Ransom

by Jay McInerney

  “Your face is an offense.”

  “Complain to the authorities.”

  “I like to take care of these things personally.”

  Ransom didn’t say anything.

  “You can run and you can swim, but you can’t hide,” DeVito said. “I guess you heard about your pal Ryder.”

  “What about him?”

  “So you didn’t hear.” He paused. “He came after me yesterday, got his tit caught in the wringer. He’s not very smart but he’s got balls, which is more than I’d say for you. Well, what do you say?”

  “Not a thing,” Ransom said, and hung up. He stood beside the phone, fingering the dial. For Marilyn’s sake, he was glad her boyfriend hadn’t done it. And if he had hoped Miles wasn’t foolish enough to fight DeVito, he wasn’t surprised that he had.

  He picked up the phone and called A-OK to say he was sick and wouldn’t be in.

  “Are you out of your head?” Ransom said. Miles was sitting upright on the edge of the hospital bed, scrutinizing a go-maku board on the night table between him and the old man.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Miles said. “The egg-sucking samurai. The strong right arm of the fucking Pope.”

  “Her-ro,” the old man said. “How are you?”

  Ransom lowered himself onto the back of a chair beside the bed and looked quizzically at Miles.

  “The mule who’s been kicking in my stall.”

  “Miles, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “DeVito told me.”

  “Told you what? Last I heard, he beat you senseless.”

  “You and Marilyn.”

  “He told you this while he was beating you up?”

  “At least you know what I’m talking about. I don’t hear you denying it.”

  “Denying what? I deny sleeping with her. Who do you want to believe, me or DeVito?”

  “I take my information where I can get it.”

  “Come on, Ryder. You’re not this stupid. Why do you suppose DeVito would tell you something like that? Think he might have some motives?”

  “You deny you’re seeing Marilyn?”

  “No.”

  “You deny fucking her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you’re pretty much of a capon, but forgive me if I don’t buy it.”

  “You have a wife, for Christsake. Who are you to be acting injured? You’ve had about sixty flings since I’ve known you, and Marilyn was just one more.”

  “That doesn’t mean I want my best friend screwing her.”

  “Marilyn came to me for advice. And for some help.”

  Miles rolled his eyes, one of which was blackened.

  “She’s under the thumb of a yakuza oyabun who wants to marry her and rent her out. She came to me because she knew you’d do something crazy. Like this DeVito thing.”

  “That’s good, Ransom. Princeton guys like you ought to be able to come up with something a little less like a shitty movie.” He turned back to the go-maku board and moved a piece. The old man nodded seriously.

  Miles was right—it sounded like a shopworn melodrama. Ransom wouldn’t believe the story either, but somehow he was in it.

  “DeVito said I was sleeping with her? How would he know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Suddenly Ransom thought of DeVito’s call and wondered if Marilyn might be next on his list. “I think I better find her.”

  “She could use a little advice, is that it?”

  “Miles, where does she live?”

  “I thought you’d know that yourself by now. I never got that information, my own self.”

  Ransom was halfway down the dingy hall when Ryder shouted, “Just a few inches of advice, now, you hear?”

  No one responded to his pounding on the door. The nightclub generally didn’t open until seven, and it was barely past noon. He had passed a public bath down the street; he left the borrowed Scrambler at the club, and walked back. The heat and humidity were tropical. He spent an hour in the baths, finishing with a long soak in the coldest, but within a block of leaving he could feel the tingle of sweat forming under his arms and along his spine.

  This time the door was opened by a heavy-set thug in a zoot suit; his expression made clear that the last thing he had expected to see was a gaijin. He waved Ransom away with his hands, pointing to his watch. “No, no,” he said. He was surprised all over again when Ransom began to speak, using a much politer level of address than was required or merited.

  Excuse me, but I’m looking for a friend of mine. She works here.

  The man assumed a knowing frown.

  A singer. It’s very important that I see her. Her name is Marilyn. He couldn’t imagine what the Japanese word for Vietnamese would be. Marilyn.

  The man started to close the wide, heavy door but Ransom blocked it with a forearm. She’s not here. You can see her tonight with the other customers.

  I’m not a customer. I’m a friend.

  The man pushed the door wide open and stepped out menacingly, flexing beneath his suit.

  It’s important.

  Implacable, the man stared back at him with dark, narrowing eyes until Ransom turned away and mounted his bike.

  25

  When Ransom arrived for practice that night, the sensei was pacing the lot in his gi. Suzuki was sweeping. A blue Toyota sat in the center of the south edge of the lot, the area reserved for practice. The sensei sent Udo into the gym to find its owner, but no one claimed it. Ransom changed, folding his clothes and piling them on the steps beside the shower. The Monk had appeared, as he often did, already dressed in his gi. Yamada drove in and parked his car on the far side of the lot. The sensei walked over and tried the doors of the Toyota, which were locked. He called for the group to follow.

  Let’s move this thing, he said, directing them to the back bumper. Ransom huddled with the crew, next to Udo. Six of them on the bumper raised the car and walked it around a quarter turn. They moved around to the front and brought the wheels over into the sand. Once more from the back and the car was flush against the wall. Suzuki let out a whoop and said they could easily flip the car over on its side.

  Good enough, the sensei said, seeming more than usually preoccupied and distant. Maybe it’s the weather, Ransom thought. Although cooler, the air was still heavy and damp. The sensei knelt on the asphalt, the Monk knelt beside him and the rest took their places. The sensei’s participation during the practice was desultory, the occasional reprimand and demonstration of a move. After an hour, he called them in to begin the sparring. Ransom sensed an edge in his manner, a sudden air of purpose, as if practice had been merely a prelude. A small void opened within his belly: fear. He was certain, somehow, that his streak of good bouts had run out, and that he was due to get hurt. As if to confirm his anxieties the sensei called his name.

  The sensei examined the scar on the back of his hand. When Ransom stepped forward, the sensei looked up at Ransom as if surprised and shook his head. He called for Yamada instead.

  Wa-chan, the newest and youngest member of the dojo, well under five feet tall, bowed gravely to the massive Yamada, then assumed an elegant cat-leg stance. Yamada’s bearing was benign and serious. This seemed to Ransom a moment of beauty and dignity. The boy attacked with two front kicks, and Yamada scored with a front punch which he pulled just short of Wa-chan’s nose. Wa-chan remained determined as they faced off again, and was clearly disappointed when he lost the match.

  Yamada worked up through the ranks. After the fifth bout, Ransom expected the sensei to call in the Monk. But the sensei called Udo, the next in the lineup, and Yamada continued.

  Suzuki, his ninth opponent, gave him a very hard time, dancing nimbly in and out of range. Yamada’s stance was getting sloppy; his arms were low and his crouch was high. The sensei yelled instructions and, in a lower voice, speculated that Yamada would get his balls kicked up to his chin. Yamada hit Suzuki once, then Suzuki slipped a gut-kick through his arms; although
Yamada stepped out of it, the sensei called a point for Suzuki.

  Yamada, frustrated, drew a series of deep breaths before facing off again. Ransom felt a trickle of sweat down the side of his own face, and he hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Yamada was red-faced, the upper half of his gi splotched with sweat.

  He launched himself at Suzuki, knocking him over with a wide roundhouse kick. Ransom thought Suzuki had hit his head on the asphalt, but he leaped up and bounced on his toes to show he was fine.

  Three points, the sensei said, when it was Ransom’s turn. Yamada had hurt him before, but now Ransom wondered how much more Yamada could take. He had not doubted that the sensei’s punishment of Yamada was not over at the end of the last practice; but he didn’t relish taking part in it, and he was also suspicious of the sensei’s plans for himself.

  They bowed. Yamada’s exhaustion showed in his eyes, in the tight set of his mouth. Ransom crouched low, shifting his weight to the back foot and cocking the left leg in front of him, knee directly in front of the crotch, toes aimed at Yamada, his forearms shaping an L across the upper body. He knew he should attack; it was the only strategy. Because it seemed too easy, not fair, he hesitated as they stood motionless, staring into each other’s eyes. Then he went in, breaking Yamada’s defense on the third kick, hitting the sternum solidly. Point.

  They faced off. Ransom knew he could hit Yamada low; his knees were wide, crotch open.

  Yamada attacked with his hands and slipped a kick into Ransom’s gut. Facing off again, Ransom glanced over at the expressionless sensei. Standing apart from the group, the Monk held his head tipped to one side, as if he were listening to something far in the distance and hearing none of the sounds of the match.

  Within minutes, both had two points and Ransom had a split lip. He could taste the blood, and his ears were still ringing from the punch. He tried not to think about how tired Yamada was; he had to fight as if Yamada were fresh, and better than the Monk. He went for the upper body, but Yamada was closing in around his chest and gut, focusing all of his energy on the area Ransom kept attacking, leaving himself vulnerable below. The sensei shouted something, uncharacteristically shrill, and Ransom knew that it was about the opening. All of Ransom’s instincts rebelled against this code of the discipline, which required that he attack his opponent any way he was able.

  Yamada pulled a roundhouse kick out of some astonishing reserve of energy, and Ransom ducked as the foot grazed his temple. He kicked Yamada dead center, between the legs, and he went down, gasping.

  Ransom walked out of the circle to a corner of the lot. He closed his eyes and saw the flash of agony on Yamada’s face. As he stood facing the blank wall of the gym, his breath became so rapid that he felt he would faint. When he returned to the group Yamada was on his feet, hunched and pale, walking gingerly in tight circles.

  The sensei clapped his hands sharply. Ito—he paused—and Yamada. Four points. No restrictions.

  Ransom couldn’t believe it. A dreadful silence prevailed as they bowed and faced off. Ransom glanced over at the sensei, hoping to register his indignation, but he was looking at the two fighters. It seemed to Ransom that the rest of them drew closer, implicated together in this uneven match, each sympathetic and yet profoundly glad that it was Yamada, not himself; and at the same time embarrassed by what they were about to witness.

  The only sound was Yamada’s labored breathing. He kicked once, but weakly; Ransom had hurt him. When he kicked again, the Monk grabbed the foot in both hands, twisted it and threw him on his back. Yamada jumped to his feet and got kicked in the gut. Ransom looked down at the ground.

  Yamada lasted out the match. With the final point scored, he lay gasping on his back. All that remained was for him to bow to his opponent. The Monk waited. No one said anything. The back door of the gym opened. One of the weightlifters stuck his head out and called Finished?, then he saw Yamada. His smile faded and he closed the door.

  Yamada raised himself to a sitting position, to his knees, and finally he was on his feet, blood dripping from his nose. He pulled himself erect and bowed, then staggered over to the group.

  The Monk stood where he was, awaiting instructions. Ransom, the sensei said. Ransom didn’t move. The sensei turned and looked at him. Ransom stared back. Even greater than his fear of the Monk was his revulsion of condoning the beating that Yamada had sustained.

  Ransom walked out and stood across from the Monk; habit and training carrying him through the bow, shaping his limbs, responding to the first attack, his forearms blocking the kicks as his legs carried him backward away from the impact, detecting the rhythm of the attack and locating the point at which it ebbed, reversing the direction of the fight, Ransom himself on the attack, four kicks, four punches; then a fist coming in low, and blackness.

  He wanted to stay where he was, floating in restful waters, but they were pulling him back to the place where he had been, shaking him. Even before he opened his eyes he knew he would see the sensei’s face.

  Get it over with.

  He got to his feet by himself and walked it off. The air was almost too thick to swallow. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

  Then he was facing the Monk again. He tried to buy time. When he got hit in the chest he thought, This isn’t so bad.

  In the center of the Monk’s eyes were pinpoints of light like distant stars. You couldn’t get to them, Ransom told himself, but you had to try.

  He was in the air, one kick, mid-level, blocked; but he still had momentum, his body carrying high, and as he peaked he kicked again, the ball of his foot rebounding from the Monk’s forehead. The Monk fell back and wobbled on his feet as Ransom touched down. He didn’t fall, but the sensei called the point and allowed him time to regain his bearings.

  When they faced off again, his first kick knocked Ransom flat. Being down for good was restful, and he would have stayed longer, but it remained for him to bow.

  A long time passed, Ransom thought, before the sensei knelt. He looked at Yamada, who had difficulty walking the short distance to take his place beside the Monk, grimacing as he lowered himself down to his knees, as if entering a scalding bath. Ransom walked over to the steps to gather his clothes. The sensei was watching him, and the others were waiting. He wanted to say something but he did not think he could possibly express his feelings in any language. He was no longer angry. He was glad of that, because he did not want to leave on an impulse. The sensei’s gaze was fierce and corrosive; Ransom tried to meet it with composure and sincerity. The sensei had always said that you could see a man’s heart through his eyes.

  Clothes under his arms, Ransom turned and walked away.

  26

  Ransom was awakened from a sleep in which he was sparring endlessly with the Monk, one hundred and eleven points, no restrictions. The clock read three-thirty. He heard the rasp of the door buzzer, a sound to which he was not accustomed. Putting on a robe as the buzzer sounded again, he descended the dark stairs, unlatched the door and slid it back.

  “Marilyn?”

  She was wrapped in a man’s raincoat; he let her in and closed the door behind her.

  “Are you all right?” he said, taking her coat at the top of the stairs.

  She nodded. He could smell booze on her breath. He pulled the cord on the kitchen light and led her into the main room.

  “So this is the samurai’s home,” she said. “It doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”

  Ransom shrugged. “Have a seat.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere, I guess. You can sit on the futon.”

  She stretched out on the futon, took off her scarf and shook her hair. She lay back and assumed a vampish pose.

  “Some men would be very excited to find me in their beds.”

  “I’m sure they would.”

  She sat up again. “I don’t understand you at all, Ransom. You made it very difficult for me.”

  “Made what very difficult?”

  “Do you mind if I sm
oke?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “But out of politeness you’ll let me.”

  He went into the kitchen and found a saucer, which he placed in front of her. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to come here?” he said. “Not to mention that it’s late.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to tell you tonight. I had a few drinks and I had to tell you before I changed my mind.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “You’ve never suspected?”

  “Suspected what?”

  She smiled ruefully. “If you talk to your father, tell him you never suspected. Tell him I did a good job.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She took a deep breath, looked him in the eye, then looked away. “Ransom, this whole thing was . . . a setup. Your father hired me.”

  “What whole thing? My father hired you for what?”

  “He hired me to get to you. I’m an actress.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, his voice sounding strange, as if he were hearing it played back on tape.

  “You believed me, didn’t you?” she said. It seemed like a plea. She reached over and took his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it was you, but I need to know you believed me.”

  “I don’t understand. My father sent you here?”

  “I’m an actress.”

  “You’re American?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re not Vietnamese?”

  “My mother was Korean. She met my father during the war. I was born and raised in Oregon.”

  “What about the oyabun?”

  “There is no oyabun.”

  “You made it up?”

  “Your father made it up. He got the idea from a movie.”

  Ransom felt like he’d been gut-punched.

  She reached for him again and he nearly slapped her. Seeing the look on his face she withdrew her hand.

  “I’m not proud of myself. That’s why I’m telling you this. I couldn’t go on with it. I just felt so guilty after a while, after I got to know you. It didn’t seem like such a bad thing to do at first. I met your father doing a pilot, and it just happened.”