The Ninja's Blade

by Tori Eldridge

  “Yeah? Want a ride?”

  “To where?”

  “Around the corner. I know an alley.”

  I scoffed. “I bet you do.”

  “How much?”

  I checked in all directions and saw the girl I had left watching me from across the street.

  I leaned my hands on the passenger side of the car and bent forward, the way the other girls had, and let the deep-V of my neckline give him a clear view to the skimpy sports bra I wore underneath. Although the guy’s seatbelt kept him strapped in the driver’s seat, I watched for signs of attack as he took in the sights. If this guy made a move, he’d be in for a vicious surprise.

  “Hundred bucks,” I said.

  “What? Who do you think you are, Princess Diana?”

  Princess Di? How old was this guy?

  I pushed away from the car. “Hey, if you don’t want it, drive on.”

  Much to my chagrin, he didn’t.

  “Tell you what,” he said, rolling up beside me again. “Throw in some roleplaying and you got yourself a deal.”

  Seriously? I priced myself high to get rid of the guy, and now he wanted me to play games?

  “What you got in mind?”

  He stared at my breasts and shifted in his seat. “Teacher, school girl. I failed your report and you really want an A.”

  I clenched my teeth and hid it behind a grin. How many times had this scumbag paid for this fantasy? And how many of those girls had been children?

  I opened the door and got into the car. “You really a teacher?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I’m going to work real hard for that A.”

  He turned the corner so fast I had to hold onto the door to keep from falling against him. Before I knew it, we were parked in an alley, just like he promised. He pushed back his seat, took five twenties from his wallet, and placed the bills on the dash. Then he leaned back and smiled. “F’s a very bad grade, little girl.”

  I frowned in agreement. Then hammered my fist onto his groin.

  The man howled in pain.

  “You want to play, scumbag? Let’s play.”

  I grabbed his collar and twisted my wrist to pin his head against his seat with a Hon Gyaku choke. “You ever molest any of your students?”

  He wheezed and twitched his head for no.

  I grabbed his crotch and squeezed. “You sure?”

  “No. Never,” he sputtered through the choke. “I just…”

  I dug my fingernails into his testicles. “You just what?”

  “Pretend! I pay to pretend. That’s it.”

  I released the pressure on the choke as his eyes rolled back. “You will not pass out. Do you hear me?”

  He groaned back to consciousness and whimpered in pain as I dug my fingernails deeper into his groin.

  “Every time you even think about molesting one of your students or any under-aged girl, I want you to remember this pain.”

  “I’m not molesting anyone.”

  “Really? Do you think these girls you pick up on the street are selling their bodies out of choice? You think they’re having fun playing out your sick fantasies? Do you have any idea how young they are? How young your students are? I bet you even have kids. Am I right?”

  Tears welled in his eyes.

  “You sick son of a bitch.” I released my grip and swept his money off the dash and into his lap.

  “I did you a favor tonight. Don’t waste it.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Six

  As I walked back to the boulevard, I let go of my anger and focused on my character. Candy wouldn’t have thought twice about roleplaying for a john. She would have done what he wanted and taken the money. But I wasn’t Candy, and I couldn’t stop thinking about those students. How long before that teacher switched from fantasy to reality?

  I should have gotten his address.

  As I turned back toward the alley, a familiar low-rider pulled up to the curb. As before, Chicano rap blasted from the speakers. The driver flashed his lights, the music quieted, and the passenger waved me over through the open window.

  The Varrio 66 gangsters had found me again.

  I tossed my blonde hair in front of my shoulder and tipped my head so the rim of my cap shielded my eyes from their headlights and scrutiny. If I ran, my cover would be blown, and I’d never have another chance to infiltrate The Blade.

  “Hey, pretty girl. Come over and say hello.”

  I smiled and tried not to think what their buddies had been about to do with Ilya and Kateryna. Were these guys into the same kind of thing—torture and death? As if bidden by thoughts, the visions returned.

  Spot lamps focused on a make-shift bed. Blood-stained chopping block in the kitchen. Ilya chained to a pipe. I closed my eyes against the images and fought waves of dizziness.

  The Varrios laughed. “Come on, baby. Don’t be shy.”

  I opened my eyes and focused on them to steady myself, then advanced a few steps, mindful to keep a couple yards between me and the passenger side door. I wouldn’t risk leaning through the window as I had with the teacher. Bad enough I had given them a clear line of shot.

  I sank into a hip and cracked my gum. “You boys having fun tonight?”

  “We could always have more.”

  I shrugged. “Some fun’s more expensive than others.”

  “Who says we gotta pay?”

  I pointed my finger and winked. “Good one.”

  “Seriously, puta. Who says? I don’t see no daddy protecting you. Who’s gonna stop us from taking what we want?”

  I angled my stance for a fight—left side back to protect my heart—and tipped my head forward so they wouldn’t see the anger in my eyes. Two men in a car with guns. One kunoichi on the sidewalk with a knife. My odds in a fair fight were high. But the likelihood that I could take out the Varrios before they shot me in the face were next to none.

  “Manolo,” I said. “That’s who’s gonna stop you.”

  What the hell was I thinking to name a Latino pimp to protect me from Chicano gangsters? What if they were friends? What if Manolo worked for the Varrio 66? I flexed my knees and prepared to run.

  The driver, who I remembered as Two Guns, dropped his hands and leaned over. I watched for a weapon, but he only patted his buddy on the shoulder. No gun in sight. “Leave her. She ain’t even that cute.”

  As Two Guns cranked up the volume, his buddy mimed shooting me in the head. And then they left.

  When the orange Impala had turned out of sight, I squatted on the sidewalk and buried my face in my arms.

  Why was I doing this? Why was I risking my life for a girl I barely knew?

  Chapter

  Twenty-Seven

  I hugged Farmor’s quilt and watched as the morning light crept into my apartment. As the room grew brighter, the garden carved into my wooden screen came to life. Graceful wisteria. Statuesque herons. A frog hidden in the reeds, tongue extended to catch a fly. How patiently had it waited for its prey? Minutes, hours? In an otherwise tranquil setting, the craftsman had interjected a tiny moment of action.

  I nestled deeper into my pillow with one eye studying the frog. The artist had placed it far from the herons, as if its squat body and unfurling tongue offered comic relief on the path to serenity.

  “What are you telling me, little frog?”

  I slid out of my bed and examined the scene from the frog’s point of view. Tall reeds provided cover from villainous birds poised to strike. No wonder he sat so still. Although frogs symbolized good luck, the little guy would need more than that to snatch his prize and avoid the peril. He needed calm, patience, and the ability to sit in danger without tension so when his target presented itself, he could act instantly and decisively.

  Message received.

  I kissed my finger and planted it on the frog’s head. I had two hours to eat, shower, and address any problems that might have arisen s
ince I last checked my email; but if I wanted to sit without tension, I first needed to burn off my angst.

  Ninjutsu was a particularly difficult art to practice alone because it relied on moment-to-moment interaction, relative positioning, and capturing energy. Without a training partner to attack, respond, and receive, none of these principals could be applied. Wushu, on the other hand, was taught and practiced through intricate taolu forms. The more advanced the level, the longer and more exhausting they became. Unfortunately, all of them required more room than I had in my dojo.

  I settled on aggressive Wushu drills and short taolu passes.

  Once the athletic maneuvers and deep stances had raised my heart rate and warmed up my muscles, I switched into the natural taijutsu of the ninja. Although I couldn’t practice actual techniques, I could shadow box them for exercise and review. I selected the Demon Crusher shoulder lock and imagined Sensei attacking me with punches, grabs, and kicks. With every imagined attack, I made subtle adjustments—guiding here, disrupting there—until I had reviewed the Oni Kudaki technique with dozens of variations.

  Body warmed and mind cleared, I knelt on the mat, pressed my palms together in gassho, and raised them toward the kamidana perched on my vermilion wall.

  The day held endless possibilities. If I didn’t pay attention, I could miss something crucial to my investigation or, worse, stray off my true course. I needed to apply all six Buddhist perfections if I wanted to succeed—generosity, morality, patience, effort, concentration, and wisdom. The last perfection was the hardest. The more complicated life became, the more likely my wisdom would falter. If I wanted to understand the truth, I’d need to see without bias or disillusionment.

  “Shiken haramitsu daikomyo.”

  Every moment, good or bad, holds the potential for enlightenment.

  I bypassed the rest of my rituals and recitations so as not to dilute my intention and hurried to the shower. Half an hour later, I was on the road to Cut & Ink.

  It took hard pedaling to make it across town in under an hour, but I made it in time to watch Lieutenant Payns enter RC’s shop. As they spoke, I could tell from the gestures that Payns wanted a cut but no shave. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want RC holding a straight edge to my throat, either. Especially if I was a cop.

  As Payns sat in the chair enjoying a hair cut and shooting the breeze, alarms fired in my head. Did they know each other? Had Payns come to warn him? Was this encounter staged for my benefit?

  I rode my bike down the block and chained it out of sight. By the time Payns ambled to his car, I was leaning on his trunk—wisdom and patience forgotten.

  “I thought you were going to investigate.”

  He rubbed his smooth cheek and grinned. “I did. Nothing there to suggest prostitution or any other illegal enterprise.”

  “And you learned that from chatting with your buddy?”

  “My buddy?” He shook his head. “No. I think it’s the other way around. I think you and RC have some kind of history. What’d he do? Toss you out of his shop for being a wiseass? Snub your affections? Play favorites with your friends? Because I think you want to bring him down, and you tried to use me to do it.”

  “Have you lost your—”

  “Don’t play games with me,” he said, jovial guy was gone and replaced by a task force cop mad as hell. “I don’t know how you snowed Ms. Ruiz, but don’t ever waste my time again. Got it? Or the next time I’ll throw you in jail for harassment.”

  I starred down the hairy finger pointing at my face. “I’m harassing you?”

  “Not me.” He nodded back toward the shop. “Him.”

  Payns let that sink in a moment then lowered his finger. “Get off my car.”

  “But—”

  He raised the finger again.

  “Fine. But you’re making a mistake.”

  He grinned. “I accept the risk.”

  As he drove away, I stood in the street, too dumbfounded to move. Once again, someone had pointed an accusing finger at me, and this time, it wasn’t just figurative. Harassment? I could have shown him harassment.

  I inhaled deeply and exhaled it in a forceful gust. What was the second Buddhist perfection, again?

  Oh, yeah. Patience.

  I shook out my arms to rid myself of the anger. Playing favorites with my friends? Seriously? How could he think I had anything to do with a scumbag like RC?

  “Why wouldn’t he?” I said out loud.

  The question caught me off guard.

  Why, indeed? Aside from Ms. Ruiz, Payns had no more reason to trust me than I had to trust him, which was to say not at all.

  I replayed what I had seen and heard. When challenged, Payns had attacked—accusing me of wrongful action and putting me on the defense. It was a clever tactic and one a task force lieutenant would have used many times. But what was the real truth? Did Payns actually believe I had used him for my own gain? Or had he agreed to check out Cut & Ink so he could warn RC?

  I glanced back at the shop.

  Why would the leader of a sex trafficking task force help a trafficker of underage girls, especially one as small-time as RC appeared to be? It didn’t make sense. If Payns wanted a cut, he’d have bigger connections to muscle. It was more likely that he’d gone to check it out, found nothing suspicious, and jumped to bad conclusions about me. It wouldn’t be the first time a cop had assumed the worse.

  Or maybe, RC was a snitch who Payns didn’t want blown.

  I walked a few car lengths to a bus stop across the street from Cut & Ink and sat on a bench where I could keep eye on the shop. Another possibility had occurred to me: What if someone involved with the task force had warned RC? If so, now that Payns had come and gone, perhaps nefarious business would resume. Or maybe none of the above and I was just wasting my time.

  Since I was already there, I settled in to wait and used the opportunity to call Aleisha.

  She answered with obvious relief. “Lily. We’ve been so worried. When we didn’t hear from you, we thought the worst. Are you okay? Have you found Emma?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have you found anything at all? It’s been three days.”

  “I know. She’s a hard girl to find.”

  Aleisha heaved a loud sigh. “Well, you could have called. I left messages.”

  “I know. I didn’t want to get into it.”

  “Into what?”

  I shook my head as if she could see me. If I mentioned the real reason I was avoiding her, it would open the door for another lecture. Better to ignore and evade.

  “I wish I had something to report, but I don’t.”

  “Okay. Well, where are you now?”

  “Following up on a lead.”

  I glanced at Cut & Ink then shook my head in disgust. The lie had escaped without a thought. Not only did the tattoo/barber/alleged brothel have nothing to do with Emma, the flimsy leads I did have led nowhere.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Emma’s just proving a little hard to find. I’ll go in again tonight.”

  “Go in where?”

  “Nowhere. It’s just another lead. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hit end before she could ask any more questions I didn’t want to answer.

  Although I habitually did dangerous things to rescue and protect the women under Aleisha’s care, I shielded her from the details. If she knew I’d been cruising Compton as a prostitute, she’d freak. And if I told her I’d actually picked up johns, she’d paddle my behind.

  I chuckled as I imagined Stan flapping his hands for us to stop and me crying from laugher. I needed to be more patient with Aleisha. She meant well. And I had given her cause to worry with my weird moods and reclusive behavior. Once I finished this job, I’d make it up to her. In the meantime, I needed to forget about the Jefferson High girls and find Emma Hughes.

  I rose from the bench and froze. Walking up the sidewalk toward Cut & Ink was the same out-of-place
white guy I had seen two days before.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  I hurried to the tattoo shop window where I had a clear view of the barber area through the open curtains. Neither the artist nor the client paid any attention to the middle-aged white man chatting with RC. As before, the man had not come to the shop for a cut or a shave. Instead, he remained on his feet, glancing at the door in the back of the room.

  Whatever lay behind it was far more enticing to him than a barber.

  I leaned against the glass, straining to hear, but the pulsating bass beat of hip hop drowned out their voices. Then the door at the back of the shop opened and Sharelle appeared with a girl I’d never seen before.

  The other girl looked about seventeen, confident, but jaded. She wore skimpy shorts and struck a seductive pose that emphasized the curve of her back and fullness of her behind. Sharelle, still wearing her magenta blouse and leg-hugging pants, hung back, uncertain. The joy I had witnessed the day before had deflated along with her salon-styled hair, which had flattened in the back. Sweat beaded on her face where her flawless makeup had faded and been retouched with bold lines and garish color. The plus-size model was gone, and the awkward teen had returned.

  RC waved Sharelle closer, kissed her cheek, and rubbed her back. Sharelle leaned her head against his chest, looking for all the world like a loving daughter with her dad.

  The out-of-place man watched with interest. He said something that made Sharelle smile and something else that made her frown, then he pulled his hand from his pocket and offered it to RC. The barber shook hands with the man and palmed what had been given. Then he nodded at the other girl to open the rear door.

  I’d seen enough.

  I ran to the parking alley at the side of the building and squeezed past the black Cadillac. This time, I’d come prepared. In the pocket of my backpack, I had stowed a heavy tin of lip balm and a bump key. Bump keys were made to match specific brands. They fit inside the lock but didn’t turn. You could make them yourself, or buy sets of them online. I had noted the brand of the Cut & Ink lock the last time I was here. If the match was correct, the key in my backpack should have the same amount and placement of grooves to eventually trigger the pins. I had brought the lip balm because it was lighter to carry than a mallet, and the wax inside the container bolstered the tin and gave it weight.