by Marc Olden
5
IT WAS DARK WHEN Decker began his morning run in Central Park, but in minutes a red sun would appear from behind East Side high rises and tinted glass towers. He jogged toward the Seventy-second Street transverse, keeping to the middle of the road, away from the blackened snow and ice along the asphalt. The park was officially closed to traffic for a few more hours, so Decker had it to himself. At least he hoped so.
Decker was a loner, unable to commit himself to anyone. His ex-wife Maria had said, “Jesus, Manny, I wish to God I knew whether that wall you have around yourself is keeping me out or you in.”
It would only have hurt her to say what she already knew, that commitment was Michi and Michi was dead. Since then his sole commitment had been to karate, a pursuit demanding loyalty only to oneself. Karate was a strengthening of the human spirit, the acquiring of confidence and peace of mind, a world he could turn to and close out all other worlds. To immerse himself in it was to be at once a part of two cultures, East and West, and yet not really a part of either.
So, Decker’s was a life without obligation. He was an observer, a traveler passing through, fulfilling himself in the dojo, blessed because living in solitude allowed him to make his own laws. And that’s why he had become a field associate, to make the laws himself.
At Seventy-second Street he spun around to run backward for fifty yards, lightly throwing elbow strikes with both arms and inhaling the cold air. Then he turned back, to run parallel to a frozen lake dotted with THIN ICE signs. That’s me, he thought. Tap dancing on thin ice. I don’t want to hurt Romaine. And I don’t want LeClair to hurt me.
Romaine Raymond lay sleeping in Decker’s apartment. Before leaving he had looked down at the beautiful twenty-five-year-old dancer, who slept with the same heart-stopping sensuality that made her dancing special. Her long dark brown hair fanned out on the pillow. A slim hand, fingers curled, lay on the pillow near her head. Her knees were slightly drawn up, as though executing a turn. The covers had fallen from a bare shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast. The pose was one of innocence and sensuality, both the essence of Romaine, a woman utterly lacking in guile, a woman so sexually demanding that Decker had managed only four hours sleep last night.
Earlier that evening they had gone to dinner to celebrate her birthday, before returning to her apartment. That’s when her husband Dorian had called, drunk, maudlin. Afraid that he might call again, Romaine had asked to be taken to Decker’s place. There he had presented her with six origamis for her birthday. She watched with bright-eyed fascination as he selected sheets of colored paper and carefully folded them into stars, birds, flowers. Michi had patiently taught him the art of paper folding, encouraged him to learn to create the intricate patterns.
And then they had sat on the floor, drinking wine in front of his fireplace, talking and laughing, and after a while Romaine turned on the radio. When she found a Hispanic station, she stripped down to wispy lavender underwear and high heels and began dancing the salsa for him, as if it were the most natural thing to do. It was the sexiest dance he had ever seen and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Romaine was a truly gifted dancer who loved the world but not the business of dancing. She loved the gypsies, the Broadway dancers who went from show to show and spent their lives in class. But she hated the discipline, auditions and rejection that were so much a part of show business. All she wanted to do was dance. In the few weeks of their affair she knew Decker only as a karate instructor, whose dojo was in the same Lincoln Center building as her dance studio.
Decker had kept his identity as a cop a secret and now it was almost too late to tell Romaine the truth. He feared rejection. A cop’s world was insular and dangerous and few women were strong enough to be a part of it. Maria had tried and failed.
Romaine’s dance had turned Decker on and she knew it. As the fire covered her with flickering shadows and orange light, she unhooked her bra, revealing full, swaying breasts. Before he could grab her, she laughed and leaped out of reach. Decker crawled after her, caught her ankles and pulled her down on top of him. He buried his face in her breasts, wetting the flesh with his tongue. Romaine took his earlobe between her teeth, then tongued the outer edges of his ear. Her tongue was fire, igniting a lust in him that he wondered could ever be satisfied.
“Let me,” she whispered. She preferred to undress him, slowly and patiently. When they were both naked, she led him, as he straddled her, balancing on his hands and knees, and placed his penis between her breasts. She trembled, moaned and squeezed both breasts tight against his hot flesh. Decker moved back and forth, and each time his penis neared her mouth, she licked it hungrily.
The electric touch of her tongue, followed by seconds without it, was tantalizing to Decker, who suddenly found her hands cupping his buttocks, nails digging painfully into his flesh. She pulled him forward until his penis was in her mouth and then she rolled them both to the side, toward the heat of the fireplace, swallowing Decker so deeply that he could not stop himself from coming. She held him close, refused to let him withdraw, swallowing and moaning, the vibrations from her throat buzzing through his loins. Her tongue flicked across his swollen flesh and he died the delicious death that was the soul of all lovemaking.
He collapsed, drained. The fire crackled and warmed him and he knew he could not move if his life depended on it.
That was only the beginning. It was hours before they made their way to the bedroom, where Decker, caught up in her unselfish desire, brought her to orgasm more times than he had thought possible. But all things are possible with clean living and the power of prayer, he told himself.
Before dropping off to sleep she said, “I could love you, Manny. I really could. You make beautiful things and you make me laugh and that makes me feel you care. When I’m with you, I feel safe. I don’t know why, I just do. And it’s not because of your karate. I just feel safe with you and right now that means so much to me.”
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 wrist
s 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.”
“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.