by John Donohue
I nodded at him and we set up for him to repeat it. “I can do my tenshi-nage well. Like so.” He came at me again, a little faster, a bit harder. “And now evade the strike, but he’s still not going down.” I slowly flowed into the technique and let him resist it.
“This is where the temptation to use too much power comes in. It’s a natural reaction: crank up the volume,” I pushed harder. He didn’t budge. I could see the conviction growing in his eyes that I was a talker, not a doer. He wasn’t alone. There were half-hidden smirks growing around the room.
“I could do this all day and a strong opponent wouldn’t go down,” I continued. “So now we get more focused, more efficient. Full speed, please.”
I saw the light go on in my partner’s eyes. This is what these guys lived for: full speed. We set up again and he came at me in a flash. I flowed into the technique and the sticking point where he refused to go over.
My left hand had parried his strike and now gripped his wrist, directing his momentum forward. Theoretically, my right hand should have pushed him, making him wheel a bit and lose his balance. But he wasn’t going to cooperate. Which was the point.
Instead, I took my right hand and made an upright fist with my thumb sticking straight up. I slowly pressed the thumb into the soft area under the jaw, pressuring the base of the tongue. It’s an uncomfortable feeling and the natural impulse is to draw the head back, which he did.
So I threw him.
“You need to make your opponent’s head move if you want to break his balance,” I said to the class. My partner looked surprised, but he stood up again. This time when he came at me, I pressed my forefinger into the point where the jaw hinges under the ear. It’s a nice little pressure point. Again, his head moved and down he went. He made a nice slapping noise as he hit the mat.
“The point,” I concluded, “is to work smarter, not harder. Never use more force than is necessary.” I bowed to my partner, who had taken enough abuse for one day, then to Billy, and to the class.
As I left, I felt the energy of someone staring at me. I turned to find Billy’s hard-case student standing near the end of the mat. You could see the wheels turn in his head as he evaluated my performance. He probably thought he could take me. I bowed in his direction.
“Nice to meet you, buddy,” I said. Then I got out of there before he got a chance to test his theory.
10. Court Warriors
It may be that all this training is paying off. I went home that night uneasy: I felt some sort of psychic barometric shift taking place. It was not a good thing. The Japanese describe seme as the type of pressure and intimidation a master swordsman can force on a lesser opponent, without seeming to do anything. It’s unseen but nonetheless real. I had that sense of something pushing against me, probing my weaknesses.
If I had to explain it to someone, I don’t know whether I could. There was a nagging thought just out of reach of conscious recognition, and I felt that if only I could drag it out things would be clearer. But I couldn’t. It was like trying to gain a sighting of the moon through scudding clouds. All I was left with was a feeling. A storm was building.
And I wasn’t alone. Yamashita was up to something.
He had an explanation, of course, but even as I listened respectfully I got the sense that there was something else going on as well.
Akkadian had gone on with his plans for a gala opening of the exhibit at Samurai House. Even if decency had made him reconsider it—and no one who really knew him entertained that thought for a second—the post murder notoriety would have made the allure of publicity far too strong for Bobby’s underdeveloped ethical muscles to withstand.
He had wanted to kick the night off with a demonstration of some of the best martial arts the New York area had to offer. In keeping with developments, he had gotten more than he bargained for. The old-time sensei wanted in.
The masters tended to keep people like Bobby at arm’s length, but now honor was involved. Because with a little digging, I found out that the wooden sword that was taken the night of Reilly’s murder was not a minor showpiece. It was a bit more obscure than Musashi’s weapon—I could still remember the gleam in Akkadian’s eye when he showed me that picture—but, in many ways, the stolen article was much more significant. It was a training weapon used by a man named Ittosai. The style he had founded, the Itto Ryu, had endured for four centuries and decisively shaped the technique and philosophy of Japanese swordsmanship. If the local sensei were relatively unmoved by Reilly’s murder, they felt the theft of Ittosai’s weapon to be a direct affront, my teacher above all. Ittosai had founded the school of swordsmanship that Yamashita had devoted his life to.
Yamashita had been to the meeting they held with Bobby. The senior sensei all vowed to help find the thief. In addition, the memories of both Ikagi and Kubata would be honored at the gala. The sensei felt that Bobby’s stable of ersatz warriors, commando retreads, and closet ninja were not up to the task, but with the silent condescension of their culture they didn’t tell him that. They insisted, instead, on their inclusion in the events surrounding the display.
Which is why I was there a day before the big event. Yamashita had sent me to make sure that the arrangements for the demonstration space were adequate. Bobby’s staff had given assurances, but Yamashita refused to believe it. It wasn’t just his contempt for Bobby Kay. It was that, in a matter of importance like a public display, you left nothing to chance. For the Japanese, the pressure of public performance is perhaps more intense than for anyone else. The possibility of technical flaws or accident is always present in a martial arts demonstration. For these men, the types of flaws they might reveal were so subtle that most people would not even notice them. People would, however, notice poor planning or inadequate facilities. Yamashita wanted these possibilities eliminated. It was exasperatingly painstaking, but it was the way you get at his level of competence.
So I went back to Samurai House and I spoke with the display curator. The wooden floor of the exhibition gallery was glossy with polish. You would never know that they had shoveled Reilly into a rubber bag in this very space just a week ago. The curator was a narrow-faced woman who sniffed constantly, as if catching a sudden whiff of something unpleasant. Maybe it was me. She seemed only too happy to let me wander off by myself.
The temporary dividers for the display had been removed, revealing a cavernous space. Behind a vacant performance area, you could glimpse the glass cases and muted lighting of the exhibit itself. Yamashita had given me pretty precise specifications to check. Even though part of me was consumed with a memory of this place as a crime scene, I complied with my teacher’s wishes. I checked for obtruding pillars. I walked the floor surface checking for irregularities and splinters. I made sure the ceiling was high enough. The wall where Ronin had commemorated the murder with his message and signature had been repainted. You would have a hard time identifying the area as the place where Reilly had looked, open-eyed with surprise, into eternity. I was alone in the space where Ronin had left his mark.
I paced the perimeter of the space like a monk in cloisters, focused on an interior reality, a search for something elusive. I tried to re-create Reilly’s last fight. I could imagine the grunts, the hisses of air, the contained lunges. Were they barefoot? On this type of floor, I would have been. Did they speak? What do you say to someone when you realize they’re trying to kill you? I would have saved my breath.
For something important like running away.
But I guess Reilly didn’t use that option. When he finally looked into the eyes of his killer, what did he see? What does anyone see at that moment except the sudden realization that the idea of the ego’s importance is a grand fraud?
In the martial arts, we train to diminish the ego. I’ve been chipping away at it for years, but I hope that someday the eventual blowing out of the candle of self occurs at my own pace and is not thrust on me like some violent, feral storm.
The next night, I stood unco
mfortably at the reception with the Japanese sensei, outfitted like them in the layered robes of court warriors dead for three centuries, while a luminous crowd of well-dressed and underfed art aficionados waited for something to happen.
The sensei, of course, were seething. Standing there, elegant and self-contained, it seemed odd to think it, but it was true. You can’t tell by their expression, but there is an intense flatness the masters get in their eyes when they are truly angry. Looking around that room, I knew they were steamed. It added to the general sensory jumble of the event.
The emotional atmosphere in that room was cluttered. Yamashita wanted me to be more open to these unconscious signals, so I was trying hard to sense things. The vibes I was picking up were not very comforting. People tried to look smooth, but they bounced around like excited electrons. Only the Japanese masters were still. They regarded the crowds, dispassionate and removed, silent judges from another world. They stood there, mute and hard amid the smoothness of tuxedos and flash of jewelry, stark peaks in the sand sea of a rock garden. Waiting.
And I waited with them. Bobby had invited an eclectic mix to the opening. There were the inevitable media types lured in to ensure proper coverage. Given the exhibition, I assumed there were also art collectors here, although it’s not a social circle I’m well acquainted with. Domanova was present, of course. He looked pleased at the prospect of being near so many potential donors, but also petulant that they weren’t fawning all over him.
The lobby and exhibition room had been carefully prepped with discrete lighting and hors d’oeuvre tables. In the whirl, I caught a glimpse of Bobby glad-handing some celebrities. He looked flushed with pleasure at the way the evening seemed to be going, his long face nimbly registering sincerity, amusement, or respect as the character of his various audiences required. Music could be heard faintly at times, but it was drowned out by the ebb and flow of excited chatter coming from the well-heeled crowd. Waiters circulated with champagne in fluted glasses.
Amid the flat sameness of diamond sparkle, white teeth, and formal wear, the martial artists stood around, waiting.
“Bobby Kay looks pleased with himself,” one of Yamashita’s other students observed to me as she sipped her drink. She was one of the newer trainees, and had volunteered to help out. Actually, there wasn’t much to do, so she was making the most of the situation.
“Bobby,” I commented, “doesn’t have the good sense to be worried. He smells money. It tends to cloud other issues.”
“Like what?” she asked and sipped some more of Bobby’s good champagne. She crinkled her nose fetchingly at the bubbles.
I had been watching things for a while and had a whole mental list of things I was worried about. I just smiled and shrugged, but deep down the thought intruded: money cloaks other things. Like the smell of blood.
Even before I arrived, I knew that the only thing the cops had to go on was the martial arts link between both victims. Micky and Art were still waiting for information about whether Ikagi and Kubata had connections back in Japan. But if I was right about Ronin’s attention being somehow attracted to victims who were prestigious sensei, then I thought the presence of some of the area’s most prominent martial artists would be irresistible. Micky’s response was much more succinct: “Oh boy,” he had said, “fresh meat.”
It brought me back to the state of heightened anxiety I was experiencing. I thought about why the sensei were here: they thought that Ronin was going to strike again. And soon. They weren’t alone. What little I had been able to find out from my brother suggested that the NYPD thought so too. We all knew that Ronin’s last message meant that he wasn’t done yet.
This was the source of another complication. There was a fair amount of public pressure to solve the case. The potential for media hype was irresistible, and Micky’s lieutenant had made it clear in no uncertain terms that things were not moving fast enough to satisfy the mayor, the commissioner, and The Daily News. As a result, a whole team of detectives had been put on the job. Micky looked on it as less than a ringing endorsement of his investigative skill.
To make things worse, the newspapers told me that the Japanese community had posted a $25,000 reward for the return of the sword. Micky and Art thought the reward would draw every lunatic in the five boroughs and make their job that much harder. My brother was almost speechless with rage.
You couldn’t get a good sense of Micky’s lack of contentment from looking at him. The Japanese are not the only people to have perfected the poker face. He and Art were here tonight, circulating discreetly around the fringes of the reception. Their suits were appropriately dark, but the wider jacket cut you needed for a shoulder holster tended to make that elegant cocktail-reception look somewhat hard to achieve. Micky’s blue eyes swept over the crowd, a searchlight groping for a subject. Art looked tense. Neither was really sure that Ronin would show. Yet both men suspected, in a visceral cop way, that the mix of Bobby’s odd guest list and the pattern of Ronin’s crimes made it a good bet that something was going to go down. Besides, Micky had reminded me tightly, there was all that reward money.
But for my brother, like the sensei, it wasn’t about money. It was about pride. Something had been taken. It needed to be returned.
As one of the players in tonight’s demonstration, I wasn’t really free to roam the party. I caught Art’s eye and jerked my head to one side to signal them to come over.
“Technically,” Art informed me, “we’re not even supposed to be here. Violation of Lieutenant Colletti’s orders. He wants us to rework the paper trail.”
“Oooh, Art,” Micky spat, “a violation. We’ll get in trouble. Maybe a note home to our fucking mothers.” His partner looked around. No one had noticed or overheard: the wash of noise from the crowd had drowned Micky out. But Art had seen Micky like this before and wanted to head off the explosion.
“Hey, Mr. Furious. Relax.”
“Relax yourself,” Micky shot back. “Pussy.”
“Asshole.”
“C’mon, guys. Let’s keep it down.”
You could see the muscles in Micky’s neck and jaw work a little with the effort involved in rage suppression. He finally let out a thin stream of air, like a pressure valve gradually bleeding the needle down off the red zone. “OK. OK.”
“Look, I’m here, all right?” Art offered to him. You could tell he didn’t want to be, but the alchemy between cops, particularly partners, is strong.
“So what’s the deal?” I asked them, hoping that conversation would further calm Micky down.
“Three things,” Art answered. The thick. freckled forefinger came up. “One, if Ronin is stalking martial arts celebrities, he’ll be here. Tonight’s an opportunity for him to scope them out in the flesh. Probably too good to pass up. And if he’s here, we want to see whether we can spot him.”
“Probably a long shot,” Micky grumbled. “I gotta believe there’s something else we don’t see here. But what’s the harm?”
“Other than to our careers,” Art reminded him.
Micky started to respond and the “F” sound had already escaped him before he realized it. “F . . . orget about it,” he said flatly. “Just two private citizens out for a night on the town, watching my brother prance around like an extra in Shogun.” He eyed my outfit. For a formal demonstration of this type, the normal practice uniform is replaced by much more formal wear. I had on a gray hakama and black silk top that bore the small mon, or crests, of Yamashita’s family on both sides of the chest and the back. My feet were covered in white tabi, split-toed socks, and I wore zori, the straw sandals of old Japan. My brother concluded his assessment. “Nice dress, Connor.”
“Thanks, Mick. Always so supportive.” I turned to his partner to pick up the thread of their analysis. “And what’s the second reason you’re here, Art?”
He looked at me with a deadpan expression. “Two is that if there’s some connection between the victims some of your martial arts masters know the re
ason, and they’re just not telling us. We wanna scope them out.”
“Come on,” I protested. “You really think these guys are holding out on you?”
Art sighed. “First rule of being a cop: everyone lies.”
My brother nodded. “And the third reason,” Micky jumped in, “is that nobody throws me my gun and tells me to run. Nobody.” He grinned as he said it, but it wasn’t a pleasant look.
I looked at Art with raised eyebrows. He was grinning too. It was nicer to look at.
“James Coburn,” Art answered. “The Magnificent Seven.”
I paused to digest the return to cinema. These guys could shift gears so quickly that it was hard to keep up with them. But I tried. “It didn’t end well for his character as I remember,” I reminded them.
“Shut up, Connor,” my brother ordered.
The crowd ebbed and flowed around tables of food and waiters bearing trays. I stood near the performance area, trying not to let the parry atmosphere distract me. It was almost show time.
Bobby’s demonstration had been effectively hijacked by the sensei. Masters of their arts and of the etiquette that cloaked them, they had put together an impressive plan for the display. Armed and unarmed systems would be featured. Reflecting etiquette, the senior ranking master in the senior art form—kendo, the way of the sword—headed the list.
Asa Hiroaki Sensei was compact and dignified, possessed of a gravity created by the accretion of experience. Iron-gray hair was swept back from a wide brow. His eyes glittered black, peering at you over high cheekbones like a rifleman taking aim over a parapet. His lips were thin, as if pressed flat by the effort of forty years of training.
Even Yamashita respected him. Kendo is an art form inspired by the fencing techniques of the samurai. It includes free sparring using split bamboo foils known as shinai, and trainees wear elaborate armor for protection. Kendo is fast, elegant, and furious, but it’s a highly stylized fury. Asa was a master of the art and combined dignity and elegance with lightening reflexes.