by John Donohue
“It is more than a theory, Burke,” Yamashita told me. “Here is our ride.” My teacher sounded pleased.
We ended up in a sun-drenched room in an upscale seafood place in Fort Hamilton. Our drivers—two men with extremely neat haircuts and thick necks—led us to the second story of the restaurant without saying a word. The room was almost empty of customers. It was too late for lunch, too early for dinner. A few members of the wait staff were arranging linen and setting silverware, but aside from the muted tinkle of knives and forks and their quiet conversation, the big room was quiet. Our escorts led us past a thickset man at the head of the stairs. He was older than they were, but appeared to frequent the same barber. He nodded and we passed on to the corner table where the room’s only occupant sat.
He moved a long-stemmed wine glass back and forth in his hand, watching the play of refracted light on the tablecloth. He looked up when we reached the table, as if surprised to find us standing there.
“Ah,” he said, getting to his feet. “Señor Yamashita, what a pleasure to meet uno maestro del espada.” He regarded me with a tilt of the head. “And you must be Dr. Burke.” He gestured at my arm in the sling. “I trust you are healing well?”
“Fine,” I told him. Our host was a compact man with salt and pepper hair. His skin was deeply tanned with clusters of lines at the outer corners of brown and weary eyes. His suit was gray and it fit him well. Sixty, I thought, maybe sixty-five. In pretty good shape. His hands were manicured.
“Thank you for seeing us, Señor Osorio,” Yamashita said.
Osorio closed his eyes as if dismissing the thought. “Please,” he said, “it is my pleasure to finally meet you. But where are my manners? Please, be seated gentlemen. Some wine?” He made a small gesture and a waiter appeared with a bottle in a terra-cotta cooler. We sat down. The waiter poured carefully, Osorio sipped thoughtfully at the wine, and nodded. The waiter replaced the bottle in the cooler and retreated to the far end of the room.
Osorio regarded the wine in his class. “Crisp. Cool. I find it just the thing on a pleasant, sunny afternoon.” Yamashita picked his glass up and took a minute sip. He nodded in agreement with our host.
Osorio looked at my glass, untouched on the linen surface of the table. “Is the wine not to your liking, Dr. Burke?”
I didn’t like the feeling I was getting from Osorio, his drivers, or the spooky atmosphere of the restaurant. I was worried that, in my current condition, the alcohol would affect me too much. I wanted to be ready for any surprises. But all I said was, “I’m trying to take it easy.” I moved my arm in the sling.
“Ah. Indeed.” Osorio looked at Yamashita. “It was an unfortunate event. I have assured the authorities that this was something done without my knowledge or my participation.”
My teacher bowed slightly. “I appreciate that assurance. I imagine that the constant attention of the police must be… .” he frowned as if searching for a word.
“An inconvenience,” Osorio suggested. “It is an unfortunate feature of the various enterprises I engage in that a police presence can depress commerce.”
Yamashita nodded, as if in sympathy. “It would be better for us all if this matter were put to rest.”
“Oh, I assume it will be concluded in time,” Osorio said philosophically. “One way or the other, the police will lose interest…”
“We have a desire to put this matter to rest soon,” Yamashita countered.
Osorio nodded in apparent sympathy. “I imagine the threat of Martín must weigh heavily on all concerned. But, as I have told the police, this attack was not of my doing. What can I do now?”
I spoke up. “The cops think Martín’s still around. That he’s going to try again. In the meantime, he’s laying low. I’ll bet that some of the people who are helping him are also people who have dealings with you.”
My tone betrayed my annoyance and I saw the warning flicker in my teacher’s eyes. He leaned forward. “It would be most helpful if you were to suggest to your associates that you would appreciate the withdrawal of any assistance to Martín,” Yamashita interjected.
Osorio spread his hands out. “But what good would that do?” he asked.
“It would make it harder for Martín to hide,” I told him. “It would force his hand and smoke him out.”
“And then?” Osorio inquired.
“Then we will kill him,” Yamashita answered primly. It wasn’t boastful or said with the heat of anger, just a flat statement of lethal calculus.
Osorio nodded sagely. “Claro. It might be best for all concerned.” His words sounded every bit like a man of the world regretting its ways. He sat back then and regarded us with half-closed eyes. It wasn’t just the light pouring in from the windows that made him do it. It was a mannerism that showed you something of the real nature of the man. Beneath the custom suit and the polished fingertips was a hard and ruthless core.
Osorio sat quietly. Then he began. “I work in a world of favors dispensed or withheld, gentlemen. And all favors come with a price. If I do as you suggest, what benefit do I receive?”
“The cops would lay off you,” I told him.
He shook his head. “They will be distracted soon by another crime. In seventy-two hours, the protection they have arranged for you will be revoked. It is simply the logic of budgets and overtime and the tax rate. However distressing this may be for you personally, Dr. Burke, it means that the momentary disruption of some of my enterprises will end relatively quickly as well. I can afford to wait.”
Yamashita stirred. “In my country, too, we understand the nature of relationships, the importance of favors, of balance,” he began. The concept of on, of an obligation between people of different statuses, was important in Japan. “And I would never consider requesting a favor from you unless I were sure that I could provide something of value in return.”
Don’t, I thought. Don’t do it. You put yourself in this guy’s debt and he’ll use you. After all, I had seen The Godfather.
Yamashita looked at me as if he were reading my mind. His eyes betrayed little but I knew that look. You glimpsed it in the split second before he drove an attack home. Osorio watched placidly, thinking he had us in a bind. He couldn’t read Yamashita like I could. I felt my stomach muscles unclench a bit.
Osorio gestured with an open palm, as if inviting a suggestion from my teacher.
“Some time ago,” Yamashita began, “I was visited by a young man seeking instruction. At the time, I was unable to admit him to my dojo.”
It happened all the time. In any given week, Yamashita is confronted by the impetuous, the ambitious, and the just plain deluded. His method of screening is complex and opaque. Sometimes he has me put the visitors through the most grueling workout I can. He likes it if I can make them vomit. That’s when the real testing begins. At other times, people come with letters of high praise from teachers that Yamashita knows. He gazes at the applicants with silent intensity, searching their faces. I do, too, but whatever he sees eludes me. Sometimes he nods yes and admits them. Other times he says no and strides away. I get to walk the rejected to the door.
As Yamashita spoke of this particular applicant, I saw Osorio’s mouth tighten. But he kept quiet and let my teacher continue.
“He was your nephew, was he not?” Yamashita asked. “I was surprised that you did not seek to… influence … my decision.
Osorio smiled, seemingly regaining his composure. “Ricardo, my sister’s child. He is quite gifted, I understand, but young. Since his father died, I have tried to assist him with his life… . the advice only an older man can provide.” He looked at me as he continued. “Ricardo does not approve of my activities, Dr. Burke. He seeks to make his own way in life. I admire him for it, but even the most determined young men sometimes need guidance. My sister, on the other hand, has a tendency to spoil her only child.” He shrugged. “It is the way with women. We gentlemen, we know that sometimes allowing a young man to experience disappointment is a
way to strengthen his will.”
I wasn’t convinced. I wasn’t sure that a crime boss worried a great deal about character development. “And?” I pressed him.
Osorio sipped more of his wine and pressed a linen napkin to his lips. He smiled at me. “Ricardo has always been interested in the martial arts, Dr. Burke. He is, I hear, quite accomplished. But forgive me… this is something to be put aside as one grows older. I had hoped that your teacher’s rejection would help him focus more on other pursuits.”
“Did it?”
Osorio smiled ruefully. “I must admit, it has not. And my sister makes my life—uncomfortable.”
Yamashita nodded. “Don Osorio, I understand the position of trying to keep harmony in one’s family. I am also trying to bring harmony to mine.” My teacher smiled tightly. “I remember that your nephew had some skill, and there is currently room for a new student. Unfortunately, with the threat of Martín hanging over my dojo, it would be unconscionable of me to take on a new student at this time.
Osorio looked skeptical, but finally said, “Yes, harmony is a blessing in all aspects of our lives. You have been kind enough to point out the disruption that Martin brings to my greater family. Perhaps it would be wise to have them withdraw from his presence.”
The room was quiet, with faint sounds of rushing water coming from the kitchen. We sat silently in the sunny corner in the deserted room. Our host drained the last of his wine and gently set the empty glass down on the table. It made a muted thump on the tablecloth. Yamashita stood and bowed slightly; Osorio nodded his head in return.
My teacher and I made our way across the empty room, past the guard and down the stairs. Not a word was spoken. I watched Yamashita from the corner of my eye.
What are you up to?
13 Tsuki
“I have a message from your brother,” Art told me. The dojo was closed that morning, but he had banged on the metal door like it was a drum. The sound let you know the person on the other side wasn’t going away.
I cracked open the door, half expecting Martín to put a slug in my head. Art stood there instead, big and sandy-haired and quietly serious. Usually you could count on him to lighten the mood. He was the calm counterpart to Micky. If my brother gave you the eerie feeling of a human rocket poised for a random launch, Art was the guy placidly monitoring the buttons on the control panel. You always got the feeling that he was going to get things under control. But, as I looked at him in the doorway, I saw trouble.
“What gives?” I asked, moving aside to let him in. I took a quick, furtive glance up and down the street before closing the door. “Where’s Micky?”
Art let out a sigh. “Your brother, my partner of lo these many years, is feverishly attempting to douse the many fires he has recently set.”
I grunted. The acrimony between Micky and Art and their past NYPD supervisors was legendary. Their move to lives as independent consultants had been a godsend.
“What,” I said, “someone new has learned to hate him?”
Art waved the thought away. “We should be so lucky. Last count, your brother had complaints lodged against him by the ACLU, ASPIRA, the Brooklyn Borough President, and the Brooklyn Borough Commander. But the day is young.”
My eyebrows shot up in silent inquiry. I waited.
“There are rumblings from the counter-terrorism unit that our contract may be cancelled. I think Mick’s pissed off too many people this time.”
“Oh boy.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I told him,” Art said, clearly repeating a familiar litany. “Things have changed. You go shaking the trees, you gotta use a little restraint.”
“Restraint—not Micky’s strong suit,” I commented.
Art shook his head wearily. “He was like a wild man, Connor. You were still out of it when we came to the hospital the first time. So we drove over to the crime scene. I could see the fuse start to burn. He wasn’t gonna let up ‘til he found the guys behind this.”
I got a sinking feeling in my gut, a spasm of guilt. “I’m sorry, Art.”
He looked at me and his eyes seemed hard. “We all got things to be sorry about, Connor. I’m not sure that having a brother who cares is what you should be apologizing for.”
The tone in his voice made me jerk my head back a little. “What do you mean?” I got another guilty twinge.
Art didn’t answer me. He looked around the dojo. It was silent, deserted. Yamashita was nowhere to be seen. It was a cavernous, dim space of diffuse light and hard surfaces. There was nowhere to hide.
“I’ve got a question from your brother,” Art repeated, as if parts of our conversation hadn’t taken place. “He wants to know what the hell you’re up to.”
I gave him what I think of as my flat face. I’ve developed it in imitation of the truly scary Japanese sensei I’ve crossed swords with over the years. Narrowed eyes. Skin frozen in immobility. It’s an expression erected with great care to prevent others from seeing what you’re thinking—part mask, part shield.
Art had been a cop too long not to see through it. It wasn’t that he could tell what I was actually up to, but he knew something was going on. So finally I shrugged and let out a slow, hissing breath.
“I’m trying to put the pieces together,” I admitted. “I never saw those guys before in my life.” Art cocked his head as if weighing that last statement. “No, really,” I assured him.
He wandered across the dojo floor to the weapons rack. Wooden swords and staffs of various lengths rested there. Art touched the shaft of one lightly.
“You get brained by one of these things, I’ll bet it hurts,” he mused. I nodded in agreement. “You think it makes much difference which one gets used?” he asked me.
It might have been a rhetorical question, but I shrugged and answered him anyway. “Choice of weapon conditions the attack, but the results are gonna be about the same.”
Art grunted, and then turned to look directly at me. “So what do I care about the weapon? The real question is who wants to use it.”
I saw where he was going. “So the identity of the attackers is beside the point?” I queried.
He held out a hand, palm down, and wiggled it. “Sort of yes. Sort of no. The three guys who came after you are important, but mostly because we can jump up the chain of association and maybe find out who hired them and who’s behind this. And, of course, you’ve got a real issue if that freak Martín decides to come back at you…”
“Yeah,” I admitted.
It was Art’s turn to sigh. “You keep thrashing around, Connor, and all you do is get yourself in deeper and deeper.”
Art waited for me to say something, but I didn’t respond.
“What were you doing with Osorio?” he asked in exasperation.
“We went to see if he’d do us a favor,” I said evasively, trying not to ask how he found out.
“The best favor he could do would be to drop dead,” Art said. “The guy’s a cancer.”
“He’s also a businessman of sorts,” I said. “We all agreed that it would be best if the trouble with Martín could be wrapped up quickly.”
Art cocked his head. “You making deals with a guy like Osorio? You’re in way over your head, Connor. Lots of ways this could end to Osorio’s satisfaction. Martín gets you, he goes away, and Osorio’s happy. You get Martín, trouble also goes away, and Osorio’s happy. ”
“That’s my preferred plan,” I suggested.
Art snorted in a way that reminded me of my brother. These two men spent so much time together they were starting to share mannerisms. “Huh. There’s a third possibility I’ll bet you hadn’t considered.”
“Like what?”
Art smiled bitterly. “Here’s Osorio merrily running his little crime empire. Someone not local sends some hired muscle who botch a hit and create trouble for him. So Osorio just wants things to quiet down, right?”
I nodded.
“So he’s got a few options,” Art explained. He held up
a thick finger. “One, he can just hunker down and hope everything blows over. But it’s not in his nature—he’s a take-charge kind of guy. And whatever is drawing all this trouble is gotta be a concern to him.” He paused. “That’s you.”
Up came a second finger. “He could try to eliminate Martín as the disruptive element. But he knows that it’s going to be tricky and expensive. And besides, it’s going to piss off whoever hired Martín in the first place. What you haven’t considered is, Martín isn’t the issue here. It’s you.”
The third finger came up. “Osorio could decide that the most efficient thing to do is to make Martín go away, end the disruption, and not annoy whoever hired the hit squad in the first place.”
Art looked at me and saw the realization make its way to my eyes. So much for my vaunted flat face.
“You’re right about Osorio being a businessman, Connor,” Art concluded. “He didn’t get where he is by not figuring all the angles. So the third option is probably going to be the one he’ll take. He’s gonna take the one action that will address all his concerns.” Art was still holding up three fingers. He jabbed my chest with them. “He’s gonna take you out, Connor. It’s the best solution to his problem.”
I said nothing. Art’s idea hadn’t really occurred to me before, but it didn’t change much as far as I could tell. I knew I was in way over my head. I had been from the moment Martín and his two companions burst through my front door. But I also knew that there were rules Art had to follow that I didn’t. If Micky were in trouble, it was because he had let his concern for me push him into actions that crossed a legal line. I wasn’t going to drag these two men any deeper into this. There had to be a solution, but it was going to be one that I generated, not Micky and Art. At the end of the day, I could make deals and do things that they couldn’t. I think Art knew that, but he didn’t want to have to admit it out loud. If he acknowledged even to himself the sort of thing I was planning, he was going to have to have someone arrest me. And that would be hard to explain to my mom at the next family picnic.
