We walked to the large training room. The instruction had Progressed to hip throws, and the paired off students were going at it with vigor.
"Mate!" I bawled from the sideline, and they all halted and fell back while Diago and I marched to the center of the great mat.
Jim looked at us curiously, suspecting that Diago was no rank amateur. "Announce a shiai," I told him. "Myself and this anonymous challenger, who is of equivalent grade."
Jim shook his head in surprise, for no such demonstration had been scheduled tonight. But he knew the camaraderie of the black belt. If for some reason a skilled visitor wished to match the instructor before his class, and the instructor was amenable, no one else could complain.
Jim explained the situation as he understood it to the class, and cautioned them to watch carefully in case techniques new to them were employed. "Don't be deceived by the challenger's white belt," he said with a finishing flourish. "He is not a student, as you will see when the match begins." As though he knew all about it. Then he turned to us, inquiring with his eyes whether we wished him to serve as referee, and Diago nodded.
We commenced with the full ceremonial bow, the zarei. I faced Diago, about six feet away, and both of us kneeled, placing our hands on the mat before our knees and inclining our bodies forward until the tops of our heads pointed toward each other. Then we stood.
"Hajime!" Jim cried, signifying the start of the match.
I approached Diago cautiously. Now it comes! I thought. The kiai yell, the sound that stunned. The scream no other man had been able to duplicate or resist. In this confined space there could be no escape from it. If I covered my ears I would lay myself open for any of a hundred devastating attacks, and, strangely, the ears were not necessarily the prime vulnerability. One man had plugged his ears, and had still been stunned. There seemed to be non-auditory waves, perhaps subsonic that chilled the flesh and brought terror without reason.
But I was hardly going to wait for him. I tried for a conventional hand grip, my right holding Diago's lapel, my left grasping for his right sleeve. Normally several grips were tried before either party attempted a throw, grappling for some advantage. But Diago moved with surprising swiftness, bringing up his right arm and throwing his right shoulder into me. It was the seoi-nage, the shoulder throw, very well executed. But he had tried too soon; I retained my balance, and I was heavier than he.
Even so, he almost threw me, despite the years I had drilled my students in this very motion and the mode of countering it. My left foot lifted from the mat momentarily; then I threw myself to the rear, hauling him back over me. As we fell I whipped my right hand under Diago's chin, putting pressure on his windpipe with the edge of my wrist. He struggled to right himself, but I got my left arm around to assist the pull of my right, and at the same time wrapped my legs around his waist and squeezed.
Diago was caught. Now he could not use his shout, because of the pressure I was applying to his throat. But he supported his weight on his right leg, arching his body back in a bridge, easing the pressure. He had a bull neck, like Jim's; most men would have been unconscious by this time, and that put me off my guard. I have never been one to hurt a man gratuitously, and the choke hold is deadly.
Diago passed his left leg above my two, then threaded his right through to brace against it, applying pressure to mine. The pain was sudden and awful; this was a semi-legal submission hold, and in order to win free I had to release my stranglehold and stand up.
First contact had been a draw. My class applauded, though they could not have comprehended the key aspects.
"Hajime!" Jim called. I knew that he, at least, had been watching very closely, noting how Diago's neck had served him. Jim believed in strong necks.
We grappled again, trying for good handholds, contesting for the initial advantage. I was certain that this time he would use the shout, for my weight and strength were far beyond his. The first exercise had demonstrated that. He had to get an early advantage, and his voice was his one certain means. But again I gave him no time to set up for it. I went for my favorite move, uchi-mata, the inner thigh throw. My right leg went deep between his legs, and I lifted him into the air. He went too easily, I realized too late.
For Diago, catlike, had maneuvered to fall on his side in a sacrifice throw, and now he had hold of me, using my momentum to counter me to the front. He led me into the uki-waza, or floating throw. It was a beautiful move, and I heard my students exclaiming in amazement. They had never seen a man recover from my uchi-mata like that.
Small wonder! Neither had I.
Meanwhile, Diago's left leg was blocking mine. I was hauled off balance and thrown over his head as he lay on the mat. My elbow struck his face, accidentally; the blow was hard enough to send a shock up my forearm and momentarily paralyze the hand. I struck the wall and fell outside the contest area, so the fall did not count.
I sat up. Pain lanced through my neck and shoulder and chest. It felt like a heart attack. But it could not be, I told myself. Not at my age! It was an injury of some sort, sustained in the fall. I should have stopped, then. But I'm ornery when hurt, and I didn't want my students to know how much in trouble I was. I felt the sweat dripping from my own exertion.
"Hajime!" Jim called a third time, signaling the continuation of the match. There was real excitement in his voice; he was agog as any novice, witnessing a performance he could only begin to hope to equal some year. He would have been less impressed if he knew how my chest pained me.
Then I saw Diago's face. There was blood streaming from a cut over the eye, and the eye itself was bloodshot and already swelling shut. My elbow, I had smashed him in the eye!
I would have called it off, but realized that Diago was like me: he would not quit in adversity. Evidently Jim had not seen the injury; Diago's face was away from him.
A third time we closed, and this time I knew. I could afford neither to wait nor to close precipitously. Diago was consumately skilled, ready for anything I could do. But my strength and endurance were bound to bring him down soon if he did not act.
Already his reactions were slowing, and he was panting. Judo is no sport for the out of condition; even a month of idleness hurts, and I knew now that Diago had been slack for at least a year, as far as really disciplined physical practice went. He knew his moves, but he was weak. He had no choice.
Unless he had recognized my own incapacity. My shoulder was hurting worse; what had that fall done to me?
His mouth opened. I flinched and shamed myself for my cowardice. He was on me then with another sacrifice, a tomoe-nage stomach throw. He went down on his back, his foot in my belly, ready to flip me over his head. But voiding such a move was almost instinctive with me. I shoved his foot to one side while dropping down on my stomach to lower my center of gravity. He lacked the force and leverage to throw me that way. I slipped down on top of him, seizing his lapel and punching my fist against his throat. This time I was sure I had him.
But I had underestimated him again. Diago was a master of groundwork. He slipped his leg in front of my arm and grabbed my wrists with both his hands. It was the jujiga-tame, an armlock against my elbow. The pressure was tremendous. I felt my arm giving, and I knew I would have to slap the mat in surrender or suffer a broken arm. This was the way so many had gone before, holding out a moment too long against this inflexible adversary. I had lost; better to admit it, than to throw away my career.
But that weakness of his gave me that tiny leeway I needed, and I managed to grab his lapel with my other arm. Immediately I shifted my weight, ignoring the agony this brought to my locked elbow, and got my bare feet on the tatami. I stood, one handed, I brought him up with me so that his back lifted free of the mat. He had to let go, otherwise I would bring him all the way up and slam him down hard, and he was in no condition to absorb that punishment.
So the third bout also ended in a draw. I was breathing hard, but I was ready for more despite the agony in my chest.
"H
ajime!" Jim shouted, breathless himself. My students were straining forward raptly. They had seen how close I had come to defeat, and they could not know what the end would be. Neither could I.
I approached, but Diago smiled and shook his head in negation, drops of blood flying from his face and staining the tatami. We had tried three falls, and drawn three, and he had had enough. "Soremade, Hikiwake!" Jim yelled. "End of match. Draw!" Then he did a doubletake, as he saw Diago's eye. "What happened?"
Diago and I bowed formally, terminating shiai, and the audience applauded. He walked back to the office to change. I knew he would not see a doctor about the eye. How could he, with a price on his head? But I was under no such restriction. I gestured to Dr. Cue, an M.D. who was taking the course without charge in return for his availability. He had helped me with injured students many times.
Jim was already recapitulating the fine points of the encounter for the benefit of the students. They had seen real judo today.
"You have a broken collarbone," Dr. Cue said, after he examined me. "You'll have to rest up for a couple of weeks."
"I will!" I said, relieved that I was not going to drop from a heart attack. I had been lucky to finish the match. "But don't spread it around; it would look bad to my students."
He nodded wisely, not commenting on my vanity. "Should I also take a look at your friend?"
"You could try. He may not let you. But that eye—"
A few minutes later we had the students lining up for joint exercises when Diago reappeared in his street clothes. The eye had been cleaned up somewhat, but was now swollen completely shut. I was sorry about that; I had not meant to hurt him. "I gave him a shot to relieve the pain," Dr. Cue murmured in my ear. "The eye will be all right."
"Thanks," I said. Dr. Cue could keep his mouth shut.
I left Diago alone, deliberately. But Jim took another look, and something clicked. "Hey! Isn't that—"
"Forget it!" I rapped. "He's going away. We don't know him."
"Like hell we don't!" Then Jim looked at me, comprehending. "So that was why you had the match! He wanted you to—"
"What other way was there?" I demanded brusquely.
"Why didn't he shout?" Then he answered his own question. "He's weak! He must have lost it. He had no weapon against you."
"None but his seventh degree skill," I said with some irony. "Do you think I could have matched him in his prime? Anyway, we don't know that his voice is gone. He can talk well enough."
But I wasn't satisfied myself with that, and had to work it out further. "I met him with honor; maybe he respected that. He's seen little enough fair treatment the past couple years, especially from white men. Must be very important to him, that camaraderie of the elite. It is to me, and just the thought of losing it terrifies me." Jim would take that as an overstatement, but I had just experienced that terror. "One thing I know: he's no coward and no quitter. And he's still good."
"I can't accept that! I could beat him myself, the way he is now!"
Big ambitions! "Maybe so. It's still a draw where it counts. Let's get the class moving again."
But I saw Diago making his way toward the exit, looking tired, and already I regretted my professed indifference. I had shown him respect, and he had responded in kind. He could not be the criminal others claimed. Perhaps it is illusion, but when I know a man on the mat, I feel I know him.
I almost called to Diago, then, wanting to extend my hospitality and damn the consequence.
I glanced about, startled. In my moment of preoccupation Jim had run after Diago, catching him at the door and whirling him about before he could make his escape. "I know you!" Jim cried. "You can't just walk out! You're wanted for—"
Then it blasted out like a strike of lightning: that eerie, appalling, devastating sound. I stood transfixed as it echoed from the walls, pressing against my eardrums, tingling my skin, hurting my teeth, constricting my throat. Like the maddened roar of a pouncing tiger, like the hiss of a striking python, like the wail of a banshee, like the nearby burst of a concussion grenadeno! Like none of these cliches, like nothing I could imagine, that awful scream resounded through flesh and brain and spirit, freezing me in place. KIAI!
I blinked, catching my balance. Jim had fallen to the floor. The lines of students were in disarray, the youngsters shaking their heads, dazed and frightened. My heart was pounding madly. And Diago was gone.
CHAPTER 2
THERA
The phone rang. Right away I recognized the atrocious English: Dato, my rival judo instructor.
"Thief!" he screamed in a high voice, almost a falsetto. "You steal my pupils! You suffer!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I told him as calmly as I could. But it is hard to be hit with a screaming accusation like that without bristling some, and this was not the first time Dato had accused me of some devious crime. For the sake of the good name of judo I tried to keep the peace, but sometimes I was privately tempted to give him a good old-fashioned unscientific rap in the chops. "None of my students are—"
"Smith! Smith! Smith!" he cried. "Smith Charles! You bribe him away!"
I untangled the name. In Japan, the surname comes first, and Dato had never fully acclimatized to the American system despite his decades in this country. Perhaps he considered it barbaric; more likely he simply didn't care. "Charles Smith? I have no student by that name."
"And on top of your thievery, you lie to me!" he cried. "You will pay for this, Striker Jason! You can not fool me. You—"
I cut him off. I had trouble just making ends meet without quarreling over imaginary issues with my associates. The phone rang back immediately. I snatched it up. "Listen, Dato, bother me again and I'll swear out a complaint!"
"Do you want my business or don't you?" a strange voice interjected.
Abashed, I apologized. "I thought you were someone else. Uh, who are you?"
"I am Johnson Drummond, of Drummond Industries," he said. "Nobody else, ever. And you'd better be Jason Striker."
Drummond, the multi-millionaire. Hastily I admitted my identity. It was well that I did, for he came bearing money. Maybe my luck had turned.
A pretty girl in tight faded jeans answered the bell. "I'm Jason Striker," I said. "Judo instructor. Mr. Drummond arranged—"
"Sure!" she said brightly around her quid of gum. "Come on in."
I trailed her flexing derriere through the foyer and down a richly carpeted hall. It was not news to me that Johnson Drummond had money. Everything from the elaborate hedgework in the palisaded grounds to the art originals on the walls strengthened the suggestion of pelf. Everything except this extraordinarily informal maid.
She opened a door with a nonchalant sideways thrust and faced me, standing within the arch. "This is the rumpus room. Okay?"
I peered beyond her perky young bosom to inspect the chamber. It was palatial. "Needs a mat," I said. "I explained to Mr. Drummond that—"
"So we'll fetch a mat!" she said, and beckoned me with a familiar twitch of four fingers as she moved out.
This time her winking bottom was nose-level as I followed her up steep, narrow winding stairs. I was tempted to slap it.
We emerged into an upstairs hallway and entered a plush master bedroom with a custom round bed. She began ripping off the sheets.
What kind of help did Drummond hire? "I said mat, not mattress," I said. "The tatami: oblong, not round. Three feet by six feet. Several are put together for practice."
"Cool it, baby. The order hasn't come yet." She tugged at the great circle of padding. "Come on, big boy. I can't get it downstairs all by myself."
"I think I'd better talk to Miss Drummond," I said.
She stared at me a moment with that strange feminine wide-eyed mock-innocence. Then her cheeks puffed out as though she were sick, or laughing. She flopped indecorously on the bed with her head in my direction and lay looking up at me.
"Oh, I see," I said heavily. "Well, we'll dispense with the mat this time. Do
you have a judogia practice uniform?"
"That's on order too," she said, her breasts heaving with half-suppressed mirth.
"Then this will have to be a lecture session. Let's go on down to the practice room."
"Lecture!" she exclaimed, making a wry face. "You're supposed to teach me self-defense." But she came.
I faced her. "Now, Miss Drummond, the first thing to understand about judo—"
"Call me Thera. That's my name, you know. It's from the Greek, meaning 'untamed.'"
"All right, Thera. Now you may think of judo as purely a defensive technique, but in fact—"
"Thera is an island in the Aegean. It blew up in 1450 B.C., destroying the civilization of—"
"But in fact judo is also an art and a sport of international repute, as well as a way of life. It is well worth doing well, even if your interest is only—"
"Oh, let's go for a cheeseburger and shake."
"Miss Drummond," I said firmly. "Your father is paying fifty dollars an hour for these lessons."
She turned abruptly. "Because I'm going to college this fall and he's afraid I'll get raped. He's not sure I can handle men."
"You're not interested in learning judo?"
"I just don't think it's necessary. I mean, this is supposed to be the twentieth century."
I sighed silently. I had taken this tutoring assignment because it represented a handy chunk of cash at a time I was short. A six-week crash course in self-defense, fifteen hundred dollars, paid in advance. If I dropped it now, I would have to make a refund, and part of it had already been sunk in the rent.
But more than that, my pride was suffering. This girl knew nothing about judo and wasn't interested in learning. My fifth degree black belt meant nothing to her.
"If you don't like me, there are other judo instructors, all competent," I said somewhat stiffly.
"You utter dope!" she said. "Don't you know why Daddy hired you?"
"I presume he found my credentials satisfactory."
"We have a black sheep branch of the family. Second cousins, I think. We don't even know they exist, officially, and we never interact socially. But on this one thing Daddy wanted pro advice, so he asked Diago."
Kiai! & Mistress of Death Page 2
