Giri (41 page)

“Me? Run a game on you?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Jack. I can do things to you that wouldn’t make you very happy.”

Decker shook his head. “Yes and no.”

“You mean you and your two friends here are gonna kick my butt?”

“It’s a thought. No, what I mean is as of January first, I’m no longer a cop. I’ve handed in my resignation. If you want to dump on me after that, it might not be so easy. And in any case, I’ll be in a position to deal with it a lot better.”

“I see. Well, you are going to Paris. And you are going to fight in the tournament. And them two very talkative dudes eyeballing me are getting you into shape.”

Decker scratched his head. “Well, I know I should be humble, but the truth is I was in pretty good shape to start. Just needed some tournament brushup, that’s all. I’m holding my own.” Decker, surprisingly, had done a lot better than that. But then he had reason to.

LeClair pushed himself off the bench. “Gettin’ old, Mr. Manfred. I am definitely getting old. Anyway, three strikes and you’re out at the old ball game.”

“You mean Robbie took me twice and you think he’s gonna do it again.”

“Something tells me you think he had something to do with your girl friend’s death in Paris a couple of weeks ago.”

“We both know he did.”

LeClair rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, what can I tell you. You ought to understand how these things work. Informants, making cases, all that shit. Man, you been a player. You got to understand.”

Decker said, “When you see Robbie, give him a message for me. Tell him
sutemi.
Just that one word.
Sutemi
.”

“
Sutemi.
What’s it mean?”

Decker stretched. “You don’t want to double-park in this neighborhood. They hand out tickets like you wouldn’t believe. Merry Christmas.”

LeClair said, “I’ve seen Robbie work out and, Jack, the man’s made a believer out of me. Taking him on is like sticking your dick in a Cuisinart. You’re bound to come up short. He’s got this trainer, an old dude named Seth Robinson, who’s worked with three world-champion boxers. Got to tell you, Mr. Manfred, no way you’ll take Ambrose, assuming you do make it through the eliminations.”

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about. Your case is safe. Your informant will be around to hand you MSC.”

“What can I tell you. I need him.”

“You want him. There’s a difference. Anyway,
sutemi.
He’ll understand.”

Downstairs in his limousine LeClair used his mobile phone to wake up a sleeping Robbie, now in a safe house in the Village. Robbie laughed. “Wow, he said that?”

“He did.”

“No shit. Tell him I said, that’s cool. I can dig it. Tell him I definitely hope we meet, finals, preliminaries, whatever.
Sutemi,
huh?” Robbie laughed again and hung up.

After Christmas, LeClair had a secretary look up the word.
Sutemi
meant to the death.

P
ARIS

Second Sunday in January

In a hotel behind the Cathedral of Notre Dame and facing a tree-lined quay on the bank of the Seine, Decker sat on the edge of his bed and finished threading a needle. The white jacket of his karate
gi
lay across his lap. To his left a second
gi
jacket hung from the brass bedpost. When he had knotted the white thread, Decker reached for a blue envelope lying on the bed beside him and took out several grains of rice, plus a two-inch-square piece of gray cloth. Placing the grains of rice on the inside of his
gi,
near his heart, he covered them with the gray cloth and sewed the cloth to the
gi.

When he had finished, he turned the
gi
over. Good. The white stitches could not be seen. He reached for the second
gi
jacket and repeated the procedure.

The cloth had been cut from the kimono worn by Michi the night she had been murdered. The rice was
semmai,
specially washed rice offered to the gods in the Shinto burial ceremony, where Decker had first vowed to kill Robbie Ambrose even if it meant dying in the attempt.
I am already dead,
Michi had said. Since her death, those words had become true for Decker, too.

He hung the
gi
jackets in a closet that was bare except for his overcoat, the one suit jacket he had brought with him and a single suitcase. Pulling out the suitcase, he placed it on a luggage stand and opened it. Inside was a metal and leather knee brace and two rolled elastic bandages. Decker thought of Robbie Ambrose. An hour ago the two men had been face to face. But only for a moment.

It was Decker’s final run, his last before the start of the
suibin
tournament tomorrow morning. In the Tuileries an early-morning fog hid fountains, ponds and formal flowerbeds. Near the Place du Carrousel, Decker veered to the right to allow three oncoming joggers to run past him. One of the three sprinted ahead, closing the distance between him and Decker.

Robbie Ambrose.

The security guard cupped his hands to his mouth. “Got your message.” He grinned and kept running. Decker slowed down, turning his head to watch Robbie. The two task force agents, whom Decker recognized, slowed down to eye him. No one spoke. And then the fog swallowed up Robbie.

The sight of him brought back memories of Michi’s funeral in Tokyo. Her body laid out in the Shinto, temple, her head toward the north and without a pillow. Hands clasped, white cloth over her face. A table near her head, with
semmai,
water and a sword on it as well, to keep away evil spirits. The burning of incense sticks and incense powder. The chanting of a priest and the mourners leaving their seats to approach him to receive the
tamagushi
branch.

Back in his hotel room, Decker looked at the Polaroid photograph taken of him and Michi at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Arms around each other and smiling. A heaviness came over him and he turned from the photograph to stare at a tiny doll resting on a corner of the dresser. The doll had belonged to Shigeji Shina, second in command of Japanese military intelligence. It had been sewn on the black-hooded funeral robe he had been scheduled to wear on his kamikaze flight.

Decker’s request for Michi’s
hachimaki
had convinced Shina of the detective’s determination to avenge her death. Nothing was said directly about the detective’s killing Robbie Ambrose. It was simply understood that he fully intended to do so. And so in addition to paying for Decker’s return trip to New York, arrangements had been made for two of Shina’s top martial arts instructors, traveling under diplomatic passports, to come to New York and work out with him.

The instructors were demanding, uncompromising. They had drawn blood.

In the end, Decker’s speedy and steady techniques drove the two Japanese back across the empty dojo floor. There was to be no socializing among the three. Shina’s orders. They were to meet only in the dojo, as warriors. At no time had Decker received any praise or encouragement from them. When it was necessary the three communicated in broken English, Japanese and by gestures.

When the last practice session was over, the Japanese changed clothes in the dojo and prepared to leave for the airport. The older one, Daigo, handed Decker the doll from Shina and, for the first time, smiled. Deeply moved, Decker bowed. He had received his praise.

In his Paris hotel room Decker picked up the doll and moved it into the sunlight, admiring its faded but still lovely colors. His mind would have to be in a state of
mushin,
detached, clear, ready to respond to any attack without consciously thinking about it, not bound to any technique.
Shiki soku se ku, ku soku ze shiki.
Form becomes emptiness, emptiness becomes form.

The telephone rang. Decker ignored it. Taking his passport, wallet and room key from the dresser, he left the room to go downstairs for lunch.

After eating and taking a short walk, he returned to the hotel, checked with reception and learned that the caller had been Valerie Sparrowhawk, wishing him good luck tomorrow. She did not know his true purpose in coming here.

There was a telegram from Ellen Spiceland, also wishing him luck. Ellen, who suspected what her partner planned, had said nothing to him about it. She had held him and cried and said, “Do what you have to. Just, just …”

And she said no more.

The two task force agents angrily banged on the door of the Champs Élysées hotel suite they shared with Robbie. “Okay, asshole,” said one, “open up. We know you took the key from downstairs. Open this fucking door. We want to talk to you.”

The door opened and a grinning Robbie bowed, then turned to walk away.

One agent, heavier than Robbie by thirty pounds, grabbed his elbow.

“Son of a bitch, I want to know where the fuck you went when you ran off like that and left us with our thumbs up our asses. You know you’re not supposed to be out of our sight. I got half a mind to put your ass on a plane back to New York. I ain’t impressed with this karate shit—”

Robbie pivoted until they were back to back and, in the same motion, drove his elbow into the agent’s kidney. When the agent released his grip Robbie smashed his heel into his instep, then dug his fingers into the agent’s throat, twisted and pulled. Just hard enough. The agent gasped for breath.

Robbie smiled. “Go for your gun, dipshit, and you’ll never talk again. You won’t swallow right, you’ll have trouble breathing and your neck’s gonna look like a dog tried to eat it and gave up halfway through the meal.”

The second agent said, “Okay, okay, everybody cool out.”

Robbie, nose to nose with the stricken agent, said, “If you ever,
ever
lay a finger on me, I’ll break it off.”

Robbie took two steps back. “Okay, dipshit, now you can go for your gun. Go on. Take out the fucking gun and blow me away. But the moment I see your hand move—”

Neither agent saw what happened next. In the blink of an eye Robbie threw a kick and stopped with the edge of his foot less than an inch from the stricken agent’s face. The second agent’s eyebrows rose. He had never seen anybody move like that Jesus.

The agent who had grabbed Robbie now stroked his own throat. Better try diplomacy. His voice was hoarse. “We were just doing our job. You ran off when we turned to look at Decker and we didn’t see you for an hour.”

Robbie scratched his temple. “Felt like doing some sprints and being by myself is all. Hey look, I’m here, ain’t I? Lighten up, man. I waited for you guys before eating. I’m starving. What do you say we go downstairs and get some steaks.”

He clapped the big agent on the back. “What LeClair doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

In the elevator going downstairs Robbie touched the gold stud in his ear and thought of the whore he had just killed. Blonde, young, driving around in her own car. Her body was still in the car, parked in the Bois de Boulogne. Well, the lady didn’t belong to her pimp anymore. She belonged to
Hachiman Dai-Bosatsu,
great Bodhisatva, god of war.

In the cold night Decker stood across from the Hotel Richelieu and stared at it for almost an hour. In his mind he heard the liquid and gentle sounds of the thirteen-string
koto.

Tokyo. Yasukuni Shrine. “Even if we die separately, we shall meet again and bloom in the garden here, which is a haven for all flowers.”

“We will meet here after death, Michi. I promise.”

At seven o’clock Decker got into a cab and returned to his hotel. After leaving word that he did not want to be disturbed, he lay down on his bed. And wept until sleep brought darkness to blot out the pain.

Paris

8:05
A.M.
the next day
…

First Day of the
Suibin

Tournament

Decker sat in the practically empty Arène des Sports, Paris’s newest and most up-to-date arena, surrounded by over six hundred contestants. With a capacity of twelve thousand, it was shaped like an amphitheater, rows of beige leather seats rising one above the other. Its thick glass and steel roof caught the early morning sun, filling the gleaming wooden floor below with alternate patches of shadow and soft yellow light. Reporters, photographers, television cameramen and tournament officials gathered in front of the seated contestants. The
karatekas
represented over eighty-three countries. Some, Decker noticed, had brought wives or girl friends. After all, a trip to Paris was a trip to Paris.

Preliminary eliminations would begin at 8:30 sharp and last until six this afternoon. For the winners it would be a test of stamina, fighting several opponents in one day with few breaks in between. For the losers, today could be their last at the tournament. One loss meant you were out, and with it went the seven hundred dollars entrance fee and whatever traveling expenses you might have incurred. By tomorrow at least half of the contestants would have been eliminated.

Semifinals and the final match were to be held Friday, the last day. The two men who survived the semifinals would have a fifteen-minute rest before facing each other. Decker, his knee brace, elastic bandages and
hachimaki
in his hands, listened as the rules were read in English, French, German, Spanish and Japanese. Decker decided not to turn around and look for Robbie Ambrose. But he felt himself being watched.

Each entrant had already signed a waiver exempting tournament organizers from liability for injuries or death. No contact. Repeat, no contact. This tournament was a return to classical fighting, to traditional karate. Light contact was sometimes permissible, but only at the referee’s discretion. That stipulation drew a few snickers.

Points were to be scored on effectiveness of “killing blows,” based on technique, spirit and sportsmanlike attitude. Deliberately stepping outside the fighting area could cost a fighter the match. A reprimand from the referee meant automatic awarding of two points to the opponent.

The fighting areas were to measure eight yards square. Semifinals and finals would be fought on a single raised platform in the center of the arena. Preliminary bouts would have one referee, with four judges at outside corners of the fighting area. All matches had timekeepers and recorders. Double that number presided over semifinals and finals.