Sensei (10 page)

I'd first come across Billy Watson when I was in college. He was a former wrestler who'd taken a shine to judo and was working out on the mats that got shared with the other martial arts clubs. He'd ended up hooked on judo and eventually began studying Ysshinkan aikido as well. It's an art form that adds joint locks to the throws and balance shifts of judo. Aikido in general is a beautiful and, in highly trained hands, somewhat effective art. "foshinkan is a bit on the hard side, however. It uses more power than some other styles.

It suited Billy. There's a ritual pledge they use in Shotokan karate at the end of class. Among other things, trainees swear to "refrain from violent behavior." A more accurate translation of the Japanese is "to guard against impetuous courage." The Japanese sensei like to keep their students on a tight leash: they don't mind fighting; they just want to be able to control when and where it happens. Billy had enough impetuous courage to keep a room full of teachers worried. From what I knew of him and the type of people who gravitated to his Ifbshinkan dojo, I thought he might be able to point me in a couple of good directions.

Like many other New York City dojo, Billy's had to offer classes practically around the clock to survive. There was an early morning workout for stressed Wall Street types (who got to the office still shaking out their wrists and trying to get the nerve endings to stop buzzing). There were typical evening classes and even an early lunchtime session on Sunday, which was where I found Billy putting his pupils through their paces.

He was an average-size guy, but hard. Anyone who ever tangled with Billy learned that he was packed with muscle. He had a big, square head with bristly short, dark hair. It let you see the ropes of muscles that bound his head to the rest of him. There were nicks in his skull, white scars from old fights where the hair

would never grow back. Billy took his training seriously. His eyes were a cool blue and he had that focused stare you see with really intense competitors. It was designed to frighten you. I knew. We had met more than a few times on the mats in my early days. His face was lean, and you could see that the straight ridge of his nose had been ruined when it was broken. I don't know whether he was still mad at me for doing it. I figured we were even: I can't sleep on my right side because of something he did to my shoulder.

The dojo was a pretty good size, carved out of an old downtown warehouse. The walls and pipes had been painted over and over again in that white color they use in the City to make you believe that things are new and clean. It mostly looks dingy and tired.

But the mats in Billy's dojo were in good shape. They were worn but repaired precisely. He had about twenty men, all at black belt level, working on some takedown techniques. In'Vbshinkan dojo, they tend to just wear judo gi and not the fancier pleated ha kama It sends a certain message about the tough, no frills approach this style takes to fighting.

Billy was working with the class on what looked to me like ten-shi-nage. It's a standard throw in the art: you deflect a lunging thrust and throw the attacker to his front corner by unbalancing him and moving in. Billy caught my entrance out of the corner of his eye. His eyes swept my way, but he made no sign of recognition.

Tenshi-nage in most styles is pretty elegant. Some schools make it almost too stylized: trainees virtually launch themselves into the fall for their practice partners. Not here. Billy was obviously working on some variations that seemed predicated on the idea that your attacker would not go down. It was a good exercise: what happens when you give it your best shot and the guy will still not fold? It happens eventually to all of us.

There are a number of solutions to the problem. Billy demonstrated a few pretty convincingly: his opponents got propelled not only down but into the mat. Then the class got to try. He watched as they paired off and tried out his variations on each other.

I watched with him. And listened.

The aural signature here was a serious one, punctuated by the rhythmic slam of bodies hitting the mat. You could hear the deeper thud of body collision, the hiss of breath, the occasional grunt. I also picked up the higher pitched sound of slapping.

Billy sidled up to me. "Burke. You come for a workout?" It wasn't a friendly comment. Billy and guys like him work hard at things, which is fine. But they also tend to believe that their way is the only way. I shook his hand if we had been dogs, the hair on our necks would have been standing up.

"No. Just looking for some help with something." The slapping sound continued and drew my attention. Billy saw my glance and gestured with his chin.

"Check this guy out. The real deal."

The man wore a spotless white gi that looked soft with repeated washings. He was intent on working his partner relentlessly, moving in repeatedly to practice the move that Billy had shown them. The slapping noise was coming as he brought his cupped hand sharply into the jaw of his partner as a prelude to the throw. Smack! And in the brief moment of pain, the man would swirl into position and hinge down for the throw. His victim would be driven to the mat and then rise, red faced from the blow, to take more.

Billy's face didn't look a bit troubled as he watched. He didn't say anything. It was a tough place.

I told him about my problem. He looked at his class for a minute as if inspecting a lineup of suspects. "My people are rough, Burke, but I don't see any of them as a killer."

"Sure, Billy. But if anyone new comes by, anyone out of the ordinary, you let me know."

He gave me that hard look. "Hey, you know? I run a business here. People come in to train. I got transients coming by all the time. What's it gonna do for me if I start getting them involved with the cops? It'll kill me."

"Funny you should say that. The guy I'm looking for kills people."

He shook his head. It swiveled very precisely back and forth, yanked by muscle. "I teach people to fight. I don't get involved with their lives off the mat."

I could see he was annoyed. Billy always had a short fuse. I changed the subject and nodded in his student's direction. "He's going at it a bit hard, isn't he? Is he always this intense?" Part of me was thinking like a cop. Could this guy fit the profile of the man we were looking for?

Billy crossed his arms across his chest and watched the class. "Pretty much." Then he looked at me. "Don't get any ideas. He's been with me for a few years." I felt let down. I guess I wasn't going to crack the case. Billy watched as the man's partner took a particularly hard fall. I winced, but Billy was stoic. "Ya gotta keep him away from the beginners. They tend to break. He gives my advanced people a run for their money, though. Hang on a sec."

He glided over to the mat edge and called the group to order. It's always amazing to watch someone move like that: hard and crude though he was, he practically floated. He told everyone to take a short break and brought the man over to be introduced.

The Real Deal was cautiously polite in a way that's typical of a great many martial artists. They save most of their intensity for training. Some people feel we're repressed and only express our selves in the dojo. They don't understand. We're just resting between fights. "Sensei Watson tells us stories about your dojo" he said. "And your teacher. It would be something to meet him."

"Yeah," Billy said, "get in line. But don't get your hopes up. I've been trying to get in there for years." The topic seemed to revive his bad mood. "What he sees in you is anyone's guess, Burke."

I just shrugged. I sometimes wondered the same thing. But I knew that Billy wouldn't be getting to see my teacher soon. Yamashita had spoken to me about Billy in the past. Sensei wanted him to get a bit more experience. The impetuous courage thing.

Billy smirked at me. "OK, since you're here, how about a quick lesson for the class? Show us some of those exotic techniques you get to work on." Both men looked at me expectantly. If they weren't going to get to see Yamashita anytime soon, maybe some pointers from one of his students would do. But that wasn't the only reason. Way back in the eyes of the two men, I could see the predatory gleam of competitors. They wanted to see me work.

Billy ushered the class back into order and introduced me. I slipped my shoes off and bowed onto the mat.

I gestured for a partner. A student stepped forward. One-half of his face was still red from the slapping he had gotten. You had to give the guy credit for guts.

I looked around the group. "All technique should be guided by efficiency," I began. "Any of you who've studied judo know the principle of maximum efficiency for a minimum of effort." Some heads nodded around the circle that had formed around me. "In a situation like the one your sensei has given you you try a technique and it doesn't quite work the temptation is very strong to compensate by overpowering the opponent." I said to my partner, gesturing at him, "So. Half-speed, please."

He came at me with a lunge punch. It was a good, serious

' !........ strike. "Someone centered," I continued as I moved, "someone strong and trained, like this guy here," I grinned, "is hard to fight off." I let him barrel into me. I let his force push me back and down. I rolled backward and up onto my feet. "Too little force, or too slow a reaction time, will ruin your technique."

I nodded at him and we set up for him to repeat it. "I can do my tens hi-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.

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.

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 "fork 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 Romn 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 uncomfortably 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 afficionados 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 circcle 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. Well 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. "Forget 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 ha kama 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?"