Murder on Olympus

by Robert B Warren

  The short man took a long pull from his cigarette and flicked the butt away. “You want us to give him a message or something?”

  “Nah.” I shook my head. “I’ll just come back another day.”

  “Whatever,” the short man said, and he and his coworker resumed their conversation.

  36

  When I arrived at work the next day, a thick document waited for me on my desk. A sticky note on the first page informed me that it was a copy of Hermes’s schedule for the past month. I flipped it open to a random page. Included in the information was a lengthy list of alibis. This was going to take some time.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and got to work. It was a little after 8:00 a.m. when I started. By the time I finished, it was close to 10:00 p.m. My eyes burned, and I had a throbbing headache. I pushed aside the stack of papers and leaned back in my chair.

  As far as I could tell, Hermes was innocent of any wrongdoing. His schedule was meticulously detailed, and backed by a slew of eyewitness reports. I called each witness. They all checked out. Considering the evidence, I had no choice but to temporarily eliminate him as a suspect. Imagine my enthusiasm.

  With Hermes out of the picture—for now—I had two suspects left: Dionysus and Hades. I decided to go after the latter for now, since I couldn’t find Dionysus.

  With Dionysus’s money and resources, he could have been anywhere in the world. But I wasn’t too worried. I had a feeling he’d show up in New Olympia sooner or later, if he was the guilty party. For some reason, criminals can’t resist returning to the scene of the crime.

  Before going after Hades, I decided to get a little R&R. This case was beating me into the ground. My mind was overworked, tired. A small respite was just what I needed to recharge the ol’ batteries.

  That night, I threw on some gray sweats and went to karate class. Classes were held once a week at the Warrington Recreation Center, on the north side of town. When I quit the OBI, I knew that if I didn’t keep active, I’d end up looking like a manatee. Weightlifting was never really my thing. Neither was basketball or football—I’m better at watching them than playing them. But martial arts were right up my alley.

  I was four when my dad enrolled me in my first karate class at the neighborhood community center. The classes were free, but that didn’t mean the training was subpar. My shidoshi—teacher—was a master of Shotokan, Judo, and Jiujutsu. I trained under him until I went off to military college. He had taught me to follow orders, so adjusting to life in the military was an easy transition.

  There were ten other students in class tonight. All men, ranging in age from eighteen to fifty. We were all pretty well acquainted, but I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. When we talked, we kept it general. Conversation rarely went beyond sports and women, which was fine with me. I didn’t take the classes to make friends.

  The rec center had been built back in the ’50s. The building was brownstone and shaped like a wedge. A giant mural hanging over the entrance depicted two old-timey boxers with handlebar mustaches, squaring off against each other.

  As I pulled up to the curb, I saw my instructor, Caesar Bowden, unloading a duffel bag from the bed of his truck, which was parked a few spaces down from me. His gi—uniform—and belt were worn and tattered—the sign of a seasoned martial artist. He spotted me as I got out of my car and came over, carrying the bag on his shoulder. His six-one, heavyset frame and bald head might be intimidating to someone who didn’t know him. He spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. “Mr. Jones, how are you this evening?”

  “I can’t complain.” I gestured for him to give me the duffel bag.

  “Thanks.” Caesar handed the bag to me. “I’m glad to see you showed up. You missed our last two classes. Me and the other guys were starting to worry.”

  Somehow I doubted that.

  “Sorry,” I said, hefting the bag onto my shoulder. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”

  Caesar shook his head as if to say don’t worry about it. “All that matters is that you’re here now.”

  “So, you got anything special planned for us tonight?”

  “As a matter of fact I do. I’m going to show you guys some special techniques. I may need your help demonstrating them.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Great.” Caesar opened the door for me, and we took the stairs to the second floor.

  The floors of the dojo were hardwood, and a mirror covered the wall at the head of the room. In the back of the room, an arsenal of Asian weapons sat in wooden racks.

  Besides Caesar and me, four other guys had shown up to class that day. Marco was a tall man with red hair and one of the worst suntans I had ever seen. Jim was almost sixty, but you couldn’t tell. He was six-one with brown hair and too-white veneers. He had a muscular build, the kind you get from doing hard work in the sun. Paul, the youngest in the class, was a college sophomore. He wore his hair in a short ponytail, a hipster style that suited him. His long arms had hardly any muscle mass. He didn’t really have the aptitude for karate. Still, he did the best he could.

  And then there was Donovan, the one-upper of the group. One of those guys who always had to outdo everyone around him. The prototypical meathead, he was muscle-bound, with a large head and small features. Judging by his orange skin and rampant acne, I guessed his physique wasn’t completely natural. He was always asking me what I thought of his various muscles. Any kind of criticism pissed him off. He probably juiced up when he got home. I made a point to give him only positive feedback. I didn’t want him overdosing on steroids because I said his delts needed work.

  When I walked in, everyone turned toward me. They were unusually happy to see me, welcoming me with smiles and nods. Even Marco, who rarely showed any kind of emotion, wore a big grin on his face. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. Maybe they had seen pictures of my rendezvous with Aphrodite.

  I dropped the duffel bag in the right front corner of the room and went to the center of the floor for lineup.

  The first thirty minutes of class went as usual. We started off with stretches, followed by punching and kicking drills. Then Caesar called me to the front of the class, to help him demonstrate the new techniques he’d mentioned. That’s when things got weird.

  “Come on up here, Jones,” he said, motioning for me to hurry up. He grabbed an empty plastic water gun from his duffel bag, tossed it to me, and then turned toward the class. “Alright, guys. Tonight I’m going to teach you how to disarm an opponent with a firearm. Now before we get started, know this. In a situation where you’re being held at gunpoint, it’s best to just do what your attacker says. Only attack if you know, without a doubt, that the attacker’s going to pull the trigger. Understood?”

  “Sir,” the class answered in unison.

  Caesar nodded. “Okay, Jones. Point the gun at me.”

  I did as he asked.

  “The first thing you need to do is raise your hands,” Caesar said. “The second step is to try to reason with your attacker. Beg for your life. Tell him you have a family. Hell, cry like a little girl if you think it’ll help. If that doesn’t reach him, and he still wants to kill you, it’s time to act.”

  First he demonstrated the move at regular speed. He stepped out of the line of fire, trapping my arm in a joint lock. Then he used leverage to disarm me. Once he had the gun, he turned it on me and told me get on the ground. I did.

  The move was pretty slick, I had to admit. Caesar really knew his stuff. He helped me up and demonstrated the move again, this time in slow motion.

  “Did everyone get that?” he asked.

  “Sir,” the class said.

  “Good.” Caesar helped me up and handed the gun back to me. “Does anyone want to come up and try?”

  “I’ll give it a go,” Donovan said, and he came up to the front of the class. In the mirror I could see how much bigger he was
than me. It was almost scary.

  I pointed the water gun at him. Donovan glanced at the ceiling, probably replaying the steps in his head. When he was ready, he stepped out of the line of fire. Moving with all the speed of a rhino dipped in cement, he performed the disarm maneuver. But he twisted my arm a little too hard. A jolt of pain raced from my elbow to my shoulder, taking my breath away, and forcing me to my knees. I grimaced, trying not to cry out, as he tore the gun out of my hand and trained it on me.

  “On the ground, scumbag!” he shouted.

  I complied, my arm throbbing.

  “Good job, Donovan,” Caesar said. “Anyone else want to try?”

  Jim was next. Then Paul. And finally Marco. Like that lummox Donovan, they all managed to injure me in some way. Jim almost broke my finger trying to disarm me, Paul poked me in the eye with his thumb, and Marco damn near ripped my arm out of its socket. At this rate, I’d end up blind, crippled, and unconscious before the end of class. I was terrified to find out what the next technique was.

  “Good job, class,” Caesar said. “Now I’m going to show you how to disarm an opponent who’s holding a gun to your back.”

  He turned around. I pressed the gun to his back.

  “Watch carefully.” Caesar spun toward me, capturing my wrist in the crook of his elbow, while at the same time pretending to strike me in the throat with his forearm. He followed with a fake knee to the stomach and forced the gun out of my hand. He did the move two more times, in slow motion, before calling for volunteers. I swallowed deeply.

  Paul came forward, smiling. I had a feeling things were about to get ugly. He turned around. I put the gun to his back.

  He whirled around and clumsily trapped my wrist. His elbow missed my throat by a mile and smashed into my nose. A burst of pain exploded in my face. My head whipped back. Paul hit me full force, and he had to have known it. But instead of stopping to check on me, he slammed his knee into my gut. The blow knocked the air out of me, and I doubled over. He awkwardly took control of the water gun and let me go. I fell to all fours, gasping for air.

  “Good job, Paul,” Caesar said.

  “Thank you, sensei.” Paul bowed toward Caesar.

  No one helped me up. They just watched as I struggled to rise. My nose was bleeding. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tilted my head back.

  “You alright?” Caesar asked me.

  “I’m good.”

  “Go to the bathroom and wash up. We still have a few more techniques to go over.”

  I left the dojo and walked down the hall to the restroom. Inside, I washed away the blood running down my mouth and chin. Then I plugged my nostrils with rolled up bits of toilet paper. Thankfully, Paul hadn’t broken my nose. I wanted to kill him for hitting me that hard and not apologizing. What in Hades was his problem? And why did Caesar congratulate him for what he’d done? He was always preaching to us about self-control. I wondered if this was his way of punishing me for missing the past two weeks of class. I couldn’t call it. All I knew was that I was ready to go home and put some ice on my nose. I had already gone over my recommended daily allowance of ass-whooping.

  After the bleeding stopped, I went back to the dojo to tell everyone I was leaving. When I stepped through the door, Marco, Paul, Donovan, and Jim were lined up across from me. Caesar stood in front of them, his arms crossed, a sly grin on his face.

  “How’s your nose?” he asked me.

  “Fine.”

  “Glad to hear that. You ready for the next technique?”

  “Yeah, about that. Sorry but I gotta run. Something just came up. Maybe next time.”

  No one said anything.

  “Alright then, see you guys later.” I turned and opened the door. No sooner had I stepped through than a pair of large hands grabbed me from behind and threw me back into the dojo. I landed rolling, and scrambled back to my feet as Donovan shut the door and locked it.

  I turned to Caesar. “What’s going on?”

  “I think we’ll skip the next technique and go straight to sparring,” Caesar said. “Full contact.”

  He nodded and all four students came at me.

  37

  I ran to the opposite side of the dojo to keep from getting surrounded. Paul ran after me while Caesar and the other three men hung back. Paul’s body language told me he was about to throw a right cross. I reacted before he had the chance, back-fisting him in the face. He shuffled backward, clutching his mouth.

  “Chill out, Paul,” I warned him.

  He cursed. Blood trickled down his chin from a busted lip. He planted his feet and threw a roundhouse. The move was sloppy. Easy to counter. I caught his ankle and side-kicked to the groin. He flew backward and crashed to the floor. Groaning and red in the face, he curled up in a ball, his hands between his legs.

  I looked at Caesar and the others. “If this is about those classes I missed, I already told you I was sorry.”

  Caesar glared at me. He nodded at Donovan, who started toward me, smiling and cracking his knuckles. He stopped about five feet away from me and took a fighting stance.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I told him.

  Donovan wasn’t hearing it. He started throwing punches. With his large, heavy hands, it would’ve only taken one or two hits to put my lights out. But there wasn’t a whole lot of speed behind his power. I dodged the flurry and retaliated with a spinning leg sweep. Donovan’s heels went skyward. He hit the ground hard, the back of his head smacking against the floor. He slowly pulled himself up, wobbled in place, and fell over again.

  Caesar frowned. He grabbed Marco and Jim by their shirtsleeves and shoved them forward. Both men glanced nervously at each other, then ran to one of the weapons racks. Marco picked up a quarterstaff while Jim grabbed a set of tonfas—wooden batons.

  So that’s how it’s gonna be, I thought. Well, three can play at that game. I rushed to the nearest weapon rack. I had to choose between a nunchaku and a kusarigama—a sickle with a ball and chain attached. The kusarigama looked cool and scary but was hard to control, at least for me. I’d probably end up slicing off my own head. The nunchaku on the other hand, while also hard to control, didn’t carry the risk of decapitation. I picked it up and spun it around, Bruce Lee-style.

  I hoped the show would scare off Marco and Jim. The two men hesitated, keeping their distance. In the mirror at the head of the room, I saw Donovan trying to sneak up on me. I whirled around, swinging the nunchaku horizontally. It cracked him in the jaw and sent him reeling.

  I spun back around as Jim thrust his quarterstaff at my head. I slapped it aside with the nunchaku, barely in time. He came back with a wide swing. I ducked beneath the hit and countered. Jim raised his staff to block my attack. But I wasn’t going for his head or body. I flicked my wrist. The nunchaku twirled outward, popping him on the hand. He let out a yowl and almost dropped his weapon. I pivoted and followed through with a left roundhouse. My foot smashed into Jim’s face. He went limp and collapsed.

  Next up was Marco. I swung my nunchaku in fast circles, forcing him to move backward. Wood clacked against wood as he used his tonfas to block my attacks. I had to give him credit; he was pretty good. But he still had a long way to go. I started swinging faster, my nunchaku a blur in the air. One of my attacks slipped through his defense. With a loud pop, the stick struck him on top of the head, opening up a gash in his forehead. Marco stumbled back. Blood poured from his scalp.

  I pivoted again and thrust my heel forward, like a battering ram, into Marco’s stomach. Marco doubled over and went down to his knees, coughing and wheezing. A voice echoed through the dojo. “Son of a bitch!”

  I turned and saw Donovan charging at me. I had been so preoccupied with Marco and Jim that I’d forgotten about him. I swung my nunchaku. It struck him on the shoulder. He didn’t seem to feel it. Roid rage must have dulled his senses.

&
nbsp; Before I could attack again, Donovan wrapped his huge arms around my waist, trapping me in a bear hug. I grunted and dropped the nunchaku. I threw punches and elbows, hitting him in the eyes and nose. He squeezed harder. The breath rushed out of me. Blood pounded at my temples.

  The room started to get brighter. Donovan was growling like an animal. I karate-chopped either side of his head, just below his earlobes. Pressure points. He made a strangling noise, and I felt his hold on me loosen. I brought my right arm up, hooked it around his thick neck, and twisted my body, tossing him over my hip. The floor shook as he hit the ground. Two solid punches to the face finally put him away.

  I sucked in a few breaths of air, then stretched my back. Donovan hadn’t hurt me too much. But he would have if I hadn’t taken him out when I did. I couldn’t believe I let him get me in a bear hug. I probably shouldn’t have missed those two weeks of classes.

  “Not bad,” Caesar called out from the other end of the dojo, clapping slowly.

  “Thanks. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or am I going to have to beat some answers out of you?”

  “You think you can take me?” There was a trace of laughter in his voice.

  It was a valid question. Caesar was good. But how good? Better than me? Maybe, but probably not. One thing that tipped the scales in my favor was my OBI training. Some of the best fighters in the world were on Zeus’s payroll, and I had studied under all of them. Still, that didn’t mean this fight was going to be a piece of cake. Any way you looked at it, Caesar was a dangerous man. He was going to make me work for this one.

  “Care to find out?” I asked.

  Caesar smiled.

  We both walked to the middle of the floor and took fighting stances. Caesar circled me, while I stayed motionless, waiting for him to attack. He came at me, throwing open hand strikes. I blocked his hands and returned a quick roundhouse. He sprang back, and my foot barely missed his head. His smile turned into a beam.