Drop Shot
Page 38
Myron tried not to shake as he got out of the car. Without glancing behind him he walked inside.
21
Win worked the heavy bag. He was snapping side kicks that bent the eighty-pound bag almost in half. He threw kicks at every level. The opponent’s knee. The abdomen. The neck. The face. He struck with his heel, his toes angled down. Myron went though several katas, or forms, concentrating on the precision of his strikes, imagining a person in front of him rather than the air. Sometimes the person was Aaron.
They were at Master Kwon’s new downtown location. The dojang was divided into two sections. One looked like a dance studio. Hardwood floor and lots of mirrors. The other section had matted floors, dumbbells, a speed bag, a heavy bag, a jump rope. On the shelf were rubber knives and guns to practice take-away techniques. The American flag and Korean flag were hung near the doorway. Each student bowed to them as they entered and left. School rules were listed on a poster. Myron knew them by heart. His favorite was rule number ten. Always finish what you start.
Hmm. Good advice? Hard to say right now.
There were fourteen school rules in all. Every once in a while Master Kwon added a new one. Number fourteen had been put up two months ago: Do not overeat. “Students too fat,” Master Kwon had explained. “Too much put in mouth.” In the twenty years since Win had helped Kwon relocate to the United States, Kwon’s English had continually degenerated. Myron suspected it was part of his image as a wise old man from the Far East. Playing Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid movies.
Win stopped. “Here,” he said, gesturing to the bag. “You need this more than I do.”
Myron began to hit the bag. Hard. He started with some punches. Tae kwon do’s fighting stance is simple and practical, not all that different from a boxer’s. Anyone who tried that crane-stance bullshit on the streets usually ended up on their ass. Myron followed up with some elbow and knee strikes. Elbows and knees were useful, particularly for fighting in close. Martial arts movies showed lots of spinning kicks to the head, jumping kicks to the chest, stuff like that. But street fighting was far simpler. You aimed for the groin, the knee, the neck, the nose, the eyes. Occasionally the solar plexus. The rest was wasteful. You get in a real life-or-death situation, you twist the guy’s balls. You stick your fingers in his eyes. You throw an elbow to his throat.
Win walked over to a full-length mirror. “Let’s review what we’ve learned so far,” he said in the mock voice of a kindergarten teacher. He began to play air-golf, practicing his swing in the mirror. He did that a lot. “One, the esteemed senator from Pennsylvania wants you off this case. Two, a major mobster from New York wants you off this case. Three, your client, the womanizing Duane Richwood, wants you off this case. Have I left anybody out?”
“Deanna Yeller,” Myron said. “And Helen Van Slyke. Kenneth too, don’t forget Kenneth. Pavel Menansi.” Myron thought a moment. “I think that’s it.”
“The police officer,” Win added. “Detective Dimonte.”
“Oh yeah, right. I forgot about Rolly.”
Win checked the grip on his imaginary club. “Thus,” he continued, “your cause is mustering its customary support—i.e., none.”
Myron shrugged, threw a combination. “ ‘Can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself.’ ”
Win made a face. “Quoting Ricky Nelson?”
“It’s been a long day.”
“I would say.”
Myron back-kicked. A good countermove to almost any attack. “So why is everyone so afraid of Valerie Simpson? A United States senator sets up a clandestine meeting with me. Frank Ache brings in Aaron. Duane threatens to fire me. Why?”
Win took another air-golf swing in the mirror. He looked up after the shot, squinting, as though following the trajectory of the imaginary ball. He seemed displeased. Golfers.
The door to the dojang opened. Wanda peered inside, gave a shy wave.
“Hi,” Myron said.
“Hi.”
Myron smiled. He was happy to see her—someone who did indeed want him to continue his investigation. She wore a patterned, almost little-girlish summer dress. The dress was sleeveless, revealing her nicely toned arms. She wasn’t wearing one of those big summer hats, but she should have been. Her makeup had been applied with a light hand. Gold hoop earrings hung from her lobes. She looked young and healthy and quite beautiful.
A sign beside the door read NO SHOES ALLOWED. Wanda obeyed, slipped her flats off before stepping inside the dojang. “Esperanza told me you’d be here,” she said. “I’m really sorry about disturbing you outside the office again.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You know Win.”
“Yes,” she said, turning to him. She managed a smile. “Nice to see you.”
Win gave her an almost indiscernible head tilt. Stoic. Playing Tonto.
Wringing her hands together Wanda asked, “Can we talk for a moment?”
Win did not need prompting. He moved to the door, bowed deeply at the waist, left. They were alone.
She walked toward him deliberately, glancing around like she was on a house tour but not really interested in buying. “Do you come here a lot?” she asked.
“Here or one of Master Kwon’s other dojangs.”
“I thought they were called dojos,” she said.
“Dojo is Japanese. Dojang is Korean.”
She nodded as though this information had some significance in her life. She glanced around a bit more. “Have you studied this for a long time?”
“Yes.”
“And Win?”
“Even longer.”
“He doesn’t look the fighting type,” she said. “Except maybe in the eyes.”
Myron had heard that before. He waited.
“I just wanted to know if you’d learned anything,” she said. Her eyes flicked left, right, up, down.
“Not much,” he said. Not exactly the truth, but Myron wasn’t about to mention Duane’s liaisons with Valerie.
She nodded again. Her hands were in constant motion, searching for something to occupy them. “Duane is acting even stranger,” she said.
“How?”
“Just more of the same, I guess. He’s on edge all the time. He keeps getting these calls he takes in another room. When I answer the phone the caller hangs up. And he disappeared again last night. Said he needed some air, but he was gone for two hours.”
21
Win worked the heavy bag. He was snapping side kicks that bent the eighty-pound bag almost in half. He threw kicks at every level. The opponent’s knee. The abdomen. The neck. The face. He struck with his heel, his toes angled down. Myron went though several katas, or forms, concentrating on the precision of his strikes, imagining a person in front of him rather than the air. Sometimes the person was Aaron.
They were at Master Kwon’s new downtown location. The dojang was divided into two sections. One looked like a dance studio. Hardwood floor and lots of mirrors. The other section had matted floors, dumbbells, a speed bag, a heavy bag, a jump rope. On the shelf were rubber knives and guns to practice take-away techniques. The American flag and Korean flag were hung near the doorway. Each student bowed to them as they entered and left. School rules were listed on a poster. Myron knew them by heart. His favorite was rule number ten. Always finish what you start.
Hmm. Good advice? Hard to say right now.
There were fourteen school rules in all. Every once in a while Master Kwon added a new one. Number fourteen had been put up two months ago: Do not overeat. “Students too fat,” Master Kwon had explained. “Too much put in mouth.” In the twenty years since Win had helped Kwon relocate to the United States, Kwon’s English had continually degenerated. Myron suspected it was part of his image as a wise old man from the Far East. Playing Mr. Miyagi from the Karate Kid movies.
Win stopped. “Here,” he said, gesturing to the bag. “You need this more than I do.”
Myron began to hit the bag. Hard. He started with some punches. Tae kwon do’s fighting stance is simple and practical, not all that different from a boxer’s. Anyone who tried that crane-stance bullshit on the streets usually ended up on their ass. Myron followed up with some elbow and knee strikes. Elbows and knees were useful, particularly for fighting in close. Martial arts movies showed lots of spinning kicks to the head, jumping kicks to the chest, stuff like that. But street fighting was far simpler. You aimed for the groin, the knee, the neck, the nose, the eyes. Occasionally the solar plexus. The rest was wasteful. You get in a real life-or-death situation, you twist the guy’s balls. You stick your fingers in his eyes. You throw an elbow to his throat.
Win walked over to a full-length mirror. “Let’s review what we’ve learned so far,” he said in the mock voice of a kindergarten teacher. He began to play air-golf, practicing his swing in the mirror. He did that a lot. “One, the esteemed senator from Pennsylvania wants you off this case. Two, a major mobster from New York wants you off this case. Three, your client, the womanizing Duane Richwood, wants you off this case. Have I left anybody out?”
“Deanna Yeller,” Myron said. “And Helen Van Slyke. Kenneth too, don’t forget Kenneth. Pavel Menansi.” Myron thought a moment. “I think that’s it.”
“The police officer,” Win added. “Detective Dimonte.”
“Oh yeah, right. I forgot about Rolly.”
Win checked the grip on his imaginary club. “Thus,” he continued, “your cause is mustering its customary support—i.e., none.”
Myron shrugged, threw a combination. “ ‘Can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself.’ ”
Win made a face. “Quoting Ricky Nelson?”
“It’s been a long day.”
“I would say.”
Myron back-kicked. A good countermove to almost any attack. “So why is everyone so afraid of Valerie Simpson? A United States senator sets up a clandestine meeting with me. Frank Ache brings in Aaron. Duane threatens to fire me. Why?”
Win took another air-golf swing in the mirror. He looked up after the shot, squinting, as though following the trajectory of the imaginary ball. He seemed displeased. Golfers.
The door to the dojang opened. Wanda peered inside, gave a shy wave.
“Hi,” Myron said.
“Hi.”
Myron smiled. He was happy to see her—someone who did indeed want him to continue his investigation. She wore a patterned, almost little-girlish summer dress. The dress was sleeveless, revealing her nicely toned arms. She wasn’t wearing one of those big summer hats, but she should have been. Her makeup had been applied with a light hand. Gold hoop earrings hung from her lobes. She looked young and healthy and quite beautiful.
A sign beside the door read NO SHOES ALLOWED. Wanda obeyed, slipped her flats off before stepping inside the dojang. “Esperanza told me you’d be here,” she said. “I’m really sorry about disturbing you outside the office again.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You know Win.”
“Yes,” she said, turning to him. She managed a smile. “Nice to see you.”
Win gave her an almost indiscernible head tilt. Stoic. Playing Tonto.
Wringing her hands together Wanda asked, “Can we talk for a moment?”
Win did not need prompting. He moved to the door, bowed deeply at the waist, left. They were alone.
She walked toward him deliberately, glancing around like she was on a house tour but not really interested in buying. “Do you come here a lot?” she asked.
“Here or one of Master Kwon’s other dojangs.”
“I thought they were called dojos,” she said.
“Dojo is Japanese. Dojang is Korean.”
She nodded as though this information had some significance in her life. She glanced around a bit more. “Have you studied this for a long time?”
“Yes.”
“And Win?”
“Even longer.”
“He doesn’t look the fighting type,” she said. “Except maybe in the eyes.”
Myron had heard that before. He waited.
“I just wanted to know if you’d learned anything,” she said. Her eyes flicked left, right, up, down.
“Not much,” he said. Not exactly the truth, but Myron wasn’t about to mention Duane’s liaisons with Valerie.
She nodded again. Her hands were in constant motion, searching for something to occupy them. “Duane is acting even stranger,” she said.
“How?”
“Just more of the same, I guess. He’s on edge all the time. He keeps getting these calls he takes in another room. When I answer the phone the caller hangs up. And he disappeared again last night. Said he needed some air, but he was gone for two hours.”
