Rob Thy Neighbor

by David Thurlo

  “If he’s coming to open Butkikin Dojo, he should be here in less than ten minutes. If he’s going out for groceries or anywhere else, we’ve guessed wrong. But the timing is right. First class begins at three thirty,” Gordon said, looking at his watch.

  Charlie smiled. “Somebody could already be there to open up. I’d imagine one of the other teachers also has a key to the doors.”

  “It’s what we do,” Gordon said, then took a big sip of coffee. “I wonder what it’s like running a martial arts school?”

  “You would do all right. You already know martial arts, even the vocabulary. Bet you could have taken out that guy in the hall in a hurry if there hadn’t been two guns waving in your direction.”

  Gordon grinned. “Bit of a distraction, all right. Even Bruce Lee would have had trouble blocking a bullet. But you showed up, and you kick ass along with the best.”

  “When I have to.” Charlie stood. “Let’s get into a better position to watch the dojo and see some faces. If Frank shows up, I’m betting he parks in the front beneath a light pole. This is New Mexico, where newer-model pickups often end up in Old Mexico.”

  “Yeah. I wonder if we really made a dent in that.” Gordon recalled the strange turn of events last year with a gleam in his eyes. They’d helped, indirectly, in bringing down one of New Mexico’s biggest auto theft rings.

  It took less than two minutes for Charlie to cross the parking area and position the Charger directly across from the cleaners. From there, they could watch the front of the dojo, which was the next leased unit. All the businesses were constructed with a row of large windows along the side of the building facing the parking lot.

  On the dojo glass were posters of students in white martial arts uniforms going through drills and mock combat. These were interspaced with photos of the black-uniformed teachers in action poses, along with a poster-sized copy of a newspaper feature on the school. School hours and the times of the various youth, adult, and senior classes were also posted.

  The spacious parking lot itself was typical of those in New Mexico, where land was cheaper and a majority of the driving-age citizens had access to one or more personal vehicles. Metro public transit was limited to a couple of cab lines, city and retirement home busses, and the Rail Runner train. That service carried commuters on a single north-south route that extended from Santa Fe down the Rio Grande Valley to the community of Belen, less than forty miles south of Albuquerque. Rio Rancho, the smaller city to the northwest of Albuquerque, lay several miles west of the closest passenger terminal.

  They were parked barely fifty feet away from the entrance, and Charlie was adjusting the rearview mirror and side mirrors to watch the front, when Gordon spoke. “Here comes a silver Chevy pickup, man at the wheel.”

  They kept watch out of the corner of their eye, seemingly busy with their phones as the pickup parked beneath the closest light pole to the dojo. A man wearing slacks and a black sweatshirt with the school logo climbed out, took a quick glance around the lot, and strolled toward the entrance with a pronounced limp.

  “Just as predicted,” Gordon gloated. “It’s Frank, right? All I got before was a chest in my face and a view of his backside.”

  “It’s him. Notice the trained-police-officer scan of the environment, instead of the head-down cell phone fixation most people have these days. He isn’t even carrying the beloved device in his hand, or texting,” Charlie said.

  Gordon chuckled, still gazing at his phone, which at the moment was on the main screen. “Old man just isn’t clued into the tech world, is he?”

  “Says the guy who sleeps with his phone.”

  “Hey, she loves me.”

  His smartphone still at read angle, Charlie watched as Frank unlocked and opened the door, then stepped inside and turned the sign inside from CLOSED to OPEN.

  “Think he noticed us?” Gordon asked.

  “Yeah, but did he recognize who we are?” Charlie adjusted the bill on his baseball cap, which was bumping into his sunglasses.

  Gordon had on a thin hoodie, despite the hot afternoon sun, and, unlike yesterday, no sunglasses.

  “He got a long look at me the other day when Ray was arrested. We were kept outside together. I should have added a fake beard.”

  “You’d have a better disguise with a unicorn horn. Navajos can’t grow beards.”

  “Hey, scraggly ones I can manage. Like a sixties’ hippie.”

  “We weren’t even around in the sixties, dude.”

  “That expression sure was.” Charlie sighed, finally setting down his cell phone. “So, we wait and take photos of any adults or older teens that show up.”

  “Those on my side I get, those on your side are yours, Charlie. Once it gets dark, we’re screwed. The flash gives it away. I should have brought my old-school camera, the one that just takes photos.”

  “No worry, we should still have enough light at closing time if these parking-lot lamps give off any glow at all.”

  Gordon groaned. “We gonna stay that long?”

  “Maybe. If we hope to catch Frank meeting up with someone, this could be the ticket. The shooter or third man in the crew could come in as a student or visitor and not stand out, and even if they look like hoods, remember that this dojo professes to help youthful offenders. Frank isn’t going to use his regular phone, and they may have already gotten rid of any burners, if they carried any at all. None were found on the body or in the van.”

  “Frank would know we know that, wouldn’t he?” Gordon argued.

  “Worst-case scenario, we waste our time playing with our phones.”

  “Ah, that’s a good point,” Gordon responded. “How much time does Frank have to get Ray out of hot water? Ray is out of action with that ankle bracelet. It’s up to Frank and the third guy to take care of things. If I was that guy I’d be in Colorado or Wyoming by now.”

  “Gordon, you’d never run out on your team.”

  “But if I was that guy, I wouldn’t be the loyal, dedicated, highly capable Gordon Sweeney. I’d be Punk Number Three, John Q. Loser, the inferior marksman.”

  Charlie reached for the dashboard media system. “Music?”

  “Yeah. Let’s save our phone batteries for photos.”

  * * *

  Charlie and Gordon kept watch, taking photos of adults and older teens that matched the physical descriptions as they arrived or left the dojo. They took a dinner break in the middle of the second tier of classes, returning to their stakeout not long after. About ten minutes after nine, when it appeared that the last student had left, Frank and two of his instructors, in black martial arts uniforms, came out and walked directly toward the Charger. All three were carrying fighting sticks.

  “What’s with the clubs?” Charlie said, watching the men approaching. He saw no need to reach for his Beretta.

  “Those are bastons or mutons, sometimes used in Arnis, a Filipino martial art,” Gordon responded. “Too short for stickball, great for defense or attack in the hands of a master. One of the earliest martial arts weapons was a wooden staff.”

  “Not knowing the history, I would have guessed it’d be a rock,” Charlie commented. “Looks like we’re about to be intimidated.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Watch out, Charlie. They always go for the biggest target first.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Gordon sighed, stepping out the passenger side, glancing around the basically empty half of the parking lot. “At least we don’t have an audience—yet.”

  “Mr. Geiger, do your son’s students know Ray is out on bail wearing an ankle monitor after being arrested for a half-dozen violent crimes, including kidnapping and attempted murder?” Charlie asked as the three men approached.

  “Frank told you about that, right?” Gordon announced to the instructors. “You sensei have no problem with standing on the wrong side of the law?”

  The two men looked at each other, then Frank.

  “So Frank fed you some BS about
us?” Gordon added. “No surprise.”

  “My son is innocent. He was set up because he got into some trouble in his teens,” Frank argued. “And you two are trying to scare off the staff and students. Get the hell out of here.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Ray’s been arrested a dozen times and convicted twice for crimes beginning when he was in his teens, Frank. Add to that a home invasion, robbery, assault, attempted murder, kidnapping, and more. He’ll be your age or older when he finally gets out of prison. Man up to the truth about your son,” Charlie responded, pushing the envelope just a little more.

  “He’s already out on bail. You’re just here to piss me off, Indian,” Frank replied.

  “Clearly, it’s working. So call the cops and report us. Just know, if you decide to start a fight, Ray’s going to have two of his instructors out of commission and have to cancel most of the classes,” Gordon replied. “You’re going to need the school’s income for his defense attorney when he goes to trial.”

  The smaller of the two instructors, still a few inches taller than Gordon, laughed. “Cocky, aren’t you? You wanna take this inside and show me what you’ve got—besides trash talk?”

  “Anytime, anyplace, shorty,” Gordon replied.

  “Maybe we should settle this indoors,” Charlie suggested, noting that a grocery store employee who was gathering shopping carts from the parking lot had stopped and was watching them. If the cops came by, it might end up actually helping Ray’s case and hurt his own testimony as an eyewitness. He and Gordon intended to do what it took to ID the other perps, but not in public. “You don’t want to hurt your rep, do you, Frank?”

  “You looking for an excuse to walk away now, Indian?” Frank sneered.

  Charlie laughed. If Geiger only knew who’d actually be able to walk away once Gordon got his hands and feet on them. “Lead the way, grasshopper,” he teased, bowing.

  Less than a minute later, they entered the large training space of the dojo, where most of the tile floor was covered with blue vinyl exercise mats. The back wall, except for a door leading into a hallway that probably contained an office and dressing rooms, was lined with full-length mirrors. Their presence created the look of a much larger workout space.

  When they’d entered, one of the instructors turned on two of the four rows of recessed overhead lights, then Frank locked the door, leaving the keys in the mechanism. Whatever happened in the dojo stayed in the dojo.

  Now they stood in the middle of the room atop the largest mat. The surface was firm and offered good footing.

  Charlie shook his head, not taking his eye off the larger instructor, who’d been sizing him up. “Boys. You might want to put down your sticks and walk away while you still can. Let Ray and his pop fight their own battles.”

  “Listen to the man,” Gordon added.

  “Come on, shorty,” the guy snarled. “Make your move,” he insisted, taking a stance.

  “You might want to borrow your friend’s baston, kohai,” Gordon said, using the term for a less experienced student. “You’re going to need both weapons.”

  The guy paused, apparently realizing that Gordon might not be such an easy target after all.

  Charlie watched their eyes, checking for any signal or glance that would send a warning. Frank had been closing the distance and was the immediate threat at the moment. Charlie glanced down and saw that he was clutching a roll of coins in his left hand. A hard ex-cop fought old-school dirty, especially one who had a bad leg.

  Charlie sideslipped Frank’s sudden attempt at a sucker punch. The jab grazed his cheek, but the move left Frank open to a counterpunch, which caught the older man in the nose just as he was shifting his weight forward. Blood erupted from Frank’s nose and splattered the vinyl.

  Frank staggered back, instinctively kicking out, anticipating that Charlie would move in quickly to finish him off. Charlie, instead, had maintained his balance and a defensive stance, anticipating an immediate strike from his second opponent, the taller instructor.

  It was the right move. The man rushed in, aiming a blow with his baston at Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie had already closed the gap, and the attacker found himself too close to be effective. He struck Charlie with his wrist instead, which must have hurt. The impact caused him to lose his grip on the weapon, which bounced off Charlie’s back onto the floor.

  Charlie, in his face now, caught the man off balance, hammering him with an elbow on the side of his head. The man staggered, bumping into Frank, who was trying to close in again, and they both stumbled.

  Gordon’s opponent had attacked an instant later than Frank, swiveling at the hip and attacking Charlie’s pal with a powerful rear kick, the sliding step providing maximum extension of his right foot. The attack was designed to strike up high, aimed at Gordon’s throat.

  But Gordon was quicker, having reacted instinctively to the move. He’d stepped inside the kick, using his side to block the man’s leg, then pinned it to his left side with his arm. He twisted the leg around and forward, turning his attacker away and exposing his backside and groin. Instead of taking him out right then with a kick to the balls, Gordon kicked him in the butt and knocked him to his knees. The baston flew out of his hand and bounced across the mats onto the hard tile close to the wall.

  Frank, bleeding at the nose and enraged now, rushed in on Charlie, faked a left jab, then threw a hard right. Charlie wasn’t in the mood for a street fight. He ducked left and punched Frank in the ribs. Frank gasped, staggered to the side, then reached down to his waist.

  “No gun there anymore, Frank. You’re not a cop. Calm down before you go too far,” Charlie yelled, trying to reason with the guy.

  The tall instructor came forward with a karate move next, striking out with the sides of his hands, feints with his knees, then a kick to Charlie’s thigh. Charlie blocked the strikes with his forearms and hands, keeping his hands up, stepping back slowly, encouraging his attacker to move in. The next time his opponent threw a left jab, Charlie blocked it with his right palm, bringing around a left roundhouse and putting his body into the blow. The man’s right was up, but the force of the punch knocked away his hand, and Charlie caught the man fully in the cheek. He spun around, spitting up blood, then came up in defensive mode, his eyes wide with surprise, and maybe some fear.

  “Walk away, guys,” Gordon warned. “You’re outmanned and you know it. And Frank, you need to go to Urgent Care. Your nose looks like raw liver.”

  Charlie glanced behind him, noting that the grocery clerk he’d seen earlier was on the sidewalk outside, face to the window, trying to see what they were doing. “It’s only a matter of time before that kid brings up his cell phone and calls the cops. Why don’t you boys calm down, clean up, then go home before you get us all arrested? Once this dojo is in the news and the bad press comes down, you can kiss your jobs good-bye,” he told the two instructors. “And how about you, Frank? How is losing Ray’s business gonna help keep him out of prison?”

  “Stay out of this, bastards. I’m not done with you,” Frank warned, holding a handkerchief to his bloodied face.

  “We’re not done until Ray and his third partner are serving time, Geiger. Keep it up and you’re going to be sharing his cell,” Charlie added.

  “Satisfying workout, sifu,” Gordon announced cheerfully, looking at the battered instructors, who were also wiping away blood. “But remember this: To subdue the enemy without fighting is the greatest skill.”

  Charlie looked over at him. “Now you tell them?”

  Gordon shrugged. Gordon turned the key in the lock, and they stepped out of the dojo, greeting the curious grocery store employee with a cheerful “good evening.” Without a backward glance, they walked across the lot to the Dodge.

  A few minutes later, as they drove east down Twentieth, a squad car raced by, emergency lights and siren wailing. Gordon looked back in the side mirror. “Is that for us?”

  “Not unless the kid actually made the call. I doubt Frank is
eager to turn us in at the moment. Bad press for a martial arts school, when the butt kicking was done by two rookie pawnshop owners,” Charlie said.

  “We may not get a visit from the cops, but Frank isn’t going to let this slide,” Gordon reminded him. “There was hate in his eyes. He would have used a gun if he’d been packing.”

  “I know, and he’s a sneaky bastard who’ll take the cheap shot,” Charlie observed. “He’s going to strike back, so be ready, anytime, anyplace. We’re targets now, maybe more so than the Randals.”

  “Good for them. We can handle ourselves.”

  “God’s ears,” Charlie said, nodding.

  “From your lips to…” Gordon grinned. “Where have I heard that before?”

  Chapter Nine

  Charlie lay there in bed, looking up at the ceiling. He’d stayed up late, watched Stephen Colbert, then finally decided he might be able to doze off. But it hadn’t happened. He turned over and glanced at the clock, the only light source in an otherwise pitch-black bedroom. It was 1:30 AM, and he just couldn’t stop thinking about Frank Geiger, the blood on the dojo mats, the struggle in the Randal house, the shooting in the street, chasing the guy who got away, the Afghani woman, and so on, all of it endlessly recycling in his head.

  “Crap!” he grumbled, throwing off the top sheet and swinging his legs around to the floor. Maybe he’d try some of that herbal tea Ruth had given him and find something to read. The TV or computer screen only kept him awake, something about the blue light and body chemistry, he’d heard. Maybe he should have skipped The Late Show, or perhaps, more to the point, stop getting into fights and dangerous situations. That was supposed to have ended when he didn’t re-up.

  He put on the teakettle, found the box of tea bags and a mug, and staggered into the living room to check out the bookcase. He’d grown up with books—his dad was a lawyer and then a judge, and his mom a public school teacher—but all those years deployed overseas had kept him from buying any hardcover anything.

  Instead he’d traded around his paperbacks, once read. While growing up, he’d read a lot of military history, especially World War II stories of combat. Nowadays he’d lost interest, having seen the reality of war firsthand.