Giri (7 page)

He backpedaled, but Robbie caught him in a corner. A fake of the head, then two uppercuts, and the ex-champion rolled along the ropes. The audience smelled blood; it leaped to its feet and roared. Waterling counterpunched on instinct, caught Robbie high on the cheek, but did no damage. The round ended with Waterling bleeding from the mouth.

In the second round Robbie dropped Waterling twice, first with a roundhouse kick to the head, opening a cut near his eye. Waterling took an eight count, then clinched with Robbie. Near the end of the round, Robbie spun around and lashed out with a vicious backfist that staggered Waterling, who finally sat down on the canvas. The referee ruled it a knockdown, but before counting could begin, the round ended.

Round three.

Both men shuffled forward, faces hidden behind forearms and gloved hands. Waterling was out of breath. He was also afraid.

Ichibyoshi.
When close enough, strike quickly, in one breath, making no prior movements, no fakes, no hesitations. Strike before the enemy escapes.

Robbie led with a right hand, hitting the cut over Waterling’s eye and opening it again. Waterling, trained in Tae Kwon Do, retaliated with two high kicks common to the Korean style. Robbie blocked one, ducked under the second and before Waterling could escape, kicked him in the right thigh. As Waterling moved back, Robbie kicked the inside of his left calf and, with the same leg, kicked him in the ribs.

Waterling’s hands came down to protect his body.

Now.

Ni no koshi no hyōshi.
In two beats. When the enemy attempts to withdraw, fake a strike and hesitate. The enemy will tense and, for a fraction of a second, relax. Then strike without delay.

Lifting his right leg, Robbie faked a kick to the ribs, then dropped the leg. Waterling froze in place.

In a move that brought the house to its feet, Robbie leaped high in the air, spun around and, still airborne, kicked backward with his left leg, catching Waterling flush on the temple. The ex-champion’s mouthpiece flew out and his arms were spread to either side. He fell into the ropes and toppled forward, falling facedown on the canvas.

There was a tidal wave of cheers from the audience. They had gotten what they had come for.

The referee didn’t bother to count over Waterling. As doctors and cornermen rushed to the unconscious fighter, the referee motioned Robbie to the center of the ring, and taking his gloved right hand, he raised it in victory.

“Winner. By kick knockout. Third round. Robbie Ambrose.”

Robbie smiled, turning to all four corners of the ring, acknowledging the crowd for the first time.

Minutes later in his changing room, Robbie fielded questions from the press, well-wishers and promoters intent on booking future dates. He was relaxed, answering in a quiet, almost shy manner.

“Robbie, it didn’t last long. Did you follow any particular plan and when did you know you had him?”

“My plan? Keep pressing, is all. Feel him out early, see what he likes to do, how he reacts to certain attacks, but mostly stay on him. When did I know I had him? First round. I’m being honest with you when I say the man hadn’t prepared. Got to prepare, got to be ready for war. That’s what you face in the ring, a war.”

“Robbie, do you think Morris is ducking you? I mean, he’s the champion and—”

“Hey, you said it, man. I didn’t. I’ll fight anybody, anytime. Whether he’s got a rating or not. Doesn’t matter.”

“Any truth that Waterling got the lion’s share of the purse and you got stuck with what was left?”

He waved the question away. “Talk to the promoters about money. I got a lawyer in New York handles contracts and money. Let’s just say I’m satisfied with the way things turned out.”

Laughter.

“Robbie, I hear Manny Decker still trains. They say he’s in great shape. Any chance of you two meeting again? Some people say that was your greatest fight, until Decker broke his knee.”

Robbie picked at the protective tape around his hands. “That was my last point fight. Decker’s not into full contact, so I guess he and I aren’t going to meet anymore. I took him twice. Nothing left to prove there.”

“Robbie, what about the World Open Championships in January?”

“You mean for the
suibin
trophy.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there. Man, everybody will be there. Should be some kind of war.”

Suibin
was a square-shaped vase used in flower arrangements in Japanese temples, shrines and homes. The January tournament, to be held in Paris, was a world-class competition open to all black belt
karatekas
between the ages of twenty-one and forty, professional or amateur, any style, any weight. Sponsored by Japanese and European businessmen, the tournament was not only the talk of martial arts circles but had attracted the attention of the world press.

To discourage the foolhardy, contest rules required each contestant to sign a release absolving sponsors of liability in case of injury or death. In addition, each contestant had to post a nonreturnable entry fee of $700. That money was to cover transportation, hotel and living expenses of those ten
karatekas
who survived the grueling eliminations to qualify for the finals.

There was a single prize. It was a beautiful
suibin,
a replica of a priceless 1,200-year-old original on display in Japan’s Imperial Palace. Like the original, the bronze replica was a square-shaped vase whose four corners rested on a miniature dragon, a fox, a gnarled tree and the shoulders of an ancient fighting monk, all in exquisite detail. A skilled workman had spent two years creating the replica, worth over fifty thousand dollars. With it came two gifts from Emperor Hirohito: a handwritten scroll and a small gift from the palace, a secret. And also to the winner went the honor of being acknowledged as one of the finest fighting men in the world.

“Morris, if you’re listening,” said a grinning Robbie, “I’ll be at the Sports Palace in Paris, come January.”

“Robbie, I’ve got a date in January in Los Angeles and I’d like to match you with—”

“Sorry, no business tonight. Contact Management Systems Consultants in New York. My lawyer’s there and he handles bookings and contracts. If I’m free, maybe we can work something out”

“Robbie, you were dynamite out there tonight. Really took care of business.”

“Thank you.”

“Doctors say Waterling’s jaw is broken in three places and he’s got a couple of cracked ribs.”

Robbie shrugged. Right now he didn’t feel shit about Waterling one way or another. The man didn’t exist for him any more than the woman did, the woman Robbie had sacrificed tonight to ensure his victory.

“Robbie, I’m with the network. I just want to say you were the Second Coming out there. This is my first full-contact karate fight and I’m hooked. I mean it was
Star Wars,
World War Three and the Bolshoi Ballet all in one. Robbie, we’d like a couple of quotes to use when we televise the fight over Thanksgiving weekend. We’re told that something like ten million men, women and children in America alone now practice karate in one form or another.”

“Hey, I guess so.”

“Most, I assume, do it for self-defense. Some for exercise or whatever. What’s the secret? How does one go about becoming another Robbie Ambrose?”

Robbie scratched the back of his neck. “Confidence. I mean don’t just think you’re going to win. Know you’re going to win. Skill, technique, experience. You’ve got to be on a confidence level that’s so high there can’t be the slightest doubt about winning.”

“And how does one go about getting that kind of confidence?”

“Hey, it’s simple. You prepare. Conditioning, sparring, running, stretching, whatever. Do them. And above all, believe they’ll work for you.”

The network executive held his tape recorder closer to Robbie. “Like developing your own ritual, sort of.”

A grinning Robbie looked up at him. He aimed a forefinger at the network executive’s chest. The hand trailed unraveled tape. “Exactly,” he said. “Exactly.”

I
T WAS DARK WHEN
Decker began his morning run in Central Park, but in minutes a red sun would appear from behind East Side high rises and tinted glass towers. He jogged toward the Seventy-second Street transverse, keeping to the middle of the road, away from the blackened snow and ice along the asphalt. The park was officially closed to traffic for a few more hours, so Decker had it to himself. At least he hoped so.

Decker was a loner, unable to commit himself to anyone. His ex-wife Maria had said, “Jesus, Manny, I wish to God I knew whether that wall you have around yourself is keeping me out or you in.”

It would only have hurt her to say what she already knew, that commitment was Michi and Michi was dead. Since then his sole commitment had been to karate, a pursuit demanding loyalty only to oneself. Karate was a strengthening of the human spirit, the acquiring of confidence and peace of mind, a world he could turn to and close out all other worlds. To immerse himself in it was to be at once a part of two cultures, East and West, and yet not really a part of either.

So, Decker’s was a life without obligation. He was an observer, a traveler passing through, fulfilling himself in the dojo, blessed because living in solitude allowed him to make his own laws. And that’s why he had become a field associate, to make the laws himself.

At Seventy-second Street he spun around to run backward for fifty yards, lightly throwing elbow strikes with both arms and inhaling the cold air. Then he turned back, to run parallel to a frozen lake dotted with THIN ICE signs. That’s me, he thought. Tap dancing on thin ice. I don’t want to hurt Romaine. And I don’t want LeClair to hurt me.

Romaine Raymond lay sleeping in Decker’s apartment. Before leaving he had looked down at the beautiful twenty-five-year-old dancer, who slept with the same heart-stopping sensuality that made her dancing special. Her long dark brown hair fanned out on the pillow. A slim hand, fingers curled, lay on the pillow near her head. Her knees were slightly drawn up, as though executing a turn. The covers had fallen from a bare shoulder, revealing the curve of her breast. The pose was one of innocence and sensuality, both the essence of Romaine, a woman utterly lacking in guile, a woman so sexually demanding that Decker had managed only four hours sleep last night.

Earlier that evening they had gone to dinner to celebrate her birthday, before returning to her apartment. That’s when her husband Dorian had called, drunk, maudlin. Afraid that he might call again, Romaine had asked to be taken to Decker’s place. There he had presented her with six origamis for her birthday. She watched with bright-eyed fascination as he selected sheets of colored paper and carefully folded them into stars, birds, flowers. Michi had patiently taught him the art of paper folding, encouraged him to learn to create the intricate patterns.

And then they had sat on the floor, drinking wine in front of his fireplace, talking and laughing, and after a while Romaine turned on the radio. When she found a Hispanic station, she stripped down to wispy lavender underwear and high heels and began dancing the
salsa
for him, as if it were the most natural thing to do. It was the sexiest dance he had ever seen and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Romaine was a truly gifted dancer who loved the world but not the business of dancing. She loved the gypsies, the Broadway dancers who went from show to show and spent their lives in class. But she hated the discipline, auditions and rejection that were so much a part of show business. All she wanted to do was dance. In the few weeks of their affair she knew Decker only as a karate instructor, whose dojo was in the same Lincoln Center building as her dance studio.

Decker had kept his identity as a cop a secret and now it was almost too late to tell Romaine the truth. He feared rejection. A cop’s world was insular and dangerous and few women were strong enough to be a part of it. Maria had tried and failed.

Romaine’s dance had turned Decker on and she knew it. As the fire covered her with flickering shadows and orange light, she unhooked her bra, revealing full, swaying breasts. Before he could grab her, she laughed and leaped out of reach. Decker crawled after her, caught her ankles and pulled her down on top of him. He buried his face in her breasts, wetting the flesh with his tongue. Romaine took his earlobe between her teeth, then tongued the outer edges of his ear. Her tongue was fire, igniting a lust in him that he wondered could ever be satisfied.

“Let me,” she whispered. She preferred to undress him, slowly and patiently. When they were both naked, she led him, as he straddled her, balancing on his hands and knees, and placed his penis between her breasts. She trembled, moaned and squeezed both breasts tight against his hot flesh. Decker moved back and forth, and each time his penis neared her mouth, she licked it hungrily.

The electric touch of her tongue, followed by seconds without it, was tantalizing to Decker, who suddenly found her hands cupping his buttocks, nails digging painfully into his flesh. She pulled him forward until his penis was in her mouth and then she rolled them both to the side, toward the heat of the fireplace, swallowing Decker so deeply that he could not stop himself from coming. She held him close, refused to let him withdraw, swallowing and moaning, the vibrations from her throat buzzing through his loins. Her tongue flicked across his swollen flesh and he died the delicious death that was the soul of all lovemaking.

He collapsed, drained. The fire crackled and warmed him and he knew he could not move if his life depended on it.

That was only the beginning. It was hours before they made their way to the bedroom, where Decker, caught up in her unselfish desire, brought her to orgasm more times than he had thought possible. But all things are possible with clean living and the power of prayer, he told himself.

Before dropping off to sleep she said, “I could love you, Manny. I really could. You make beautiful things and you make me laugh and that makes me feel you care. When I’m with you, I feel safe. I don’t know why, I just do. And it’s not because of your karate. I just feel safe with you and right now that means so much to me.”