by Marc Olden
He heard Dorian. He waved, flagging him down with a brown envelope. “Hey, got a flat here. Give me a hand, okay?”
Dorian withdrew the .22 from under his vest, stopped running, crouched, both hands cupping the butt, and from only four feet away fired a head shot The .22 made a gentle pop, nothing louder than opening the top on a can of beer. Alan bounced off the Porsche and went down, one leg under him. The envelope lay on the hood of his car.
His throat burning from the three-block run, lungs on fire and adrenaline pumping, Dorian looked down at Alan. He fired two more shots into his head, then two more into Alan’s heart before shoving the .22 back into his waistband. In the dim light, the blood on Alan’s face appeared to be glittering strips of black cellophane. Dorian was fucking depressed already.
But he wasn’t finished. He had to leave a message behind.
He reached into the pockets of his sweat shirt, took out several fifty-dollar bills and tore them in half. Deliberately, he tucked halves of the torn bills in Alan’s jacket pocket and under the gold chains around his neck.
The message was clear. Greed.
Dorian stood up, took the envelope from the car hood and felt the hard shape of a notebook inside. He tried not to think of Alan’s twin five-year-old sons.
Minutes later, in Ocean City, Dorian hung up the phone, stepped from the booth and brought the bagged vodka bottle to his mouth. Empty. Disgusted, he flipped the bottle over his shoulder into a snowbank. Romaine had been polite, thanking him for calling on her birthday. But she had also been cool, withdrawn, obviously not wanting to be hurt anymore. Finally she said she had to go; she was busy.
From Atlantic City, Dorian did not drive straight back to New York. First, he had to change cars, which meant driving fifteen minutes south to Ocean City, a quiet little town on the Jersey shore. Here he parked the Chevy on a side street, changed back into his own clothes, then crossed the street to a dark Ford. The .22 was in one overcoat pocket, the silencer in another. Let the Philly people dispose of the Chevrolet; Dorian disposed of the guns. From inside the Ford he watched a young man in an army overcoat and Phillies baseball cap leave the restaurant, get behind the wheel of the Chevy and drive off. The Chevy, like the Ford, was a stolen car and would end up in a chop shop, broken down into dozens of pieces and sold in Europe and South America.
Dorian needed a drink. He went back into the restaurant. Fucking unbelievable. Ocean City was a dry town. He would have to drive across a bridge to find a liquor store.
When he had his bottle, he sat in the car in a deserted area and drank. He thought of Romaine and of Alan, poor bastard, and Dorian knew he couldn’t make the drive back to New York without speaking to Romaine. There was a public telephone booth in front of the liquor store.
But she had been busy. Hearing, her say that word tonight, when he really needed her, was like being kicked in the heart.
Back in his Ford, Dorian slammed the door and was about to turn the ignition key when ahead of him he saw a man leave an isolated house and start jogging toward him, moving in and out of patches of moonlight and darkness. He almost dismissed the man, but something about the runner caught his eye. The man glided, moving with a practiced stride. No strain. He looked familiar, but how could he be out here in the middle of nowhere? And he carried an attaché case in one hand. He was in very good shape.
Robbie.
Shocked, Dorian acted reflexively. He hid, ducking down in his seat. A count of two and then he straightened up, turned around and stared at the runner after he had passed. Definitely Robbie. But what was he doing in the boondocks when he was supposed to be fighting tonight in Atlantic City, in front of a sold-out house? Was he running to get there on time?
It made no sense. There was nothing around but scattered houses, trees, wide sandy beaches and down the road a bridge leading to Ocean City. Robbie usually carried his gi and protective gear in that attaché case; each year Sparrowhawk got him a new one from London, monogrammed, with a combination lock.
Dorian watched Robbie get into a car, make a U-turn and speed toward the bridge and Ocean City. And, he guessed, Atlantic City. Swiveling around, he stared at the one-story wooden house Robbie had just left and shook his head. Strange. Tonight was a big night for Robbie in Atlantic City.
So what the hell was he doing here?
4
ATLANTIC CITY
“ROB-BIE!”
“Rob-bie!”
“Rob-bie!”
They chanted his name rhythmically, clapping on each syllable and filling the arena with screaming sound. But zanshin, concentration, demanded that a fighter watch his enemy with eyes, mind, spirit, searching for any weakness that could be used against him. Robbie Ambrose denied himself to the thousands who called for him. He sat in his corner, his breathing even, and from under hooded eyes stared across the ring at Carl Waterling.
Waterling bled from a cut over a swollen left eye and there were angry welts on his left side, the target of Robbie’s kicks. A ring doctor leaned over and gently touched Waterling’s ribs. The fighter stiffened and winced, inhaling through clenched teeth. I bet it does, thought Robbie.
A card girl, blonde and pretty, mouth wet with lip gloss, began her walk around the ring, arms overhead holding a white card reading Round Three. Through the whistles and obscenities she continued smiling, but to Robbie the smile was genuine. “Good luck,” she whispered. Her eyes told him something more.
Robbie concentrated so hard on Waterling that he scarcely heard the thousands of voices shouting for a knockout. Instead he heard another voice, the warrior voice. Namu Amida Hachiman Dai-Bosatsu. Hear, o great Bodhisatva, god of war. I am your sword, your will, your deed. The four elements—fire and water, metal and wood—are in me.
I am strong in your strength.
I have performed Chi-matsuri, the rite of blood.
I am the true bushi, the thousand-year-old samurai.
I am strong in your strength.
“Rob-bie!”
“Rob-bie!”
“Rob-bie!”
He blinked, pushing from his mind what he had done earlier tonight to the woman in Ocean City; he had performed the ritual murder that would ensure his victory here. Like the others, she had been easily fooled by the detective’s badge and in the end she had given her body to the god of war.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Seth, his cornerman, holding the mouthpiece. Robbie took it, feeling the rubber hard against his gums and teeth. He bit down hard. And as he stood, the roar from the crowd warmed him. He was Robbie Ambrose, with the uncanny ability to find his opponent’s weakness and exploit it. He stood poised, expectant, the adrenaline moving in him, with seconds to go until the bell. …
It was professional full-contact karate, America’s fastest-growing sport, a combination of Western boxing and karate techniques. In less than ten years it had emerged as the modern version of the historic Japanese fighting form, offering contests that outdrew the traditional karate matches (point fighting), where the techniques stopped just short of the target. Also called kick boxing, the young sport had adopted several safety measures: instead of striking with bare fists and feet, the fighters wore gloves and foam rubber kicking pads and were forbidden to strike at the groin, throat or joints.
Attacks were limited primarily to the waist and above, with strikes permitted to the thighs and calves. Each round was limited to two minutes. A fighter lost points on fouls or by failing to meet the minimum of eight kicks per round. Wins were scored as in Western boxing, by knockout, technical knockout or decision.
Tonight’s fight, sold out weeks in advance, was a grudge match between two of the most glamorous names in full-contact karate. Before retiring, former champion Carl Waterling had been the only man who had ever defeated Robbie, taking a split decision from him in a close match. In his heart, Robbie knew he had won. But Waterling had been the champion and the fight had taken place in his hometown.
Two years later, Waterling, avid for the h
igher purses paid professional full-contact fighters, decided to come out of retirement and meet the number-one challenger, the golden boy Robbie Ambrose. Robbie was overrated, said Waterling. He was going to cut Golden Boy down to size. The popular ex-champion, with his record of sixty wins, no defeats and forty-three knockouts, was going to make a comeback against the charismatic fighter with a record of thirty wins, twenty-eight knockouts and only one defeat.
The fight generated money. An Atlantic City hotel casino underwrote the bout. Scalpers asked and got eight times the face value for tickets. A television network paid to film the fight. The martial arts press published ratings lists of fighters and covered the hundreds of tournaments held yearly worldwide, but only a handful of fights held the excitement of this one. The promoters called it “the Seaside Shootout”
As light heavyweights, the fighters weighed in between 167 and 175 pounds. Robbie Ambrose drew the most attention with his lean, handsome, blond looks and the golden stud in his right ear. Several Hollywood celebrities came to his dressing room to wish him luck. He was a star, too. Waterling was sought after, but by fewer people, none of them famous. His hatred of Robbie increased.
The crowd groaned when Waterling entered the ring. At thirty-two he was beefy, balding, noticeably out of shape. A hairy stomach hung over the black belt tied around the top of his blue silk gi pants and he breathed through open lips, his mouthpiece loose in front of teeth. It was obvious he had not trained. Robbie knew it and was going to make him pay for it.
In the first round Robbie attacked with a flurry of kicks, going for the soft, flabby body. He spun, turned his back to Waterling and lashed out with a kick that caught the ex-champion in the stomach and drove him into the ropes. The kick took the wind out of Waterling, and he backpedaled on rubber legs. Pursuing, Robbie shoved his right hand into Waterling’s face, driving his head back, and then lashed out with a front kick, the leg fully extended, which again caught Waterling in the stomach.
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 tonig
ht. 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.”
