Triad Death Match

by Harwood, Seth

  Gannon was already crossing the room to the far wall and a few tables set up on a riser. Stacks of papers lined the tables, and three men sat behind them watching over the exchange of money and paper slips. Sitting on a stage above these men's left shoulders were three old Chinese gentlemen wearing robes made of blue and yellow silk. A younger man wearing a pinstripe navy suit stood in the middle of them. Jack knew he'd seen this guy somewhere before. Then he recognized another man standing behind him–the guy who'd talked to them from the passenger seat of the dark Mercedes.

  But none of this could compare to what Jack saw in the center of the big arena: a huge fighting ring with no ropes or cage, just a canvas mat covered with sand on a raised twenty-foot by twenty-foot platform. In the middle of this, one Asian man held another one in a sleeper hold or death grip. Both of them were shirtless, wearing simple cotton fighting pants in black.

  The crowd chanted as the bigger man walked the other around the outside of the ring, clearly in control of the fight. The crowd chanted louder as the bigger man held his hand up. Then he raised the smaller man's arm and let it flop down to the smaller man's side. Just as his arm was about to bounce off his side, the smaller man dropped lower into a new fighting stance. He'd bent his knees to lower his center of gravity, disrupting the bigger man's balance and some of the control in his grip.

  The smaller man threw an elbow into the bigger man's side and spun out of the choke hold into a solid punch that landed in the same spot his elbow had just before. Jack hadn't seen a man move that fast from dead-in-the-water to back-and-living in a fight before, not ever.

  For a moment, Jack had forgotten entirely where he was and the crowd of people around him. But he came back to the entire room when he realized the crowd was suddenly silent.

  Now, in the ring, the smaller man stood still while the bigger one stepped back from the latest punch. He held his side, a spot on his ribs already showing a bruise.

  In the absence of the crowd's chant, Jack could hear the end of the small man's Kiai, a low sound that rumbled in his chest. Then the smaller man did something that Jack would only put together in full later that night: he started with a high kick to his opponent's face and somehow followed this by wrapping his calf around the back of the man's head to pull him forward. At the same time, the smaller man launched into the air and spun backward, his other foot swinging around to hit the bigger man on the other side of the face. When the smaller man landed, he faced his opponent again, now low with his face in front of the big man's gut. He fired a punch into the other's midsection that folded the top and bottom of the man's body, his head and feet, in toward one another. The bigger man's body shot back onto the floor and lay still.

  The crowd started up again, some chanting louder now as others stood and threw their papers into the air in disgust. Jane had stopped at the front table and turned to watch the ring. Now she stepped back as spectators started to pile out of the stands and forward toward the tables.

  But Jack saw that part of the mass was plowing straight toward the ring.

  On the stage behind the tables, the man in the dark suit waved his hands, trying to calm the crowd. The old men looked at one another with disgust. As the smaller fighter turned back to see men climbing up onto the platform, he appeared unafraid. Lowering himself into a deeper stance, he crossed his fists in front of him and prepared to fight.

  Jane stepped farther back from the hordes, and Jack saw she was heading toward an exit at the far corner of the hall. Jack started to move; now that the crowd pushed forward from the bleachers, he could climb up to the back row and run across it toward Jane. But when he was half-way to her, a gunshot sounded and the crowd froze in place. People lowered their heads, and Jack got down too, even as he kept moving toward the exit and Jane.

  The fighter in the ring did a roll across the mat and came up running, heading toward the same exit as Jane. He jumped from the corner of the ring and ran across people in the crowd, stepping on shoulders and heads without losing his speed or balance.

  He hit the exit just behind Jane, and they crashed through the door together. An alarm sounded as they did, the ringing blaring over the screams in the crowd. Jack made it to the door just behind them.

  He looked up and saw a narrow set of stairs. Jane was wrestling the smaller fighter up them, both of them going up, and Jane doing her best not to let the fighter go.

  "Hey!" Jack started up after them, then stopped to pull the door closed behind him. The ringing stopped, but he'd already seen the bodies pressing toward them.

  "You're not getting away from me!" Jane clung to the back of the fighter, wrapping her legs around his. Her dress rode high on her legs, and she'd kicked off her shoes somewhere.

  Jack lunged forward and caught the fighter around the ankles with both arms, dragging him down. But the man started to beat around Jack's head with a fist, and Jack had to let him go to cover up. The man kicked his legs free from Jane's and bolted upright, climbing the stairs at a run with Jane on his back.

  "Yo, hold it," Jack called, right behind.

  They hit the top of the stairs and broke out onto the sidewalk through a steel fire door. No alarm. The street, usually a busy part of Chinatown, was empty on a Sunday night. Jack slammed the door behind him, looked for something to block it or jam it closed.

  Jane still clung to the fighter's back. He spun in her arms and raised his fists, chopping them toward her hips or just above. Anticipating the need to defend herself, Jane let go–just before he pulled back without hitting her.

  "Wait," Jack called. Miraculously, a taxi had appeared out of the fog and was heading toward them. He raised his hand and stepped into the street.

  The fighter turned to Jack. He appeared confused, standing in the middle of San Francisco's Chinatown barefoot and shirtless as the fog gathered around him.

  "Just come with us and let's talk," Jack said, gesturing toward the cab. "Come on."

  Jane righted her dress as if she was just another lady out on the night. She didn't seem to notice she wasn't wearing shoes.

  "All right," the fighter finally grunted, what little Jack heard of his voice sounding heavily accented. He stepped toward Jack as the cab slowed to pick them up.

  In the back of the taxi, Jane sat in the middle. Jack wanted to do something to make sure the guy wouldn't run, to keep him from hopping out at a light and disappearing, but Jane's manner told him she had it under control. As they headed downtown and the hotel, Jack was cold. The fog had come in full force. He saw dense white at every cross street; outside the car window, anything more than ten yards from his face was invisible.

  If he'd had a jacket, Jack would have offered it to the fighter to cover up. But the man looked unbothered, placid in it all. He appeared to be barely breathing hard.

  "What the hell happened back there?" Jack asked.

  The fighter stared out the window, unflinching. "That was the fight," he said. "Many people lose many bets tonight. And so the ring lords will not be happy."

  "Ring lords?" Jane asked.

  The fighter nodded. Jack noticed his hands were still clenched into fists. This man who'd just fought in the ring could have beaten him and Jane into the ground. Why hadn't he?

  "Were you supposed to lose to that guy?"

  The fighter shrugged. "There are masters and there are unknowns. I am the unknown; I should not be able to win."

  "Didn't look like that back there. You looked like a stone cold killer."

  Jane shot Jack a look of daggers. "It's al lright," she said, showing him her badge. Immediately Jack wanted to know where on her body she'd been keeping it. He couldn't see anyplace big enough on the dress to conceal it.

  "Really?" he asked.

  Another stern look. "I'm with the Bureau," she said. "We just want to ask you a couple of questions."

  The fighter looked out the back window of the cab toward the street. No one seemed to have followed them out of the club; the streets were empty but for cars.

/>   "I cannot speak on these events. You are outsiders, ones who are not supposed to know."

  "And you?" Jack nodded at the smaller man. The cab stopped for a red light just above Union Square. "Looks to me like you're on the outside now, too, after that. Maybe we can all help each other."

  This time Jane didn't shoot Jack a nasty look. "My partner might actually have a point," she said. "Maybe if you talk to us, we can get you back into that ring again, if that's what you want."

  For a few seconds, the fighter didn't move. The light changed, and the car started forward. He kept his gaze out the window. The streets were filled now with downtown shoppers, tourists holding big bags from Niketown, the Levis store, Macy's. Restaurant doors were propped open, lights shining through the fog.

  Finally the fighter nodded. "I am Chen," he told them. He turned toward them and then looked out the front of the cab. "This is your hotel?"

  A block up, the hotel that Jack called home stood before them. He had only told the driver Union Square, not an exact location. But somehow Chen knew just where they wanted to go.

  "Yes," Jane said. "How did you know?"

  "It is this way with things. You have anticipation that I can sense. You are ready to get out."

  Jane told the driver where to stop, and Jack pushed a twenty through the divider. When the car stopped moving, Jane asked Chen not to run. He nodded again, just a small, precise movement that made his intent clear.

  "I will come inside," he said. "We will talk."

  Upstairs, Jane and Chen sat in chairs while Jack perched on the end of his bed. He'd offered a robe to the smaller man, but Chen had declined. For all the cold of San Francisco, he seemed to be comfortable without shoes or a shirt.

  "So," Jane began, "tell us what the hell happened back there."

  "It is not so easy to say this simply." Chen looked down at the floor. "But let me begin with this: I am a small man, as you can see, and I am a new fighter to the fans of the kumite."

  He spread his arms by his sides. Jack could tell he was small, but there was something different about the way he moved. Jack had seen him run across the heads and shoulders of a crowd.

  "Where you from?" Jack asked.

  Chen looked up. "Memphis," he said.

  Jack wanted to laugh, but he choked on it, kept it down. "Where?"

  "Tennessee."

  "Graceland, Memphis?"

  Chen nodded.

  "Really?"

  "Man said Memphis, Jack. You got a problem with that?"

  Jack shook his head. "No. I guess I don't."

  "Memphis, then. Right. Tell us more about the fight game."

  "This is first time for me. I have never seen that place before, but I was contacted and flown out here. A man came to Memphis to speak with me, and he offered me ten thousand dollars to fight. I came. What else can I say?"

  "You can give us more details. Keep going." Jane settled her dress across her knees. Somehow she managed to look comfortable in a dress of sequins that barely covered her thighs.

  She crossed her legs slowly and snapped her fingers. That was when Jack realized he'd been staring. He jiggled his head and turned back to Chen.

  "The man who came to find me gave me money and a plane ticket. He brought me to dojo in a different part of San Francisco, and I slept there last night. Tonight a different student of the dojo brought me to a new location–where they held the fight."

  "And the man who brought you to San Francisco?" Jane asked. "Was he at the fight?"

  "No. I did not see him there. I trained in a small room beneath the arena, and tonight some men came and told me to get ready. Then they brought me out, and I saw my opponent for the first time. I think he was heavily favored."

  "Yeah," Jack said. "Everyone in there was pissed when you beat him!"

  Chen shook his head. "I did not win. By their rules I was supposed to kill my opponent to be viewed as the victor."

  "Kill him?" Jane pulled back in her chair. Thin cords stood out on the sides of her neck. Her triceps stood out, flexed beneath her shoulders, as she gripped the arms of the chair.

  Chen nodded. "I was told if I would win they would give me thirty thousand dollars. This is why I came. Not that ten thousand wasn't a good push. But they did not tell me the terms of winning until just before the match."

  "Those are some terms." Jack stood up from the bed and paced the floor. "You want some water or something? A drink?"

  Chen shook his head. He stood and crossed his thin arms. "I must get back to the location of the fight. That is where I left my things. That is where I left the money."

  "Oh, you're not going back there tonight," Jane said. Now she was on her feet. She walked toward the bathroom, already pulling her dress up higher on her legs. "Watch him, Jack. Don't let this guy go anywhere."

  Jack watched her disappear into the other room without closing the door. He could hear her slam the toilet seat and then sit down.

  Jack turned away from Chen. He hated hearing the sound of other people urinating, especially a woman. But Chen didn't seem to be embarrassed or even to care. He eyed Jack like he was more concerned about the fact that Jack stood between him and the door.

  When Jane came back after washing her hands, neither of the men had moved.

  "So here's the deal," she said. "We don't make another move tonight. Chen, I can get you a room here at the hotel, and we'll watch you there or you can sleep on the couch in here. But I'm not letting you out of my sight. This case belongs to the FBI, and I've got more than enough info from you already to hold you in custody as a witness to gambling and conspiracy to murder.

  "I don't want to bring you in, but I will if I have to. So it's really your choice for tonight: here or behind bars."

  Jack looked at both of them. He had no doubt Chen could go through him to get out the room's door. Even if Jane pulled a gun, he knew the two of them couldn't keep this man anywhere he didn't want to be.

  So he was surprised when Chen nodded. He bowed his head and stepped forward to Jane, agreeing to what she'd said.

  The next morning, they had breakfast delivered up to the room. By the time the food arrived, Chen had been doing slow Tai Chi and stretching his limbs for close to an hour–at least as long as Jack had been up.

  Jack watched Chen's chest as he breathed through his movements, his whole body tensing and slowly relaxing as he moved. It was a thing of beauty, these movements, these exercises, and Jack wished he knew how to do them himself. It wasn't hard to imagine that this practice would teach a man to fight the way Chen fought in the ring and to see that the faster movements were a natural extension of this slow, careful practice.

  Jack wondered if he could even learn to fight this way or move more nimbly with some training and a daily routine that started this way.

  But here he was, sitting in front of a rolled-in table, eating scrambled eggs and hash browns, drinking coffee, and wishing he had a cigarette.

  Chen breathed out, his eyes closed. In front of his chest, he extended both hands, palms facing Jack and fingers clenched. His index fingers pointed straight up, slightly bent, and his other fingers were bent at the first and second knuckle. His breath left his lungs in time with his arms.

  As he stepped forward, he dropped his body lower toward the ground, bending his knees farther.

  Jane came in wearing one of the hotel's white robes and drying her hair with a towel. She took a piece of toast off Jack's plate and bit off half of it with one chomp.

  Chen turned to Jane. "You want to know who runs these contests in Chinatown. You want to go back and see who will fight, see how much money is changing hands and where the fighters are brought from. You want to know if there is actually death in that ring."

  "And what about you?" Jane asked, still holding her toast. "What do you want?"

  "I want my money and the chance to know if I could truly kill a man in the ring to earn it. I hope it does not come down to this, but if it does, then I would like to know this about
myself. I want to know my own fate."

  Jack moved hash browns on the plate with his fork. They tasted good–salty and buttery–and he wanted to finish them all. But he also wanted to drop a few pounds and get into fighting shape. He wanted to know he could handle himself like one of Chen's boys if push came to shove.

  "So we'll go back," he said, pushing the table away from him and standing up. "We'll go back, but first I want you to show me how to do one or two of those moves you do, my man."

  Chen smiled, and Jane laughed out loud.

  "You really ready to stop smoking those cigarettes, Jack?"

  Chen nodded and stepped forward toward Jack. He started throwing a too-slow punch with his right hand, already grabbing Jack's elbow with his left and moving Jack's arm into a block.

  A few times over the following weeks they went back to the spot in Chinatown with the big Zanzibar door and knocked on it, but at no time did anyone answer. Nor did the door budge.

  No one in Chinatown would talk to them about the kumite or gambling or any fight game at all. Not even chickens. No matter how they dressed or waved money, it was as though the whole population had seen pictures of Jack and Gannon and been told they were outsiders that no one should trust.

  Chen refused to return to Chinatown. He said that he'd know when it was time for the next fights and that they'd be contacted. He worked out every day in the morning and night, and spent the afternoons teaching Jack how to do some of the slow Tai Chi movements. Jack wanted to do more–to spar and try faster movements–but Chen refused to be a part of this.

  So Jack started looking for a place to train, a San Francisco dojo or fight gym where he could learn more. He wanted to know he could handle himself. For too long he'd had to rely on others to watch his back.