Kan-Sen. The name still sent an ugly little shiver through me. That man had killed my fiancée. If I had not killed him already, I would love to do it now. In a way, I was sorry he did not have nine lives, like a cat, so that I could kill him eight more times.
But such reminiscences were not profitable. "Can you give me a name? Don't involve yourself, just tell me whom to contact. Someone with money, discretion, and some integrity, if that's possible."
"You want the moon," she muttered. "My information is not current. These things change awful fast sometimes, and I've been out of touch. I'd have to research."
"Okay, research," I said. "Meanwhile, I'll try to figure out how to spend the money."
"You do that. Meanwhile I'll need someone to instruct judo while you're gone."
"Who says I'm going anywhere?" I retorted. "I'm just going to make a few phone calls, get some permits, and place a few orders." But it sounded phony, even to me. If this were really so simple a matter, Hiroshi would have handled it himself.
She shook her head, her dark eyes on me. Ilunga was a striking figure of a woman, with only the misshapen nose marring her face, and the nose looked better than it had. We had once had an affair of sorts, and it wasn't really over yet; she knew me too well. "You're going, and I don't know if you'll be back. Take care of yourself, white master."
I always felt uncomfortable when she called me that. I wasn't quite sure what this fiercely independent black woman meant by it. She called no man master, so it could be ridicule; little boys are addressed as "Master" instead of "Mister." In another sense it could be a complementary version of "black mistress," but I doubted that was the whole of it. The plain fact was that Ilunga was smarter than I, and I could not fathom all her thought processes. "Well, see if you can find a name for me by morning," I said. "I'm going home."
She nodded, and I left, feeling ill-at-ease.
The phone was ringing as I entered my apartment. A phone call had started this hectic day; I was tempted not to answer it. But before I could build up resistance, my hand lifted the receiver. "Jason Striker," I said.
"Ah, I am glad you are home at last," a familiar voice said. There was a Spanish accent, but I couldn't quite place the man until he identified himself. "Luis Guardia here. Cuba. Remember? ¿Te acuerdas?"
I remembered with a rush. Luis, small and lame and older than I, but a Fifth Dan judoka, like me. I had met him in Cuba during the recent world team competition. We had done randori, and he had wiped me out. But he had tried to help me out of trouble there, too, being less naive than I about the political machinations of that island. "You're calling from Cuba?" I asked incredulously. I hadn't realized this was possible.
He laughed. "No, Señor! Miami. I am an exile now; I escaped with my family by boat."
"But you were so well-situated there!" I exclaimed. "You gave up everything just to—?"
"Just to find freedom," he finished for me. "My time was short; the G-2 was after me because of my underground connections. I had to go."
"You—underground?" I asked, amazed. "I never suspected!" Yet how else had he known of my own problems when I was in Cuba? Naturally he had not tipped his hand to me.
"I was a receiver of weapons for the anti-government guerrillas," he said. "I met the boat on the coast and delivered the weapons to the underground. But the G-2 was almost too clever. They cut me off, and I could not deliver my shipment. So I set course with it all for Miami, and now I am here. But I do not know whom to trust—except you, Señor. If you will help me. I have no money."
"Of course I'll help you!" Then I paused. "But there's something you should know."
"That you did a favor for Fidel? I know of that. But you are apolitical; you are not Fidel's man."
An accurate assessment. Then something else registered. "You have weapons—here in America?"
"I did not say that," he said, and I realized I had been crude. If he had weapons here, they were surely illegal, and he hardly needed that sort of trouble. Yet it opened up a fantastic possibility, for I needed weapons of exactly the sort he was likely to have. In fact, this very connection might have been what prescient little Hiroshi had in mind. Perhaps Fu Antos had known that Luis was on his way and that he would contact me.
"I have money," I said. "A lot of it. Or I will have soon. And I need—certain supplies. Where can I meet you?"
"I do not have an address," he said. "I can not trust the parent exile organization, as I suspect the chivatazo came from there."
"The what? I don't understand much Spanish."
He chuckled. "The chivo is a goat."
"A goat?" I felt dense.
"Goats bleat, they squeal."
"A squealer!" Suddenly I understood: he did not feel safe, as a defector so recently from Cuba. Castro's G-2 agents would be liberally sprinkled throughout the sizable exile community in Miami. If there was one organization whose deadly efficiency I appreciated, it was the Cuban G-2. That was why he could not trust the exiles. Only one Cuban in a thousand might be his enemy, an informer, but that would wipe him out in an instant.
"Perhaps I can get to you," he said.
"Sure. Can you make it tomorrow?" I asked eagerly. Not only his weapons, but his skills—he could really help me in this ninja business. If nothing else, he could instruct my judo classes while I went for Fu Antos' supplies.
"Yes," he said after a pause.
"Can you get here okay? I can wire you money."
"No need." What he meant was that he didn't dare give out his precise location; someone might be bugging the line. I doubted it, but such fears are much more immediate to people from totalitarian countries. Actually, our own country has not set any shining examples recently. "I will get there. Tomorrow, by nightfall. Thank you, amigo."
"Thank you, amigo!" I replied, hoping he was not being overconfident. It was a long way from Miami, and he had no money.
No doubt he could hitchhike.
The phone went dead, and I hung up. The call exhilarated me; now I knew that I could do much of what Hiroshi had requested. And reestablish a valuable friendship in the process.
I stripped off my shirt and trousers as I munched a carrot from the refrigerator. I was hungry, but too unsettled to sit down and eat properly. Anyway, since when do I have to apologize for eating something as healthy as a carrot? A few calisthenics, some practice breakfalls on the floor, and maybe I'd unwind enough to digest a real meal. What was I going to do with those diamonds overnight? The doorbell rang. That was all I needed, some peddler selling magazines or brushes. I strode across the room and flung open the door, ready to tell him off. Maybe he was selling life insurance; maybe he'd need some!
A lovely woman stood there. Not beautiful, technically; her black hair was a bit frizzled, and her face was acne-pitted. But her black eyes were alert, her lips full, and her figure had definite sex appeal. She wore a bright red sweater that made the most of a modest bust, and her hips were broad, serving as a magnet for male attention. Some women have a middle section that makes all the rest irrelevant, and she was certainly that type. She was tall—about five-ten-and her face showed character. Undoubtedly an interesting person to know.
She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her. And I stood there in my undershorts, carrot in hand. "I think you have the wrong apartment," I mumbled.
She looked me over from shoulder to crotch. "No, I think it's the right one."
"I don't think we've met." I felt stupid as hell. But what was there to say, in this circumstance?
"Aren't you the wrestling instructor? I'm sure you are; you have the muscle. My daughter goes to your class."
It began to fall halfway into place. "Judo. Karate. I have lots of children in my classes. What's her name?"
"Jan. She said you wanted to see me."
I remembered. Jan Green was twelve years old, big for her age, and just getting serious about judo. Under age ten they don't have the attention span to get very far, but the older children can become r
elatively proficient, and I like working with them. It astounds outsiders to see a child throw a man my size in a somersault to the mat, but it can be done, and Jan knew how. I had hardly met her parents; she usually came to class alone. There was a definite family resemblance, which explained this woman's seeming familiarity. The girl had said something once about her folks being separated or divorced; that could account for their absence.
I still didn't like her walking unaccompanied through the city. These days it simply isn't safe for girls of any age, and most areas have not had the benefit of Ilunga's anti-molestation campaign. So I had told Jan I wanted to see her mother. I had wanted to say something about safety, and also to obtain permission for Jan to enter a junior tournament at another dojo. I could take her there myself, along with the others. But I had meant for the woman to stop by at my dojo, not my apartment.
"Better chew on that carrot before it rots," the woman said.
"Your daughter's doing fine," I said hastily. What a time for this female to show up! "She's a yellow belt now, and I expect her to make orange next month." In judo and karate, a person's skill is shown by the color of his belt. White is the lowest grade, followed by yellow, going on up to black. Perhaps one student in twenty makes it all the way up the ladder; most drop out somewhere in the kyus, or lower grades. Many more could make it if they had the determination and attitude. Work, more than aptitude, is the critical factor.
"That's fine," Mrs. Green said, stepping forward. I hastily stepped back, and she moved on into my apartment.
"This really isn't the time," I protested ineffectively. Now it was coming back: I had seen this woman at the dojo, in other clothing. I have a terrible memory for people out of context; I can recognize a parent with his/her child, but not in some other situation, and a woman's change of clothing can baffle me entirely.
Especially when she switches from dowdy street outfit to bright, tight sweater and lets her hair down. I hadn't realized who she was, then. She sat through a couple of class sessions avidly watching me as I demonstrated throws and holds. The seoi otoshi shoulder-drop throw: I have a good memory for judo, anyway. "I just wanted your permission for Jan to enter a tournament. I think she—"
"You doing anything tonight?" she asked, looking about my messy domicile.
"Look, Mrs. Green—"
"Onelida," she said.
"Who?"
"Onelida. Ms. Onelida Green, if you want it formal."
Divorced, undoubtedly. Few married women used the Ms. in lieu of the Mrs.
"All right, Onelida. I don't entertain strange women in my apartment, and I've had a busy day."
"Why not relax, then? I know an excellent restaurant, and I'm very good company. You look as though you need a change of pace."
I paused. I did need a change of pace. Hiroshi, Bastard Bones, Luis Guardia, Fu Antos... What the hell. "All right. I'll dress."
She smiled. "I knew you'd see the light."
As I passed the table, I saw Hiroshi's bag of diamonds. Good God, I had almost forgotten them! I swept it up and took it into my bedroom, hiding it under my hamper of dirty laundry. Not an ideal place, but who would suspect? Anyway, my door would be locked.
In retrospect I can hardly account for my carelessness. I must have been very tired. I had a forceful lesson coming.
Onelida insisted on using her car. We went to Chang's, a Polynesian restaurant on I-9 north. The decor was semi-authentic Polynesian, including stuffed fish on the walls.
Onelida talked. I tried to pay attention, but kept thinking of those diamonds in my laundry. What was I doing here with a woman I hardly knew?
On the other hand, she was intriguing. Some women are like store-window mannequins, impeccably dressed, ideally formed, and unrelievedly neutral. Others, with far less substantial physical endowment, manage to animate it so well that they are far more appealing. Gradually my concerns diminished, and my attention oriented exclusively on her. It was not a romantic attachment; it was sexual. There was a fascination about her, a touchability. I became aware of a burgeoning need for expression that could not be satisfied in a restaurant.
But was Onelida really the type? Perhaps I was misreading the signals. So I bided my time.
Liquor was served: apertif first, more with the meal, and more yet after it. I don't drink, but once in a while, against my better judgment, I yield to temptation and make an exception. We had an exotic concoction, mai-tai—rum in a hollowed-out pineapple—so I sampled it. Later there was another rum drink made of three distinct layers of different density and color, each of which stayed at its own level. All I did was taste it, through a straw, first one color and then another. Hardly enough to intoxicate a man, I thought. Now I know why they call it demon rum. It was deceptively mild; perhaps the fruit juice hid the taste of alcohol.
I knew damn well I ought to cut this date short and go home to the diamonds, but those rocks symbolized an entire complex of developments I wished I could forget for a few hours. And so I lingered, and imbibed a bit too much. The impact was greater on me because of my inexperience as a drinker. I felt pleasantly dizzy, and I paid absolute attention to everything Onelida said. I can't remember a word of it now.
The meal was as exotic as the beverages. A pu-pu platter—a Polynesian volcano. A veritable cornucopia of small plates around a fake volcano of blue flame to heat the food. Giant fried shrimps, skewered squares of steak, spareribs, chicken wings, deviled crab, small bits of chicken liver with bacon around them.
I was a novice, or maybe just drunk. I made the mistake of asking for the Polynesian chicken. It was too much food. I had already consumed what amounted to a normal meal, and this—well, let me just describe it.
The waiter arrived with a cart loaded with bowls. He poured heaps of pieces of fried batter-covered chicken, mixed it with Chinese and Polynesian vegetables, Chinese melons, and celery—I don't know what went into it, but it was a lot. Then he lit a saucer of some kind of wine and poured the flaming liquid over the mixture. It burned eerily blue. He mixed everything together in the flame, a phenomenal performance. If I didn't imagine the whole thing in an alcoholic nightmare...
But the taste was out of this world. And during the meal the waiter kept filling our pot with hot fragrant Chinese tea.
"You're not used to it," Onelida said, surveying me with an experienced eye. "I'd better get you home." Or something like that; as I said, I can't recollect. I think they call that an alcoholic blackout.
I nodded, not speaking for fear I'd say something really stupid. In that, I think I was really smart.
But it was not to my apartment she took me; it was hers. "Oh—your home," I mumbled brightly.
"What did you expect, Jason?"
Well, I didn't exactly know. But one thing I know now: watch out for mild, multi-colored drinks! No, she hadn't given me a mickey; the alcohol alone was sufficient.
She let me in—I think she must have supported me somewhat—shut the door, and began to undress me.
"What...?" I inquired, hardly resisting.
"Of course," she said soothingly.
"Oh." That seemed to make sense. I was certainly sharp! I was lucky I could still stand without staggering.
But that was academic. I wasn't standing now. She set me down on the bed—it was a big, soft, queen-sized affair—and lay beside me. I realized, somewhat late, that both of us were now naked.
That reminded me of something urgent I had wanted to do, only I couldn't quite recollect what. But I had no time to think about it. Onelida was all over me, kissing my face and body with feverish abandon. "I'm an awful sucker for a good physique," she murmured as her lips cruised past my right ear. "I saw you doing that wrestling..."
"Countering the kuzure-kamishi-hoga-tame broken upper four-quarter hold," I said. "You do it like this." And I actually started to break what I thought was her hold, though the resemblance was coincidental. Why I struggled, I don't know; it really is quite an intriguing hold when applied by a naked woman, sinc
e her upper torso is almost across your face, her head on your stomach, her arm reaching around your—well, never mind.
"The feel of all that muscle..." She tweaked my triceps as a man might tweak a feminine posterior.
Unfortunately, all this inhibited me; she was too aggressive. The rum, of course, had dulled my sexual capacity, so that my response was slower yet. The result was that my performance in what should have been an ideal situation was distinctly lackluster. More correctly, fuzzily lackluster.
Nevertheless, thanks to her enthusiasm, we were getting there. Perhaps my slowness gave her a better chance to get aroused, more time to titillate herself with my muscle. Then she climbed on top of me, spreading her body the length of mine. "Tate-shihoga-tame," I muttered. "Vertical four-direction hold..." Actually, she was straddling my torso, her thighs spread, getting into position. "Give me a baby! Give me a baby!" she screamed, biting me on the neck.
That shriveled me. First, I didn't really like her sexual assault; it made me feel less masculine, as though our male-female roles were reversed. Second, her words reminded me that she had a daughter in my class, her baby; I wondered where Jan was, and how I would face her in class next time. Third, I hardly wanted to give this woman a baby. And fourth, I was afraid her bite would mark me, to my embarrassment before Ilunga and others, who would surely know.
As a result, I sobered up some and performed, but there was very little force or pleasure in it. And that half-failure mortified me too, for it was obvious that she was still en route.
Then I had a notion that would not have occurred to me in my normal, sober mind, but seemed terrifically original at the time. The fact is, I am rather straitlaced about sex; I know this because several of my partners have been at pains to so inform me. I suffer, they say, from undue conventionality.
So this time I became, for me, radically unconventional. I went, if the vernacular serves me correctly, down on her.
She reacted like a wind-up doll with its regulating mechanism haywire. Her arms and legs flexed spasmodically; her head banged back and forth on the bed, knocking off one of the pillows. She groaned, whether in ecstasy or pain, I was not certain. Both, probably; I think there was a sadomasochistic streak in her, sexually expressed.