Читать книгу Confluence - Stephen J. Gordon - Страница 10

4

When Katie opened her eyes in the morning I was next to her. Not asleep, but next to her.

“Good morning,” I said, maybe twelve inches from her eyes. “How do you feel?”

“Mmm. Pretty good,” she smiled. She leaned over and gave me a kiss. “And you, did you sleep?”

“Not really.”

She just smiled, knowing a sleepless night was not unusual for me. “What did Nate have for you?”

“Ah, romantic pillow talk, huh?”

She smiled. “Was it good news or bad news?”

I always debated how much to tell Katie about stuff like this. Katie had seen me defend myself, but never with the really bloody, bone crunching stuff. Ever since I broke up with Alli, who flipped out witnessing my violent side when we were once attacked, I was leery about getting too specific with Katie. She might have been fine with me telling her I had to shoot a guy in the head, or that I probably broke a guy’s neck for instance, but I really wasn’t sure.

“You’re debating how much to tell me, aren’t you? Just tell me, Gidon.”

“Oh, you sweet talker.” I paused. “Okay, so I stopped some intruders in the Mandels’ house. Well, Nate and I think it’s more than that. We think someone is trying to kill them…or one of them.”

“Oh my God.”

“We’re not a hundred percent sure, but it’s looking that way. Someone killed one of the men we caught so we couldn’t interrogate him. He was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital when someone shot the driver and then shot my guy on his stretcher.”

“They’re dead?”

“They’re dead.”

“What about the other man? You said ‘intruders,’ plural.” Katie hadn’t missed that. “Can’t you find out from him?”

“Nope. I shot him last night…in the head. He was holding Josh hostage.”

She looked at me for a long second. I had no idea what she was thinking.

“And the Mandels don’t know what’s going on?” She had either processed what I had done or was ignoring it.

“They say they have no idea.”

“Do you believe them?”

“I believe that on the surface they can’t figure out what this is all about.”

“But you’ll help them?”

“They’re friends. Yes.” I didn’t mention that the guy who sent the hit team might have gotten a look at me. The fact was, I didn’t really know what was going on. The guy in the Buick was probably just a wheel man. No way of knowing yet.

“So what are you going to do now?”

“Now,” I shifted a little closer to her, “I am going to invite you into the shower, and we’ll see what develops.”

S

We had a late breakfast and then I headed back to my place to change. I lived less than five miles away near the Hopkins Homewood Campus in a modest, forty year old, two story home. In a matter of minutes, I was back in my car, heading to the Mandels’ Beit Shalom Synagogue. My interest still wasn’t in prayer. I did, however, want to see how Josh, Shelley, and their kids were doing. There’d be no visit to the sanctuary.

I parked half a block from the synagogue and walked back to the building. The sky was cloudless and the air was still cool. Single family brick homes were set back on modest front lawns, and a mixture of cars and vans were parked either in driveways or at the curb. Pink, red, and lavender azalea bushes guarded several of the walkways, and blooming rhododendrons added to the peaceful, clean, suburban atmosphere.

As I approached the single floor synagogue, I could see a number of young couples hanging around in front. I had no idea if services were still underway. It was just before noon, and Saturday morning prayers could typically run from two and a half to three hours, depending on the speed of the cantor, how many times the rabbi wanted to emphasize a message, or just because the pace was slower or faster on any given day.

I crossed Seven Mile Lane to see a County Police Car blocking the driveway entrance. A uniformed officer was leaning against the side of the vehicle and watching the front of the synagogue. I walked over to him and he watched me through rectangular wire-rimmed sunglasses. The officer was about my age and half a head taller, blond, fit looking, and maintained a high and tight haircut.

“Good morning,” I said.

He only nodded, arms across his chest. On his right forearm I could see part of a tattoo that had parachute wings and a scuba diver. There were also the words “Semper Fidelis.” He had been a Marine.

“Recon?” I asked.

“Force Recon,” he specified. “You?”

I shrugged. After a moment I said, “The guy you’re looking for may not come in the Buick.”

He looked at me again. “Heard some Israeli Special Operator walked into a hostage situation last night at the rabbi’s house. Took a gun off of one guy and used it to put two in the other guy’s head.”

I looked up at him and held his gaze through his sunglasses. “Actually…it was one round.”

He grinned. “Oorah. My lieutenant said it was one shot, too.” He held out his hand. “Greg Thompson. My friends call me Tuck.”

“Tuck,” I repeated, shaking his hand. “Gidon.”

“My unit had some joint training with Israeli paratroopers on a base northwest of Jerusalem.”

“Near Modi’in.”

“Yep. Met some real cool dudes.” He paused for a minute. “What can I do for you?”

“Services over? I want to speak to the rabbi, but don’t want to go in.”

“Don’t think so, but folks are drifting out.”

Sure enough, in a few minutes people began pouring out of the synagogue. There were older people, younger people, teens, and young couples with children. The men were dressed mostly in ties and jackets and the women in dresses. I didn’t see the Mandels. My guess was they’d be among the last to leave.

I turned to Thompson. “How long have you been on duty?”

“Drove behind the rabbi about 8:00 as he walked here. Another unit followed his wife and kids later.”

“Thanks.”

He shrugged.

Josh and Shelley and their two girls came out the front a minute later. I turned back to the cop. “Take care.” I shook his hand.

“Anything you need…” he gave me an official business card with his name on it.

“I appreciate it.”

I walked over to the front of the synagogue, and hung back a few feet as a number of members engaged the Mandels in conversation. From what I could hear, it had nothing to do with last night. It was more about school and some upcoming family celebrations. In a minute, Josh spotted me, and then Shelley did as well. I waited until only one man was left speaking with them. He was about forty, with a little paunch, and dressed in an off-white suit with a pale blue shirt and yellow tie. The man seemed to be wrapping up whatever he was saying, so I stepped in.

“Shabbat shalom, Rabbi. Shelley.”

“Gidon, hi. Shabbat shalom.” Josh gave me a hug; I wasn’t surprised by the emotion.

“Shabbat shalom,” Shelley echoed and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

The man in the off-white suit lingered. “Hi,” I smiled at him, but turned back to the Mandels. “Do you guys mind…I’d like to walk with you.” I looked at the hanger-on. Hopefully, he picked up that it would be a private conversation.

Shelley responded: “Please,” and we began to move off. The other synagogue-goer waved and walked the other way.

“Again, we can’t thank you enough.” Josh began. “I really don’t know what to say.”

“The whole thing is so unbelievable,” Shelley added.

I looked at their two daughters, walking several paces ahead of us. They were dressed in similar, flowery Spring white dresses.

“Were you able to sleep?” I asked.

They both nodded. “Sort of,” Josh responded.

“The kids okay?”

“I think so,” Shelley said. “They have a lot of questions, but having them close their eyes was very helpful. Thank you.”

“Sometimes I want to close my eyes,” I smiled.

Without looking, I knew that Officer Thompson was in his cruiser, inching along behind us.

After a few moments of no one saying anything, I offered, “I just came by to see how you were.” We stepped around a telephone pole rising out of the middle of the sidewalk. “Do you guys have someone you can talk to…to help you unwind?”

Josh responded: “Friends are coming over after lunch.”

“Excellent.” A thought occurred to me, and I reached into my pocket, pulling out their house key. “The cleaning crew did the best they could,” I said, handing Josh the key. “The kitchen is fine; you’ll need some spackle on the wall in one spot.” Where the bullet hole was, but I didn’t say it. “And there are some rags in a garbage bag in the back room that’ll need to be put out.”

“Thank you,” Shelley said, probably figuring out who did the cleanup.

“That’s it. Just wanted to say hi.” I took out a card with my phone numbers on it. “In case you want to call me,” and handed it to Josh as well. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

With that, I let them keep walking. I looked back at the officer in his vehicle, nodded, and headed back to my Jeep.

S

The entire afternoon was in front of me, and so I headed to my bastion of refuge. It was an unassuming place located on North Charles Street, several miles from the center of the city. At this point, Charles Street was one-way northbound, and was a blend of businesses and residences, with the latter on the upper floors. Cars could park on both sides of the road, and often did, beneath trees planted years ago alongside the curb. All buildings were set back from the street. To enter any of them you’d either walk up a few steps or down a few. My place was a walk-up between the studios of a radio station on the right and a natural foods bistro to the left. I had never set foot in the radio station, but the natural foods place had tables and chairs set out on the sidewalk, and served great sandwiches. There was a parking spot in front of the radio station, so I pulled in there, rather than going around to a dedicated tenants’ lot. Carrying my sport coat, I took the five stairs two at a time, then pulled open the glass door lined with orange paper, and stepped in.

The entryway was an open vestibule with hardwood floors. The walls were white and bare, giving no clue as to what went on here. However, it was apparent soon enough. The foyer opened onto a large square floor space, now filled with two rows of martial arts students facing each other. When I had walked in, the line to the left was standing in front stance, right foot back, while the opposing students stood ready. A moderately tall, curly-haired man in his mid-twenties wearing a red T-shirt and loose fitting black gi pants, was walking down the line, watching them. A black belt was tied around his waist and worn low on his hips.

“Ready,” he said, voice projecting, “go!”

With that, the line on the left stepped forward with a straight-on middle punch. The opposing line stepped back, responding with a middle block and a counter move.

“Reset,” the man said, and the class moved back into the previous position. “Go!” The attacking line stepped forward and the defending line stepped back.

As he repeated the sequence a number of times, I looked more closely at the group. All students were attired in an unconventional martial art dress code – traditional gi pants but T-shirts in the color of an individual’s rank. Students were a mixture of small and tall, and of varying ages and ranks. They ranged from 13 and 14 up to late teens and early twenties. The ranks began with white and yellow belts at my end to purple belts at the other end. In the purple range there were some proficient college age men and women. Interestingly, in their small group of three, two were women. One in particular always caught my attention: a slender coed of about twenty who had her red hair cut short in that messy style of spikes on top and a mat of hair over the forehead. I knew her to be hardworking and with a stretch that always got the attention of any guy older than twelve.

The black belt instructor running the drills saw me. He let the group finish their attack-response sequence, then said, “Okay, stop. Stand. Turn to Sifu and bow.”

The class stopped what they were doing and turned to me, stood feet together, and bowed with a traditional right-hand-in-a-fist/left-hand-covering-it bow. I returned the bow, and said simply, “Thank you. Continue, please.”

The black belt said, “Now the attacking line will be defending. The defending line will now be attacking.” With that, he had the class resume.

As I watched for a few more moments, I thought how at home I was in such a place. Before going to Israel, before all the army stuff, a place like this in New York was where I began to figure out who I was.

I nodded to the man in red and black and walked into my office off the practice hall. The room had all the essentials: desk and computer, filing cabinet, and some chairs. There were also some luxuries – an old secondhand sofa, a television, and DVD player. I draped my sport coat over the arm of the sofa and sat in the chair behind the desk.

The Saturday afternoon class was Jon’s, the black belt instructor; I would certainly supervise, but the class was really his. As the sounds of the workout drifted in through the open door, my mind wandered. Last night. Josh being held by the big man with the .45. Telling the Mandels’ daughters to close their eyes. Shooting the intruder in the head. The ambulance later that night, rear doors open, and the scrub suit clad EMT huddled, dead on the floor in back. Mazhar’s body on the stretcher. I stared at the darkened computer monitor, not seeing it. I saw an apartment in Sidon, Lebanon and me firing at the bomb maker as he was holding a soldier captive. I fired just as he moved his weapon away. His gun went off. I turned to see my friend Asaf on the floor, blood flowing from a neck wound.

A single yell from twenty students burst in from the next room. The instructor was having them scream as they lunged forward in an attack. I looked down to the bottom right drawer of my desk and pulled it open. Nestled in the deep compartment was a lock box. Inside was a .40 Glock, a present from Nate. Next to the mini vault was my carry permit…and an ID from the IDF. I closed the drawer without removing anything.

“Sifu?” I looked up to see the curly-haired instructor poking his head through the open office door.

“Yes, Jon.”

“They’re ready for katas. Would you watch them?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. And there’s one kid in particular I’d like you to watch. Charlie.” He was a fourteen year old yellow belt, almost ready to be tested for green.

“Sure.”

When I stepped into the main hall, I could see that Jon had set up the class in three rows with plenty of spacing between the rows and between each student. I moved to the front left corner of the room, with the students facing forward. Charlie, the student I wanted to watch, was in the middle row toward the left side. He was a slender, serious young man, whose long, straight brown hair always covered his forehead. The boy, like the entire class, was already drenched in sweat from its previous workout.

Jon started them off: “Kata Number One. Ready. Bow…” the class bowed first to me and then to Jon. “Begin. One…”

With that, Jon counted them through the katas, a series of choreographed fighting movements. Everyone performed the movements step-by-step in unison. I moved about the students, watching everyone, but always kept a clear view of Charlie. He moved proficiently; his kicks, punches, and blocks were all sharp and age-appropriately strong. But he was in pain. He wore it on his face, particularly when he punched or moved into an upper block. Based on the grimaces when he extended his arms, he had hurt his ribs.

By the time the entire class had finished their routines – the lower-ranked students dropped out as the katas shifted to more complicated advanced forms – a number of parents had settled in back to wait for their kids. They were a mixed bunch of moms and dads, mostly all dressed casually for this Saturday afternoon. I did see one man about forty, with neatly trimmed dark hair and dressed in a starched white dress shirt with blue pin stripes and gray pants. I knew him to be Charlie’s father, an attorney.

When the katas were finished, Jon had all the students line up again in their rows. They were even more sopping wet than before, with hair frizzed, sweat saturating their T-shirts, and moisture running down their cheeks. The purple belts who had just finished their forms, including the red head I saw earlier, were trying to regain their breath.

I addressed the group. “Looks great, ladies and gentlemen. Keep up the good work. But, just so you keep things in perspective, I want to show you something.” I paused. “Actually, I want Jon to show you something.”

Jon quickly hustled over to me. “Yes, Sifu?”

“Jon, I want you to do Kata Number One.” This was the first form students learned. It contained all the basics, and was a requirement for yellow belt. “I’ll just say go, okay?”

He nodded and moved to the center of the room. The students made space for him.

“Ready…” Jon bowed in response… “and GO.”

With that, he launched into a series of blocks and kicks; he punched as he walked forward…then there were more blocks, kicks, turns, elbow strikes, and knife-hand strikes. Each movement was sharp, clear, and powerful. As Jon finished, he bowed once again and then stood still.

“Nicely done,” I said to him. Then to the class, “That is a yellow belt form done by a black belt. Doesn’t look like the way you guys do it.” They laughed and I scanned the students from purple belt to white. “But there’s a reason for that. He’s got more than a few years’ practice on you…and thousands of more repetitions…and a bit of talent.” I saw Charlie watching me intently. “But you can all get there. Every one of you. Just keep up the good work. See you next time. Thank you.” I bowed to them, they bowed to me, and we dismissed.

As the class headed to their gym bags lining a side wall, parents went over to their children while older students meandered out the door. Charlie walked to his father and I could see the latter asking questions. In response, the boy began demonstrating an outside middle block.

Jon stepped over to me and we both moved further to the side. “So, Charlie hurt his ribs?” I asked, looking across to the young yellow belt and his parent.

“Yeah. That’s my guess. But not working out here.”

We watched as Charlie’s father descended into his own front stance while his son stood ready. They were about to do some one-step sparring. The dad must have had some training; he moved forward, throwing a punch as he walked. Charlie put up his block, but his father overpowered him and penetrated, hitting him in the ribs. The young student grimaced.

“I’ve only seen the two of them do this sort of thing once or twice,” Jon said, “but my guess is they do it at home, too.”

“I’m sure they do.”

“And Charlie’s father doesn’t want him using arm pads.”

“Oh?” That meant the boy was taking severe hits to his forearms.

“I saw some bruises today.”

That’s all I needed to hear. “Charlie,” I called across the room, waving him over.

The boy looked at his father who nodded, and then ran across to us.

“Yes, Sifu?”

“Spot check. Jon is going to move forward to hit you straight on. Let me see your blocks.”

The two students stood in front of me, one a black belt and one a yellow. Charlie, I knew, had to be nervous, but I didn’t care about that. His dad looked on from forty feet away.

“I’ll count.” I paused as Jon moved into a front stance with his right hand pulled back on his hip, ready to walk forward and punch. Charlie stood with his hands clenched in fists in front of him and his knees slightly bent. “Okay, Jon, take it easy. Not full speed or power. I just want to see how Charlie moves.”

Jon nodded.

“And…one.”

Jon moved forward. As Jon drove straight ahead, the younger student put up a middle block. I saw him wince as the edge of his forearm contacted Jon’s arm. Despite obvious pain, he made the block.

“Other side, please.” The pair switched in order to punch and block with their other hands. “Go.”

Jon moved forward again, but the yellow belt wasn’t quick enough and Jon’s fist caught him on the ribs to the right of his breastbone. Charlie flinched.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” he responded, but still wincing.

As Charlie said this, I looked at his forearms. On the outside of each arm, from wrist to mid-arm, was a row of amorphous, dark purple blotches.

“Do you have arm pads?” I asked, pointing to his bruises.

He nodded.

“Use them, please. Let your arms heal until you learn to position the block better. Block with the back of your wrist, not the edge of the bone. You won’t get hurt that way.” I held out my left arm, showing him the back of my wrist. “Now extend your right punch.”

He extended his right arm. I let my left hand come around his extended punch, so that contact for me was on the back of my wrist, not on the edge of the bone. “Do you see what I mean?” I asked. “This way you won’t bruise your bone, and the block remains extremely effective. Got it?”

Charlie nodded.

“Good. I’ll tell your dad that you have to use your pads.” I didn’t raise the issue of his bruised ribs. That was for another time. The two of us crossed to where Charlie’s father stood waiting. I saw that he was my height, clean-shaven, with a round face and hard, clear blue eyes. I wondered if he was a litigator.

“How’s he doing, Sensei?” the parent asked, using the Japanese version of my title.

“He’s doing great, but he has to use arm pads until he learns the blocks better.”

“I want to toughen him up.”

I shook my head. “It’s not the way…not just yet.”

“But to my way of thinking--”

“No. Not a good idea.” I looked into his eyes and I could see he really wasn’t listening.

“What about his tolerance to pain? I want to increase--”

I just shook my head.

“Okay. I guess we have a difference of opinion.”

I let that pass. “More importantly, you shouldn’t be working with him.”

He looked at me. “What do you mean?”

“Let him do his partner work here.”

This time there was no response from the dad. He just put his arm on his son’s shoulder, and said, “C’mon, Paco, the afternoon is still ahead of us. We have a lot to do and we have to pick up Grandma at 6:00 for dinner at Frere Jacques.” He looked at me again, and with that the two of them walked to the exit.

I headed back across the room to Jon, and he met me halfway.

“So?” he asked.

“He’s still going to work with Charlie.”

“Did you mention his ribs?”

“No.”

“What are you going to do? He can’t keep pounding him.”

After thinking for a moment, I just looked at him. “I’ll figure something out.”

We moved into my office. I sat down at my desk and Jon took an upholstered seat nearby. We looked at each other. Jon was one of the few people I was fairly candid with about both my Israeli army experience and pre-army background. He was my first black belt, a hardworking kid – if he were younger than me then he was a kid – who had been into a lot of shit in earlier years…bullying, alcohol, drugs. His dad had pulled him out of a party where he was half-stoned and brought him to me. I basically presented him with some personal challenges, and he rose to my expectations. In other words, I beat the crap out of him as I worked him out.

“So, let me tell you the latest,” I said. “See what you think.”

I told Jon about my adventures at the rabbi’s house last night and about the murders in the ambulance. He had two questions.

“What do you think the deal is with the Mandels?”

“I don’t think they’ve consciously done something wrong…like committed a crime or anything. But someone is after either both of them or one of them for whatever reason, and it’s intense enough to send assassins.”

“And what are you going to do about the guy in the Buick?”

“I’m hoping he’ll show up again so I can have a conversation with him.”

He smiled. “Can I come?” Considering the events of last night, he knew that the hypothetical conversation would be less than polite.

“He may have taken off already. He killed the connection to him – that guy in the ambulance – or had it done, so maybe he left town.” I actually didn’t think he had. “Have you ever heard the name ‘Mazhar’?”

He shook his head.

“Me either.”

I turned on the computer at my desk, and while it booted up, went back to an earlier subject: “This issue with Charlie is troubling.”

“He’s a good kid. If his dad is hurting him, that’s pretty messed up.”

I just nodded. On the monitor meanwhile, the icons had settled in. I pulled up Google and typed in “Mazhar.”

“Okay,” I read to Jon, “I’ve got some Pakistani stuff, a tambourine used in Arabic music, and a Turkish name. I imagine Nate is in the process of getting more information from the guy’s fingerprints. He’ll call when he has something.”

“You think this Mazhar guy was just the hired help?”

“Yep. But the nationality makes things interesting, doesn’t it?”

After looking at the screen again, I felt something… almost like a pressure change or a shift in presence.

Jon caught my distraction. “What?”

“Someone just came in the front door.”

We both stood up. “I didn’t hear anything. How do you do that? Can you also tell if there’s a disturbance in the Force?”

“My teacher could.” I grabbed a sharpened letter opener and we headed into the practice hall.

Approaching us from the front was one of our students. She was the redheaded college girl with the short messy hair style. I moved the letter opener behind my leg, out of her line of sight. No need to show it. As the redhead came closer, she looked from Jon to me.

“I’m sorry, Sifu,” she said. “I have a question for Sensei Jon.” I could see her blushing slightly and I stepped away from them. “Sensei Jon, would you like to join me and some friends tonight? We’re going to the Mount Vernon Tavern at about midnight?

He smiled a smile that I knew could melt a coed’s inhibitions. “Sure. I have no plans. Thanks, Angie. 12:00.”

Angie beamed back, bouncing a little on her feet, then turned and headed back to the exit.

I turned to Jon: “What happened to Evy?” She was another coed Jon had met several months ago and had been hanging out with.

“We’ve gone our separate ways…she’s off to her life and I’m off to mine.”

I just looked at him.

“It was a mutual parting.”

“So, when did this happen?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Where was I?” I asked, wondering how I could have missed that.

Jon just shrugged. “I gotta keep moving, ya know.” He bobbed and weaved.

I shook my head and headed back into the office. “Be careful with Angie, Grasshopper. Teaching friends and lovers is very dangerous.”

“You’ve told me. You speak from experience, Old Man?”

“I do, sonny. But that’s another lesson.” I plopped back down in my desk chair. “Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about changing the class schedule.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I’m considering not having classes on Saturdays.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Just an idea that’s been gestating. You could still come here and work out, but maybe we’d just not teach.”

After a long moment: “I think that could be cool for you. Not working on Shabbat.”

I shrugged, like “I don’t know.”

“Did you get this idea before or after yesterday’s visit to the synagogue?”

“Before.” I didn’t tell him that it was part of my mental state of trying to find some peace. “Anyway, just a thought.”

“We’d have to figure out what to do with the classes we have today.”

I nodded.

“Whatever you want, Master,” he bowed, making just a little fun of me. “Meanwhile, have to take off. Have a bunch of stuff to do.”

“Be gone,” I waved him away, and Jon smiled, bowed seriously this time, and left.

After a moment of watching the empty doorway, I looked back at the computer screen. The Google search on “Mazhar” was still up. I ignored it and went over to the filing cabinet. In a moment I had Charlie’s file in my hand. I sat at the desk and looked though his forms. On top was his Hold Harmless agreement that his dad had signed, and then under it was the application to join the dojo. His last name was Coakley. Mom’s name, April, and dad’s name, Robert. Their home address was in Towson, a suburb just north of the City. Mom’s occupation: ultrasound technician; dad’s occupation: attorney, but I knew that. His office was listed on St. Paul Street about half a mile north of the city courthouse.

I thought about the conversation with my yellow belt’s father. I had said that Charlie should work with a partner here, not at home. The dad understood what I meant about not working with him. It was clear he was going to ignore me and continue hurting his son.