Koko

Singapore. Who knows? The Martinsons were a straight Middle-American business couple. His firm sold a load of bulldozers and cranes throughout the Far East. Then we have two print journalists, Frenchmen who work for L’Express. Guibert and Danton went to Bangkok for the massage parlors. They were longtime friends who took a vacances together every couple of years. They weren’t on an assignment in Bangkok, they were just cutting up.”

“An Englishmen, two Frenchmen, and two Americans,” Michael said.

“A pretty clear example of random selection,” Beevers said. “I think these people were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were shopping or sitting at a bar, and they found themselves talking to a plausible American guy with a lot of stories who eventually took them off somewhere quiet and wasted them. The original Mr. Wrong. The All-American psychopath.”

“He didn’t mutilate Martinson’s wife,” Michael said.

“Yeah, he just killed her,” Beevers said. “You want mutilations every time? Maybe he just took men’s ears because he fought against men in Vietnam.”

“Okay,” Conor said. “Say it’s our Koko. Then what?” He looked almost unwillingly toward Michael and shrugged. “I mean, I ain’t going to no cops or nothing. I got nothing to say to them.”

Beevers leaned forward and fixed Conor with the stare of a man attempting to hypnotize a snake. “I agree with you absolutely.”

“You agree with me?”

“We have nothing to say to the police. At this point, we don’t even know with absolute certainty that Koko is Tim Underhill.” He straightened up and looked at Poole with the trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Celebrated or not-so-celebrated thriller writer and Singapore resident.”

Every man in the room but Beevers all but closed his eyes.

“Are his books really nuts?” Conor finally said. “You remember all that crazy stuff he used to talk about? That book?”

“ ‘The Running Grunt,’ ” Pumo said. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard he published a couple novels—he talked about it so much I figured he’d never do it.”

“He did it, though,” Poole said. Without wanting to be, he was surprised, even dismayed that Tina had not read any of Underhill’s novels. “It was called A Beast in View when it came out.”

Beevers was watching Poole expectantly, his thumbs tucked behind his rosy suspenders.

“So you really do think it’s Underhill?” Poole asked.

“Consider the facts,” Beevers said. “Obviously the same person killed McKenna, the Martinsons, and the two French journalists. So we have a serial murderer who identifies himself by writing the name Koko on a playing card inserted into the mouths of his victims. What does that name mean?”

Pumo said, “It’s the name of a volcano in Hawaii. Can we go see Jimmy Stewart now?”

“Underhill told me ‘Koko’ was the name of a song,” Conor said.

“ ‘Koko’ is the name of lots of things, among them one of the few pandas in captivity, a Hawaiian volcano, a princess of Thailand, and jazz songs by Duke Ellington and Charlie Parker. There was even a dog named Koko in the Dr. Sam Sheppard murder case. But none of that means a thing. Koko means us—it doesn’t mean anything else.” Beevers crossed his arms over his chest and looked around at all of them. “And I wasn’t in Singapore or Thailand last year. Were you, Michael? Consider the facts. McKenna was killed right after the Iranian hostages came back to parades and cover stories—came back as heroes. Did you see that a Vietnam vet in Indiana flipped out and killed some people around the same time? Hey, am I telling you something new? How did you feel?”

The others said nothing.

“Me too,” Beevers said. “I didn’t want to feel that, but I felt it. I resented what they got for just being hostages. That vet in Indiana had the same feelings, and they pushed him over the edge. What do you suppose happened to Underhill?”

“Or whoever it was,” Poole said.

Beevers grinned at him.

“Look, I think this whole thing is nuts in the first place,” said Pumo, “but did you ever consider the possibility that Victor Spitalny might be Koko? Nobody’s seen him since he deserted Dengler in Bangkok fifteen years ago. He could still be living over there.”

Conor surprised Poole by saying, “Spitalny’s gotta be dead. He drank that shit, man.”

Poole kept quiet.

“And there was one more Koko incident after Spitalny disappeared in Bangkok,” Beevers said. “Even if the original Koko had a copycat, I think good old Victor is in the clear. No matter where he is.”

“I just wish I could talk to Underhill,” Pumo said, and Poole silently agreed. “I always liked Tim—I liked him a hell of a lot. You know, if I didn’t have to work out that mess in my kitchen, I’d be halfway tempted to get on a plane and see if I could find him. Maybe we could help him out, do something for him.”

“That’s an amazingly interesting idea,” Beevers said.

2

“Request permission to move, sir,” Conor barked. Beevers glared at him. Conor stood up, clapped Michael on the shoulder, and said, “Do you know what time it is when darkness falls, bats fill the air, and wild dogs begin to howl?”

Poole was looking up in friendly amusement, Harry Beevers—pencil frozen halfway to his mouth—with irritation and incredulity.

Conor leaned toward Beevers and winked. “Time for another beer.” He took a dripping bottle from the ice bucket and twisted off the cap. Beevers was still glaring at him. “So the lieutenant thinks we ought to send a little search party after Underhill, check him out, see how crazy he is?”

“Well, Conor, since you ask,” Beevers said very lightly and quietly, “something along those lines might be possible.”

“Actually go there?” Pumo asked.

“You said it first.”

Conor poured nearly half of the beer down his throat in a continuous series of swallows. He smacked his lips. Conor returned to his chair and took another slug of the beer. Things had just gone totally out of control—now he could sit back and relax and wait for everybody else to see it.

If the Lost Boss says that he still considers himself Underhill’s lieutenant, Conor thought, I am gonna puke.

Beevers said, “I don’t know if you want to call this a moral responsibility or not, but I think we should handle this situation ourselves. We knew the man, we were there.”

Conor opened his mouth, swallowed air, and let the pressure build on his diaphragm. After a second or two he emitted a resounding burp.

“I’m not asking you to share my sense of responsibility,” Beevers said, “but it would be nice if you could stop being childish.”

“How can I go to Singapore, for Chrissakes?” Conor yelled. “I don’t have money in the bank to go around the block! I spent all my money on the fare here, man. I’m sleeping on Tina’s couch because I can’t even afford a room at my own reunion, man. Get serious, okay?”

Conor felt immediately embarrassed at blowing up in front of Mike Poole. This was what happened when he went over his limit and got drunk—he got mad too fast. Without making himself sound like an even bigger fool, he wanted to explain things. “I mean—okay, I’m an asshole, I shouldn’t ought to of yelled. But I’m not like the rest of you guys, I’m not a doctor or a lawyer or an Indian chief, I’m broke, man, I used to be part of the old poor and now I’m part of the new poor. I’m down at sore heels.”

“Well, I’m no millionaire,” Beevers said. “In fact, as of several weeks ago I resigned from Caldwell, Moran, Morrissey. There were a lot of complicated factors involved, but the fact is, I’m out of a job.”

“Your wife’s own brother gave you a pink slip?” Conor asked.

“I resigned,” Beevers said. “Pat is my ex-wife. Serious differences of opinion came up between myself and Charles Caldwell. Anyhow, I’m not made of money any more than you are, Conor. But I did negotiate a pretty