Kiai! & Mistress of Death

  I heard a commotion outside. I looked and saw a car parked just across the street. Three people were inside, two men with a girl between them in the front seat. She was the one making the noise. They were squeezing her in, trying to hold her arms while getting her clothing off. In the cramped car it wasn't easy, and she was making such an outcry that the whole neighborhood could hear. And of course the neighborhood was paying no attention, though this time the men were not demons. All windows and doors were closing.

  It was obviously an attempted rape. I don't like rapes, and I don't like public apathy. I was about to go to her rescue, but abruptly realized two things.

  First, her screams were not so much of terror as of rage. She was cursing those men in several languages, calling them grandsons of dogs and pig fornicators and pederasts, however inappropriate to the occasion that seemed, only in more colorful vocabulary. "Maricones! Hijos de putas! Castrados!"

  The second thing was that I recognized her. Amalita, whom I had last seen at the hospital.

  So I paused. I knew from experience that pretty little Amalita Pedro could take care of herself. And I wanted to figure out just what she was doing here.

  Suddenly she stopped screaming, for it was doing no good. Her blouse had been ripped open to expose her braless bosom, and one of the men was working his hand up her thigh. He could not go far, as there was no room in the car, but he was getting one hell of a feel. I suspected that she didn't mind the feel half so much as the notion of having a man get the better of her in a public place.

  Amalita's two elbows shot out sidewise, catching the two men just below the ribcages. I thought I heard their breaths whistling out explosively. Certainly the blows stung, as they were unprepared. One had been intent on her breasts (I couldn't blame him; her architecture was about as elegant as any) and the other had been watching the progress of his own hand along the smooth flesh of her inner leg (another compelling view). They had both been wide open for such punishment, but it did not knock either of them out.

  The breastman cursed and aimed a blow at her. Amalita blocked it with a sweeping motion of one arm, while with the other arm she delivered a second elbow strike. Elbows were really more effective in cramped quarters. This time she hit the face, catching him just over the eye. It broke the eyelid, drawing blood, making the flesh around it swell rapidly. The man opened the door and scrambled out.

  Then she went for the other man's face with her claws. In a moment he, too, fled the car, leaving her alone.

  Chiyako came up behind me, noting my preoccupation with the window. "Is something wrong?" she inquired.

  I put my arm about her waist. "Well, there's an attempted rape in progress," I said. "But don't worry about it."

  She was not one to overreact, but this brought her right to the window. "It is a rape!" she exclaimed. For the two men had not given up; they now stood in the street, one by the hood of the car ready to chase Amalita down if she exited from the far side, and the other putting his hand on the near handle. The car window was open, so she couldn't lock him out. The men had evidently decided that they could rape her better in the open street, and the indifference of the other people in the area facilitated this.

  "Attempted rape," I corrected Chiyako. "Watch."

  "Watch!" she said, shocked. "I thought you were a different kind of man, Jason Striker!"

  "I am," I murmured.

  The man at the car door now had a club, a piece of broken board from the street, with a couple of nails protruding from it. He held it in his left hand, while his right worked the handle. He intended to quiet Amalita forcefully, so that the rape would be easier. I held Chiyako near to me, making her watch though she was trembling with anger.

  The man opened the door. It burst open, and Amalita's right foot shot out, catching him in the groin. I winced involuntarily, knowing how that hurt. We were treated to quite a flash of her bottom, for her other leg was braced against the car's floorboard, with her torso face down on the seat. At least she was wearing panties.

  The man dropped his club. He was hurt. Amalita's foot came down. She landed on it and pivoted to face the other man, now on the other side of the open door. He tried to grab her, but she stooped, caught him about the waist, lifted him up and boosted him over her hip in an uki-goshi hip throw. He landed across the hood, denting it. He was out of the fight. Then she kicked the man holding his crotch, this time in the face.

  "That girl knows how to defend herself!" Chiyako murmured.

  "Yes indeed!" I agreed. "Pity the poor rapists!"

  She glanced at me sidelong. "You know her?"

  "I'm afraid I do. Can't think why she's here, though."

  "To watch you," Chiyako said. "I did not know you had another woman."

  Oh-oh. "I don't," I said. "I have a long and nefarious past, but that's over." I realized as I spoke how true that was; this girl beside me was all the present, and possibly the future too, that I needed.

  "Anyway, Amalita is a married woman."

  "It has not been your way to conceal the truth," Chiyako reproached me. "She came for you. She regards you as hers."

  This was treacherous ground, so I tried to extricate myself delicately. "In a car with two men?"

  "She was hitchhiking. Perhaps the men were impressed by her outfit and manner and got the wrong idea."

  I sighed. That was exactly the sort of fool thing Amalita would do. She was wearing another see-through blouse and no bra, and a skirt that barely covered her panties when she was standing. Such a hitchhiker would attract only one kind of man.

  But what claim did she think she had on me? I thought I had made plain to her that the hospital affair was strictly a one-shot deal.

  "You are lovers," Chiyako said.

  Brother! Her guesswork and intuition were as accurate as her shuto blows. "That's over!"

  "Not over," she said firmly.

  I turned to her, embarrassed and exasperated. "She forced herself on me. I didn't want it, and I don't want it now."

  "I believe you," she said, surprising me. "I know how men are. But it is not over so long as she still wants you."

  "Well, she won't want me after I talk to her!" I said. "I don't like being spied on!"

  I stomped out of the house, but Chiyako followed me. Well, let her listen!

  "It is natural for her to be concerned," she murmured. I wondered just what was going on in her mind.

  The two rapists were still out of it, one collapsed on top of the car, the other alongside it. Amalita had really polished them off. "Why Jason," Amalita said as if surprised to meet me. She patted her hair in place, though it was hardly mussed. She had had time to tuck her blouse back into the band of her skirt, not that it made a whole lot of difference to the view.

  "You are a married woman," I said bluntly. "And your husband is a jealous man. Go home to him before he kills someone." I had had taste enough of Vicente Pedro's wrath before; I much preferred him as a friend.

  But suddenly Amalita was paying no attention to me. Her gaze was on Chiyako. "So you throw me over for a Chinese!" she said grimly.

  Another accurate assessment, by her lights.

  "Come inside, señora," Chiyako said politely. "We shall talk." I understand just enough Spanish to know that "señorita" means a maiden and that "señora" is an older, married woman. By calling her señora, Chiyako was putting her in the old-married category. Since Chiyako was not of Spanish descent, this usage was affected and insulting.

  Amalita was abruptly polite, realizing that there was nothing to gain by making a scene. The contrast with the Chinese girl would only work to her disadvantage. "Thank you so much, Auntie," she said, making a deep mock bow.

  We trooped inside. Each girl insisted on giving way to the other, as though to an older woman, with the result that I had to break the impasse by preceding them both into the house. I grabbed the wrist of each, dragging them both inside.

  I had severe misgivings, but the matter was now largely out of my hands. At least
whatever followed would be out of the view of the street crowds. We passed through the dojo, and the faint wet stains on the tatami were visible, where we had tried to wash out the blood. Amalita gave no sign, but I was sure she had seen them. Chiyako served orange blossom tea and almond pastries with honey. "Jason says you were lovers," she said conversationally.

  "Before she married Pedro!" I said quickly.

  "And after," Amalita said. "Only last week, "

  "Before I met you!" I said to Chiyako. But it sounded like a politician trying to explain missing records.

  "But you are married?" Chiyako asked her.

  "My husband is a cripple!" Amalita said.

  "He is a fifth degree black belt," I said. "Karate."

  "Not that sort of cripple," Amalita said. "Karate is no good in bed."

  "Perhaps you should try judo," Chiyako suggested mischievously. I hoped I wasn't flushing. That stain...

  "Well, I'm the same sort, after that kick," I said a bit lamely.

  "No you aren't," Amalita said. And Chiyako nodded agreement. I wished I had kept my mouth shut; I was not in the same league with these cats.

  "Such debate is pointless," Chiyako said. "I am glad to have met you, Señora Pedro."

  I was aware that the subtle verbal battle was over, and that Chiyako had won. Amalita realized it too. Suddenly a knife was in her hand, a stiletto. I had not seen where it came from. She must have had it in her purse, and not even needed it to handle the rapists. She bounced to her feet and lunged at Chiyako.

  Chiyako was a gentle, peaceful girl, but nobody attacks a kung-fu adept with a knife. Amalita held the blade low, going for the belly; she obviously knew how to use it. Chiyako pivoted to her right, grabbed the wrist of the knifehand, and struck Amalita's forearm with the edge of her stiffened hand. That stunned the nerves, and the knife dropped to the floor.

  Amalita, disarmed, was hardly out of the fight. She whirled around and caught Chiyako's hair, yanking her head back viciously. Those who disparage hairpulling as a tactic have never seen it in practice; it is as effective as any other maneuver. Chiyako fell, but from the floor she hooked one foot behind Amalita's legs, and with the other she kicked. Amalita fell backward. She rolled in a somersault, while Chiyako twirled crosswise on her stomach so as to get out of reach. Both women stood at the same time.

  I knew better than to interfere. They would have to settle this themselves. Each of these girls had saved my life.

  Amalita tried to punch at Chiyako's head. No, I was thinking like a man; she wasn't punching, she was clawing for the eyes. Another tactical mistake, for the Tiger's Claw is a kung-fu tactic.

  Chiyako knew exactly how to foil it. She blocked with her forearm, and countered with an inverted fist strike to the spleen, uraken hizo-uchi. She followed that with another shot to Amalita's midsection.

  Chiyako was squatting slightly in a straddle stance, and she snapped the wrist slightly on contact. All good kung-fu style. Amalita grunted; those professional blows were telling. But she knew karate herself, and was an indefatigable scrapper, as her hospital performance had shown. She delivered a front kick, maegeri, the ball of her foot making contact with Chiyako's abdomen. But the Chinese girl caught the foot and lifted it high, making Amalita fall on her derriere. Her skirt tore as she went down, exposing her thighs right past the panties, and Chiyako gave her one good kick on that bifurcation.

  I winced. Such a blow has less effect on a woman than on a man, obviously, but Amalita would have bruises to interfere with tomorrow's love life. She was out of the fight, overmatched by a professional. She picked herself up with what remaining dignity she could muster and limped out of the house. She would be quite a sight on the street, but I couldn't bring myself to feel sorry for her. She had come here uninvited, and she had started the fight, and it had been a fair one. She had brought her humiliation on herself.

  Chiyako now whipped up an oddball Chinese snack of fried caterpillars, canned sea urchin and fish eyes, the real thing, not the large tapioca slang—and really they weren't bad. Westerners have affected notions of what is edible; after all, what is caviar but jellied fish roe? But anything she served would have tasted good. It had been a big day, and everything about it had increased my admiration for Chiyako. She had made love for the first time, dealt verbally and physically with a formidable rival, and served a delicious meal, all with perfect aplomb.

  She was quite a girl.

  At dusk we stepped out the back door, so as to avoid any possible confrontation with Amalita. I had to get home, and I didn't want to keep Chiyako up. She had to rest sometime. I planned to bid her goodnight with a minimum of fuss. There would be other days, and this one had been tarnished by Amalita's intrusion.

  We stood on a small platform, protected by a thin metal railing. Several concrete steps led down to a narrow alley that deadended to one side in a disorderly crowd of garbage cans. A little Chinese diner or restaurant was next door, probably the source of the exotic food I had been served, so there was plenty of refuse for the alley cats I saw prowling. Not at all romantic, except for Chiyako's transforming presence.

  We kissed. Kisses are part of male-female relations, and I have experienced a number of good ones in my day. But when my lips touched hers, I felt all of Shaolin infusing my being, the noble monastery and the kung-fu fighting art and the philosophy of weapons as builders not destroyers. Never before had I associated these important things with sexual romance. I held her closely, transported, adrift in an unusual and wholly delightful world. The shame and horror of my buried past became a thing of joy, for it had prepared me to properly appreciate this moment.

  There was an earsplitting screech. Something leaped upon us, pushing us both against the rail. For a moment I thought it was a wild animal, maybe a monkey.

  But it was human, and it was Amalita. She had not gone away, but lurked waiting for us with animal cunning in the shadow of the piled garbage cans. Our embrace must have driven her wild with jealousy. What a fury, for such unjustified cause.

  Against a man I can handle myself. But against a woman I freeze up. So I stood like a statue, while again Chiyako defended herself. She used the one-arm back-carry throw, the ippon-seoi-nage, bending over and hurling Amalita right over her head. Amalita flew over the rail and landed in the garbage cans.

  The crash was horrendous. Cans fell over and rolled noisily about, spewing their contents over the ground. Bottles broke in the pavement. The scavenging cats leaped out, fleeing frantically down the alley. I was afraid Amalita was hurt, but she leaped to her feet again and charged back up the steps. This time I moved to intercept her, but Chiyako was in front of me, and there was little room to pass.

  There was another noise as of glass breaking, and a shower of specks glittered in the lamplight as they flew through the air. Amalita had found a large whiskey bottle and smashed it against the rail. Hardly pausing, she dived for Chiyako, the jagged circle of glass leading.

  Chiyako tried to jump back, but I was right behind her and she could not move. The bottle thrust at her chest, a fiendishly sparkling thing in the partial shadow. She made a little cry as it struck.

  Then Amalita went for the face. I saw the weapon come up, a hundred bright irregular teeth in a circular mouth, dripping blood. My paralysis broke and I reacted automatically. With one hand I reached over Chiyako's shoulder and grabbed Amalita's flying hair, jerking her head brutally back. With the other I struck at the attacking wrist, a descending blow with the edge of my hand. My position was awkward, but my blow was solid.

  There was a crack. Now Amalita cried out. I knew I had broken her slender wrist with my strike. The bottle dropped to the steps and shattered explosively.

  Chiyako fell halfway over the rail and clung there silently. I jumped past her and down the steps, dragging Amalita with me and hurling her out into the alley. "Go tell Pedro whatever you want!" I cried furiously. "I never want to see you again!"

  "Jason, I saved your life!" she cried pitifully as she sta
ggered to regain her balance.

  Guilt only made me more savage. "I'm saving yours by letting you go! Come near me and I'll kill you myself!" I hated myself right now, but I hated her worse.

  She stumbled off. At any other time I would have felt sorry for her, knowing how badly she was hurt, and that she had no way to get home. But I meant it; I wanted her completely out of my life, lest I smash her to death with my fist. Now the break was clean. I turned to Chiyako, and was horrified. Her white blouse was torn open, and her bosom was a dark mass of blood. Amalita had gone for the breast, and struck the left breast with a twisting motion. Chiyako had had to stand still for it, because of the obstacle of my body behind her.

  "Let me see that!" I rasped, knowing the wound was serious. She did not resist as I drew her down into the light and ripped away the remaining fabric. I exposed both breasts and peered closely. There was still too much shadow, but I saw what I needed to. Chiyako's right breast was unmarked, firm and beautifully formed. Her left breast had been cut in a horrible semicircle, many wounds that could be inches deep. Shards of glass were embedded in her flesh. There was so much blood I knew she would bleed to death in short order if I did not stop the flow.

  But I couldn't put a tourniquet on. Not on a breast!

  I swung her about to stand before me, facing away. Then I took hold of her breast with my left hand and pressed it in toward her ribcage, hard. My fingers sealed the jagged slashes, obstructing the hot blood. Some would escape, but the worst had been stopped.

  Suppose I was also trapping glass in the wounds? Couldn't be helped.

  I had to get her to a doctor.

  Walking down the streets like this was out of the question. Any person who saw us...

  "Inside!" I said. I could tell by the wilting of her supple body that she was losing consciousness. How much blood was gone? I had to act while I could get some help from her or it would be hopeless.

  We staggered up the steps and almost fell through the door. I trundled her into the parlor and found the phone. Both my hands were occupied supporting her. "Pick it up," I directed.