Giri (8 page)

She touched his lips with her fingertips. “Don’t be scared. I’m not asking you to love me. I’m just saying you don’t even have to be kind. Just act kind, that’s all I’m asking.”

For Decker, it was the most uncomfortable moment of the night, a time when he was reminded that he was hiding, pretending to be something he wasn’t. A part of him knew that one day he would be found out and the one who’d get hurt would be beautiful, trusting Romaine. He did not love her. He could, however, act kind.

It was dawn when he ran out of the park and down Central Park West through still-empty streets to the dojo on West Sixty-second. He let himself in with his keys, locked the door behind him and turned on all the lights. The dojo, once a small hat factory, was a large airy room with high ceilings, polished wooden floor, one mirrored wall and windows that looked out on Lincoln Center and Broadway. Now Decker was home.

In the instructors’ changing room, he stripped, toweled himself down, then wrapped his right knee in elastic bandages. When he had changed into one of the two
gis
he kept in the dojo, he left the small room and walked to the center of the floor, knelt in a formal bow, weight on one heel, bad knee to one side.

He knelt in front of a large photograph of Gichin Funikoshi, a gray-haired Japanese man whose small face radiated dignity and strength. Funikoshi was the founder of modern karate, the man who had systematized the ancient fighting form and introduced it to Japan from his native Okinawa. Decker closed his eyes in meditation and sat silently for five minutes. When his mind was tranquil and clear, he opened his eyes, bowed to Funikoshi and rose.

He began with thirty minutes of stretching exercises, starting with neck rotation, then moving down his body, arms, spine, legs. Spreading his legs he slowly sank to the floor in a perfect split, and then held the position for a full minute. Next, he swung his legs forward, stretching the tendons and muscles in his calves and thighs and spine. On his feet he twisted his trunk left, then right, before stretching it by swinging his upper body in large circles. After shaking his wrists and ankles, he kicked high with both legs, forward, then left and right, and behind. He was warmed up.

For the next half hour he practiced
katas,
selecting
Ten No Kata Omote,
a sparring
kata,
or form, designed to be practiced alone. These techniques were aggressive and powerful in the Japanese style. Nothing evasive, nothing eventual. Power delivered to the opponent.

He began slowly, always with an imaginary opponent before him, one who wanted his life and would not compromise. He stepped forward with his right foot in a front stance, using his right hand to punch to the stomach. Drawing the foot back, he stepped forward on the left side, punching with the left hand. Next he stepped forward, punching right fist to the face, repeating to the left. Then he switched to reverse punch, left foot forward, punching right hand and doing the sequence to the other side. Blocking techniques followed, lower body, middle level and face. When he had done the sequence a second time, he started over again, faster, this time with a
kiai,
a yell, on every punch. He did the entire
kata
at top speed twice more, pushing himself to eliminate seconds from his reaction time, emitting a stronger
kiai,
drawing more spirit and commitment from himself. Punch, block, counterpunch.

Finished, he stretched lightly, then began basic kicks: front, side, back, roundhouse, always starting slowly, gracefully, and steadily gathering speed until his
gi
snapped with his power and sweat poured off him onto the floor. The sun rose, found its way into the dojo, first casting long, thin shadows, then laying down golden carpets and Decker, warm, intense,
committed,
felt the sun on him and met it, wrapped himself in its fire and continued training.

He moved to the mirrored wall on his right. Instead of hand techniques this morning he practiced
empi,
elbow strikes, attacking upward, forward, sideways, left elbow, then right, performing from different stances. He knew who the enemy was now; the enemy was inside him. It was fatigue, hunger, the desire to quit. And he knew he would defeat that enemy, as he had before.

He saw the beauty of his form and was pleased, pleased at its clean lines and purity and he committed himself more, pushing his body, mind and spirit until the salt from his own perspiration blinded him and his arms ached.

When the truth he lived by in the dojo told him he could do no more, he stopped. And walked around the empty dojo, warming down, getting his breath back, satisfied with what he had achieved and allowing his mind to return to reality.

The telephone rang.

Shocked, Decker stopped. The natural order of his life could not have been more disrupted than if someone had taken a shot at him.

It rang again and he stared at it. No one had ever telephoned him here. Not even the department. An angry Decker walked to the enclosure containing two desks, file cabinets, plaques, trophies, photographs and billboards. He never wanted to be called here.

The phone rang a third time. He picked up the receiver.

“Did I disturb you?”

LeClair. Shit

Decker, chest rising and falling, didn’t trust himself to speak. The heat of resentment almost blinded him. Finally, “Finishing up.”

“Good. Eases my conscience somewhat. I understand a dojo’s a sacred place. Don’t want to interrupt a man who’s reaching out for the Almighty. Couple of things I wanted to touch base with you on.”

“LeClair, I’m due in court this morning. We’re filing new charges against the pimp who attacked Kanai’s son-in-law. It’s now murder. I’m supposed to be at the arraignment, since I’m the arresting officer.”

“Heard about Mr. Tada. Shame. Alan Baksted. As they said of Quasimodo, does that name ring a bell?”

Decker untied his black belt and hung it on his shoulder. “Kanai says he’s a partner in the Golden Horizon.”

“Was,
my man. Got blown away last night in Atlantic City. Someone left a half dozen torn fifty-dollar bills on or about his person.”

Frowning, Decker chewed a corner of his lip. “Terminal case of sticky fingers. He took from the wrong people, looks like.”

“It would appear, Mr. Manfred. It most certainly would appear. You and I must have words. For one thing, I’d like to know where Dorian Raymond was last night. That little action in Atlantic City has all the earmarks of a shooter who knows his business. Mr. Raymond, if you remember, is a man you’re to keep an eye on. What time are you due in court?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Gives us two hours—”

“With all due respect, you’re forgetting something. I’m not due to see you today and I do have other cases, not to mention a whole new set of forms to fill out on the late Mr. Tada.”

LeClair hesitated. Decker knew the prosecutor was trying to decide how hard to push. “Well now, Mr. Manfred, answer me this, if you will. When can I expect word from you on Dorian Raymond’s whereabouts last night?”

Survival.

And who gets thrown to the wolves?
Act kind.

Decker closed his eyes. “I know where Dorian was last night.”

LeClair waited.

“Atlantic City. Called his wife from there sometime between nine-thirty and ten
P.M.”

“All right.
Yes, yes, yes. Love it. Now, let’s squeeze from the other side. How about getting in touch with your boy Kanai and finding out if he’s heard from Marybelle about coming up with the money for a share in Golden Horizon.”

“Kanai’s burying his son-in-law, so he’s not going to be any help to us for a while. The burial involves certain rituals, ceremonies. The Japanese regard death as a sacred sorrow. If Baksted got whacked for the pigeon list—”

“Which seems more than likely—”

“—it makes more sense to wait a week or so before approaching Kanai.”

“Kind of glad I went out on a limb for you, Decker, and made the department give you that attaché case. Cast your bread upon the waters, so to speak.”

“Kanai’s no fool. We’ll have to give him something from time to time, just to keep the game going.”

“Like what?”

LeClair wasn’t the type to give up anything. His next unselfish thought would be his first.

“Information,” said Decker. “He smells something’s wrong with Marybelle. He knows when a cop starts asking questions, it’s time to start counting the silverware. If we get proof that Marybelle is a Molise front, Kanai will want to know.”

“Decker, I’ll tell you something that really happened. My grandfather was a black Southern Baptist preacher. Had two sons. One, my uncle, was a hunchback. Now, he heard my grandfather preaching all the time about God does everything perfect, we live in a perfect world, shit like that. One day my uncle says, ‘If God is perfect, how come I’m a hunchback? My grandfather says, ‘He made you a perfect hunchback.’

“So, Decker, it’s obvious that some people are born to suffer and they might as well live with it. Before you start revealing any confidences to your boy Kanai, check with me first. Is that clear?”

“Clear.”

“Hey, hey,” said LeClair. “Lighten up, my man, lighten up. We’ve got a long way to go, you and I. We do it together, we get there in half the time. Incidentally, something you might find interesting about Major Trevor Sparrowhawk. CIA is stonewalling us on him. Won’t tell us dick about what he did for them in Saigon. We knew he hired out to them as an independent, but nobody wants to say what he did. Typical of those fuckers.”

“I can only tell you what I heard,” said Decker. “I heard Sparrowhawk killed for them. So did Dorian Raymond.”

“Doesn’t come as a surprise. We know that in Saigon, Sparrowhawk and Raymond also had contact with a Japanese named George Chihara. He had a daughter, who I think you knew.”

“Michi. We were going to be married. She’s dead.”

“Sad.” LeClair waited a respectful three seconds, then began again. “Cong rocket attack on her home. Bodies found and accounted for. Sparrowhawk and Raymond saw the attack, I hear.”

Decker began taking the bandages from his knee. “A third man was with them. Robbie Ambrose.”

“Mr. Ambrose. Yes, yes. Says here he’s also a karate man. Whole fucking world’s gone chop socky. Okay. Now we get another player in the game. Paul Molise, Jr., known Mafioso who sees a chance to profit by the war and shows his face in Saigon. So we got mob, we got CIA, we got American military personnel and we got one Mr. Chihara, Japanese. Not to mention one Englishman, one Major Sparrowhawk. All huddled around the same campfire. Ponder that, if you will.”

“What about me? I was there, too, remember? Same time. And I knew them all.”

LeClair chuckled. “They hated your guts, Decker, and you know it. That’s your saving grace. You were on one side and they were on the other. You were a marine guard, and if it wasn’t for your relationship with Michi Chihara, you wouldn’t have had any contact with these people. Except maybe Robbie Ambrose. He beat you twice, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Decker, you say you only
heard
things in Saigon about our happy little bunch. What brought them together? What did you hear about that?”

“Money. Narcotics, graft on Vietnam construction projects, diamond smuggling, gold smuggling, gunrunning. Everything was an open secret in Saigon, especially during those last crazy days. Especially then. Here, it’s classified. Over there, even the monkeys knew what was going on.”

“Well, suppose I try the CIA again. End run this time. Use a little influence. Use what you got, to get what you want, they say. Your knee okay?”

“Can’t kick.”

“Jesus, too bad. Well now, tomorrow morning it is. My office, nine-thirty
A.M.
sharp. And be nice to Mrs. Raymond, Decker. Try a little tenderness. Women go for that shit little bit of kindness goes a long way.” Decker hung up first.

That night in the dojo, Decker worked his advanced students hard because he wanted to cleanse himself, to block out what he was doing to Romaine. Dorian’s phone call to her had pulled Romaine closer to LeClair’s ambition than Decker wanted her to be, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Except throw himself deeper into karate.

The dojo, the Manhattan Karate Club, had five instructors, four Americans and one Japanese. Two of the Americans, Nick and Grace Harper, a husband and wife approaching sixty, owned the club. Both had struggled in the martial arts for years, teaching, demonstrating, losing money. In good years, they just managed to get by. Since the late seventies, the dojo had shown a profit, repaying twenty-five years of the Harpers’ sacrifices and belief.

Other instructors were Luke, a thirty-year-old black schoolteacher, and eighteen-year-old Tommy, a Japanese black belt who had been practicing since he was nine. Decker was the best fighter, the best teacher. He accepted no fees for teaching; he did it because he liked Nick and Grace and because they left him alone. Their dojo, near Lincoln Center and just two blocks from Decker’s apartment, was on the second floor of a building that had once been a small hat factory.

Tonight the class sparred slowly, getting the feel of fighting in combinations. Decker, Luke and Tommy circulated among the students, correcting, encouraging, maintaining a tight control over everyone. Fighting could easily get out of hand, especially when tempers flared. And the greatest danger came from beginners, who didn’t know how much damage they could do.

As usual, there were visitors. Some came to watch with an eye toward joining. Others waited for wives, husbands, friends. They sat on benches near the exit, whispering or not talking at all.

Decker rarely paid attention to visitors, especially when he was teaching. But tonight he saw the spectators turn their attention to a woman who stood in the doorway. Decker stopped moving around the floor long enough to let his eyes follow theirs. The woman was Japanese, small, elegant, striking. She wore a Black Diamond mink coat, a fur hat to match. Boots that probably cost a month of Decker’s salary. Reluctantly he turned from her and back to his class. There were more than fifty students on the floor, fifty sets of egos that needed stroking.