Bamboo Bloodbath and Ninja's Revenge

  Two persons had been beheaded in that brief period of confusion. The trophy Yonezuka had carried belonged to one of the retainers, whose trunk they now discovered among the fallen. It had been a decoy, manufactured under their very noses, while another person escaped unnoticed with Lord Ii's head. Insult added to injury!

  Who had devised this daring, complex, cunning plot and supervised its execution? Surely not Yonezuka; he lacked the imagination. It was almost like one of the ninja tricks of old.

  Hiroshi lifted the shrunken trophy. "And that is the way it was, Jason Striker," he said to me. "This trophy has been preserved for over a century in the Black Castle, one of Fu Antos' most prized possessions. He spent many hours preserving it, curing it so that it would not deteriorate, using secret ancient methods to reduce its size to the present convenient ball without destroying the likeness. Now he has given it to me for safekeeping, until he has made a place for it in the third Black Castle. Is it not a beauty?"

  I stared at the grisly memento, now stuffed with diamonds—the head of Lord Ii. Not for the first time I wondered whether I really approved of Fu Antos. His ways and his conscience were far different from mine. Yet I was committed to help him reestablish himself and his remaining ninjas in a new, private Black Castle. Perhaps that was best. It might be another century before Fu Antos ventured once more into the contemporary world. Maybe it was best that East and West, ancient and modern, not meet.

  Chapter 7:

  Monk's Treasure

  This time I had left the apartment unlocked. There was nothing left to steal, and I wanted Luis to enter and feel at home. He was not there, and my note for him was untouched. I had another sinking feeling. Had I lost another diamond while searching for the first?

  I ate a dismal solitary supper of cold beans from the can. Maybe Luis was late. I didn't know how he planned to get here; probably hitchhiking. That meant his rate of travel was unpredictable. All I could do was wait and hope.

  My doorbell rang. If that was the nympho again... But it wasn't. It was a telegram. I read it over four times without comprehending it: WATCH THE MONK'S TREASURE STOP ISLE TO MIAMI KISS LEG.

  It was the strangest telegram I had ever received. There was no signature, no address, just the ten enigmatic words. What did it mean?

  I phoned Ilunga. The black karate mistress was actually a lot smarter than I was, and smart enough never to make an issue of that particular matter. She was taking college-level courses during her off-hours. I was coming to depend on her more and more.

  "Can you get over here? I have two problems."

  She didn't even conjecture whether my problem was how to bed another girl or how to master the elementary breakfalls. She knew by my tone that the matter was serious, and she came. But she did eye me with a certain scorn as I met her at the door. "What happened—you bite yourself while shaving this morning?"

  "I ran afoul of one hell of a tough customer," I said, thinking of the monster in the Brazilian premises we had raided. "I crippled him, but he—"

  Then I realized where she was looking. I covered the most obvious hickey on my neck with one hand. Ilunga surely knew that wasn't from any encounter with a man! "Luis isn't here. That's one problem. And I got this telegram; that's the other." I handed it to her.

  "Code," she said, examining it. "Really digging into you. Monk's treasure could be your fiancée."

  I felt deep pain. Lovely Chiyako, the girl I would have married. Daughter of a Shoalin temple's kung fu sifu: monk's treasure indeed! But she was dead. As always, my fists clenched. Kan-Sen, her murderer—I hated him yet, however far beyond the grave he might be.

  "Kiss leg," Ilunga said. "Kiss my foot? Kiss my ass? Someone's riding you!"

  "I don't think so," I said. "If Luis doesn't show up—Do you think this could be related? A message from him?"

  "No signature. Unless that last word—" She frowned. "What's his initials?"

  "LG," I said. "Luis Guardia. He's from Cuba."

  "How do you pronounce those initials?"

  I shook my head, not getting her drift. "El Gee," I said. "No. As a word."

  "Lig. Leg. What's the—?" I paused. "Leg! You think so?"

  "He comes from Cuba—that's an island, or isle. He went to Miami. Isle to Miami, kiss Luis Guardia. It could relate."

  "Yes it could!" I exclaimed. "Illunga, you're a wonder! But why would he send it like this?"

  "So his enemies couldn't spot him. You know how that Cuban G-2 is! Only somebody who knew him could figure this message out."

  "But he's coming here! Why would he change his mind and send this?"

  "Because maybe the G-2 has your apartment staked out, waiting to nab him. Or he thinks it does. So he can't risk it. You'll have to get out and find him."

  "But where?"

  "Watch the Monk's treasure," she said. "Maybe it's a boat. You say he's got a shipment of arms; maybe that's where they are."

  "It all seems highly theoretical," I said dubiously.

  She shrugged. "Pure guesswork. Why don't you ignore it and start teaching judo classes again? Some of your students are forgetting what your face looks like."

  I swung my fist at her face. She blocked it easily and countered with two knuckles to my solar plexus, brought up short a fraction of an inch so that there was no contact. I leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. "I'm going to Miami," I said.

  She had known it all along. "Call in, between nymphos," she said. "I'm going to hire a decent judo teacher, meanwhile. Somebody's got to put business before pleasure."

  "Maybe Luis will show up," I said. "If so, put him to work. You won't find a better judoka."

  "Watch your step, massa," she said.

  There were a number of dojos in Miami. Quite possibly one of my friends at one of them would know something of Luis. But I doubted it would be that easy, and my inquiry might just alert his enemies or the Cuban G-2 to my quest, complicating things. So I saved that for a last resort.

  I took out the telegram, though I had it memorized, and read it again. WATCH THE MONK'S TREASURE STOP ISLE TO MIAMI KISS LEG. A hell of a slender clue! I was probably wasting my time, muffing things again. But if there were a boat called the Monk's Treasure...

  I walked up and down the white-painted piers. I had spent much of the day checking marinas. This one was alongside a big park with lots of coconut trees. I had seen the police harassing hippies there on my way in.

  The names on the assorted craft were myriad: Daisy, Fog Cutter, Queen Anne, Treasure Island. I started, but it was merely a near-miss. Still, it gave me hope. Maybe there really was such a ship, and I could find it, and my long shot would pay off, and all the tangled threads of this confusing adventure would fall into place. All I needed was to locate Luis, buy his weapons for Fu Antos, and retire to my dojo.

  "What did you say?"

  I looked about, startled. The one who had hailed me was a young girl, with very white skin and freckles on an Irish face. "I didn't say anything."

  "Then why are you so happy?"

  "I'm not happy!"

  She tossed back her black hair and gave me a direct glance with blue eyes. I suppose there's no reason why a black-haired girl shouldn't have blue eyes, but it startled me. "That's what I meant. Why the big scowl?"

  I had to smile. So this teen-age flirt was teasing me! Actually I seem to have a certain fatal appeal for girls on the youngish side, a problem that has never alarmed me unduly. "You can make me happy by telling me where to find the Monk's Treasure."

  "I don't know any monks, but I'd love to search for treasure."

  "It's a boat," I said.

  She made a moue. "You're not much for dialogue, you know that?"

  "I'm serious. I have to find that boat"

  I turned to continue on my way, a trifle regretfully, for the girl's approach had hinted of better things there for the taking, like sweet fruit on a tree. I'm not immune to that sort of suggestion; in fact, I'm rather susceptible.

  But she spotted my g
i, coiled and tied by my black belt. I had left the diamonds in their grisly head with Ilunga to fence, but brought my gis in order to mix in at a dojo more naturally. "You're in judo!" she exclaimed. "Or karate."

  "Both," I admitted.

  "And you're good at it, too," she said enthusiastically. I nodded modestly, happy for the compliment but needing to continue my search. There were a great many boats remaining to be checked. "My boyfriend was in judo. Not Pete; my real boyfriend. He was a brown belt. What are you?"

  So Pete was her current boyfriend. Who the hell was Pete? "Black belt," I said.

  "I know that," she responded, wrinkling her button nose. "What Dan?"

  So she did know a little bit about judo! "Godan."

  "Fifth degree! Really?"

  "Really," I said, enjoying her awe. I had given the Japanese name, and she had understood it without hesitation. I like that type.

  "What are you doing way out here?"

  This was getting repetitive, however. "I was looking for a boat."

  "Aren't we all!" She glanced at her watch. "I wish Pete would hurry up. He's always late, and it's almost time."

  "Going on a cruise?" I inquired, suppressing my unwarranted disappointment. After all, Pete was her boyfriend, and I was just a man passing through. "What's the name of the boat?"

  "Just a spin. Pete has this friend he met who's rich, and he invited us out on his yacht for the afternoon. We're supposed to be waiting here at one sharp, and it's almost time. That bastard—if he stood me up—"

  "Well, best of luck," I said, finally forcing myself to get on with my business. Suppose the Monk's Treasure were just at the next pier, and I missed it because I was dallying with a girl who liked judo? And Luis died. No! Don't even think it! I walked on down the pier, reading more names.

  Stormrunner... Flosweet... Julie J... Too bad I hadn't learned the name of the boat the girl was waiting for, but I'd keep an eye out for it.

  I might have been smarter to look in a registry of local boats, but I was afraid that it would give away my mission. Someone might be just waiting for me to make that inquiry, and thus discover where Luis was hiding and who was coming to help him. I'm no expert at this sort of intrigue, but caution seemed warranted. A fancy yacht came in. I watched it, trying to make out the name painted on its side. Something... on... something. It could be the one! Was the first letter M, as in Monk?

  Suddenly the young girl I had chatted with was running along the pier, waving and calling. Her short skirt blew up attractively as she moved. I waited for her, uncertain of her motive, or of mine. Hell, just two days ago I'd been had by a nympho.

  She came up breathlessly. Her exertion had worked open two buttons of her blouse, so that her breasts were exposed. They were unsupported, completely free of encumbrance. I have heard many objections to the braless fashion (most by women), but I have no personal antipathy to it other than taste. That is, pendulous middleaged women should wear bras; firm, pert teen-agers can do nicely without. I admit a small bosom seems to work best on its own; a more substantial superstructure does tend to sag. All of which is to say that I liked what I saw, in this case, though I have often seen larger.

  "Pete's not here, and that's the boat!" she gasped, her chest heaving. One advantage of the male's greater height is his ability to inspect such a situation from the best angle. "I can't go aboard alone! You know—"

  "Tough break," I said sympathetically, wondering whether I should mention the buttons or let her discover them for herself in due course. Strange that an illicit view is so much more intriguing than complete exposure would be. I'm no gentleman about such things; when the view is there, I look.

  "But I've never been on a yacht before! My only chance—" She paused prettily. "Would you come with me? Be my escort?"

  "But I'm a stranger to you!"

  "No judoka's a stranger to me!" she said earnestly. "Oh, come on, please! They won't know the difference! And maybe someone aboard will know about that boat you're looking for." Her blue eyes became big and soulful. "Please?"

  This was nonsensical, but I am the world's worst sucker for a plea by a pretty girl, especially with her blouse open. It's the American blood in me: I really am charged up by apple pie, ice cream, and girls. And my search didn't seem to be getting anywhere. Who could tell what might develop?

  "All right."

  "Oh, goody!" She hauled me along by the hand, running to make the rendezvous with the yacht. "I'm Gloria."

  "I'm amazed," I muttered, only half-punning, suffering myself to be towed along. We got there just as the yacht did.

  It was not the Monk's Treasure. It was the Connie. And the skipper did not seem pleased to see me. He was about forty-five, a handsome, fit, blond, tanned American sportsman with long wavy hair. Evidently an ex-football player running to fat, but so far he was merely beefy, strong, with a beer gut, and developing jowls and a slightly red nose. If he were to go on a suitable diet and exercise program now, he would soon be a very impressive figure for his age; otherwise, not even his yacht would lure the girls aboard much longer.

  But Gloria made it plain that she was not about to board alone. "Pete couldn't make it," she explained blithely, "so I brought—"

  "Jason," I supplied. "Jason Striker."

  The skipper glowered. "Well, get aboard! We haven't got all day!"

  All day for what? I wondered cynically.

  We boarded. Gloria went up the gangplank first. I saw the way the man looked at her as she passed him. I knew he was seeing into her open blouse, as I had, and that similar masculine thoughts were crowding the communications lines between brain and crotch. Suddenly I had a suspicion: Pete had not forgotten his date, he had been detained. This man had wanted Gloria aboard alone. My presence interfered.

  It was a beautiful craft, about thirty feet long with tight double cabins. Too bad it wasn't the Monk's Treasure.

  We went out on Biscayne Bay, alongside Key Biscayne, past the long causeway to the key with its small sand beaches filled with bathing facilities. We rounded the tip of land, passed pine-filled shores and a lighthouse.

  "That lighthouse was attacked by Seminole Indians around 1850," Gloria said. "I read about it. They lit a huge fire at its base, driftwood. Two men were trapped inside. The top of the lighthouse had an iron floor. It got so hot that one man jumped to his death. The other stayed, and was rescued, but he suffered such burns on his legs that he couldn't walk again. Isn't that something?"

  "Something," I muttered, noting with guilty disappointment that she had now done up her buttons.

  There were a couple of crewmen aboard who kept to themselves. And the skipper. And Gloria. And me. That was all. A pretty small party. Yes, a setup for undisturbed romance in a shuttered cabin, provided the female lead was willing—or helpless. Just as well I was aboard, though this really was none of my business. I seemed to have a genius for getting diverted from my mission.

  But as we moved out into the open sea, the skipper came to terms with the situation. "I admit it—I had a notion," he said to me privately in the larger cabin, while Gloria stood on the deck letting the sea spray invigorate her. "She has a way about her. No force—I never use that. Just wine and dine and gifts and a ride on this boat—they usually come around. I'm used to indulging my yens." He patted his gut a trifle self-consciously, indicating that good food and drink were among the indulgences. "Sorry I was gruff. Nothing personal. You know how it is. She obviously isn't interested, so that's it. Have a nice cruise. We'll loop around, do some fishing, be back in port before nightfall."

  He had a certain charm, when he turned it on. I believed his statement that he generally had his way without force. "She's nothing to me," I said with a tinge of regret. "Pete was held up, so I'm just along to see that whatever she does is voluntary. If she takes an interest in you..."

  He sucked in his cheeks and pursed his lips. "What's your angle, then?"

  "I'm looking for a boat. The Monk's Treasure. That's all." All he needed to know, a
t any rate.

  "All?" He lifted an eyebrow expressively. "You'd have done better checking the piers."

  "I was." I shrugged. "If you have any lists, records—"

  "Sorry, no. No stack of registries here. Nautical charts, operating instructions—"

  "Thanks, no."

  "Got a marine band radio. Maybe if you called the coast guard. Here, I'll show you how to operate the set, and you can have some beer and—"

  "No beer. But the set intrigues me. Is it okay to call in when there's no emergency?"

  Gloria came in. "Hey, Jason—do some judo with me!"

  At the moment this pleased neither the skipper nor me. "I was about to learn how to use the radio. Maybe the boat I want is known to the coast guard."

  "I'll help you call!" she said enthusiastically.

  The skipper made a little gesture of resignation with one hand. He had his gestures down pat. "Oblige the girl. Show her judo." He meant that if her eagerness to help me stemmed from her reluctance to be with him, he would not push it.

  Meanwhile, I wasn't quite sure about letting the coast guard in on my search. So I changed into my gi, and Gloria put on baggy slacks and a heavy sweatshirt. We spread plastic-covered mattresses from the bunks on the deck, in lieu of mats.

  The skipper watched. Despite his wealth, he evidently suffered from boredom, and one form of entertainment was as good as another. Probably this was typical of the spoiled sons of inherited wealth. I had no way of knowing, never having been wealthy myself.

  We spread a tarpaulin over the mats, and our miniature dojo, or exercise hall, was ready. I bowed before I stepped onto the mat, as is the custom, and Gloria did likewise. Then we bowed to each other.

  "What is this—a formal dance?" the skipper asked, chuckling.

  "Judo courtesy," I explained without rancor. "Judo, like all martial arts, can be dangerous, so we don't treat it lightly. We bow to show our respect, much as a private salutes an officer in the army. We regard attitude as very important, and politeness is essential."