Sensei (22 page)

I didn't need to move my jaw too far. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and bit into Tomita's arm, straining against the fabric and skin, flesh and blood. I wanted my teeth to meet. I felt his muscles jumping against my tongue as I worked at him. The hand that pressed my head actually forced my mouth deeper for a split second, then the pressure was gone.

My ears were ringing from the approach of a blackout, but his howl was clear even so. He scrambled off me, reaching once again for the sword.

I jumped on him in a faltering, desperate lurch. I hoped his right thumb was broken and I was sure I had chewed my way through some of his left arm. It made Tomita a split second too slow, his movements too clumsy.

He was on his knees, reaching for the blade when I hit him from behind. He slammed forward, and with the force of my impact, his head actually whiplashed, smacking into my face. I heard the bone in my nose go.

I climbed to one side and locked up his arm. He lay there for a second, face down, squirming, but the lock is designed to keep you away from danger and your opponent immobilized. If he struggles, you can dislocate the shoulder, the elbow, and even break the arm. But you rarely have to, because fighting the joint lock is too painful.

But then Tomita stopped squirming and started, very deliberately, to fight the lock.

It was incredible. I had him tight and there was no way he could get away, short of dislocating the shoulder. I could feel the grating strain the lock was putting on all the joints in his right arm. He grunted and turned his head toward me. The side of his head was bloody. I could see his right eye roll back into the corner to stare at me. It was like a glimpse of some primeval world. The glare was steady and dark and malevolent.

Then he began, very slowly and systematically, to force the shoulder dislocation that would let him escape the immobilization hold. And all the while, he stared at me, a patient, savage force waiting to be unleashed again.

It was unnerving. There was only one thing to do. I barred his upper arm with my right forearm and forced the lower limb up and through the elbow joint. It made an ugly sound, andTomita yelped once before I slammed my elbow into the point where the neck meets the head. I grunted from the effort and the tearing sensation the move made in my back. I did it again. And again. The tension in his body eased.

I slumped back on the floor and realized that the taste in my mouth was Tomita s blood. I spit dryly for a moment, my breath raspy in a throat that felt like it had been scoured with sand. I felt sick.

I dragged myself away from the still form of Tomita. The wooden floor was a slick, bloody mess. I stood up, but hunched over again with a wave of nausea. Burke, the puking warrior. There was blood on the floor, wet and shiny. I slumped with my good side against a wall.

Yamashita approached. He was carrying the cloth bundle that held Ittosai's sword. He looked me over and said. "We must go. Quickly." But before we left, he drifted over to the body. He stared at his old pupil for a moment, then stooped and picked something up. The katana.

We shuffled our way out into the lobby. It felt like a long trip.

Bobby was waiting there.

"Burke ..." he was looking at me, taking in the damage. Then he spotted the swords in my teachers hand.

"Hey, great," he said brightly. "Thanks, I'll take those."

Yamashita stared stonily.

"No," I told him.

"Whaddaya mean, no?" When he was serious, Bobby's face got flat, and the long, horsey shape seemed to settle back into his shoulders.

"They will be returned to their rightful owners," Yamashita said.

Bobby seemed not to hear.

"It was the insurance, wasn't it?" I asked. I had to lick my lips clear, because my nose was still bleeding.

"I need it back. It's supposed to be covered for a hundred fifty g's," he replied. "Give it to me." It was the hard, calculating tone of the real Bobby Kay, businessman.

"I think we'll hold on to it," I said.

"It's mine," Bobby protested. He moved like he was going to keep us from getting out the lobby doors. I saw he had my tanto in his hands. We probably didn't look like we were much of a threat. I knew I was having a hard time standing. Yamashita looked old and used up.

I took a deep breath, and you could hear it because I had to breathe through my mouth. It made a ragged sound. "Akkadian, you get the fuck out of my way. Or I will take that knife away and gut you."

At that point, I'm not really sure that I would have been physically capable of doing much more than standing there. But Yamashita says spirit is everything. I put everything I had into the way I looked at him. For a giddy moment, I had the sensation of looking out at the world through my teacher's eyes.

Bobby's spirit was like the man himself: weak. Besides, I think my appearance scared him. I must have looked like hell.

He backed down. The knife clattered to the floor, and we inched our way out. I heard a series of faint beeps made indistinct by the rushing of the waterfall. I turned to look at Bobby. He was holding a cell phone in his hand.

Better move.

But they were already there. Bobby must have had these two goons standing by at the ready outside the building. They popped out of a parked sedan and stood there on the sidewalk. They were both big, with thick upper torsos and waists that looked tiny in comparison. My eyes were still a bit blurry, but one of them had a slicked back head of silver hair. He seemed to be in charge. The lapels of his dark, open-collared shirt were neatly spread out over his summer-weight sports coat. A gold chain glittered at his throat. As my vision cleared, I saw that he was tan and had little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He regarded us calmly.

His younger partner seemed jumpy. His head was shaved and he had a closely trimmed goatee. He wore a sports coat as well, but the shirt underneath it was a black collarless number. A pair of shades dangled from his jacket pocket. He turned his head from one direction to the other, checking out the surroundings. Or looking for witnesses. A small earring twinkled in the streetlight. They looked like an ad for Rent-a-Thug.

"C'mon, man, let's go," the Earring urged.

His partner didn't respond and peered a bit closer at me. "Holy shit, pal, what happened to you guys?"

"Bad night," I answered.

"No shit." His eyes shifted to a spot behind me. It was probably Akkadian coming out to join the party. "Well, no need for more trouble. Why don't you give me Mr. Akkadian's swords, and we can all call it a night?" He sounded very reasonable.

"No," I said, and he looked at me with a practiced look of professional disappointment combined with anticipation.

The young one started to move toward us. As he did, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. It looked a lot like the one Mori's shooter used.

"Aww, this is bullshit," he protested. "Let's do this guy and the old man, grab the stuff, and get the fuck outta here."

As he was moving toward us I could see over his shoulder. The headlights of a car were getting bigger fast. Someone was in a o o 3

hurry, the car swerving a little as it sped up the street. The sound of the revving car engine made Earring turn around.

The vehicle bounced up the curb, clipping a fire hydrant, and jerked to a stop on the sidewalk. The driver's door flew open before the car stopped, rocking on its springs.

"Freeze!" It was hard to see in the dark, but you could make out the shape of a gun pointing through the space between the open door and the windshield. Earring hesitated for a moment. "I said FREEZE!" the voice shouted.

The noise seemed to jolt the younger man into movement. The gun came up.

"No, Richie," the older one called out. But it was too late.

I dove down and away. Yamashita was right behind me. I heard him grunt as he hit the pavement. The stud in the young man's ear glinted again in the night, his pistol came up into position, and he fired. From my position behind him, the muzzle flash highlighted his silhouette for a millisecond. Then three tightly spaced shots rang out from the car on the sidewalk, and you could see them punch into the young man's body, driving him back and crumpling him onto the sidewalk.

His partner stood with his hands in the air, not moving a muscle.

Micky came out from behind the car. "Connor?"

I felt dizzy and sat down on the pavement by the curb. I hoped it was cooler there. I hoped there would be more air. I held my head in my hands and closed my eyes. My blood roared intermittently in my ears as I gulped for air. I listened to the sounds washing around me.

Mickys voice got closer. I heard Richie's gun skitter across the cement as Micky kicked it away. Then the click of the handcuffs. They always cuff the suspect, no matter what.

"Thank God you're here." Bobby's voice was all oily relief.

"Shut the fuck up, Akkadian," my brother told him. Sirens howled in the distance.

I opened my eyes as a new set of lights washed the scene. They were from Mori's black Lexus. The illumination glittered across the dark pool slowly spreading from Richie and oozing into the street. I sniffed and a drop of blood spattered, fat and round, down between my feet.

Then a cop car pulled up, lights cycling around, and two uniforms jumped out. There was another faint rushing in my head, but I could hear more sirens on the way, the static chatter of the cop's radio, and voices of various types.

"Who's the dead guy?" one of the cops asked Micky.

My brother ignored him. "Connor, you OK?" he shouted at me. I didn't answer.

"Yamashita!" Micky turned to my teacher. "Is he OK?"

I felt Yamashita's hands on me, keeping me upright. He must have answered Micky. I nodded my head in affirmation as well. It hurt to do it. Then Micky went over to the silver-haired man. "Well, if it isn't Charlie G. What brings you here?" jj "Just passing by, Burke. No interest."

"Who's the stiff?"

Charlie G. shrugged. It was the first time he had moved since his accomplice had been shot. "Beats me." He looked at Bobbie Kay, who nodded sagely in return.

"Sure," my brother said.

He gestured to one of the uniformed cops, who cuffed Charlie.

Mori slid smoothly out of his car, spotted me swooning at the curb with Yamashita beside me, and strode over. "Yamashita-san,

where is he?" His shooter was with him, vigilant and confused at the same time.

"Hey, I'm bleeding," I said in amazement to no one in particular.

"No shit, Sherlock," Micky said as he came up to the other side of me. With Yamashita's help, he eased me down.

"I need to know where he is!" Mori insisted. He sounded like he was going to explode.

Micky ignored him and knelt down beside me. "How you doin', buddy boy?"

"How'd you know? Where I was?" My voice sounded thick.

"Yamashita called before he left."

I tried to smile, but it hurt my nose. I swiveled my head around to look at Yamashita. He smiled. Then I squinted at Mori and jerked my head. Gently. "In there," I told him. He and the shooter disappeared into the building.

By this time the EMTs were on the scene. They laid me down on my side while they cut things away and prepped me. "You a good guy or bad guy?" one asked. It didn't slow his actions down any and he didn't seem really interested: just making small talk.

"Huh?" I said.

The EMT looked at my brother. Micky pointed to the thug with the earring. "Bad guy." Then me. "Good guy." He looked at my teacher for a minute, then pointed very deliberately again. "Good guy." Yamashita bowed slightly.

The EMT nodded. "Way to go."

They loaded me up into the ambulance while another team checked out Yamashita. Before the ambulance doors closed, I saw Mori and his goon emerge from the building. They got into their car and drove off smoothly, sedately. No need to attract attention.

Micky was at the doors to the ambulance. "These guys will take care of you," he told me. "Yamashita's in another unit. I'll follow."

I gave him a little grin and tried to wink. "Hold onto those swords," I said.

The doors closed and they strapped me in. Then they put the oxygen mask on me and I tried to relax as they hit every pothole in Manhattan on the way to the hospital.

After jumbled darkness, a long season of light.

The summer months were almost at an end, but their heat lingered: I could still feel it through my blue blazer. The warmth felt good. The back wound had healed, but my muscles were still tight where the sword had sliced through them, and I found myself drowsing, lulled by the sensation, as the speech I was listening to went on and on.

On a day like this, with the dignitaries assembled on the steps of the university library, Dorian almost lived up to the collective delusion of its public relations image. Stately brick facades and well-manicured pathways gave the campus the impression of confident, measured purpose. In a week, students would return and the dysfunctional nature of modern college life would be suddenly revealed. For now, we held our breath and pretended. University functionaries in attendance looked bright and professional: dark suits for the men, prim business outfits for the women. The proceedings were lent a fake erudition by the sonorous buzz of Domanova's welcoming speech. Ever the pedant, he pronounced each and every syllable, rolling the words around in his mouth.

The donors were in place, the press was present, and the cameras were rolling. Micky and I sat in the second row of seated dignitaries lined up behind the podium. We were on the end, far enough away to be able to make fun of things.

My brother screwed his mouth around to the side, ""four boss is, of course, a lunatic."

I smiled at the small crowd assembled for the ceremony and nodded in agreement. "True. But this is academia. No one really notices."

Akkadian was there, strategically placed as far away from the Burke brothers as possible. A Japanese executive sat stolidly, gripping a small leather folder. And in the audience, next to the immobile countenance of Yamashita, there was Art. Thinner, moving with the convalescent's stiff caution that I sometimes saw in the mirror. But moving.

July and August had been a time for pulling things together: muscles, bones, and memory.

Tomita was dead. I learned that from the cops who came to get my statement at the hospital. Through the buzz of weariness and painkillers, I gave them my version of things. Micky later told me that Tomita had been found face up, a tanto planted with almost surgical precision deep into his heart. Micky thought it was a nice gesture but confided to me that I had already broken Tomita's neck.

We both knew that I hadn't used the knife. In the press of the EMTs arrival, no one really paid much attention when Mori and his shooter slipped into Samurai House. I thought back to the glimpse I caught of them emerging a few minutes later, hustling away into the night without a backward glance. We were all pretty sure Mori had used the knife. The police later discouraged any close inquiries about that. Diplomatic courtesy, I suppose. When Micky pressed things, his lieutenant told him to drop it. Or else.

Part of me still didn't get why Tomita targeted me before Yamashita. But my teacher later told me that he always knew that would come. He waited until I was out of the hospital for that little discussion.

"You knew all that time that he would come for me? For me? And you didn't say anything?" I was incredulous. When you've been injured people cut you a great deal of slack. He had been hurt too, but I had him beat because I had needed surgery. It gave me a slight advantage and I figured I could get away with that tone of voice for a while longer.

The old Yamashita gazed at me, remote, calm, totally certain. "Of course not. Think of what it would have done to your training. It was a distraction you did not need."

"But he might have killed me, Sensei!" I said in exasperation.

"What did you think when you began the Way of the Sword, Professor? That it was a game?"

Later, after watching me brood, my teacher took up this issue again. "Burke, I have watched you train for years. And, with time, I began to see that there was potential here ..." He took a sip of air and changed tack. "The selection of a primary disciple is not an easy thing. It is often marked by blood."

He looked at me significantly. The founder of his style, Ittosai, dealt with this issue centuries ago and had left his successors through the generations a ruthless model. The master, blessed with two remarkable students of apparently equal skill, had brought them together. He had placed the scrolls of the style and the document of succession on the ground, along with a ceremonial sword. Then he had calmly informed the two disciples that the individual who left the room alive would be his successor.

Yamashita, like many of us, pushes into the future while dragging along old baggage from the past. Now I stood there with him, helping drag the load.

I was angry for a time. And confused. But it was familiar territory. As a master, Yamashita pushes you to do things you never would have dared do yourself. And at the end, you're not exactly grateful, just changed.

I heard that a reporter was writing a book about the murders that was filled with all the dark overtones and twisted logic of mental pathology: theories of abuse and the need for recognition. The urge to break free and yet to belong, to seek out authority figures, to become like them. To destroy them. Oedipus and sibling rivalry. The need to get close to what we can't have but crave desperately. I could follow the argument on an intellectual level, I suppose. But I had little interest left in it. I wanted to face away from the dark.

My brother would never make a good writer. He could sum it up in one sentence. And did, when the reporter interviewed him: "It was revenge, you dope."

A polite rippling of applause made me sit up a bit straighter and open my eyes. A press conference like this is well scripted, and Dean Ceppaglia had briefed me carefully on my role. The notoriety of the case complete with a string of murders, the almost fatal attack on Art and his long, slow climb back to health as well as the violent showdown at Samurai House was too good to pass up. Like a shark smelling blood in the water from a great way off, Domanova and his cronies had carefully crafted the event we were currently attending. It served as a way to link the university, the fruits of capitalism, and the triumph of good over evil in one neat photo opportunity.

If Domanova had his way, I would have been nowhere in sight. But the showbiz potential of the "battling professor" getting his reward was too good for anyone to ignore. I had spent my convalescence fending off moronic reporters asking questions like "Is the pen really mightier than the sword?" Now this.

But I rose on cue and Mr. Takano, a prominent lawyer representing the Japanese sensei, presented me with a ceremonial katana. The dark scabbard glowed with a somber light. Takano was a thoroughly modern Japanese executive, but he held the sword with respect anyway and turned it over to me in the prescribed manner the Japanese have for sword handling. I received it with equal gravity and wrapped it in a brocade bag.

Domanova watched impatiently, petulant at being off center stage and eager to move on to the central act in the play. He sprang up from his seat when we had concluded. With a flourish, the president announced the creation of an institute for Asian Studies at the university. His relentless trolling for wealthy patrons in the turgid waters of the Samurai House reception had paid off. Through a convoluted and, I hoped humiliating, courtship, the Mad Leader had seduced Randall C. T. Ong, a local software magnate, into endowing the institute.

The deal had been brewing for weeks. Joseph Ceppaglia, whose new hobby was serving as my guardian angel, had gotten wind of it. The dean knew that the sudden gush of money would present opportunities. The president would briefly spew goodwill, scattering minor favors like feudal indulgences. So Ceppaglia pulled strings and whispered in ears, finessing the obscure process of memo, elliptical conversation, and counter memo that is academic decision making. The dean is not a bad guy. At the end of it, he had come away with exactly what he set out for while convincing everyone else that they had gotten what they wanted instead. I had to acknowledge that Yamashita was not the only master present that day.

Ceppaglia was sitting on the other side of me. He smiled placidly as Ong was introduced and the gift acknowledged. I shifted slightly in my seat the hairline fracture in my thigh and the muscle damage was about healed, but I still got stiff now and then. As I moved, the letter in my breast pocket crinkled faintly. The dean had handed it to me earlier in the day with a big smile. In the round, pretentious prose that was his hallmark, Domanova had written to appoint me academic coordinator for the institute. What relation the title had to anything I would actually do was anyone's guess.

"What it means," Ceppaglia had said quietly, "is that you now have a job. A real job. Don't screw it up."

As Ong spoke, I looked around at my new colleagues. Ceppaglia chewed gum furiously and threw significant looks my way, convinced that through superior scheming he was responsible for everything going on. Domanova was scanning the crowd, mentally noting who was present and who was not, amending his black list accordingly. Members of the faculty sat there, stone-faced and outraged at Domanova's good fortune, seething ineffectually and dreaming of assassination.

When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.

The long ritual of institutional congratulation and shameless self-promotion eventually petered out in a champagne reception. We walked, squinting in the afternoon sun, and reached the awninged shade of the presidential manse. Yamashita stood to one side with the lawyer. The two men stared into the crowd and talked quietly in Japanese. They looked like zoo visitors watching gorillas, alternately fascinated by the species's similarities and secretly revolted by the thought that they were closely related.

We stood by the bar for a while. Art leaned on it. They can do amazing things with microsurgery, but I still couldn't believe that they reattached his hand. Even in the afternoon sun, I got a chill. For a moment, I could smell the damp and blood on the subway platform. I could see the stump of Art's wrist pulsing fluid.

I gestured at it. "How's the therapy going?"

He gingerly rotated his hand and wrist, watching it critically. Then he grinned up at me. "Slow. But it's better than looking like Captain Hook."

"Almost worth it to see Mick in a pair of green tights," I said.

Art sipped appreciatively at his champagne. "True. He never did grow up."

Micky didn't have a comeback for once. He just looked at us with a disgusted expression on his face.

I was identifying the key players at the reception to my brother and Art when Yamashita introduced the lawyer, Takano, to us. The man had absolutely no accent: his English was fluid and precise. He still bowed slightly when we were introduced, however. Some things are hard to change.

"Mr. Burke," he said as he unzipped his little folder, "I am pleased to be able to present you with the reward for the return of Ittosai's sword." He wasn't really pleased, of course. No one likes to give away $25,000. But he hid it nicely behind gracious formality.

I nodded, equally gracious, and fished a piece of paper out of my pocket. "Takano-san," I replied. "It was nothing. I am honored, but I would be grateful if you would have separate checks made out in three names." This attracted at least one person's attention: Bobby Kay floated in the background, drawn by the scent of money.

Takano took the paper I gave him and frowned. Yamashita murmured something and Takano s look cleared. Then he placed his folder down on one of the cocktail tables and carefully filled out blank checks with the names. Bobby edged in closer for a peek. Takano finished writing, made some notes on a form, and asked me to sign to acknowledge receipt of the reward. I did. He zipped up his little folder, bowed to us, and then left.

Cops can't accept reward money. But a private citizen like myself can share it with anyone he wants.

Bobby Kay staggered away. As he lurched toward the bar, he bumped into Ceppaglia. Smooth veteran of decades of cocktail parties, the dean swerved around Bobby, never spilling a drop from his champagne glass. "That man looks absolutely appalled," he commented to us as he approached.

"Well," Micky said, "that's good. Because he's appalling."

'"Vbu know," I said to Micky, "I thought Bobby would make a bigger stink about claiming the reward for himself."

My brother smirked as he drank some champagne. He closed one eye the way my dad used to do when he was thinking. "Well," he said judiciously, "I explained to him that a murder is a complicated thing, you don't want to muddy the waters unnecessarily. It makes people wonder things."

"Such as?" Ceppaglia asked.

"It makes people wonder things like maybe Reilly's murder was some half-assed publicity stunt gone wrong. Or that maybe it wasn't and Bobby got into contact with Tomita later and promised to set you up in exchange for the return of the sword because he cut some corners and hadn't insured it properly. And that maybe he hired those two goons as his backup if things went wrong. Which they did.

"So I got him to agree that it wouldn't be good to pursue his claim to the reward money, especially since it might make me ask how come his fingerprints were on the knife."

"Were they?" Ceppaglia asked.

My brother waved the question away. "Who knows."

Ceppaglia looked from one of us to the other. "But I thought you said Connor broke Tomita's neck!" he protested.