“Wait, wait! Shit!”
Augustine paused. “Yes?”
“You’ll square it with Salamandra? He’ll never know it was me who got those packets? You won’t tell him?”
“If you do those two things for me.”
Nemo was breathing hard. He was thinking too much. Augustine continued to move the barbell.
Come on, dammit!
“All right, all right! I’ll do it! I’ll do it!”
“Good.” Augustine stood up straight and let the barbell drift back toward him. He stepped back, away from the rack. “Take a load off, Nemo. Get comfortable.”
The drilling eased up a bit.
Nemo made that ungodly noise again as he heaved the barbell onto the rack. It landed with a metallic clang. Nemo’s arms fell to his sides. He was out of breath, tongue hanging out, totally exhausted. Marat in the bathtub. Under his coat, Augustine was drenched himself.
Augustine gazed down at him as if he were a worm on the pavement. The man was pathetic. But he wondered just how pathetic. Pathetic enough to mainline pure heroin? That would be convenient. After all, today’s confidant can be tomorrow’s tattletale, and Nemo was certainly the type to go crawling back to Salamandra, crying for forgiveness. These sentimental Mediterranean types are like that. Well, if the dope doesn’t get him, something else will. It can be arranged when the time comes.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a rowing machine on the other side of the room. A poor substitute for the feel of real oars. He suddenly recalled what it was like to take a shell out alone on the river, the invigorating breeze at your back, the pure joy of controlled energy. Lord, he hadn’t done that since Yale. The memory made him smile. He took a deep breath and realized that the pain was beginning to subside.
Yes, he thought, cream always does float to the top.
— 18 —
“Ai-okay!” the instructor called out from the corner of the mat.
Tozzi glanced over at Neil Sensei as he moved to the front of the mat, his loose-fitting black hakama swishing as he walked. Tozzi’s partner—another blue belt named Sam—stopped pushing, and they bowed to each other. They’d been on their knees facing each other for the past five minutes, sitting seiza as they did kokyu dosa, which was always the last thing they did in aikido class. It wasn’t a technique or a throw, and it was much more than just an exercise. It was more like a self-test of your ki, your internal energy—or whatever you wanted to call it, since everyone seemed to have their own definition for ki.
Tozzi and Sam had been taking turns pushing each other over, one holding his hands out in front of him to push while the other held the offered wrists and resisted. If the guy doing the pushing used too much muscle and not enough ki, he usually couldn’t make his partner budge. It was hard to explain how it worked, but when you got the right feeling—a heavy, rooted feeling in your gut, a strong but relaxed feeling in your arms, moving from your center and not just using physical power—it worked. You could move the guy, no matter how big he was, push him right over onto his back, where you’d pin him—again using ki, not muscle—and he’d try to sit up and break your hold. Tozzi and Sam were pretty evenly matched. Neither one blinded the other with his radiating ki. But tonight Tozzi was a little off. He kept reverting to muscle, and Sam’s resistance was good enough to frustrate him. He just didn’t seem to have it tonight. Maybe if he practiced just a little more. Maybe Sam would stay late and work with him.
The others in the class had scrambled back to the front of the mat by now and were sitting seiza in a straight line facing Neil Sensei, who was also sitting seiza. He was the only one wearing the black skirt-pants, the hakama, which only black belts wore. Neil Sensei silently inspected the troops, checking everyone’s posture, making corrections with gestures, not words, arching his back or expanding his chest to encourage his students to “be big.” It was a common problem, one of Tozzi’s major ones. He was a pretty big guy and he thought he had fairly good posture until someone would point out to him in the middle of class that he was all hunched over. This tended to happen a lot whenever he did kokyu dosa, and it affected his ability to be strong. It reflected a less than positive mind, Neil Sensei had said. In the past three years, since he’d started taking aikido, Tozzi had often thought his poor posture was indicative of a basic character flaw: low self-esteem. He wanted to be big, but his body kept broadcasting the opposite.
When Neil Sensei was satisfied that everyone’s posture was as good as it was going to get, he spun around on his knees and faced the framed Japanese kangi characters that spelled out “Aikido” hanging on the wall, and everyone bowed together. He spun back around and smiled behind his droopy moustache.
“For those of you who are new, welcome to the Hoboken Koki-Kai School of Aikido.”
Tozzi looked down the line. He’d noticed a few new faces tonight. One guy was wavering back and forth, a big guy. His legs must’ve been killing him. They always do when you start out.
Neil Sensei surveyed the class, smiling and nodding, not saying anything. He always did this at the end of a class. It was another kind of test to see if you could keep good posture to the bitter end. Tozzi remembered when he was a white belt. These last few minutes were always agony.
Finally Neil Sensei bowed to the class and everyone bowed back, shouting in unison, “Thank you, Sensei.” Tozzi normally hated protocol, but here he didn’t mind it because all the formal bowing was really just thanking your partners and your teacher for a good practice, not paying respect to someone just because he had rank.
Neil Sensei walked off the mat by himself, then everyone got up and dispersed, wandering off to change. Tozzi got up and stretched his legs, but he stayed on the mat. He didn’t want the class to end. For a little while, he’d been able to forget about his troubles. But now the image of Augustine’s shadowy face in his dim-lit study was haunting him again, and anxiety started to rise up around his knees like a gathering fog.
He looked around for Sam, but Sam had already gone to the locker room. He thought about asking someone else to practice with him a little while, then changed his mind. He was too agitated and he had a feeling that more bad kokyu dosa would just make him even more hyper. Instead he went to a corner of the mat near the windows and sat seiza. He thought maybe if he did a little breathing exercise, he might be able to recapture something of that nice, confident, centered ki feeling. He could definitely use it right now.
He started slowly, arching his back and closing his eyes, exhaling out his mouth evenly for thirty seconds until there was absolutely nothing left in his lungs, holding it for a count of five, then—and this was the hard part for him—inhaling through his nose continuously for thirty seconds, holding for another five count, then starting all over.
Tozzi concentrated on his breathing, estimating the time rather than counting it out. But after a couple of cycles, he started thinking about Augustine again and that fancy town house of his and the piece of the rug he’d given him. He imagined the pattern on that rug, and his stomach bottomed out. Forty kilos of heroin. If he was ever caught with forty keys of heroin, they’d hang him up by his balls and let him twist in the wind. He could just hear Ivers screaming at him, telling him that he should’ve known better, that he should’ve turned it in to the Bureau. His suspension would have nothing to do with it, Ivers would tell him. There’d be no excuses.
Tozzi thought maybe he could try explaining that he needed the rug to deal with Augustine, who was trying to frame him. Except no one was gonna buy that. Augustine was the white knight; he, on the other hand, was the hothead, the renegade, the guy with the attitude. Christ, his murderous inclinations were even in the newspaper, thanks to that little fink, Moscowitz.
Tozzi strained to keep inhaling as long as he could. If they ever caught him in possession of that much dope, Augustine’d probably prosecute the case himself. And despite all the allegations and accusations Tozzi could make against him, the bastard’s armor would end up shining li
ke the sun. Tozzi could see it all now: Augustine puts the dirty FBI agent away as his last case before leaving the U.S. Attorney’s office and assuming his new duties as mayor of New York City. One last triumph before he goes. Originally, when he’d gone to Augustine’s town house, he’d thought he’d be able to lead Augustine’s mind with the rug, lead his mind the way he did in aikido, make the attacker follow your bait, snooker him into a compromising position, then throw him down hard on his ass. But now he wasn’t so sure that was going to work with Augustine. He could see it all backfiring on him. Maybe he put too much stock in what he learned on the mat. Maybe aikido principles shouldn’t be translated so literally into everyday life. Maybe it was just good for throwing people here in the dojo or maybe even in a fistfight. Maybe going to Augustine with that patch of rug was a mistake, a big mistake.
Tozzi’s chest shuddered as he inhaled. He suddenly realized that his shoulders were hunched again. He wasn’t being big. Shit.
“Yo, ‘scuse me.”
Tozzi opened his eyes. One of the new guys was standing over him, the big guy who was wavering on his knees at the end of class. He was a huge black guy, six-two or -three, at least two-forty, with a blubbery gut that bulged out of his gi jacket. Most new people didn’t have gis their first time on the mat. Maybe the guy had studied some other martial art at one time or another. Must’ve been a long time ago, though, judging from the size of that gut.
“Hey, man, can I ax you a favor?”
Tozzi looked past him. The dojo was empty. Everyone else had gone home. “Sure.”
“That cokie-dokie thing we did at the end, that don’t make no sense to me. What’s dat s’posed to be?”
Tozzi looked up at him. He was bouncing as he stood there, all his weight on one leg, his face scrunched, head tilted over to one side.
“How’re your legs?”
The guy looked down at his legs. “My legs are my legs, man. They work.”
“I mean, can you sit seiza a little more?”
“No problem.” The big guy lumbered down to his knees in front of Tozzi, sort of like an arthritic hippo. “Show me how it s’posed to go.” He stuck out his hands. They were like baseball gloves. His forearms were as thick as baloneys. He reeked of cooking grease.
“My name’s Mike, by the way.” Tozzi offered his handshake.
“Uh . . . Darryl. But my frien’s call me French Fry.” He flashed a big smile and showed a few missing teeth as he gripped Tozzi’s hand. It was like a big fat bat wrapping its leathery wings around Tozzi’s paw.
“Okay, now the first thing about kokyu dosa is that it’s not a contest. It’s not like arm wrestling. If it were, obviously you’d win . . . most likely. Given our size difference. Here, lemme show you. You push me. Use a lot of muscle and push hard.”
French Fry put out his hands and Tozzi took his wrists. French Fry pushed hard, but Tozzi used ki and made his arms unbendable, strong but relaxed. French Fry wrinkled his face and sputtered as he pushed, but it was no use. He couldn’t push Tozzi over. He got up off his butt to bear down harder, but his hands kept going up over Tozzi’s shoulders. Tozzi sat there, smiling cryptically, the same way Neil Sensei did, rooted to the mat, making French Fry frustrated as hell. He felt good. He’d had a moment of doubt that this big guy was going to move him and make him look stupid, but his aikido was working. He felt bad that he’d ever doubted. It did work.
“Damn!” French Fry finally gave up and flopped back on his heels. His face was beaded with sweat, and he reached into his gi jacket for a handkerchief to mop his face.
“See?” Tozzi said. “Muscle doesn’t stand a chance against positive ki.”
French Fry made a disgusted face and put the handkerchief back inside his jacket. “Yeah, man, but how it do against this?” His hand came back out fast.
Tozzi saw the glinting flash of the blade as it came at him, a direct jab aimed right at his throat. A big fucking hunting knife. He quickly twisted to the side to get out of the way, and the blade somehow caught him under the armpit, piercing his gi and tasting flesh. Without thinking, Tozzi rolled over backward and got to his feet. He backpedaled away, looking inside his jacket. There was a small bloody flap of meat hanging off the flesh over his rib cage.
Son of a bitch.
French Fry was on his feet, lumbering toward Tozzi in a crouch, leading with the knife, holding it with his index finger on the flat of the blade. Tozzi didn’t like that. An amateur will hold a knife clutched in his fist over his head, ready to hack down, the way Tony Perkins did to what’s-her-name in the shower in Psycho. But French Fry was no amateur. He knew how to handle a knife, and from the look on his face, he didn’t seem to have any qualms about cutting people up.
“Where’s the rug, man?”
Tozzi didn’t answer. He watched French Fry stalking closer. Be big, he told himself. Make yourself a big target. Neil Sensei was always telling them that. Sucker the other guy into committing himself to an attack.
“You wanna die, man? I say, where’s the fuckin’ rug?”
Tozzi arched his back and squared his shoulders, presenting his chest. French Fry shuffled closer, then suddenly lunged, slashing at Tozzi’s face. Tozzi moved out of the blade’s path and met the back of French Fry’s hand with the back of his, continuing the arc of the attack until he had French Fry’s arm wrapped around his neck. He slid into French Fry’s space and hurled him down onto his back. Scarf technique, they called this.
The big guy growled and rolled over on his side, getting up more quickly than Tozzi thought he could. He’d thrown the big mother, yes, but it was the wrong throw. He realized too late that he’d wasted a good opportunity to get the knife away from him. He was too worried about getting rid of the guy, throwing him away as hard as he could. Shit.
“I want that rug, muthahfuckah.” French Fry was coming back now, slashing the air in front of him like Zorro. He stalked Tozzi, slashing out randomly at Tozzi’s face, waiting for his moment. Then he moved in, fast and serious, blade poised to make a slash at Tozzi’s throat. Tozzi forced himself to stand erect—be big!—until the very last microsecond, then he ducked and the knife swished over his head. Missing his target, French Fry stumbled and lost his balance. Tozzi quickly grabbed his gi jacket by the elbow and the scruff of the neck, turned the big man around and sent him to the mat, face first. French Fry bounced on his big belly, went “Ooofff!!!” as the wind was knocked out of him, and skidded a few feet. But he still had the goddamn knife. Shit.
Tozzi felt his wound and pressed his elbow into his ribs to staunch the bleeding. His jacket had a big red blotch under the armpit. He wished he hadn’t stopped to look because he was thinking about it, picturing the wound, and he felt a little light-headed now. He told himself this was all in his mind, the cut was not that deep.
French Fry was back up, scowling down at his sleeve. There was blood on the cuff. “Yo, man, ya bleedin’ on me. Sheeeett.”
“Send me the cleaning bill.” Asshole.
“Fuck the cleaning bill. How I know you ain’t got no AIDS?” He shook his head, disgusted. “I finished playin’ ’round wit you, man.”
French Fry rushed him and made a backhanded slash at Tozzi’s face. Tozzi turned so that he stayed behind French Fry, keeping the attacker’s arm in front of him like a guardrail. He took French Fry’s wrist with one hand and dug his fingers into his blubbery neck with the other, then pulled back and dropped down on one knee. French Fry tumbled back and landed on his ass with his elbow positioned over Tozzi’s knee. Tozzi bore down on the wrist so that French Fry understood that he could snap his arm in half at the elbow very easily.
“Drop the knife, asshole.”
“Fuck you, man.”
Tozzi cracked the arm over his knee as if it were a stick. The big man let out a wail, and the hunting knife bounced to the mat.
“I warned you, asshole. Whadja think, I was gonna give you a second chance?”
French Fry was howling like a dog in a Chinese re
staurant. Tozzi let him go, and French Fry rolled on his side, clutching his arm. Tozzi reached for the knife on the edge of the mat, but his head started spinning again and he stopped on his hands and knees. He looked into his jacket. He was still bleeding, and the bloodstain was as big as a pizza now. He groped for the knife, but it was out of reach. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes for a moment to make the room stop spinning.
“Yo! Get in here and gimme a hand, goddammit.”
Tozzi opened his eyes. French Fry was at the door, clutching his elbow, yelling out into the hallway. Three young guys shuffled into the dojo. They looked like an interracial rap group—one black, one Hispanic, and a white “wannabe”—all gold chains, untied Nikes, and running suits under bulky parkas. And they were all big.
“Go git that muthahfuckah. I make him tell me where he got that rug. You watch me.” French Fry was mad.
Tozzi’s head wouldn’t stop spinning. He tried to focus on the knife, but his eyes wouldn’t clear. “Hurry up! Git ’em!”
Oh, shit.
— 19 —
French Fry’s arm was hanging off his shoulder like a dead python. He was making all kind of faces—flaring his nostrils, wiggling his lips, and working his eyebrows up and down—but Tozzi wasn’t sure if this was pain or anger. He yelled to his three homeboys, “Git that muthahfuckah an’ kick the shit outta him.”
But the homeboys just stood there looking at him, waiting to see who’d make the first move. The white wannabe with the crinkly high-hat hairdo went over to the rack on the wall where they kept the wooden practice weapons and grabbed a jo stick. “I got ’im, I got ’im,” he said.
Tozzi got to his feet and forgot about his wound. The white guy was coming closer, step by step, holding the five-foot wooden staff as if it were a baseball bat.
Hold your ground, Tozzi reminded himself. Wait for the attack, wait for the guy to commit himself. Relax completely. Settle yourself and sink into your one point. And be big, goddammit! Think positive. That was the hard one.
Bad Business Page 19
