“You pig, you, you, you … keep that thing away from my Matisse!” she continued to yell, her face flushed and her hair coming out of place. I wondered what happened to her meditative state.
“C’mere, Al,” I said, and Al slowly rose and stretched and then waddled to the fence where I lifted him over and put him back on his leash. I swear he looked up and winked at me. I decided not to try to say anything.
We walked back to the Eldorado, and I noticed the sun was starting to set and thought that it might be a good time to head to AJ’s. Who was I kidding? It was almost always a good time to go to AJ’s.
I wasn’t sure if the Foursome had gotten wind of the news. Coverage was all over the place, but you never could tell what was hitting the brain trust’s radar. My questions were answered the second I walked through the door.
“There he is, our favorite Mick/Polack superhero!” Jerry Number One said before I got a foot in the joint. The four of them gave me a standing ovation.
“Don’t forget his kemosabe, Al, the frog dog,” Rocco said.
“Actually, that would be his Tonto,” Jerry Number Two said.
“Tonto? I know Al’s short, but I don’t think he looks like one of those toy trucks,” TC said.
“No, no, no. Tonto was Dorothy’s little dog in
The Wizard of Oz
,” Rocco said.
“He wasn’t a basket hound,” TC said.
“That’s bastard hound. Remember, because of the drool? They swim underwater to find explosives,” Jerry Number One said.
“No, they don’t. They’re French, not underwater swimmers,” Jerry Number Two said.
“What do you got against the French and what makes you think the French can’t swim?” TC asked.
“I got plenty against the French,” Rocco said.
“Like what?” Jerry Number Two said.
“First of all, making their bastard hounds swim underwater,” Rocco said.
“Tonto wasn’t French, he was Indian,” Jerry Number One said.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Rocco said.
I decided to break in.
“Thanks fellas. AJ, set everybody up with a Jameson and get a cheeseburger going for Al. It’s good to be here—shit, it’s good to be anywhere,” I said.
Kelley had his Coors Light in front of him and he took a sip after we all threw back the Jameson.
“How you feeling?” Kelley asked.
“Like I’m on Mars,” I said.
“Yeah, I think I know what you mean.”
“What happened to Mullings—what was that shit all about?”
“Turns out he was just overanxious to get Howard and was trying to break the case on his own. He was hiding evidence and investigating on his own free time.”
“Is he in big trouble?”
“Probably not a good career move—there will be hearings and whatnot.” We both paused to sip beer.
“Hey, here’s some news. Al got laid this afternoon.”
“That makes one of us.”
“Yeah, the guy interrupts me every time I get close and yet I turn him loose on some hot Corgi in the park.”
“Uh, Duff? Hot Corgi? I’m starting to worry about you,” Kelley said, shaking his head and taking a long chug of beer.
“Starting?” I said.
“Yeah, who am I kidding?”
“Hey Duff, what was the story on the karate kid?”
“He was the kid whose mother’s boyfriend was smacking them around. He’s a goofy kid who I think took on all the karate shit as a persona to make up for the lack of a dad and a real sense of who he is,” I said.
Kelley shook his head.
“Now you’re getting deep on me,” he said.
“Maybe, but you know what I mean. He’s sixteen and a goofy, pizza-faced kid who gets picked on all the time. So he goes into this kind of fantasyland of karate and works hard at it. In his own way, he’s a courageous and tough son of a bitch,” I said.
“I think I got you. The kid becomes a karate guy as a protection and to find some structure in his life. It’s kind of good but kind of sad at the same time—why should a kid like that have to try so hard?” Kelley said.
“Hey, maybe there’s a future in social work for you after all.”
“Yeah, not in this lifetime. That kid saved your ass, though.”
“No doubt. I wish I could pay him back.” I sat and looked at my Schlitz, as the Yanks’ game went on in the background. If it wasn’t for Billy, I’d be dead. Without a doubt, the kid was a hero’s hero and it was important that he feel that somehow.
Then it came to me.
“Kell, I need a favor,” I said.
“What else is new?” he said.
“Go get Billy and bring him here in about an hour.”
“What? Why?”
“Trust me on this, will you?”
“Geez, you’re nuts,” Kelley said and then finished his beer before getting up to go get Billy.
44
I called Dr. Pacquoa
and told him what I was thinking. He said he would round up Javier Sanchez for help. Their participation was a must because with the way Billy perceived the world, appearance was going to be important. I filled Rocco in and he was psyched to be part of it—after all he did some hand-to-hand shit in Okinawa when he was in the service and he could bullshit with the rest of them. Most importantly, I went back to the Moody Blue because I had something to find.
The Moody Blue doesn’t come complete with walk-in closets, so when you go to look in your storage, there’s really only a couple of places that you have to look. In the living room that was built as an addition, there’s a small closet and there’s a few boxes where I kept various things in absolutely no order at all. Some things like my first set of gloves really meant something, but I also had an eighth-grade report card that I held on to for no other reason than the fact that I held on to it for years.
It took a while but I found what I was looking for. It was next to an empty Schlitz Tall Boy that I kept from the night in high school I went bush drinking with Delores Boyajin and, well, special things happened that night. I threw Al back in the car and raced back to AJ’s.
Billy and Kelley weren’t back but Dr. Pacquoa and Sanchez were already there and they were standing mesmerized by the Foursome, who were kicking around an idea about what cloning would do to the pet industry. I peeled Rocco away from a point he was making about Pablo’s dog and how he died from eating that annoying little bell that Pablo kept ringing in his ear. I briefed Rocco, Sanchez, and Pacquoa and asked AJ for the key to the basement, which he gave me after rolling his eyes about my plan.
AJ’s cellar smelled like eighty-five years of spilt beer. There was a bare lightbulb hanging off a cord and I lined up a few cases of beer for the guys to sit on. I went over everyone’s lines again and they all seemed to be onboard and actually kind of happy about the plan.
I had run through everything a second time and it wasn’t a half a minute after I finished that I heard the basement door creak open. I nodded everyone into place as Billy came down the stairs with the same look on his face that he would’ve had if he had landed on Mars. Kelley walked behind him, rolling his eyes.
“Sir, wha—,” Billy said, his eyes checking out his company.
“Silence!” I led Billy to a spot directly under the lightbulb. “Come to attention!” Billy snapped into a formal attention stance and he look terrified.
The four guys followed their cue and stood in formal karate attention.
Sanchez called out his lines. “Student! Attention! Bow!”
Billy did as he was told and the group, with their best hard-ass faces, returned his bow.
“Mr. Dombrowski.” Sanchez nodded. That was my cue and I couldn’t remember a more important speech.
“Mr. Cramer, as your instructor I have given you very little information about my karate heritage. I am from an eclectic training background, but more importantly from an organization that keeps itself out of the public eye. You are here today because of a special caucus I have called on your behalf,” I said.
I wasn’t sure if “caucus” was the right word, but it sounded cooler than “meeting.”
“Caucus, sir?” Billy said.
“Silence!” Sanchez barked. He was so good it was scary.
I continued.
“The IBOSK, the International Brotherhood of Silent Karateka, is headed by Tenth-Degree Grand Master Javier Sanchez.” I motioned toward Sanchez.
Billy’s eyes were saucers and he swallowed hard.
“Its officers include Dr. Manny Pacquoa, fifth degree, Mr. Kelley, fourth degree, and Rocco Manuccucci, third degree.”
Billy was trembling.
“Unlike other karate organizations, the IBOSK sees training as a component of life and life as a component of training. One cannot be separated from another, yet, real life is where a man’s real dojo reigns,” I said.
This shit was coming off better than I expected.
Dr. Pacquoa took over.
“Mr. Cramer, I was informed by Mr. Dombrowski about your actions in the last few days and your dedication to training. I brought this to Grand Master Sanchez’s attention.” Pacquoa was flawless.
“You would be an asset to our organization,” Rocco said, employing his best badass face.
“Mr. Dombrowski.” Sanchez nodded in my direction.
“Mr. Cramer, if you choose to be recognized by the IBOSK, you must keep your training secret. You must not appear as a karateka to the outside world, except in the way you carry yourself. In that way you must be a karateka at all times, understand?” I said.
“I think so, sir.” Billy looked as confused as Mike Tyson at a spelling bee.
“In that case, by virtue of your intense commitment to training but to a greater degree because of your character, selflessness, and bravery to help your fellow man …” I paused for dramatic effect while I fished it out of my pocket.
“The IBOSK confers upon you the rank of first-degree black belt,” I said, and I held the black belt I had gotten as a teenager.
I didn’t think it was possible for Billy’s eyes to get wider but they did. He was visibly shaking and his eyes welled up. He wasn’t the only one with overactive tear ducts at the moment.
I approached Billy and tied the belt around his waist while tears streaked both our cheeks.
“Mr. Cramer, sir. Welcome to the rank of black belt!” I said then I turned to the group and yelled the command “Attention! Bow!”
“WASABIIIII!!!!!” the group yelled out in unison as they bowed to the IBOSK’s newest black belt.
Billy came to attention and bowed with as much pride as I’d ever seen on a human being’s face.
And he deserved every bit of it.
45
Rocco convened the IBOSK
to their first-floor clubhouse where the group threw down the ceremonial shot of Jameson’s. Grandmaster Sanchez pulled rank and made Rocco buy him three more, which because of the IBOSK’s protocol, he had to do.
I put my arm around Billy and welcomed him to the club. He couldn’t stop thanking me.
“Sir, I don’t know—” I didn’t let him finish.
“It’s not ‘sir’ anymore. We’re the same rank,” I said, smiling.
“Sir?”
“Ahhh.” I waved my finger at him.
“Duff?”
“Yeah, that works,” I said.
Then, I told him how his new rank meant no more Bad-Breath Karateka Ninja suits and how in the IBOSK we wore our rank on the inside and carried it in our hearts. He got it and didn’t seem at all upset about his wardrobe. I figured getting Billy out of those goofy outfits would go a long way toward him not getting picked on. That, and what he now genuinely carried inside.
Billy’s black-belt reception went on for another hour. When it was time for him to leave, he told me he wanted to walk home and make the day last. We shook hands and then I hugged him as hard as I ever hugged anyone.
Billy tucked his folded belt in his pocket and headed home. He already had a different walk. I thanked all the guys and bought a round for everyone.
“How come I’m only a second degree?” Rocco said. “I want a promotion.”
“You not ready, yet,” Sanchez said. He was a full head shorter than Rocco. “Buy your master another Jameson,” Sanchez said.
“Duff, you’re an interesting fellow,” Dr. Pacquoa said.
“Doc, thanks for helping out. Sorry about the stereotyping,” I said.
“Not at all. I happen to carry a rank in Kendo anyway.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but I think I’d rather be in the IBOSK.” He laughed. “Don’t forget, if I can do you a favor sometime.”
“You just did,” I said.
“This was something else. If I can do something for
you
, I’d like to.” I thought for a second and figured, what the hell …
“Actually, Dr. Pacquoa, there is something …”
As it turned out, September 2, the day my work suspension ended, fell the next day. The good news was the suspension was over and the bad news was the Michelin Woman was going to fire me. She’d had a month to get the approvals and to get her angry little ducks in a row, and I just knew she was drooling with anticipatory delight at the prospect of looking me straight in the eyes and letting me know I was canned.