Redemption (10 page)

“Of course, it was a pleasure.”

The two shook hands and Namara left the office.

CHAPTER 11

Tim couldn’t help watching the man beating on the wooden dummy from the roof of the sixth story. He had seen him on the roof of the three-story building diagonal from him. The roof was vast and flat. There was nothing but that wood mannequin on it. Tim had been watching for a while, that man on the roof who trained every morning in that assiduous manner. He was impressed to see his hits, his speed and coordination. He couldn’t believe that he realized he’d been spying this whole time. He watched him attentively to memorize the movements of combat he made and to reproduce them himself afterwards. He yearned to know the techniques. If he was like him, no more kids his age would amuse themselves with hitting him after class. He practiced in his room, imagining himself as the man with the beard hitting the wooden dummy.

*     *     *

Danny finished his pad tai seated by the window of a little restaurant in the heart of Chinatown. He had often eaten his favourite dish in this restaurant on the little crowded street where fish merchants and passers-by rubbed in a few centimetres in the street. The owner knew him well and every time he entered, he didn’t have to order. He would motion to the cook and bring out the Thai dish that Danny loved the most. There were several restaurants that served pad thai, but he didn’t taste anywhere near as good as this did. He also took a cup of green tea to finish his meal every time. This moment was for him a relaxation, but today he was tense, he couldn’t relax. He reflected on the fight he’s read about tonight in Chinatown, despite numerous warnings given by many to not go. These fights weren’t more than a ticket for the morgue, they said. The night was falling in Chinatown and he reflected on the circumstances that had led him to participate in these illegal combats organized by the Chinese Triads.

In reality, Danny had the habit of frequenting the Town during the weekends. He walked to a park where several tables were installed to play Chinese checkers. Several old Asian men played there, as well as people of all ages. He mingled there regularly in the crowd to play against them. Often, he was the only white person in the crowd of Asians laughing and shouting over the tables. When the beautiful, sunny afternoon with the background noise of the birds and car horns, he could seat himself at a table and play for several hours.

The place wasn’t only a playground for old people, but also a meeting place for the whole Chinese community. One could drink in the rumours and news that circulated through the district. If one desired to know who controlled the district or even know who were the principal traders, sit sufficed to angle an ear toward the discussions around the game tables and Danny had understood this for a long time. His attention was captured as he played when he overheard an old man in a hat engaged in an animated conversation on what had happened to the last hurt competitor in combat. Danny asked the man seated opposite to him who was reflecting on the pawn that moved to win the match.

“What combat are they talking about, exactly?”

“Ohh, not important. Only old man stories.”

“No, come on, tell me… they’re talking about a competitor that was hurt… what does that mean?”

“The Chinese Triads, the mafia… they organize the illegal fights where bets are made. These fights are hidden and the fighters who participate fight generally until one is killed or seriously injured. There are no rules. They’re wrong, these fights. You would have to be completely stupid to participate in it.”

“Where do these fights happen?”

“I don’t know, really, I never go. They say that the Triads are still in the undergrounds of Chinatown and that these fights take place there. They aren’t disturbed by the police or curious types, all hidden like that.”

“They say the undergrounds of Chinatown are a legend, and any that might have been in the past were buried or destroyed,” said Namara excitedly.

“Well, it doesn’t seem that way, but maybe it is a myth. Come on, play, young man!” said the old man, trying to bring focus back to the less dangerous game they were playing.

“Who would one go to if they wanted to fight?”

“It’s not a good idea, they’re bad, these fights, I told you! You would kill yourself and then you’d disappear. No, no… bad idea. Play checkers instead, you’ll live longer!” said the old man, exasperated.

The old man in the hat was listening to Danny’s conversation with a few other curious people.

“You want to fight?” said the man in the hat with a smile turning the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe,” replied Namara.

“They’re fights with no rules, young man… principally martial artists or thugs. You think you could survive something like that?”

“Maybe,” said Namara, moving his pawn.

“So maybe this could be an option for you if you want to win money.”

“Where would I go, and who should I talk to?”

The man in the hat wrote the place and the hour on a scrap of paper and extended it to Danny.

“This address, this hour.”

“Thanks. How do I register?”

“Just be there. It’ll all be fixed. Your name?”

“Danny Namara.”

“Well, Danny, good luck. We will see each other soon, in that case. I hope that you’re a good fighter, because I believe that I’m going to bet on you.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The old man slowly tipped his cap in salute before leaving the park. Danny returned to his game and he saw his old opponent seated before him shake his head in despair.

“Stupid, stupid… youthful stupidity. And you were such a good checkers player,” he lamented.

“I agree with that second sentence there because it seems I just won the match,” said Namara with a smile, taking a sip of his coffee.

The old man bent forward to look attentively at the table, refusing to believe that he lost. Clearly, this was not his lucky day.

CHAPTER 12

“You can’t enter!” said the tall tattooed Asian standing and who was guarding the metal door.

“My name is Danny Namara.”

“All right, in you go,” he said, opening the door.

The address Danny had been given lead him to a little street in Chinatown blocked to motorists and overflowing with restaurants and hair salons. The street led off a main street, hidden from the crowd. Few people walked through as though it were hidden from the world. There was no sign over the address, only an iron door without a window and chain linked. It was guarded by a bouncer who showed no emotion in his face. When he crossed through the door, three other Asians waited for him deep inside a furniture warehouse full of dust. The place was dark and outdated as though time had stopped a long time ago here. One of the men wore white frame sunglasses and he was dressed as though he had prepared to go out in the town. He was dressed in a jacket and dress shirt. Danny quickly grasped that they were members of a Triad, or some criminal organization like it. None of them seemed very nice.
The jackets must be nothing but camouflage to hide their firearms.
As for Danny, he was fully dressed in black. He wore a Chinese shirt with a Mao collar. The only contrast in his dress was the cuff of his sleeves, which were white.

“And you are…?” said the man with the white frame sunglasses.

“Namara. Danny Namara.”

“Follow me, if you please!”

Namara saw the man open the doors to an immense Chinese wooden chest deep in the warehouse. The man with the sunglasses looked at him and asked if he had any weapons on him.

“No, none.”

He made a sign to one of his henchmen to search Danny. “Raise your arms, my colleague will verify that,” he said.

Namara obeyed. As he’d said, there were no weapons on him.
He was armed, though – the weapon was him.
To his great surprise, the bottom of the chest gave way to secret corridor of a dozen metres, giving way to a little metal staircase descending down a little black hole in the ground. The man with the glasses motioned Namara downwards. The hole let no more than one single man pass through and Namara counted thirty steps on his descent. A long stone corridor waited with several little lights occasionally. An odour of mould inundated the passage and there were several electric wires crossing the ceiling. The passage was miniscule and several rivulets of water ran down the length of the walls. Namara walked a while. The way seemed to be several hundred meters to arrive in a sort of stone room filled with elevated bleachers.

Statues of dragons decorated the room. At the centre was a fighting arena made of cement. The stands surrounding the arena like the Coliseum in Rome. The place was old and antique. An odour of incense reigned and the place was filled with spectators on Namara’s arrival. The stands were filled with people and a cacophony assailed him. He remarked that several spectators were dressed for an evening out. Some of them seemed to be of an elevated class, seated and ready for a bloody diversion.
All these people surely didn’t enter through this tiny passage. They must have other access to the underground.
A feverishness reigned in the air and the room enflamed when Namara entered. A short Asian motioned for him to climb into the arena. At the other end, he saw his opponent who was already ready to fight scrutinizing Namara from his head to his feet. His opponent must have measured and weighed twice his size. He had a shaved head and he had the musculature of a gladiator. Danny said that he must be a wrestler from his way of moving and his physiognomy. The short Asian said,

“Warm up the time that the bets are made and then the fight will begin!”

“How much does the winner take?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Namara began to stretch out his arms and legs superficially while the crowd examined the fighters intensely to judge which to put their money on. They came for a show and they couldn’t wait for the fight to begin.

“Gentlemen, take your place!” said the little Chinese man, pointing to two lines on the floor.

The two fighters placed themselves facing each other. The bald man fixed Namara with a savage look. Namara knew that if he didn’t take control of his opponent at the outset, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill him in a fraction of a second.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight sees a clash of two new fighters. To the left, Danny Namara, and to the right, CJ Johnson!” shouted the little Chinese man into the crowd. “Toe the line, gentlemen.”

Johnson raised his hands in the air, lowering his centre of gravity. Namara put his arms on guard, hands open, palms toward the ceiling. He stayed unruffled and calm. He didn’t move from his position. He transferred his weight lightly to his back leg and he cleared his mind of all thought. A great gong smash marked the beginning of the fight. Johnson charged him immediately, advancing on him rapidly. He loosed several hooked punches that Namara blocked with jerks by stepping back at each thrown punch. Seeing that no hit would reach his target, Johnson tried to grab his legs to flatten him on the ground and finish him. Namara advanced with a jerk in his direction and sent him an open-handed hit directly to the chest, throwing Johnson off his position with the force of the impact. Before Johnson had time to recover his balance, Namara brought him down in a dive with a hand to his throat. Johnson let loose a little whistle, holding his throat in his hands. His face went red in a fraction of a second and he collapsed on the ground. The fight was done. The little Chinese man took Namara’s hand and thrust it in the air.

“Namara wins!” he cried into the crowd.

The crowd shouted and cheered incomprehensible words. It wanted more. He stayed cool against them who were crazy to him. He bent over and murmured in the referee’s ear,

“Give me my money so I can get the hell out.”

He motioned to one of his colleagues, who came with a pile of bills that he gave to Namara with a bit of paper holding the telephone number if he wanted to do other fights. Namara counted the bills, turned on his heel and left quickly the same way he’d come in, not knowing if other fights would happen. He didn’t care. The speed that Namara had put the fight to end had impressed many. Certainly, the show had been short, but all had noticed the man dressed in black and they wanted to see more. His opponent was much more imposing than him and he’d done him in a few seconds. It was a surprise for everyone that night, particularly Igor, who was seated in the stands watching the whole thing.

CHAPTER 13

Tim was desperate. He had a split lip from a punch to the face from a kid who’d pursued him after school again. At home, he took refuge in the bathroom to wash then to his room to cry in silence for a bit. Out the window, the man with the dummy practiced again. Without thinking and without understanding why, he left his building to enter the neighbouring apartment to access the roof and see the dummy closer. He had climbed three stories to see a door that led to the roof of the building. He opened the door to step out onto the roof. Nobody. He walked silently to examine the dummy he found. It was well fastened. He looked for several minutes with a rapidly beating heart, not knowing what to do. He decided to touch it. He began to gently tap it with hesitation.

“You can’t be up here!”

Tim saw the bearded man beside him with an irritated air and folded arms. Tim recoiled in a jerk from the dummy with a wildly beating heart.

“Sorry, mister… I’m really sorry, I only wanted to see the wooden man,” said Tim, lowering his eyes.

“It’s a
Mook Jong
. And how did you know it was up here?”

Tim pointed to his bedroom window that was elevated a few stories.

“I watch you train all the time and I want to learn how you do it. I want to learn how to defend myself.”

Danny looked at his battered face and understood why. The kid certainly had courage, to sneak up to the roof.

“I see. What’s your name, boy?”

“Tim.”

“Ok, Tim. I’m Danny. If you gave yourself all this grief for being here then maybe you deserve a chance to learn.”