Irresistible Impulse by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page B

for ten years; and I had not had a conversation in French with a beautiful woman for thirty years. This brief moment has been worth a cauldron of soup, and a phone call to Tibet.”
    “Then, Monsieur,” said Marlene with a slight bow of her head, “you have my most profound gratitude.”
    Outside, in the car, Lucy said, “I like Mr. Tranh, although he’s sort of hard to understand. He’s not a Guóngdùngyàhn —I mean, he’s not Cantonese, is he?”
    “No, he’s a Vietnamese, educated in France—probably an official of some kind. The commies must have given him a hard time when they took over—he looks like he’s been through it. Uh-oh, what’s this?”
    Lucy looked out the car window and said, “Those are those gangsters from the other day, I think.”
    Four oriental youths had just jumped from a Mercedes sedan and entered Tranh’s shop. They leaned across the counter, and one of them started gesturing violently and yelling at the older man. Another unscrewed the top of a sugar dispenser and poured its contents on the floor. A third kicked over chairs and upset tables.
    “Shouldn’t we help him?” asked Lucy.
    “Yeah, if he needs it. But I have a feeling that he may not.”
    In fact, Tranh was speaking calmly to the youth who appeared to be the leader of the gang. Marlene could not see very clearly through the steamed window, but it was obvious that whatever Tranh had said was not something to be lightly borne. The gang leader pulled out a butterfly knife, snapped it open, and leaped over the counter. He grabbed Tranh by the front of his shirt, waving the butterfly knife under Tranh’s nose. Marlene could not see what happened after that: there was a sudden movement, a brief struggle, and the young man was somehow turned around, with his thick hair grasped in Tranh’s left fist. Tranh was holding a thin boning knife in his right hand, the point of which vanished into the kid’s ear. Everyone else was frozen. The kid dropped his butterfly knife. Tranh said something; the kid said something. The other three players began to pick up the upset chairs and tables. Then they backed out, stumbling against one another in the narrow doorway.
    Tranh followed, still gripping the little thug, his thin blade held rigid, an improbable length of steel vanishing into the kid’s ear, the kid’s face twisted into a rictus of pain. Tranh was talking to the kid in a low voice. Suddenly he stopped, withdrew the knife. Blood oozed down the kid’s neck. Tranh delivered a mighty kick against the base of the kid’s spine. The kid went sprawling on the pavement. His friends picked him up, and without another word they got back in their car and drove away, tires squealing. Tranh watched them go, nodded to Marlene and Lucy, and then went back into his shop.
    “Wow!” said Lucy.
    “Wow, indeed,” said Marlene, starting her car. “Very impressive. You know, Luce, I think that whatever Mr. Tranh did in the war, it probably didn’t involve a desk job.”
    “Or noodles either,” said Lucy.

FIVE
    D r. Davidoff came in to Karp’s office later that day, accompanied by Clay Fulton and, somewhat to Karp’s surprise, a man named Aaron Weinstein, who was introduced as Davidoff’s lawyer. Karp and Fulton exchanged a brief look. The detective’s eyebrows rose a quarter of an inch, his broad shoulders somewhat more: I didn’t tell him anything, boss.
    The three men settled themselves in chairs around Karp’s desk. Weinstein, a portly, balding man somewhat older than Karp, projected an air of bonhomie, focusing charm on Karp, noting mutual friends, claiming acquaintanceship with the powerful. He told a small joke. The message: we’re all friends here aiming at straightening out this little difficulty, but on the other hand, we are not pushovers. He did it well; that was what Davidoff was paying him for.
    After the usual five minutes of smiles, Karp opened the real bidding with, “So, Doctor, how did you come to be the