Читать книгу Dukkha Unloaded - Loren W. Christensen - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

What a crappy night. I went to bed at ten p.m., which is early afternoon in Saigon, so I mostly tossed and turned and tossed some more until about four when I finally conked out. Woke up at eight with Chien trying to snuggle under my chin. Now I’m working on my second twelve-ounce coffee. I miss having Trung-Nguyen, Vietnamese coffee, though Starbucks French Roast is a distant second. My usual English muffin hidden under a ton of peanut butter isn’t even close to the fresh Vietnamese fruit and French croissants I enjoyed with Mai.

Today’s agenda: buy groceries, a toy for Chien, mow the lawn, call Doc Kari and set up an appointment, call Captain Regan and talk about the job, and call Chris Graham to see how the school is doing. Chris, known affectionately by all my students as “Padre,” is a brown belt and a Baptist minister at the Davis Street Baptist Church. He and his church elders have allowed me to hold my martial arts classes in the basement until I can get established again in a place of my own. Which reminds me: I need to call the insurance company and check on the status of the payout for my lost school.

My cell sounds. Where did I leave it and who would be calling so early? I find it on the dining room table. It’s a PD number. I answer.

“Detective Reeves?” Female voice, official sounding.

“Yes?”

“Good morning. This is Karen, Deputy Chief Rodriguez’s assistant. The Deputy Chief would like to see you in his office this morning at ten.”

Oh man. Early call, emphasis on the Deputy Chief’s title and name, official tone, precise time, no discussion. How could a fella resist? The hell with any plans I might have.

“See you at ten, Karen.”

“I’ll advise the Deputy Chief. Thank you.”

I can only guess what the look was about he gave me yesterday at the hospital. “Old salt,” “old school,” “old timer,” “kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out” are just some of ways the troops describe him. The scuttlebutt is he despises the social worker approach police work has been moving toward the last fifteen years or so. He thinks police psychologists should be put in the same category as sacrificing goats to the Hawaiian volcano Goddess, Pele. At one of our in-service training sessions last year, he said, “You fall off a horse, you get back on. Likewise, you blow some son-of-a-bitch out of his socks, you go back to work the next day.”

In honor of Rodriguez’s opinion, I call Doc Kari’s office knowing it’s too early for anyone to be there.

“This is Doctor Stephens.”

“Doc Kari! Hi. Didn’t expect you in this time of the day. Thought you worked the eleven a.m. to one p.m. shift.”

“Sam. How was Vietnam?”

“Hot. Tarzan jungle hot. I’m back and was hoping I could get a session in.”

“Today at one. I’ll work overtime.” Kari is as tough as a Marine drill sergeant and looks even tougher. She doesn’t spare words, she tolerates no b.s. and definitely no whining. She invented tough love.

“One it is. Thanks so mu—” Dial tone. Guess we’re done chatting.

I tap in Mark’s cell number.

“Sam,” he says.

“How’s it going?”

“David is still out. They’re calling it a coma now. Jesus, Sam. A coma.”

“Oh man. I suppose it’s too soon for them to say what’s going on.”

Mark doesn’t answer for a long moment, then, “An MRI showed blood in his brain and an EKG revealed some kind of an electrical pattern in his heart Doctor Vale said is abnormal. Right now, there’s some concern he might lose his reflex for swallowing and … for keeping his tongue forward. If it goes, his tongue can slide back and occlude his … breathing.”

“Oh, Mark. This is awful.” When he doesn’t say anything, I ask, “How are you?”

“I don’t know. I’m probably hurting but I can’t tell, they got me on some good meds.”

“You decided when you’re going home?”

“No.”

“Okay. Just let me know. I got to see Rodriguez this morning.”

“Shit.”

“Well put. I don’t know what he wants. To give me a medal, you think?” Mark snorts. “Then Doc Kari at one. I’ll call you after my appointment with her and see how you’re doing.”

“Thanks, hoss. Good luck with Rodriguez. He’ll probably threaten you or something. You know how he feels about officers taking time off after a shooting, right?”

“Oh yeah. Think I should take someone from the union with me.”

“Not this first time. Hear him out first. I can’t imagine him threatening you with termination or threatening to cut off your pay. He knows it wouldn’t hold up in court. Maybe he just …” Mark coughs hard several times. “Sorry. Damn. The throat hit makes me cough, which is a real killer with bruised ribs. Anyway, let me know what he says.”

“Will do. Hang in there and I’ll call you in a couple three hours.”

* * *

I don’t park my pickup in the garage because the hanging heavy bag, dumbbell rack, and my shadowboxing space don’t allow for it. I crack the big garage door about a foot to let in some air. I’ve debated since I got up whether to work out a little, but after talking to Mark I’ve got to burn off a little adrenaline. Chien glides over and sits on a gallon can of paint next to the wall, her usual spot when I work out.

I guess no one likes bullies, but I have a personal demon. I was always a little bigger than most of my classmates, so most of the time I wasn’t the kid they picked on, except once. When I was in the third grade, three high school kids in a car started harassing me as I was walking home. I don’t remember saying anything to them but knowing me I probably did. They jumped out, grabbed me, and dragged me behind a doughnut shop where they pushed me around and forced me to stand with my back to the wall while they decided what they were going to do to me. I remember I was shaking hard, crying, and wanting my mother. They held me there for a couple hours, while their friends came to look at me and laugh. When I had an opportunity to run, I took off like a bat out of hell and didn’t stop until I was safe at home.

I can still feel the awful sense of helplessness and stark fear and embarrassment, all because some morons took pleasure in breaking a little kid. And although I know there was nothing I could have done—I was outnumbered and outsized—in my fantasies I go back to that moment and use my martial art skills to kick their butts, erasing the deep humiliation I felt. As I grew older I realized that bullies don’t change, they just get bigger and stupider. They’re basically cowards who use their power, be it size or money or superior number, to feel important, relevant—whatever they need I don’t care, I still want to kick their butts.

I circle my arms to get the juices flowing, and do some leg raises to the front, side, and back. I circle my head a few times in each direction to loosen my neck a little. It still hasn’t recovered from the fight we had in the warehouse in Vietnam. We rescued a few girls who had been kidnapped and were being held by sex traffickers. Sadly, they were the tip of the iceberg in the malicious human trading that goes on there, but we did what we could. The battle didn’t end there and the owie will go away, but the memories of those events are going to last.

I shuffle around the floor snapping out jabs, rear-hand punches, and front kicks. I still feel like my brain has fur on it, but my muscles are starting to feel pretty darn good. I push the heavy bag away, sidestep, and slam a roundhouse kick into it. Take that Rodriguez. I bob, weave, and sidestep in the other direction to roundhouse kick the Deputy Chief with my other leg. After a dozen reps, I practice hitting in all three ranges by closing the distance with a front kick, cross punch, elbow strike, and a head butt. I move out of range with a two-handed push and a crescent kick. I do twenty reps of those.

I look over at Chien. Unimpressed, she blinks slowly, steps down from the paint can, and examines my old lawnmower. She loves the smell of an unused lawnmower in the morning. I wonder how she would react to my father’s martial workouts.

When I went to visit him in Saigon, he showed me concepts from Temple of Ten Thousand Fists, a style he has studied for two decades in Vietnam, with his Chinese teacher, Shen Lang Rui. Among other things, the style emphasizes extraordinary speed. Thing is, the word extraordinary doesn’t begin to describe what appears to be almost supernatural.

One day he had me put my chest against a three-hundred-pound, three-foot thick hanging bag. When he hit it from the other side—I think with a punch, though I couldn’t see because the bag was so monstrous—I was knocked back a step or two and my chest felt as if I had been hit by a laser. The supernatural part is the bag didn’t move. My father said his goal is to hit the bag so the person on the other side feels it when standing a couple feet away from it. I’ve been training in the martial arts for twenty-eight years, and he makes me feel like a guy who hasn’t even thought about taking his first lesson.

I simultaneously slap both sides of the bag to simulate smacking someone’s ears and drop low to hook the lower part of the bag with both hands catching an imaginary attacker behind his knees for a takedown. I do twenty reps and finish with a few minutes of shadow boxing. Yeah, I feel good right now, but it’s time to say bye to my high and go visit Deputy Chief Rodriquez.

Chien follows me into the shower. She likes to swat at the water drops on the shower door. I envy her simple life.

* * *

An elevator door in the Justice Center lobby opens and I slip in, happy to get the car to myself. When I came into the building a moment ago, cops chatting in groups or walking in and out of the building waved at me or gave me a “Hey, Sam.” Others quickly looked away. It’s nice to be greeted, and I read into it that they have empathy for me and for what happens to a police officer when he is forced to fire his weapon. I’m not sure what those who look away are thinking. Maybe they don’t know what to say. Maybe they’re just assholes.

When a cop is forced to use deadly force, he automatically becomes a member of a subgroup of cops, men and women who no longer wonder what it’s like to face the dragon and make a sometimes split-second decision to shoot and maybe end a life. Often, those outside of this group are uncomfortable around the members of our thankfully small group, not sure how to act or knowing what to say around them. When they do speak, they sometimes err on the side of thoughtlessness, “Good shooting, Wild Bill,” or “Righteous shoot, Deadeye.” These officers might mean well but such comments are like salt on a wound. Happily, some officers know exactly what to say. “I’m glad you’re okay” is always appreciated. It’s simple and says it all.

I push the button for the fifteenth floor. The chief, his deputy chiefs, and their butt boys all reside on the top floor. Easier to piss on the little people from up there.

Oh man, when did I become so bitter?

“Karen,” I say walking into the outer office. She was the Commander’s secretary when I worked East Precinct about ten years ago. She’s got to be in her fifties now, but looks to be taking care of herself. “You look great. Still jogging?”

“Good morning, Sam. I am. Ran with a bunch of other seniors in the Portland Marathon in February. I still do those freehand exercises you gave me when I was at East.”

I remember writing up a little workout for her. “Well it shows. You look fantastic. I guess I’m supposed to see Deputy Chief Rodriguez.”

“Yes, and sorry about my tone on the phone. My official voice. It didn’t dawn on me who you were until after I hung up. Been making one call after the other all morning.”

“Well, you got the voice down perfectly. I would have jumped through a fiery hoop, you were so commanding.”

“Let me see if he’s ready,” she says, picking up the phone. “Detective Sam Reeves is here. Yes, sir.” She hangs up and reaches for a folder. “Personnel just brought this over, Sam. It’s yours but you can’t look at it. Please take it in with you. His office is down the hallway, first on the left.”

“Thanks, Karen,” I say, taking the folder. “Is there a special knock and will he scream, ‘Who dares knock on my door?’”

She laughs. “Even the toughest cops shake in their boots when they have to come up to the fifteenth floor. But don’t worry, he’ll greet you before you reach his door.” She looks at me. “Nervous?”

“Should I be?”

“Detective Reeves, come.” Deputy Chief Rodriguez is standing outside his office door dressed in dark slacks, a blue dress shirt, and a burgundy tie. He’s at least fifty years old with coal black hair and a black, bushy moustache. I always thought he looked like a character from an old western movie, like a Mexican bandit. I’m not the only one. I’ve heard guys refer to him as El Bandito, among his many nicknames.

He doesn’t offer his hand so I don’t extend mine. “Enter. Ah, your file. I’ll take it. Thank you. Sit there in front of my desk.” He closes the door. “Talked with your lieutenant a while ago. He’s drugged up pretty good. Best thing right now, I would think. Took a good beating. His, uh, partner. Sorry, I’ve forgotten his name.”

“David, Chief.”

“Oh yes. He’s in bad shape. Coma, I’m told.”

“Yes. Do you know how the investigation is going?”

“I don’t. I’m to be briefed by Detectives Richard Cary and Richard Daniels at noon. They still call them the Fat Dicks?”

“Yes, sir. They even call themselves that.”

“Good men, the both of them. Excellent investigators.”

“Yes, sir. I agree.”

What’s with all the nicey-nice? Rodriguez get religion or something?

“Are they as good as you?”

“Sir?”

“Your captain and your lieutenant tell me you’re an outstanding investigator.”

Ooookay, I don’t know what I expected to happen this morning but for sure I didn’t expect to be stroked.

“I work Burglary, or I did work it. I’ve never worked serious assault or homicide. The Fat Dicks are experienced experts there.”

“I know.” He leans back in his chair taking my file with him. He crosses his legs and rests the folder on a knee. He scans the pages. “Ah, says you worked hate crimes in Intelligence a few years ago.”

“Sort of. I did a month there while I was still on probation. The bureau had a program where rookies bounced around for two weeks to a month in various units. I thought it was good because you learned quickly about all the different jobs. But someone in their great wisdom nixed it for no reason I can fathom.”

He looks over the folder at me. “That ‘someone’ was me.”

Shit, shit, and triple shit. He looks at me for a moment, no doubt reading my realization—I just stepped on my Mr. Happy. Are his eyes twinkling? The SOB is enjoying my discomfort. Well, I’m not going to apologize because it was a good program and it shouldn’t have gone away.

“Did you like it? Hate crimes?”

“I did. It was different, interesting, and sometimes it angered me.”

“Angered?”

“Just knowing there are people who hurt others because of who they are.”

“Think your lieutenant was hurt because of who he is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your thoughts?”

“Sir?”

“Your boss is a homosexual. Your thoughts?”

“My thoughts on the assault?” I snap. “Or my thoughts on him being a homosexual? Chief, with all due respect, if your question is about him being gay, I think you’re out of line. But I’ll answer it. I don’t give one shit damn if Lieutenant Sanderson is gay or green. He’s a good detective, an outstanding leader, and he’s my personal friend. I find your question offensive and—”

Deputy Chief Rodriguez holds up his palm for me to shut up, and I do. Good thing because when I’m angry my mouth has a mind of its own. His eyes study me.

“Good answer,” he says.

Good answer? So far this meeting hasn’t gone the way I thought it would. Why isn’t he reaming me for the shooting, for embarrassing the Bureau, and for taking so much time off? Where is the Chief Rodriquez I’d heard so much about?

“Good answer, but I hope you don’t always fly off the handle before getting all the facts.

“Sir?”

“Do you have children, Detective?”

“No, sir.”

“I have three. All boys. One is a captain in the Marines. Done two tours in Afghanistan. Married, baby on the way. The other is on the Bureau. You know him?”

“Not well. But I hear he’s a good cop.” Not kissing up. It’s what I’ve heard. “Works nights out of Northeast Precinct, I think.”

Nods. “He’s engaged. To a woman.”

Okay. That was a tad weird. Why is he telling me this? We going to be best buds or something?

“My oldest son, Derek, he’s twenty-seven, lives in New York City in the SoHo district. Sells retro clothing, and urban emo stuff, goth, and punk clothing. Lives with a forty-five-year-old man, a fashion designer. They’ve been lovers for four years.”

Face, stay neutral. Don’t smile, don’t frown, stay neutral. Staaaay.

“He was twenty when he told his mother and me he was gay. Told us from the ER at Good Sam Hospital. He had been walking to the bus stop after a night class at PSU. There were two perps. They broke his jaw and fractured two ribs. Suspects were never found. His mother and I went from being shocked he was hurt, to being shocked he was gay, to being outraged he was hurt for something he is.”

“I’m sorry that happened to him, Chief.” I mean it but I still wonder where he is going with this?

He nods, and looks at me for another long moment. “I can’t put you back in the Burglary Unit.”

Okay. I’m not sure if I even want to stay in police work let alone worry about continuing in Burglary. I’m not going to say anything about it right now, though.

“You’re too high profile. It’s been nearly two months since the shooting and we’re still getting a minimum of two-dozen phone calls a day up here, people wanting your head. Down from a hundred a day. So you need to lay low.”

I don’t say anything.

“I want you to work hate crimes in the Intelligence Unit.”

Say what?

“I understand you’ve been out of town. In Vietnam, of all places,” he says with a shrug as if he can’t imagine anyone ever going there. “There’s been a sudden spike in hate crimes in the last few weeks. A cross burning, a beating of an Asian man up on Twelfth and Southwest Stark, an attempted arson of a Muslim Community Center, your lieutenant’s attack, and a homicide.”

“Damn,” I say. “The lynching. It’s officially a hate crime?”

“Yes to both. We found the word ‘nigger’ carved into his chest. You don’t need a crystal ball to know things are about to explode. So I want to get a jump on the public’s demands by beefing up Intelligence and the hate crimes function. I’m transferring the Fat Dicks there part-time and I’m transferring you. You three will join forces with Officer Steve Nardia and Detective Angela Clemmons. Lieutenant B. J. Sherman is running the unit. Your job is to gather intelligence, to ferret out any existing hate cliques, and gather info on any plans to commit other crimes. Right now, we don’t know if these incidences were done by one person acting alone, two or three individuals acting alone, or a group of people acting in consort. In short, we don’t know shit but that’s going to change.”

Rodriguez tosses my file on a stack of papers and leans his elbows on his desk. “I think this would be a good fit for you, Reeves. Plus, it will keep you out of sight. As you know, the public has a short memory, but I don’t think so with your shooting. The goddamn media will be bringing it up for a long while.”

We look at each other for a moment. He lifts his eyebrows as if to say, well?

* * *

Doctor Kari Stephens sits down in her well-worn burgundy leather chair, and I take my usual place at the end of a matching sofa.

“You look great, Sam,” she says over the rim of her coffee mug, on which there is an image of John Wayne and the words A man’s gotta have a creed to live by. “How was Saigon?”

Doc Kari, as all the cops call her, is a plain looking fifty-year-old Chinese woman, no makeup, fit, leaning towards muscular, with gun-silver hair a tad longer than a Marine’s. A framed photograph on the windowsill shows her with her longtime partner, an attractive blond-haired woman of the same age, standing near a waterfall. They’re both wearing shorts and Hawaiian shirts.

“One for the memory books,” I say. “Connected more with my father, met his wife, and fell harder for Mai.”

“Sounds wonderful,” she says, studying my face, looking for the truth. I hate when she does it because she has a way of picking up on the slightest nuances, like a flicker in my eye or the way I hold my mouth. I told her once she should be a detective and she said she was. Got that right. She leans toward me a little. “Something else happened, didn’t it? And don’t say no.”

I chuckle. “You’re amazing.”

“Why I get the big bucks. Something terrible happened over there.”

I sigh. “Yes. But it’s not why I’m here today.”

“I see. How about you tell me in as few words as you can then we’ll talk about why you’re here. Sam, everything matters. So please tell me.”

“My father, Mai and I, with some old but oh so incredible Vietnamese vets raided a warehouse to free twenty-seven little girls about to be shipped off to Cambodia to work as prostitutes. Sex trafficking. We were successful but several people died in the process. A few hours later, a teenage boy and I had a death match with a man, in a tunnel that threatened to bury us.”

As is her norm, Kari doesn’t bat an eye. “You directly involved in the deaths?”

I shake my head. “I was present but no one died by my hand.”

“How are you dealing with it?”

I look past her and out the window at Portland’s skyline. “I don’t think I’ve processed it all yet. Things were pretty fast-paced from the moment I got there until a few days before I flew out. I know you’re going to say I need to think it out, and I agree. I just need a moment, or several, to do so.”

Kari jots on her pad, then, “This strikes me as huge, Sam, yet you want to talk about something else today?”

“I do. It’s because I’m back to where I was before I left for Vietnam. Actually, I’m where I was in the weeks following the shooting, although I may have moved a little in my thinking.”

Kari lifts her eyebrows. “I’m good, but you’re going to have to explain that.”

“After the shootings, I knew I could never pick up a gun again. I told myself this over and over. I knew it in Saigon too. I had opportunities there to carry one, but I refused to do it. Knowing I won’t do it again, can’t do it again, I’ve been thinking I have no choice but to leave police work.” A cop who won’t carry a gun or who can’t use one to defend himself or others has no business in law enforcement.

I look down at my hands folded in my lap. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Kari uncross her legs and then cross them again. A minute passes, maybe two. She’s giving me space to continue but I have nothing else, or maybe I do.

“Sam, I hear a ‘but’ in your voice?” I look up at her. When Kari gets her look, the same one a hawk gives a field mouse, there’s no escaping.

“It’s driving me nuts. I just came from Deputy Chief Rodriguez’s office.”

“Uh oh.”

“Hey, he wasn’t as bad as I expected. In fact, the experience wasn’t bad at all. The rumors of him being an asshole are overdone.”

“I know,” Kari says, as if she knows it to be a fact. Might he be a patient?

“He offered me a job working hate crimes in the Intelligence Unit.”

“Ah yes. Been a series of bad incidents. A black man was hung down in Old Town. Are they saying it’s racially motivated yet?”

“They are as of today. Anyway, he stroked me a little and said the job would keep me out of the public eye and out of trouble. I know a guy who’s been there for four years so I know it’s true. Most of the time he keeps his weapon in his desk.”

“Sounds like a job where there would be little to no opportunity to get yourself into trouble.”

“No opportunity, unless the Taliban repelled down from the roof and crashed through the windows on the twelfth floor.”

“Any history of it happening?”

I smile. “None. But you know how I attract trouble.”

“So Rodriguez has you questioning your declaration.”

I tell her about what happened to Mark. “Among the many things bouncing around in my head is maybe this job could be a way of doing something good. My father says while we can’t always fix bad things that happened in the past, we can strive to do good now.”

“Samuel, wasn’t it? You’re calling him Father now?”

“Yes, and I’m comfortable with it.” No need to tell her all that led up to it.

“Good. So your concern right now is what to do about your job. You know I can’t release you until you can tell me you could use your weapon should a situation require it. And you’ve been pretty adamant to me and to yourself that you’re incapable of doing it again.”

“Incapable.”

“This word bothers you? It means powerless, unable, helpless.”

“I know what it means,” I snap.

“Why are you irritated?”

I look at Kari. She’d probably call it a glare. “Because I’m a protector—a protector and a fixer—it’s what I do. Words like ‘incapable,’ ‘powerless,’ ‘unable’ … they don’t fit into that picture.”

Doc Kari chews on the end of her pen, silently, those eyes watching me.

“I know your tricks, Doc.” She lifts her eyebrows. “You’re letting me weigh my ‘I won’t pick up a gun’ with my need to protect, aren’t you?”

“Those internal battles are the best, aren’t they?”

“How do you determine the winner?”

She shrugs. “Only you can determine it. Fill out pro and con columns and see which one wins? Or you wait until the battle dust settles between the protector you and the ‘I don’t want to pick up a gun again’ you, and see which Sam Reeves wins.”

I look past her and out the window again. Which Sam Reeves wins? I look back at her and into her hawk eyes.

“It just might be the real one,” she says.

* * *

I’m in line at a Starbucks drive-up, third car back. I called Mark after I got out of the shrink’s office. He wanted to stay at the hospital with David, and asked if I would mind going to his condo and retrieving a clean set of clothes. He called his neighbor lady, who met me with a key, and within ten minutes I had stuffed a grocery store bag with things I thought he would need, dropped it off at the hospital, and once more tried to talk him into going home, but he wouldn’t have it.

He laughed when I told him about my meeting with Rodriguez, which made him groan because it hurt his throat and his sore ribs. That made me laugh, which made him laugh again, which made for another groan.

“The guy’s full of surprises,” he said. “I didn’t expect him to offer you a job. What do you think?”

I told Mark I wasn’t so sure, which was a big change from being nearly convinced these last few weeks I wasn’t going back. I said, “My father and I talked the night before I left about how uncertain I was about what to do. I was wondering if I could live there, in Saigon. But, he said as much as he and Mai would like it, he saw my destiny here, in Portland.

“My father has a quote for everything. This time it was ‘No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. Destiny is made silently.’”

Mark said, “Wise man.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I said. “Lots to tell you about my new family.”

* * *

I tell the purple-haired girl with three rings in her lower lip, I’d like a twelve-ounce French Roast with cream and a chunk of their crumb cake. I’ve always found crumb cake to help the decision-making process. I maneuver my pickup out of the narrow drive-up lane and into the street and head toward Davis Street Baptist Church. I called Chris Graham, “Padre,” after talking with Mark and told him I was coming by. He has an office there where he does his minister business.

After my school burnt to the ground, Padre and several of my black belts helped me fix the basement into a passable martial arts school. Padre finagled some old wrestling mats out of one of his parishioners, a high school principal, I found four tattered heavy bags in my garage attic, and a friend who operates a hung gar school in Gresham, loaned us a dozen hand pads, three rubber guns, five rubber knives, and a medicine ball.

Three of my black belts from what I call my “Bloody Dozen” taught the six weeks I was involved in court proceeding after the shooting, as well as during my stay in Vietnam. The drilling and grilling by Internal Affairs and the Grand Juries were so intense I barely had enough energy to stretch a little before I went to bed. I had hoped to train with Mai and my father in Saigon, but except for some demonstrations by my father and his teacher, the only “training” I had were the times I had to literally fight for my life.

“How was Vietnam?” Padre asks, after we shake hands and do the man-hug thing.

“Hot, so very, very hot. Incredible city, though, wonderful people and fantastic food.” I’m not about to tell him or anyone else besides Doc Kari and Mark about what went down there. I follow him down the aisle between the rows of pews. “How are things here, the church and the school?”

“Up here, it’s going well. Some wonderful families have moved into the area and we’re in the black for the second year in a row. Downstairs, the school is going good too. We lost some kids after your … you know, the incident. But ninety percent of the students you still have. One of your new students is a soldier who just got back from Afghanistan. He’s got a black belt in kenpo. Nice enough guy, an American Indian, I believe. Quite intense. If I had to guess, I think he might be having problems from his time in the war.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” I say, following him down the narrow, wooden stairs to the basement. It’s a large room, twelve hundred square feet. The church removed all their accumulated junk so we have the entire room at our disposal. My black belts have made a third of the room the grappling area. They have hung my old heavy bags after duct taping the heck out of them, and brought in a few chairs for spectators and parents. Someone, probably Alan, who we call “the scrounger,” got a couple of large mirrors, six by ten feet, at least.

“Must have been fun bringing those down the stairs,” I say.

Padre smiles. “We had the white belts do it just in case the mirrors broke and the jagged shards pierced soft tissue.”

I laugh, though I know everyone wrestled them down. “You’ve all done a wonderful job. How about the church elders? They still okay with us being here?” Padre was concerned, especially about one elder in particular, who thought it might be unchristian to teach martial arts in a church.

“We’re good. I convinced Ben Waters we were actually teaching people alternatives to fighting as well as self-defense. I told him we teach the proper use of self-defense has to do with wisdom, understanding, and tact.”

“Very good, Padre. You’re going to make a wise black belt.”

“Thank you, Sensei. I have wonderful teachers. Ben liked it too, so all is okay.” He smiles. “The elders also like the five hundred dollars a month you’re paying us.”

“I still say you’re charging me way too little. I was paying three times more a month on my school lease.”

He shrugs. “It’s five hundred dollars a month we weren’t getting before. Plus it helps you while your insurance company drags their feet paying you, and it’s sparked an interest in some of the young people in the youth group. Three have joined and three from the community joined with the agreement they …” he grins sheepishly. “Okay, I leaned on them a little. They joined the school with the agreement they would come to church too.”

I slap his shoulder. “You’re good, Padre, yes you are.”

We turn at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. A short wall conceals the top of the stairs so anyone descending is progressively revealed. I see feet wearing sandals.

“Oh, it’s N uh r t uh n ah,” Padre whispers. “Good, you can meet him.”

N uh who?

Next I see legs in blue jeans and a brown hand gripping the straps of a workout bag. Then a black polo shirt covering a hard torso, lean but muscular arms, a strong neck, and a face straight out of a western movie, with cinnamon-colored skin, straight black hair to his shoulders, prominent cheekbones and nose, and a broad face in which sit penetrating dark brown eyes. He’s at once extraordinarily handsome and dangerous looking. I’m not sure why I perceive him as dangerous, but I can definitely feel it, like heat off a radiator.

His eyes do a quick body scan of me and settle on my eyes. There is a degree of haughtiness in his bearing, but not like conceit or bravado. It’s more stoic, regal. Yes, that’s it, regal.

He nods. “Sensei Reeves?”

“Yes,” I say, extending my hand. “Call me Sam. Padre was just telling me about you. But you will have to help me with your name.” His hands are soft, his grip light.

“Nate.”

“Nate?” I look at Padre. “I thought you said something else.”

“Nate is a nickname,” the man says. “My full name is N-uh-r-t-uh-n-ah. It means ‘makes others dance.’ Apache.”

“Beautiful name,” I say, meaning it. “I want to master it.”

He nods, studying me. “Nate is fine.”

“I’m going to leave you two,” Padre says. “I have an appointment coming in shortly and a class down here in forty-five minutes. Will you lead it, Sam?”

“I wasn’t planning on it but, yes, I will. It will be good to see everyone and to scrape some of the barnacles off my hull.”

“Great,” Padre says. “I look forward to it.” We shake hands and he nods at Nate before heading up the stairs.

I toe off my shoes. Nate does the same. “Let’s sit for a moment.” I indicate a couple of folding chairs along the wall. “Padre says you’ve been training for a while. A black belt.”

“Kenpo.”

“Excellent. I’ve always liked the art. And you’re a veteran of Afghanistan?”

He sits ramrod straight, hands on his knees. “I am. Fourteen months in Iraq too.”

Minimum responses and he has yet to break eye contact with me. A shy man wouldn’t make such intense eye contact. Perhaps he is just a man of a few words.

“How long have you been back?”

“Four months.”

Not only has he not looked away, I don’t think he has blinked. Okay, this is weird.

“I’m glad you made it home safely. How long were you deployed?”

“Nine months in Afghan,” he says, blinking rapidly.

Curious. His manner didn’t change, and his face remained neutral, but the eyes reacted. To what? My question or his answer? Best to change the conversation.

“Where did you study your kenpo?”

“Oklahoma City. I trained with Albert Madison for nine years. I earned my black belt before I went into the Army three years ago.” No blinking. Clearly, he’s more comfortable talking about kenpo than his military service.

“So are you finished with the army?” I ask just to test my theory.

Again the rapid blinking. “Yes.”

“I see. Well, I’m glad you’re here in my school. As they probably told you, I’ve been away in Vietnam taking a vacation.”

He nods, his eyes watching me, studying me, not blinking. I can’t tell if there is a reason for it or it’s just the way he is. He’s got the stoic Indian stereotype down, but there’s something brewing behind his eyes.

“I know of your …” His eyes are searching mine now, moving from my left one, to my right one, and back to my left one.

“What?” I urge.

Still without looking away, he takes a deep breath, exhales it.

“Your situation,” he says tightly. Then in one exhalation, he rattles, “I know about your situation. I followed it on the news and in the paper. I wanted to study with you because of what happened to you, and because so many said you’re a good teacher.”

His eyes narrow a little, as if trying to read my reaction. Well, I’m not going to reveal anything. He wants to train at my school because of what happened to me? What the hell?

“You’re going to have to explain, Nate. Why would my unfortunate actions be cause for you to want to study with me?”

For the first time he looks off to the side, blinking rapidly. He looks back, his eyelashes wet. He doesn’t seem to care if I see.

His voice is tight again, as if he’s holding his breath as he speaks. “Because something similar, but different, happened to me.”

Nate’s prominent cheekbones have taken on sharper lines and the skin across his broad forehead seems tighter than a few moments ago. His deep-set eyes reflect confusion, sorrow, and … I’m not sure what the other thing is. It’s similar to how my grandfather looked at me as he was nearing death from congestive heart failure. He wasn’t the sort of man to beg for anything, not even for his life. But there was something in his eyes, a beseeching, a need he had no control over.

“Did something happen in Afghanistan,” I ask. “Or Iraq? Something you think is similar to what happened to me?”

Nate looks at me for a long moment before nodding ever so slightly. “Similar.”

I wait for him to elaborate but he only looks at me. I can’t tell if he wants me to ask him questions or drop the subject.

“Do you have Indian blood in your family?” he asks.

I smile, partly because of the abruptness of his question and partly out of relief he changed the subject.

“Funny you should mention it, Nate. I haven’t thought about it in a long time, but my mother told me we have some Hopi blood on her side of the family. A great-great-grandfather or something.”

I wish I hadn’t said “or something.” Makes it sound as if my Indian heritage, however small it is, isn’t important to me. Maybe it isn’t; I never think about it. But now because I’m sitting with someone who appears to have a lot of Indian blood, I’m feeling uncomfortable.

“Hopi means peaceful ones, peaceful people. It’s from Hopituh Shi-nu-mu. Did you know?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t.” Why do I feel I need to apologize? Oh, I know why, because I’m ignorant about the blood pumping through my own veins.

“I am one hundred percent Apache. The word is a collective for six tribes from the Southwest. I am Chiricahua Apache. And no, I’m not related to Geronimo or Cochise. But I possess their warrior nature.”

I bet he does. He has an aura in constant flux. One moment it emanates a sense of peace and in the next, it radiates … sorrow? And there is some agitation. Right now, I see something else, something I’ve seen in our veteran SWAT guys, in my father, and in the old Vietnamese soldiers I met in Saigon. The aura communicates I don’t want to fight, but if I have to, someone’s going to be in a world of hurt. It’s an attitude I know well.

“What do you do now?” I ask.

“I’ve taken all the tests for the Portland Fire Department and I’m waiting to get hired. I’m told it could be anytime.”

“Really? Very good career choice.” I smile at him. “Didn’t want to take the police test, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Had enough of guns.”

I hear that.

* * *

“Everyone feeling good? Everyone feeling loose?”

“Yes, Sensei!”

“All right. Pair up and do a little light sparring. Don’t try to kill your partner but be mindful of moving in and out of range, working your combinations, using body movement to avoid your partner’s blows, and using efficient counters. Got it!”

“Yes, Sensei.”

“Glad you’re back, Sensei,” comes from the back of the group. Laughter follows.

“Thank you. Glad to be back. Now get busy.”

These are my brown belts, two dozen of them and four soon-to-be browns. I’ve always said the most dangerous martial arts students are hungry brown belts. They’ve been at it for over three years and because they’re closing in on their promotion, they train like they’re possessed; eager to prove to each other and to me, they are black belt worthy to each other and to me. Because I’ve been away for a while, these guys are extra eager to show me they haven’t been slacking off.

Nate asked if he could train with the brown-belt class tonight because he had an appointment and couldn’t stay for the following black-belt class. I said sure, plus it would give me a chance to see him move and see how he treats lower belts. I’ve had black belts from different systems ask to train with my students. There have been a few who possessed excellent skills but treated my lower ranks with disdain. Those I’ve asked not to come back. The ones who are always welcome are those black belts who are kind to my lower ranks, act humble around my black belts, and listen to my suggestions. Nate appears to be one of these.

As a kenpo stylist, he wears black pants as we do, and he’s purchased a black T-shirt from Adam, my senior black belt in charge of supplies. Nate’s belt isn’t old and tattered but it isn’t brand new, either. The ends display two stripes depicting he’s a second degree. He didn’t mention it when we were chatting earlier. That’s a big plus for Nate.

He and Steve have partnered up and are moving about swapping techniques at a nice, controlled pace. Steve is in his late twenties, a little over six foot and skinny as a bo staff. However, it would be a mistake to think skinny equates to weak because Steve is deceptively strong. He’s tried everything to put on size but instead he gets stronger and stronger, which isn’t the worst thing to happen. He’s been training off and on for about four years, mostly on for the last year.

Nate is doing a nice job of controlling his speed and aggression but I can tell he’s itching to release it. His expressionless face is in direct contrast with Steve’s constant smile that spreads even wider whenever he launches a cool move and likewise when Nate throws something nice. Steve likes a good move no matter who does it.

I can see Nate’s hand skills are his forte with his kicks coming in a distant second. His front, round, side, and hook kicks aren’t bad, they just don’t shine as brightly as his precisely delivered hand combinations and his near flawless body mechanics. He’s had good training from a teacher who stressed hands over legs.

“Stop!” I call out. “Okay, everyone looks great. You’ve been practicing hard while I was away, and it shows. I’m proud of you. Any questions?”

Billy Bob raises his hand with phony eagerness to which everyone smiles except Nate who doesn’t know what is going on. Every class has their funny man. Mine is tall, lanky and redheaded William Appleton—“Billy Bob”—born and raised in Mississippi.

“Dare I ask, Billy Bob?”

“My question, sir, is what is truth?”

“I got your truth right here,” I say, clenching my fist. The class goes, “Oooo” in unison.

“Happy you’re back, Sensei,” Billy Bob says with a grin and a bow.

“I missed you too,” I say, shaking my head at the smiling class. “Okay, switch partners and lets do the four-count dummy drill.”

We’ve practiced this a lot, but for Nate’s purpose I demonstrate on Jackson Steele, a short, muscular brown belt, who is testing for his black in the next couple of months.

“You will take turns hitting each other four times, not a flurry, but with half a second between each blow. Each time you hit your partner with a controlled shot, your partner will react as if really struck. For example …”

I front kick Jackson in the abdomen and he snaps forward holding his stomach as if I’d hit him hard. I follow with a controlled round kick to his right leg and he sags to the right. My third hit is a controlled hammer fist to the back of his neck. He drops to one knee, his head hanging limply. When I follow with a knee strike to the side of his face, Jackson falls all the way over.

“Now it’s your partner’s turn to hit you back, beginning from his last position. In this case, Jackson went all the way to the floor so he has to start from there.”

The muscular brown belt thrusts a controlled sidekick into my knee, and I bend over sharply pretending to be in pain. Up on his knees now, he pretends to hit me with a palm-heel uppercut to jerk me nearly upright. He hops to his feet and snaps a controlled front-legged, lower shin kick to my groin, and I bend over with a theatrical grunt. He finishes with another slap kick to the same target, and I stumble back with a small whimper.

“Oscar performance!” Billy Bob calls out. A few students applaud.

“Okay,” I chuckle, waving them off. “Remember, the idea here is each time your partner reacts, you’re presented with a different silhouette. This is much more valuable than always striking at a stationary upright one. Okay? Have at it.”

The class always has fun with this drill and Nate is fitting right in. He’s not smiling, but I can tell he’s enjoying himself, especially since his partner, Padre, overacts to each of his blows.

Nate’s burden seems to have lifted once he began training, and I know well the feeling. While the martial arts have saved my cute behind on several occasions, it has saved my psyche more times than I can remember. Doc Kari, no doubt, has an explanation with lots of Latin words. I just think of training as blowing out negative carbon buildup.

“Stop! Okay, looking good everyone. Whatever you’re doing on your own time, keep at it. Your extra practice is showing. Padre, up front.”

“Yes, Sensei,” he says, scurrying up to me.

“Let’s finish the class with basic reps: jabs, cross punches, backfists, and uppercuts. Then do front kicks, sides, rounds, and hooks. Two sets of fifteen reps each. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

I move through the rows to the back of the class and stand ready to throw reps with everyone.

“Fighting positions,” Padre barks. “Backfists with a front-leg lunge. Ready. One!”

Twenty minutes later, I resume my post at the front of the class. We’re all sweating hard and breathing hard.

“Thanks, Padre, good job. I haven’t been able to train much lately, and it feels so good to be back. Okay, feet together, stand straight, and place your hands on your belly. Breathe in through your nose and feel your belly expand. Hold it, two, three, four. Blow it out slowly, two, three, four. Hold it, two, three, four. Breathe in, two, three, four.”

Two more repetitions and everyone’s heartbeat and breathing and more importantly, energy, have returned to normal. It’s important to mellow everyone out before turning them loose on the highways and byways.

“Thank you for teaching us!” Padre barks after calling the lines to attention.

“Thank you for teaching me,” I reply. “Ready! Salute!”

Left hands cover right fists, and both are thrust forward.

Class over.

* * *

Mai laughs when I hold Chien up to the screen. The cat meows and touches the screen with her paw.

“She looks so cute, Sam. Her hair is so white, so clean.”

Mai looks tired, drained. Chien lies down next to the keyboard between us.

Mai smiles at her. “You look good too, Sam. Did you work out?”

“Taught two classes tonight and worked out a little with each. Not too much. Got to ease back in.”

She’s wearing a beige tank top that shows off her beautiful shoulders and arms. Her raven black hair is slightly mussed, which looks amazing. Those green specked, brown eyes look heavy lidded as if it’s all she can do to keep from falling asleep.

“You look exhausted.”

“Oh, Sam, Mother is doing so bad. Father call doctor to the house this morning because she could not breathe good, and she was coughing blood more than before. The doctor is worried about the … strain? Yes, the strain on her heart. He says the TB is very advanced and the strain on her heart is worse.”

“I’m so sorry, Mai. I wish I was there with you.”

She nods for a long moment, looking directly at me. “I wish you were with me too. I am so scared.”

“She’s a tough woman.”

Mai wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Not …” She looks away, and I can see her take a deep breath before she turns back to look into the camera. “Not any longer.”

I hear a soft knock. Mai looks to the side and speaks in Vietnamese. I can hear the sound of a door opening.

“Come, Father, I am talking with Sam.”

“Oh good,” I hear Father’s voice say. “May I say hello?”

“Of course. Sam, Father is here.”

“Hello, Father,” I say, as he kneels down so I can see him in the camera. Mai scoots her chair to her left so all I can see is her right shoulder.

He looks trashed too. No surprise, considering he’s been battling coercion from the Vietnamese mafia, lost friends in ensuing firefights, and lost a beloved teacher. Now he is watching helplessly as his beloved wife of some thirty years slides quickly toward death.

I grew up thinking my father had died in a North Vietnamese prison during the war. He, in fact, was in prison for several years, but fate led him to the unusual position of teaching martial arts to the prison commander. Through the training their friendship grew, and, as the story grows, my father fell in love with the commander’s beautiful daughter Kim. After the war ended, the commander helped my father remain in Vietnam, and my father married Kim two years later, fathered two daughters, and helped raise a stepdaughter. Over the years, the family built a thriving jewelry business, no mean feat given the confusion after the war, the anti-American sentiment, racism, and rampant corruption of government officials and law enforcement. It helped that my father has a charming personality, has tirelessly helped his community rebuild, and he speaks flawless Vietnamese. Interestingly, his slight physique and his Vietnamese-like mannerisms, have led many people to think he is indeed Asian or mixed race.

“You look good, Son. Rested from the jet lag? Oh, there is Chien. Sleeping like always.”

“I am, thank you. I’m so sorry about Kim.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you.” He is looking into the camera but it’s obvious his mind is with Kim. After a moment, he says, “Thirty years ago we were newlyweds. Now we are oldie-weds. In between, the most precious years of my life.”

“I wish I could have talked with her more while I was there. I found her to be a beautiful and wise woman.”

She was so sick when I was there I was able to talk with her only three or four times. Even in her illness and frailty, it was clear she was a powerful woman who loved her family deeply, and didn’t tolerate fools.

“Thank you, Son. I also wish you two could have had more time together.”

“I look forward to more times,” I say. Silly words. Meaningless, but they convey my love.

He nods; the gesture also meaningless, but it takes in my love. Father knows a thousand quotations for a thousand situations but he is at a loss for this one.

“How is your school?” he says. “You said you were anxious to check on it.”

“I taught two classes this evening. Trained a little, worked up a sweat, cleaned out the cobwebs.”

“Very good. The martial arts are a constant we can always return to, no? A place for us to take comfort; a place for us to seek; a place for us to find; a place for us to vent; and sometimes it is a place for us to hide. I am sorry we did not train more while you were here.”

“I got lots of practical experience,” I say without humor. “One of my new students is a kenpo black belt and a veteran of Afghanistan. I think he’s troubled by something that happened to him in the war. He said something about choosing my school because he thinks we shared similar experiences. I think he thinks I can help him.”

“Then help him, Son. You have been through much. Share what you have learned with him. Buddha said a thousand candles could be lit from a single one. And lighting the thousand will not shorten the life of the one.”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready.”

“You are. Chödrön says, ‘We work on ourselves in order to help others, but also we help others in order to work on ourselves.’ I have told you about Pema Chödrön before. She is one of my favorite modern day Buddhist teachers. She also says, ‘Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others.’ I believe you are at the door, Son. There is still darkness in you, but just keep opening the door to let in the light.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I will do what I can. I think he is a good man. Oh, one other thing. I have a tough decision to make. I’ve been offered a job in our Intelligence Unit. There have been a lot of hate crimes going on here in the last couple weeks and they want to get a jump on it. I’d be out of the public eye doing mostly intelligence gathering. I’d still have to carry a gun but …” I look away from the screen and Father’s gaze for a moment. I swallow and look back. His face is neutral. “I don’t know. If I were to pull the trigger again, to use your words, I’d be in darkness forever. But I feel compelled to take the position. Man, I’m so screwed up.”

Father lifts his eyebrows as if he’s surprised at what I just said. “You want some cheese with your whine, Son? We have talked about this before. You know the answer. You have already decided.” He tilts his head as if trying to peer around my defenses, which I’m sure he is. “Have you seen the woman doctor yet?”

“Yes.”

“Helpful?”

I nod.

“Son, I can see in your eyes the answer is within you. Reach in and extract it, no matter how painful or frightening it might be. He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes making me feel like a girlyman. “What time is it there, Son?”

“Almost eight thirty.”

“Make your decision by ten,” he snaps, his eyes loving, stern, a father telling his son to man up.

“Okay.”

“Talk to you later,” he says, standing. He disappears from the screen. Mai reappears. I hear the door close.

I raise my eyebrows. “He’s such a funster.”

“I do not know your word, Sam, but so many times he is right.”

“When was the last time he was wrong?”

“He did not think you and I were a good idea,” she says.

I laugh. “I remember. Gave us a hard time didn’t he? And he was wrong.”

She smiles, which nearly burns up my screen. “Yes, he was. And he has admitted it to me.”

“Really?” I say, feeling like a lovesick teenager learning his girlfriend’s father approves.

Mai smiles. “Cool, huh?”

Chien looks up at her on the screen and at me. She meows and settles her head back next to the mouse.

“Definitely,” I say grinning. Next, we’ll be talking about our big math test on Friday and which brand of acne cream is best.

“But, Sam, all he said to you just now?”

“Yes?”

“For what it is worth, whatever you decide, I’m with you.”

I nod, and stroke the top of Chien’s head.

* * *

I’m leaning on my bedroom windowsill looking out at the night. Over the four years I’ve owned this house, I’ve made all my big decisions right here: where to bury my mother; whether I should take the test to become a detective; whether to refinance my school; whether to go through with my promise to Mai and go to Saigon. Then there was the crazy time I decided I would never ever step foot out of this house again. I’d convinced myself if I did I would most assuredly kill again. Not all my decisions have been good ones.

Maybe it’s because it’s a bedroom window, a place where I’m tired, groggy, and vulnerable in my underwear. Or maybe it’s my reflection in the glass looking back and compelling me to decide. With me looking back at me waiting for me to make up my mind, I feel the need to please the face in the glass.

Should be in a country western song. Oh, my wife left me, and took my pickup and my dog. Now I got to please the sad man in the mirror and decide what I want to fight for: my truck or my dog? Needs work but, hey, it’s not too bad.

I turn my head to the left and my reflection turns to its right. I turn to my right and my reflection turns to its left. Man, would I crap a brick if my reflection turned in the opposite direction. Okay, I’d better decide before the face looking back at me drives me over the edge of what little sanity I’m using to navigate.

Thinking … thinking … Done.

And it’s only nine fifty-five.