Bad Blood (10 page)

Tozzi nodded again. “I liked that move you did with the big guy. The one with the sword?”

The
sensei
smiled and continued to fold his pants, smoothing the wrinkles out of the sashes before folding them.
“Shomen Uchi Kokyu Nage.”
He looked up at Tozzi. “With motion?”

“Yeah, with motion. That must really take some doing, throwing someone that big. You really made it look easy.”

“That's one of the things we aim for, minimal effort.”

“You're saying it
was
easy?”

He shrugged. “It wasn't hard.”

Harder than talking to you? “Listen, my name's Mike Tozzi.” He pulled out his FBI ID and showed it to him. “I'm a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He paused for a second, suddenly realizing that this was the first time he'd gone through this routine since he'd come back. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.
About the martial arts in general. You're not the target of this investigation, by the way. So don't worry.”

“I wasn't.” The
sensei
picked up his black pants, now folded in a neat bundle, and stood up. He extended his hand to Tozzi. “Neil Chaney.”

Tozzi put his loafers in his other hand and shook the guy's hand. Standing together, he realized how small Chaney really was. Somehow he looked bigger, more formidable when he was doing aikido.

“I'm investigating a double homicide in which the victims died from a single blow to the neck that fatally damaged the spinal column. It appears that this was done with a blunt, heavy object of some kind, but we're not ruling anything out at this point.” Tozzi hated the way he sounded. He sounded like all those starched-collar, three-piece polyester-suit feds he couldn't stand. He wondered if he'd always come off this way. He hoped to hell not. He consciously tried to relax his face before he posed his question. “Could someone who knew a martial art—like aikido, say—be able to do something like this?”

Chaney frowned, considering the question. “A direct blow to the neck? No, not aikido.”

“Why not?”

“Aikido is a purely self-defensive martial art. In aikido, you don't initiate an attack. You react to being attacked and you use the force of the attacker's aggression back against him. What you're describing is more in line with full-contact karate, tae kwon do, wu shu, the hard martial arts. Someone accomplished in one of the hard arts would probably have the ability to kill.”

“But an aikido black belt couldn't kill, even if he really wanted to?”

Chaney shrugged. “Depends on the situation. But the basic philosophy behind aikido is peaceful, so killing shouldn't even be in the person's mind. If you absolutely have to fight, then neutralizing your opponent is the goal. Make the aggressor impotent by virtue of his own aggression. Inflicting pain isn't the point.”

“But aikido can cause pain.”

“It can, but like I said, that's not the point.”

“What is the point?”

Chaney smiled. “In twenty-five words or less?” He shook his head, still smiling. “Impossible to put into words. You're looking for a nice three-line dictionary answer. I wouldn't know where to begin.”

“Try.”

“Well . . . let's just say that the point of aikido isn't how to cream the other guy. It's how to fix the guy within yourself so that you'll always be able to handle the other guy. It's learning how to stay calm and relaxed but still strong, even when you're under attack. And this can apply to everything in your life, not just a fight.”

Tozzi nodded. He wasn't sure whether this guy was a flake or not. It sounded just a little bit too New Age. But he had seen Chaney disarm the big black guy and flip him over. There had to be something to this.

Chaney smiled knowingly. “You kinda sorta don't believe any of this, right? Well, you can't really describe what aikido is all about. You just have to do it to understand it. If you're really interested, you're welcome to come sit in on a few classes. You live around here?”

“Ah, yeah. I'll be moving in soon.” I hope.

“Good. Maybe you'll even like it enough to sign up. We can always use new white belts to throw around.”

Tozzi thought about it for a moment. The idea of being calm and relaxed appealed to him. He couldn't remember the last time he was really calm and relaxed. He was also intrigued by the idea of reacting to an attack and using the attacker's momentum against him. He'd been in plenty of fistfights in his life and he understood how committing yourself to a punch could put you in deep shit sometimes. Besides, suppose the “Death Bug” killer actually was some kind of martial arts specialist. It wouldn't hurt to put himself in the killer's mindset, which he might get out of coming to Chaney's
dojo
a few times. “Yeah, maybe I will give it a try,” Tozzi said. “When do you have classes?”

“We meet at eight on Mondays and Wednesdays, and four on Saturdays. I hope to see you around . . .” Chaney tapped his forehead with his finger. “I'm sorry. What did you say your name was?”

“Mike.”

“Right. Mike. See ya around, Mike.” Chaney went to the edge of the mat, bowed, slipped on a pair of tan rubber flip-flops, and walked over to a bank of second-hand gym lockers against the back wall.

Tozzi looked at his watch. It was twenty of eight. Shit. He wondered if the lady at Elysian Fields Realty was still waiting for him. He hoped she was. This apartment search had been dragging on
too long. He was sick of living like a gypsy. He needed to find a place of his own, soon. He hopped into his shoes and headed for the door.

Maybe tonight, he thought as he rushed down the rickety steps. Maybe I'll get lucky. Who knows?

GIBBONS WAS dubious as he stared at the huge freighter looming over the edge of the dock, its mottled gray-green hull the color of dinosaur hide. What the hell was he supposed to find here? The reasoning for coming down here to the docks was shaky, but Tozzi had insisted. The fibers on the dead kid's corduroy pants were from a new kind of synthetic carpeting found only in this year's Hondas and Nissans. So what? Just go down and check it out, Tozzi kept saying. Asian Automotive Importers, port of entry for all Japanese cars in this area, go check it out. For what? I dunno, Tozzi says, giving him the dumb immigrant shrug, look around, pop a few trunks, maybe you'll see something. Gibbons frowned and shook his head. The only thing he was going to see here were cars. What a ballbuster this guy is.

The freighter started to lumber out into the bay with the help of a few tugs. The thing was so big and hulking from this distance it felt like the land was doing the moving, not the ship. Gibbons watched it through the cyclone fence that surrounded the endless lot crammed with brand-new import cars right off the boat from Japan. He stared at the freighter's stern where
HONDA
was painted perpendicular to a vertical line of Japanese characters. He scanned the long lines of Honda roofs. All the little baby Godzillas just delivered from the belly of the big mama-
san
. Gibbons took out his handkerchief
and blew his nose. Well, I'm here now, he thought. Might as well go in and take a look. Satisfied, Tozzi?

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black raincoat and headed for the guard posted at the entrance of the lot, a young black kid in a rent-a-cop uniform who'd been giving him the hairy eyeball ever since he got out of his car. As Gibbons approached his booth, the kid put on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Gibbons smirked and shook his head.

“You can't come in, sir,” the guard yelled before Gibbons even got near his booth. “Employees only.”

Gibbons nodded and kept walking.

“I said you cannot come in,” the guard yelled.

Gibbons ignored him and just walked right up to the booth. The kid held his hand threateningly on the holster of his pistol, but the holster was snapped shut. You do a real quick draw with the holster closed, genius.

“Who's the supervisor here?” Gibbons asked.

“You can't buy no cars here. You can't come in.”

Gibbons's face was stone as he stared into the kid's mirrored shades. Two malevolent Aztec deities stared back at him. “I don't want to buy a car. Get on the phone and call whoever's in charge here.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but you cannot—”

“Tone down the drill-sergeant routine, palie. I can hear you. Just get on the phone and tell your supervisor that there's a special agent from the FBI here to see him.”

The kid's face froze. His nostrils flared and raised his glasses. He didn't believe it.

Gibbons pulled out his ID and held it in front of the kid's face. “Does this make you happy?”

The kid stared at it for a long time.

“It's not a fucking book, genius.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Gibbons started to walk around the yellow-and-black-striped lift gate.

“Hey, come back here! I told you you can't go in there.” He rushed out of his booth, but Gibbons turned and squared off, his hands ominously in his coat pockets. The kid was still holding onto his holster. He might as well have been holding his dick.

“Don't sweat it, kid. I'll tell your boss you put up a good fight. I'll tell him it was just like the Alamo.”

“The what?”

Gibbons scowled and turned away, disgusted. Everyone knows the goddamn Alamo. If they don't, they should.

The kid rushed back to his booth, obviously anxious to call in before his boss spotted the intruder wandering around by himself. Gibbons started walking toward the concrete-block bunker at the far end of the lot down by the water. It must've been at least a quarter mile from the front gate. As he walked, he noticed closed-circuit TV cameras on the lampposts, scanning the lot. Whoever was in the bunker already knew he was coming.

Somebody came out of the bunker then and started toward him in a big hurry. As the figure got closer, Gibbons could see that it was a guy with a big belly and a stumpy stogy in his mouth, struggling to make tracks. The way he ran it looked like he was trying to get around his big gut, but it was a pesky obstacle. He didn't look like he ran very often.

“Hey, hey, hey, what's going on here, what's going on? What can I do for you there, pal?”

The guy was all out of breath, panting through his teeth clenched onto that stogy. He unzipped the front of his green thermal sweat jacket and uncovered that behemoth belly of his. The buttons of his brown plaid flannel shirt were in agony, straining to stay together. He was a real sketch, this guy. He had to be somebody's brother-in-law, somebody who had some pull with the union. That's how these kinds of guys get these kinds of cushy jobs, which is how they get these kinds of bellies.

Gibbons didn't say anything; he just held up his ID. The guy looked at it, blinking. He was holding onto his belly like a beach ball, massaging it with fingers spread as he blinked at the ID.

“ ‘Special Agent C. Gibson,' ” the fat guy read aloud. “What's the
C
stand for?” he asked.

Gibbons glared at him. “It's Gibbons, not Gibson, and don't worry about the
C
.” Nitwit.

“Okay, okay, okay.” The fat guy started blinking like crazy now. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Gibson? What can I do for you?”

Gibbons shut his eyes. It wasn't worth the effort. “I want to look around.”

“Uh-huh.” There was a long pause. “Look around for what?”

Gibbons gave him the stare. Another long pause. “I'm not at liberty to say, Mr . . . ?”

“Gianella. Joe, call me Joe.” He smiled and rubbed his belly. When he smiled, his eyes disappeared in his fat face. “Lookin' for somethin', huh? So whatta ya lookin' for? Jimmy Hoffa?”

“You know where he is?”

“No, no, course not. That was just a joke. You know, a joke.” Joe looked nervous.

“Look, Joe, let me lay it all out for you, okay? I'm FBI, you're not. That puts you at a disadvantage because if you don't get away from me and let me do my business, I can have you charged with obstruction of justice and arrest you as a suspected accomplice in whatever it is I'm investigating that I already told you I can't tell you about. So you bust my balls now and I'll really bust yours later. Do we understand each other?”

Joe started nodding like a marionette, jerking his head and shoulders up and down as he kept saying “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh . . .” Gibbons wanted to punch him in the eye because he knew the fat slob was just trying to stall him.

“You know, Mr. Gibson, I do believe you are what you say you are. But let's just suppose you ain't. I mean for all I know you could be some kind of corporate spy, you know? I mean, other car companies try to sabotage the competition all the time. Put pin holes in the brake lines, a little bit of sugar in the gas tanks to gum up the valves. You know what I'm talking about?”

Gibbons wanted to coldcock this guy in the worst way, but he knew better. They'd file charges against the Bureau that could invalidate any evidence he might find here. Oh, for the good ole days when J. Edgar ran things, when the law didn't get in the way of justice. He bit his tongue and reached for his wallet, pulling out a printed business card. “Here. Call this number. It's the FBI field office in Manhattan.” Gibbons pointed toward the World Trade Center towering over the horizon. Joe looked like the type who needed visual aids. “Ask them for verification.”