic in a strap holster, hitched up his right pant, fastened the gun around his ankle, then pulled the pant down over it and got out of the car. Maybe he was saving the .357 for heavy work.
“Be careful,” I said.
Pike nodded without saying anything, then took the gym
Shrug.
“We’ve got a job.”
“Yeah?” Pike loves to talk.
We walked down-range, collected his targets, then examined them. Every shot had been within two inches of center. He was delighted. You could tell because the corner of his mouth twitched. Joe Pike does not smile. Joe Pike never smiles. After a while you get used to it. I said, “Eh. Not bad.”
We gathered his things and walked back along the dim corridor, me telling him about Bradley and Sheila and the stolen Hagakure and the phone call from person or persons unknown that had scared the hell out of Sheila Warren.
He said, “Threat like that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nope.”
“Maybe there wasn’t a threat. Maybe somebody’s having a little fun.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe the lady made it up.”
“Maybe. But we don’t know that. I figure you can stay with the woman and the kid while I look for the book.”
“Uh-huh.”
Pike was pulling off his sweatshirt when we walked out into the lobby. The fat man said, “Well, it’s about goddamned time,” and then he saw Joe Pike and shut up. Pike is an inch taller than me, and more heavily muscled, and when he was in Vietnam he’d had a bright red arrow tattooed on the outside of each deltoid. The arrows pointed forward. There is an ugly pucker scar high on the left side of his chest from the time a Mexican in a zoot suit shot him with a gold Llama automatic, and two more scars low on his back abovehis right kidney. After the fat guy looked at the tattoos and the muscles, he looked at the scars and then he looked away. Rick Barton was grinning from ear to ear.
Pike said, “Use your shower, Rick?”
“No problem, bo.”
While Pike was in the shower I used a pay phone to call Sheila Warren. “I’m on the way over,” I said. “Bradley hired me to look out for you.”
“Well,” she said, “I should hope so.”
“I’m bringing my partner, Joe Pike. He’ll make sure the house and grounds are secure and be there in case there’s a problem.”
There was a pause. “Who’s Joe Pike?”
Maybe I had lapsed into Urdu the first time. “My partner. He owns the agency with me.”
“You won’t be here?”
“Somebody has to look for the book.”
“Maybe this Joe Pike should look for the book.”
“I’m better at finding. He’s better at guarding.”
You could hear her breathing into the phone. The breaths were deep and irregular and I thought I could hear ice move in a glass but maybe that was the TV. I said, “You were pretty gone last night. How’s your head?”
“You go to hell.” She hung up.
Five minutes later Pike came back with a blue leather gym bag and we drove across town, me leading and Pike following in the Cherokee. When we got to the Warren house, Pike parked in the drive, then got out with the gym bag, walked back, and climbed into my car. Hatcher and his T-bird were gone. I told Pike about Berke Feldstein in the Sun Tree Gallery and Nobu Ishida and the two Asian Task Force cops.
“Asian Task Force are tough dudes,” Pike said. “You think Ishida’s got the book?”
“I think that a couple of hours after I saw him, someone threatened the Warrens. If Ishida doesn’t have it, maybe he’ll want to find out who does. Maybe he’ll ask around.”
Pike nodded. “And maybe you’ll be there when he gets some answers.”
“Uh-huh.”
The twitch. “Nice.”
The front door opened and Sheila Warren stepped out. She was in Jordache jeans over a red Danskin top that showed a fine torso. She put her palms on her hips, fingertips down the way women do, and stared at us.
Pike said, “The lady of the house?”
“Yep.”
Pike opened the gym bag, took out a Walther 9mm automatic in a strap holster, hitched up his right pant, fastened the gun around his ankle, then pulled the pant down over it and got out of the car. Maybe he was saving the .357 for heavy work.
“Be careful,” I said.
Pike nodded without saying anything, then took the gym
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