The Nicholas Linnear Novels (28 page)

“So get out,” Nicholas said.

Croaker looked up. “Yeah.” There was an awkward silence. “Listen, about what I said before—”

“Let’s go,” Nicholas said, standing up. “We’ve got an appointment and it won’t do to be late.”

It was cool and dry inside without the benefit of artificial air conditioning. It was as if they were far below the surface of the earth where it was naturally cool. The summer sun could not penetrate this far.

The walls were of enormous stone blocks, quite thick, so as to be able to retain the coolness even on the hottest of days; there was a second story to take the brunt of the sun.

Over the sounds of their movement, Croaker could hear faint echoes, like calm voices heard at the bottom of a pond through the intervening water; he could not understand the words but he knew they were there. As they moved closer, he could begin to discern other sounds as well: wordless noises as precise as close-order army drill, recalling to him the long days of basic training in that remote dusty town in Georgia.

“Film and television discovered the martial arts some years ago,” Nicholas said as they proceeded, “and turned them into a circus entertainment. As a result, they’re taken about as seriously as professional wrestling over here. At best, they are quite misunderstood by Americans.” Nicholas stopped and turned to Croaker. “The Way is not mere killing. That is a purely Western notion. You pull out a gun and boom! you destroy life. That is not the Way. The basis of all bujutsu is internal.”

They began to walk again and the sounds came nearer now. Croaker thought he heard the rhythmic slap of bare feet against wood, the crack of wood against wood as if a giant were playing an outsized percussion instrument.

“Bujutsu is not something to be taken lightly, Lieutenant, I assure you,” Nicholas continued. “It is neither a conjurer’s trick nor a parlor game amusement but deadly serious.” He turned his head. “I trust I’m not being redundant. I’m merely being careful. You see, the average Westerner will never see nor even hear about the true bujutsu adept. Why should he, since the adept neither wishes for nor gets any kind of publicity.

“Despite its violent nature, bujutsu is more in sync with religion—Zen and Shinto specifically—than it is with, say, sports. It is a way of life, governed by
bushido.
An adept would commit
seppuku
—ritual suicide—rather than break the code. Everything in life, Lieutenant—
every thing
—is subject to
bushido.
I hope you can understand that.”

“I’m not certain that I do,” Croaker said truthfully. Yet something swam at the edge of his consciousness, tantalizing him. He wondered what it was, then shrugged mentally, left it alone. Straining after it, he knew, would only push it further away.

“It’s not surprising.” Nicholas gave him a bleak smile that contained no warmth. “For some Westerners it takes years to understand.” He was a bit ahead of Croaker now. “For others”—he shrugged—“it never comes at all.”

There was nothing in the world that could make Gelda Tomkin Odile cry, yet she felt close to tears now. She stood in the coolness of her Sutton Place apartment, looking out at the bright sunshine turning the East River solid. It might have been a river of salt for all the reality it had for her. The familiar view looked as flat as a painting and as unappetizing. Perhaps it was a painting, after all, she thought, but she knew that she was not thinking clearly. That was the one thing she was happy about; what she had been searching for. The Chivas was no longer sufficient; and, she thought wryly, it’s bad for business. Grass was no damn good. She had found that out a long time ago. Because she could control it and she needed something that controlled her. Hallucinogens were useless to her and opium merely knocked her out. Then she had found that codeine pills in conjunction with the whiskey were just what the doctor ordered. She laughed sardonically at that.

The phone rang in the room behind her, a soft burring that was as much a part of the atmosphere of the place as was the long leather couch whose surface could only be warmed by contact with naked flesh.

Gelda stared out the window in no hurry to answer the phone; it would continue to ring until she picked it up; if she were not at home or did not want to be disturbed, the machine would have intercepted the call after the first ring. It was Pear who needed her. She could afford to wait.

She wished now that she could cry, but even through the mist of the spirits and the drug she found herself dry, her interior as sere and forbidding as a desert bleached by the sun.

She turned and walked silently across the deep sapphire wall-to-wall carpet of the bedroom. Through the open door she saw the vast expanse of the umber leather couch and the terra-cotta carpet which dominated the living room—or her work room as she preferred to call it: they rarely wanted to use the bed anymore.

Her thick hair was like honey and, as she passed through a bar of sunlight, it took on the luster of rich silk. She wore a forest-green natural satin robe, loosely belted, which clung to her like a second skin, showed off her ample cleavage, her long legs, but which concealed those parts of her body which, in her most private thoughts, she despised. There was not a single mirror up in the entire apartment, not even over the sink in the bathroom, yet she had a closet full, stashed away; it was a popular item.

She picked up the phone. “Yes.”

“Darling, what took you so long?” Pear said in her ear. “Something horribly naughty?”

“Not naughty enough.” Gelda closed her eyes.

Pear chuckled. “That’s my girl.” Her voice changed gears abruptly. “G, are you all right?”

“Sure, why?”

“You haven’t been out much lately. Some of the girls were asking, that’s all. They miss you.”

“I miss them, too,” Gelda said, wondering whether she meant it or not. “I’ve been thinking a lot, Pear.”

“My dearest darling,” Pear said patiently, “you know that thinking is no good for the soul. You’ve got to get out more; go to a couple of parties.”

“You know I don’t do that sort of thing,” Gelda snapped.

“Please. I wasn’t soliciting.” Pear’s voice seemed pained now. “My darling, I care about you. Genuinely care.”

“I’m worth a lot to you.”

“Now you forget that kind of talk, G.” It was Pear’s turn to snap. “You are just being contrary. I know that and I forgive you that statement. There aren’t many people I care about in this world—Lord knows, none of the girls—but you’re one of them.”

“I’m one of your girls,” Gelda said stubbornly.

She heard Pear’s exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “Darling, need I remind you
again
that it was you who sought me out? Yes, I provide your clientele, but they’re a very special breed, you don’t need me to tell you that. One thousand dollars a night is nothing to look down your nose at. You could perhaps make more by the hour but what’s the point, darling? That won’t make you happy and this does. But I can hardly say that you are one of my
girls.
My God, what a difference! People
ask
for you, my darling. That’s the difference.”

“Do you have something for me?” Gelda asked woodenly.

Pear sighed again, giving up for the moment. “Yes. Dare. The actress. You remember—”

“I remember.”

“She only wanted you.”

“All right.”

“Do you have everything you need?” Pear inquired.

Gelda thought for a minute. “The chaps were just cleaned but the silk—”

“I’ll have Lawless come by with it this afternoon. Anything else?”

Gelda was thinking about the enormous Remington Navy six-shooter with the long octagonal barrel and the polished hardwood stock under her expert guidance. It wasn’t called a six-shooter for nothing. “Yes,” she said dreamily, “a half a pound of lox and four bagels.” She paused for a moment. “Pear, be sure you tell him no onions; not when I’m working.”

Pear laughed in her ear. “That’s more like it. You know tonight’s going to be more pleasure than business.”

There was that to look forward to at least. She turned to look out the window at the bright brittle sunshine. The phone slid from her grip. The river of salt winked at her, dazzling.

The room itself was constructed entirely of wood. Only wooden pegs and glue had been used in the laying of the boards, shiny with clear lacquer.

It was a rectangle, wider than it was deep, with a high ceiling. The light was soft and well defined in every corner of the room.

It had the look of a gymnasium save for the raised dais with its low wooden railing that ran across the width at the rear of the room. Otherwise it was devoid of furniture or other accouterments.

There were a dozen men in white cotton leggings and shirts, lined up six against six opposite each other. Each held a polished wooden stick, round with a shallow hilt guard. Croaker would have thought of them as swords had it not been for a total lack of cutting edge or sharp point. The men were maskless. All were Japanese. Most were in their early or middle twenties though he saw one teenager and two who were obviously nearer forty.

A man dressed in gray stood between these two groups, near the stairs leading up to the low dais. He was small in stature. He was hairless, making a judgment of his age somewhat more difficult. Croaker put it somewhere between forty and fifty. The man gave a piercing cry and the two lines advanced two quick steps, engaging each other in what looked to him like ritualized combat using the wooden sticks.

“This is a kenjutsu class, Lieutenant,” Nicholas said. “The finest in the Western Hemisphere and parts of the East as well.”

Croaker watched, fascinated, as the men advanced and retreated, attacked and parried, crying out in unison. But it all seemed so slow and methodical that he could not see how any of it could be at all useful in a fight.

In moments there came a soft bell tone and, at a sharp command form the
sensei
, the men stepped back and, lifting their swords in unison, bowed deeply to each other. Then they wheeled and broke up into quiet groups. Some walked to the sides of the
dōjō
and sat on their heels, others bent and stretched where they were. All seemed totally involved in these minute actions.

Nicholas took Croaker across the polished floor to where the kenjutsu master stood. He bowed and, in Japanese, said some things to the small man, who bowed again and extended his hand toward Croaker.

Uncertain, Croaker took it. It was as hard as a block of concrete. The man smiled.

“This is Fukashigi,” Nicholas told Croaker. “Consider yourself introduced.”

Croaker let go the man’s hand, said, “What happens now?”

“Watch,” Nicholas said.

Fukashigi looked off to his left, spoke in rapid Japanese. A student uncoiled himself and, first pausing to pick up another wooden sword, came quietly over. He bowed to Nicholas, handed him one of the weapons. Fukashigi spoke to him for a short time and at the end his head bobbed once. “
Hai!
” he said in assent.

The student was tall and lanky, with a hard face and quick intelligent eyes. Both he and Nicholas adopted an opening attitude, feet as far apart as the width of their shoulders, knees slightly bent, both hands on the hilts of their wooden swords.

“Now,” Nicholas said to Croaker, not taking his eyes from the student, “there are five attitudes in kendo and only five: upper, middle, lower, right side, left side. The first three are decisive; the last two, fluid, used when you encounter an obstruction overhead or on one side. However, this is not the Way. To master the technique, you must have what is commonly known as the ‘attitude—no attitude.’ That is, adapt from one to the other as the situation dictates
without thinking
so that your motion from the beginning of the contest to the end is one uninterrupted fluid motion: like the sea. The five elements, Lieutenant, are crucial to kenjutsu.”

And he attacked the student with such blinding speed and ferocity that Croaker literally jumped.

“Approach from the middle attitude,” Nicholas said and he performed it again, slowed down immensely, the motions now magnified. He lifted his sword so that its “point” was in the student’s face. The man immediately attacked and, as he did, Nicholas, with minimal motion, slashed the other’s sword to the right, riding it away from him.

Nicholas stood with his sword high above his head, the upper attitude. The student struck forward and, at the same time, Nicholas cut downward.

Nicholas lowered his sword. The student attacked once more, moving his sword upward. This time the student blocked him but in that same instant Nicholas’ sword freed itself from the block, cut across the other’s upper arms in a soft tap.

The student immediately moved to attack, coming in from the right side. Nicholas moved his sword until it was on his left side, below his waist. As the student attacked him, his sword flashed upward, scoring along the length and, crossing over, he cut across the man’s shoulders.

Now the student attacked from the right and, adopting the left-side attitude, Nicholas again cut upward. Blocked, he slid gracefully into the upper attitude, delivering what would, in actual combat, have been a killing blow to the top of the student’s head.

They both stepped back, bowed to each other.

“You see,” Nicholas said, turning to Croaker, “the basics of kenjutsu.”

“But you’re just using wooden practice swords,” Croaker said. “You can’t hurt anybody—”

“On the contrary, these
bokken
are every bit as deadly as the
katana
is. They—”

But in that instant he had whirled, somehow sensing the dual attack from both the student at his side and the
sensei
directly behind him. The student had already been disarmed with one cut and Nicholas was deep within battle with Fukashigi by the time Croaker had time to react to the situation. That would be about a tenth of a second, he calculated dazedly. My God, I saw the attack coming before he did!

The clash of the
bokken
filled the room but the contestants’ movements were so swift that they were a mere blur. Croaker stared carefully but, try as he might, he could not distinguish one movement from the next, so fluid were they. He recalled Nicholas’ analogy of this movement to the sea and he understood.