The issue wasn’t technique, I knew that. My form was perfect and precise. I did my entropy of bones. Twenty or so times, going through the motions, feeling the beat of the universe, seeing that beat expressed in all matter around me. I joined with it, imagined the places in the fictitious skeleton in front of me where that rhythm would catch its breath, and then moved to add another beat, an off pattern tempo I could play through that imagined matter. There was barely any force from my fingers, but I knew whatever I struck in that moment would have been decimated. But A.C. was also right. In the practicing I felt off balance. Not greatly. If the skeleton had been there I’d have been fine, but I should have been able to practice the kata perfectly. The problem was not form, it was philosophy.
Whatever little sparring A.C. and I did never resulted in him touching me. I barely touched him. But somehow I always ended up on my ass. It wasn’t just an aikido mindset of redirecting energy. I felt his energy, his vying for one-upmanship when we scrapped, but it was never through force. Slowly it began to make sense. Narayana taught me that the fist was the last refuge of the desperate fighter. He taught me that the force of a finger, an open palm, the side of a foot was like a surgical tool, capable of doing extreme amounts of damage when wielded properly. The entire interior force of a person could be interrupted with a well-placed finger. But maybe A.C.’s technique didn’t even require touch. I had to get myself into a state to feel the beat of the universe—maybe A.C. always lived with it, and maybe he was always in line with that universal rhythm. When he struck, it wasn’t at the entropy of bones but at their birth. Practicing on skeletons wouldn’t work if that was the case. Practicing wouldn’t be the issue at all. I would have to live it. But before I could do any more, I saw Mom waving at me from across the dock.
“You want some breakfast?”
I woke A.C. up and took him over as well. Mom made eyes at me. I was able to calm down after Wind Boy assured me she had no recollection of their previous meeting. It was almost like she knew something big was going to happen for me. She pulled out all the stops: blue corn waffles, turkey sausage, scrambled eggs with green onions, green and yellow bell peppers, tomato, and pepper jack cheese, and her famous fried potatoes. To drink she poured orange and cranberry juice and had sparkling water to make what she called her Miracle Mimosas, because it was a miracle it tasted so good with no alcohol. She was sweet with me and laughed at A.C. I was tempted to get bitter. To wonder why we couldn’t have been this way my entire life. But it wasn’t the time to look back.
Keep her safe, I told A.C. when she went to the bathroom.
“I’ll do my best but . . .” he started.
Just for today. I’m going out. I want to try something.
“Sure you don’t want me with you?”
Tonight? For sure. Today, my main concern is that they don’t try and get me distracted by doing something to Mom. He nodded, trusting my logic. We said our good-byes when Mom came out but when I walked through the doorway I was alone. I looked back and saw A.C. present, but fading on the couch. She wouldn’t see him, but if anyone came for her, they’d have a crazy-ass Wind Boy with extra-dimensional weapons to deal with.
I went to the site of my first fight; the place where I’d almost been raped. I pushed the Cutlass Royale into El Sobrante with ease. I hadn’t realized how nervous heading over to Gringo’s Last Chance at Heaven Bar and Grill would make me until I got off the freeway in Berkeley and let the streets carry me the rest of the way. Reflecting on it, I realized it probably wasn’t just going, but also what I would attempt when I got there. I walked into a late afternoon crowd of drunks and degenerates doing pretty much the same things they were doing eight years earlier. I had to chill at the bar for a good twenty minutes before Marko recognized me. Then he got nervous.
“Tell me Narayana’s not with you,” he said, wiping down the bar surreptitiously, trying to avoid eye contact with me and the rest of his patrons. Marko looked older, fatter. I didn’t think it was possible.
Haven’t seen him in years, I said, continuing to fake drink my beer.
“Ok. Well, if I remember correctly you got your revenge on all those that had a hand in your misfortunes that night. And seeing as how you’re just waiting for that beer to get warm . . .”
Baddest man or woman in here. I gave Marko my eyes to let him know the danger of not taking me seriously.
“Playing pool now,” he said, resigned, pointing to a small black guy not yet forty with bullet marks where eyes should be. “Collects martial arts like fat kids collect bites of cake. But go easy on the bar, please.”
I promise nothing. Now give me a name.
“Jeffery by birth. Tells people to call him Onyx. But look, girl, he’s the real deal, ok? He’s just as likely to come at you with that .50 he’s got under his jacket as he is with his kung fu or whatever. He’s a dealer. He’s used to scraps.”
I took my beer and tossed it perfectly on the felt pool top so that not a sip spilled until Onyx’s eight-ball knocked it. The older man looked over at me quick. I smiled.
“I got money on this game, little bitch,” he said, casually walking over to my bottle and slamming it.
Yeah, well, I heard a rumor about you and I wanted to know if it was true, I said. I broke out one of my headphones and put it in my ears.
“Seven inches limp.” He laughed and his cronies now assembling laughed with him.
So your mom does have a dick. His boys had to stifle their laughs at that one. Nah, I’m just playing. No, see, the rumor I heard was that you can’t take an ass whipping. I heard that as soon as someone starts taking your monkey ass apart for say, selling some dirty blow, you pull out the heat and start blasting. It was true enough of most so-called gangsters; I figured it would apply to him as well.
“Bitch, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to but I’ll put this heat down right now,” he said, pulling his .50 cal with the serial number filed off and laying it down on the pool table so quickly even I almost jumped. Almost. “And I’ll show you an ass-kicking. Might make some money off your ass after I’m done showing you . . .”
Hold up, hold up, I said, taking off my jacket then putting my other earbud in. Ok, keep talking that bullshit now. I’m ready whenever you are.
To his credit, he didn’t rush in mad dog style. He put his guard up, maintained his stance and advanced on me. The first hard part was not attacking, ending the fight instantly, like I’d been trained to do. Narayana had taught me to take offense whenever anyone thought they could stand in front of me without getting struck. But this was practice, so I let him get in striking range. The second hard part was not closing my eyes and just swaying to the music. Listening and fighting were not my custom. But as I did I saw what I was looking for: the rhythm. I could literally see the tempo of Onyx’s breath, his pulse, his heart rate, everything. He could only step at certain times, only swing at certain times, only inhale in concert with muscle relaxation. It was like listening to a symphony for years and only now understanding that there was a conductor in charge of the whole thing. I was so enamored with the beauty of the body that I almost let myself get kicked in the ribs just to see what it would look like with this new vision. Instead I spun out of the way, devoid of any martial arts form. I danced out of the way. It threw Onyx off. He barked something but I couldn’t hear him. I laughed. Then he came in for real.
When he stepped in with his right foot to counterpunch with a left hook, a good set-up and fake, I wrapped his left arm behind my back with my right arm, Narayana’s technique. But with my left I tried to feel, massage the energy in his chest that I was seeing. I played the orchestra of his body better than he did, not breaking or busting, but adding to, coordinating his own bio-rhythms to be more in tune with the universal sound I was hearing, feeling, seeing. Without meaning to, I sent some of the fire from the mark in my back through the man. It sent him flying backwards. I almost forgot to let go of his right arm. He went into the opposing wall. I took my headph
ones out.
Looks like I was wrong. He does know how to take an ass-whipping. My bad, I said. Marko had his hands below the bar, no doubt on a rifle. But one look from me and he assumed the same stance all of Onyx’s friends did, pretending I hadn’t just sent a patron of the bar into a wall. I smiled, paid an extra two hundred on my tab and left calmly.
I checked in with A.C., told him what happened, then took a long nap. At seven, I woke and dressed in all black. Not the black of the Naga Suites or even my mom’s blacks. I wore my old black sleeveless T-shirt and the long black basketball shorts that went down past my knees. I braided my hair in two long ponytails and hid broken razor bits deep in the thickets. I Vaselined up my face with rubber gloves on so my hands wouldn’t be slippery. A.C. was there, but he said nothing. I had to get my murder mask on and he knew well enough not to interrupt that process except for once.
“Look, I’m there. I’m with you every step of the way. But I’ve got to keep my presence on the under for as long as possible. With Nordeen in play they might have ways of getting to me. But if you need me, just call out my name. And I’ll be there. We’ll figure them out together.”
Music, I said fifteen minutes after he spoke. I’ll need music. That jungle, grimy type stuff, yeah? When I’m fighting. Can you handle that for me?
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” he said softly. “You got a plan?”
Yup. Kill them all.
Chapter Fifteen: Get Up and Find My Bliss
I left the Cutlass Royale at the house, the keys in an envelope slipped through Mom’s mail slot. I did the quick run to the ferry as a warm-up. The ride over to the city, with almost no one on it, gave me time to just be still. If I let my thoughts drift to A.C. he’d be there, right behind me, attentive. But I only did that once. He wasn’t the one I wanted there. I wanted Narayana. I wanted to kill him. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to explain what he’d gotten me into and what my role was supposed to be. I just wanted to hear him call me good girl one more time.
I jumped off at the ferry building, wishing it was Pier 39. Saying good-bye to the tourists, being the stranger among the families would have been fitting. But I was late to my own execution.
Four blocks away, the Naga Suites began its pull on me. I felt the desperation of life without Rice again. It was only the absence of the calm the wind katas had taught me that showed me the subtle influence of the place. The impulse to reach out for A.C. got short-circuited by a small gust of wind against my face. I understood instantly. If he showed himself, Poppy and her ilk would be able to draw a bead on him. Better to save that reveal for the inevitable crisis. But the gust against my face was appreciated, a reminder that I wasn’t alone.
The Suites had never been so threatening to me. That damn snake wrapped around the planet had its eye on me as I walked in. The usual sociopaths and serial killers in training, the wannabe predators all turned to face me like I was a victim as I entered the lobby. I kept my relaxed posture, released all the tension from my face, and invited them to approach. None of them did, cowed by energies other than mine. Rice, beautiful Rice, wearing a pewter herringbone three button suit, walked toward me with his ever-present smile.
“Oh, Chabi, Chabi! I’ve missed you.” The embrace was strong, combat strong, but somehow tender. I imagined the ever-present silver snakes taking the form of his arms and crushing me. I would have let him if he hadn’t let go. “Are you ready?”
Of course, I smiled, wanting to give him everything. He chatted casually about the fighters and their sponsors as he escorted me downstairs on the elevator.
“There’s a whole lot of pomp and ceremony involved with this fight. Nothing to worry about. They’ll ask what house you’re fighting for. They just mean what family. Just tell them you’re fighting for the Montague line, ok?” I nodded just in time for him to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Kill them all, Chabi.”
The only thing the basement of the fight shared with the basement of the dance party was dimensions. The psychic space was radically different, both more luxurious and brutal at the same time. A moderate sized platform raised a 30-x-40-foot ring that seemed to be suspended in the air. Black and red cords made the perimeter. Fighters, women big and small of all hues, roamed the flatlands of the room with their patrons. The patrons. If nothing else, they were proof of A.C.’s conspiracy theory. They all glowed and were gorgeous in nothing but the top fashion. They were accustomed to adoration from their lessers, their fighters, and those poor people that had to serve them. I fought to suppress the memory of Rosa-Maria as Rice guided me through the loose crowd of three hundred or so bodies. The patrons were well manicured and groomed. They seemed ready for modeling shoots, every one of them. But when I adjusted to my combat vision of them for a moment, I saw their bodies as polar opposites of human beings. Their hearts beat in reverse. They sucked in heat instead of exuding it. Their pulse rates felt like glass shards against sandpaper. They were life anathema.
“Here she is!” Poppy’s voice shook me out of my vision state as she cleared the space between us with a tall Nordic fighter with John Lennon–style sunglasses on and thousands of small nicks on her face. Rice extended his hand to keep her at a safe distance, partially in jest, though his voice sounded more serious than I’d ever heard before. But just that damn smiling face. I wanted to say fuck my half-ass plan and just go on a killing spree. Starting with her.
“You know the rules, Poppy. What few there are,” Rice said.
“Combat only in the ring, of course, silly. I just wanted to perform an introduction. Chabi, this is Pardu. You guys are going to fight,” she said, like we were going to do each other’s hair. Pardu grunted, looked at her patron/master, looked back at me and then extended her hand. I didn’t even try to touch it.
“You should teach your . . . girl better manners, Rice,” Poppy snipped.
“She’s got all the manners she needs for the ring.” He smiled, literally putting his body between us. He took Pardu’s hand and I saw her weaken slightly toward him. “Hi, Pardu. My name is Rice. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Enough of that!” Poppy snapped, breaking their hand connection. She was shuttling the larger woman off before Pardu could speak. But she managed to call over her shoulder, “See you in the thick of it, Rice.”
“I know Poppy has been riding you hard since I’ve been gone, Chabi.” He pulled me close, holding both of my hands to his chest. “There’s a certain amount of . . . respect that she’s owed. That her family affords. But, Chabi, I promise you, win this tournament and we can screw her up for a very long time. It’s me and you against all of these guys, Chabi. You understand what I’m saying? You win this and we get to do whatever we want for as long as we want. Win this for me and I’ll never ask you for anything else in your life, Chabi, understand?”
I’m sorry . . . I started not knowing why I was saying it, then remembering and wishing I didn’t. I pushed it all out of my head, but he caught something.
“Sorry for what?” At that moment the sponsors in the crowd took on a formal pose, like military people coming to attention from a sound none of the fighters could hear. Rice tried to fight it then gave up, let my hands go and looked up at the DJ booth. A second and a half later bad techno competed with a lousy DJ announcer as he explained the rules of combat.
Any fighter could climb into the ring at any time. It was one-on-one fighting. You had to announce who your sponsor was. If you won a fight, you could call anyone out. If you lost, you couldn’t fight again. If you won, you had to. Fighters’ eyes surveyed each other trying to figure out who would go first. I figured I’d take the guesswork out of all of it. I sprinted to the ring, did a frontward somersault into the ring and opened my arms.
“Who do you fight for?” the voice overhead announced.
I shouted in my loudest Voice, Narayana Raj. The dead air proved why things can’t grow in a vacuum. I felt the breath leave my chest for a second as most presences in the darkened floor did their version
of gasping. I expected them to all rush me at once. But something in them demanded respect for the boundaries of the ring, as I was certain they had none for me.
“Go kill that bitch,” an old but familiar voice rang out from the darkness. A bronze diminutive woman entered the ring from the other side. She stepped in already tired, her hands not wrapped, her hair everywhere, in tattered jeans and an old red V-neck shirt.
“Who do you fight for?” the overhead announcer asked with slight trepidation this time.
“Samovar Danu is my master,” she said with such sadness that I almost felt pity for her. When she began to weep, I was totally thrown off.
You don’t have to do this, I told her. For a second she stood waffling, looking out the ring and then looking at me. Finally she fell to her knees. I went to comfort her. Just as I got to her a small gust of wind pushed against my chest with a whisper of a word, Vish Kanya. It was enough. Poison Damsels. The creeping darkness of a man had told me about the multiple interpretations of the term. I cartwheeled off line just before the small woman took her hand wet with tears and flung the liquid at my face. I smelled the acridity of her tears. Those were secretions that burned.
I am not going to feel bad in the slightest about kicking your punk ass! I shouted. She spit at me. I moved quickly but saw the deadly phlegm eat through the ring where it landed. I thought I had her figured until I saw her sweating, a lot. It didn’t burn through the ring. She didn’t just have one type of poison. And the poison from her sweat was airborne. As far from her as I was, I could feel my head getting lighter.
“Nasty bitch,” she cursed. She came in slowly, expecting me to retreat. Instead I circled, held my breath, and generated the fire from my back into my fist. When she was still out of reach I lashed out with my fist energy. I couldn’t touch her physically but the force of the energy was enough to push her back across the ring. The good part was that she’d never been hit that hard before. The bad part was that now she was bleeding. She rubbed her fist with the blood from her mouth and came swinging. I didn’t know what toxins her blood held, but I wasn’t willing to find out.
The Entropy of Bones Page 20