Haiku (15 page)

I performed the forms as if underwater. Each movement correct, but radically slower than would be acceptable to judges.

Target watched. Target always watches. I could not discern any unusual alertness in his posture, or any change of expression.

Lamont watched as well. He was not watching me; he was on guard. Lamont believes this city’s streets are fields of gazelles, watched by lions. Any gazelle that appeared too crippled to outrun the lions would quickly become their target.

I had learned many things from Lamont over the years, but this lesson had been taught to me before Lamont had been born. Some might reason that The Homeless would
enjoy a kind of immunity, because preying on obviously impoverished individuals would be profitless. But the war had taught me well. Vulnerability is the sadist’s ultimate aphrodisiac. My first night on that park bench had merely confirmed what I have known ever since an evil sergeant had ordered a young boy to accompany him to his final resting place.

I had not performed a true kata for many years, yet I was unsurprised at the fluidity of my movements. The body retains muscle memory long after the limbs and joints and tendons have lost their ability to execute what the mind commands. Age has not altered my lifelong habits of self-maintenance, and years of living without a home had provided endless opportunities for me to maintain the flexibility needed for survival.

Three times I performed the micro-motioned kata.

Then I turned to Target, bowed, and said, “Now it is your turn.”

“Turn! Churn! Burn! Learn!” he clanged.

I stood, unmoved.

Lamont lit a cigarette.

All around us, people enjoyed their lives. At a distance.

Just as Lamont was grinding out the stub of his cigarette in disgust, Target stepped into the exact spot I had vacated.

He breathed deeply several times. Then he imitated my kata to such a stunningly correct degree that I was shocked. Certainly, kata is initially taught in slow motion. But mine had been no beginner’s kata; it would have been for advanced students only. Yet, by his third repetition, the difference between Target’s movements and mine would require an expert’s eye to discern.

I bowed to Target. More deeply this time. He
returned
the bow—the first time he had ever done so.

Gray butterflies of fear hovered over the happiness in my heart. Had I erred yet again? In my desire to teach Target certain techniques which would enable him to assist us in loading a van with Brewster’s books, had I awakened a dragon?

Because, through teaching, I had learned: Target was an idiot savant of violence.

That knowledge taught me that true humility could never be mine until I progressed beyond my standard refusals of the mantle of leadership the others always sought to place upon me. In speech, respect and condescension are too closely allied. Only conduct conveys truth.

“How do you want to do it?” I asked Lamont.

“Dope dealers, they
sound
perfect. But you look close, they’re strictly a no-go,” Lamont told us all that night.

“Tactical?” Ranger asked, as tranquilly as a stick of dynamite with an unlit fuse. In his vernacular, it was not “on” yet.

“Kind of,” Lamont said. “The big dope-men, they
got
money. And they ain’t about to report getting it ripped off, either. But that kind, they never walk alone. No way we could jack one of them. Even if we pulled it off, there’d still be witnesses. And a whole
bunch
of gunslingers looking to collect the bounty on us, too.”

Lamont looked around the circle, as if expecting some opposition, especially from Ranger. I could feel the others
look toward me, but I kept my entire focus on Lamont, encouraging by example.

Lamont lit a cigarette. Then he said, “The street-level guys, they might be carrying some cash, might not. The only ones
we’d
be able to get to would be holding a few bags, max. You want any more than that, they just steer you to the spot. That means a steel door with a slot, and a couple of shooters behind it, blast anything coming through.”

“What about the roof?” Ranger asked, still without any sign of his psychosis emerging.

“That could work,” Lamont said, perhaps instinctively realizing that a side argument over military tactics would be an error in judgment. “But they’d still get too much advance warning—more than enough to make what we need disappear into a safe or whatever. Remember, all we want is cash, not product.”

I reluctantly admitted the twinge of jealousy I experienced as I observed how skillfully Lamont had acknowledged the value of Ranger’s input while not allowing it to distract the others.

“Not many people carry real cash,” Michael said. “Even the most legit citizen probably doesn’t walk around with a couple of grand in his pocket. It’s all plastic now.”

“Professional gamblers?” Brewster said.

When he got no response, he took it for a lack of understanding, and gave us all a short course on mythical men who worked some kind of “circuit.” Pool hustlers, card players, dice men … all traveling about the country, their pockets stuffed with money so they could “stake” themselves into “the big game” in whatever town they came upon.

“Take too long to find one,” Lamont skillfully dismissed the idea. I noted how he had finessed what another might have rejected as patently insane, thus achieving his objective without causing hurt. “Besides, like Michael says, they all work off plastic these days. You
really
want to try rolling dice, hit some guy withdrawing from an ATM at night. Chances are, you get a hundred bucks … and ten years Upstate.”

“There are still areas where all transactions are in cash, are there not?” I asked deferentially, thinking of my poor lost Luzanne.

“That closes the circle!” Michael half-shouted, leaping to his feet. “Listen,” he said, sitting down immediately and moderating his voice, as though he understood how close he had come to the edge, “you know where you can always find an ATM? In a strip club. And they have to keep those things
loaded
, you see where I’m going?”

“Hit a
strip
club?” Lamont said, his voice a perfect blend of sarcasm and sneer. Why he saw no need to mollify Michael as he had Ranger and Brewster was not apparent to me.

“No! For Chrissakes, just
listen
, okay? I’m saying, we’re talking street-level, right? So who
always
gets paid in cash besides dope dealers? Hookers, am I right?”

“We’re not—” Ranger began, but Michael cut him off.

“Of
course
not hookers!” he said, indignantly. “How much cash could any of them be carrying at one time, anyway? But what do you think they do with that money, put it in their checking account?”

“They hand it over—” Lamont began.

“To their
pimps,”
Michael finished for him. “There’s two
kinds of pimps: the executive types who run the out-call services, and the old-style guys like in the movies—you know the kind I mean.”

“Black?” Lamont said, again without acknowledging the value of whatever Michael might be saying.

“Damn right,” Michael shot back. “That’s how it is—money players go where they’re allowed to play, am I right? Look at the NBA. There’s guys on the court bringing in mega-bucks, but they don’t own the teams, do they? So, when you see pimps driving flashy cars, sporting all that jewelry, you know
their
girls are walking the street. That means their pimps have got to be out there, too. Keep their eyes on the merchandise, make sure they’re
working
. Probably picking up the cash, too.”

“It’s true,” Lamont said, quietly. “I remember back in the day—”

“This is
today
, man! And it’s still going on, only a little more on the down-low, since the IRS started paying attention. The kind of pimp
we’re
looking for, he’s not into mutual funds or CDs, trust me. His business, it’s strictly cash-and-carry. He’s always got to be ready if any of his girls get pinched. If the cop lets them make a call, you know what
he
needs. Any lawyer he calls that hour of the night is going to want to see green before he stands up at the arraignment.”

“Part of the game,” Lamont acknowledged, a trace of surprised respect in his voice. “Got to have a flash roll, too.”

“And we don’t want one who drives last year’s Caddy, am I right?” Michael said, in his deal-closer’s voice. “The one we want,
his
dream car would be a white Rolls-Royce!”

“This is perfect,” Lamont assured me, later. “Michael’s off on his damn Moby-Dick thing, so he’s out of our way. And the best part is, he’s got Ranger going with him. Brewster can’t play—the boy’s never been blooded.”

None of us are unchained
. I did not “think” this; it was no epiphany. It was not an example of the “insights” I once considered it my duty to share with others, the toxic harvest of the wisdom I had acquired as I descended to “master.” No, this was as if I had just been attacked by a force against which I was powerless. A force of such speed and skill that it could strike and retreat in the same motion.

“Please” is all I said to Lamont.

I sat on the sidewalk, close by a subway grille. Lamont and Target fished on each side of me.

I closed my eyes.

Honesty in all things. Had I truly been so? Had I kept my vow? Achieved my goal? My internal pontifications were proof that I had not. But this was not the source of my pain. I hurt because the truth had come to me: in renouncing all worldly possessions, I finally saw the selfishness inherent in that very act.

Had I merely kept the money I had possessed at the time—not spent it, but stored it somewhere—I might have come to understand that what I had so dramatically rejected as meaningless was merely an extension of the “wisdom” I had been imposing on others. Yes, it had been “my” money. Mine to do with as I wished. But had I been focused on anything
but
myself
, I would have realized that, someday, it might be meaningful to my brothers.

Even a tiny fraction of what I had tossed away would have saved Brewster’s library. Saved his life.

Instead, we were now reduced to desperate measures to achieve the same end. Honor-bound to protect Brewster’s library, Lamont and I were equally bound not to bring harm to any of the others.

Others?
Yes, I answered the contemptuous tone of my spiritual questioner. Ranger, Michael, and Brewster are all fragile, each in his own way. Target cannot even function at a minimal level without attachment to others. Only Lamont and I could survive the incarceration we must risk to obtain the necessary money.

You are their protectors?
We are all protectors of one another, but each in his own way, I answered the implied accusation. Lamont and I are simply the only ones capable of
this
particular task. We are not superior to the others; we have superior skills in some areas, just as they do.

Remember, I admonished my spirit, this plan was not mine, it was Lamont’s.

Lamont longs for his life
.

Thus was the circle of truth revealed to me. Lamont would always be a poet—that was in his soul. But he would not wish to return to that experience. When he speaks with pride about his past, it is always to highlight the difference between the street warriors of a generation ago and the gun-crazed children who call themselves “gangs” today.

Had Lamont worked so hard to convince me that
crime was our only hope so he could be a gang leader once again?

Are the only truly honest people on this earth those others regard as insane?

Once, I might have pondered such a question, telling myself I was seeking the Tao.

Today, my search is for money.

Lamont and Target had been surprisingly successful in the time I was gone—apparently several hours, given the shifting of the shadows on surrounding buildings. We could have ourselves a fine supper once more.

We approached Kabuki, a most superior Japanese restaurant I had been visiting for many years … always via its back door. The proprietor, who felt he “knew” me, had given orders with kitchen staff that I should be allowed to purchase whatever “extra” they had available for whatever money I had on hand.

The proprietor and I had never met in my former life. His knowledge of me was part of whatever mythology surrounded my reasons for walking away from that life, a mythology doubtless developed by former students who were left with the task of explaining the closing of the dojo and the departure of their sensei.

My fluency in Japanese coupled with my humble demeanor probably only enhanced whatever myth the proprietor had chosen to believe. So he honored my unspoken wish that I not be questioned concerning my reasons for living
as I did. I, in turn, honored his generosity by never requesting more food than whatever sum of money I had to offer would reasonably purchase on any given occasion.

Occasionally, one of the workers would surreptitiously enhance the order. I did not know which one was responsible, or if this was some group decision. But since none sought recognition, I could not disrespect the gesture by refusing—as I would have in my former life.

What I did notice was that this enhancement of my food orders did not depend on any single individual, because the kitchen staff was always changing.

Thus, I assumed the proprietor himself had given the instructions.

A man can be humble without lowering himself. A humble man may accept a gift, but must never embarrass those who give anonymously by expressing his gratitude directly.

As we approached the back door that evening, we noticed two Chinese youths exiting. They were dressed alike, in elaborately embroidered silk jackets. They passed by us without reaction of any kind.

“Shadow Riders,” Lamont said, just as we heard the distinctive sound of motorbikes bursting into life.

“What are Shadow Riders?” I asked him.

“Gang boys. You can tell from the jackets. They got their name because they all ride. Not hogs, like the Ching-a-Lings up in the Bronx, little scooters, like you see in those kung-fu movies.”