"I believe I had the right-of-way," Hiroshi said politely. "I did not wish to step in the dirty water."
The driver's face reddened. "Up your ass, yellow monkey! You're damned lucky I didn't run you down!"
Hiroshi paused, as if recalling a recent discussion. A crowd of spectators gathered, a number of them with wet feet. "Better move on, old man," one of them murmured. "Those truckers are murder."
"Now, fuck off before I clobber you!" the driver yelled.
"I am waiting," Hiroshi said, his voice level.
"Waiting?" the man demanded, his face purpling. Cars were already honking behind him as a traffic snarl developed. "You little fairy! What for?"
"For your apology."
The driver, incoherent with rage, put his truck in gear and nudged forward as if to run over the little man. Hiroshi stepped nimbly to the side and approached the cab. The driver opened the door part way and brandished a tire iron threateningly, as though to bash Hiroshi in passing. There was a murmur of alarm through the crowd.
Hiroshi jumped near, caught the descending arm, and pulled the man out of the cab. So skillful was the sensei's motion that the driver stumbled all the way across the street, almost bowling over the backpedaling spectators, and finally fell—to skid on his face into the dirty water flowing into the far gutter.
The truck, meanwhile, rolled on. It ground over the curb and lodged against a fire hydrant, bending it over and breaking the pipe.
A fountain of water jetted out, splashing against the truck and angling up over the street and sidewalk. The crowd withdrew hastily as this new rain descended. Hiroshi merely held out his hand, appreciating the refreshing shower. This was good clean water, in contrast to the puddles.
The truck driver pulled himself erect, gutter water dripping from his ugly face. He still had the tire iron. He saw the mess his truck had made, and he saw Hiroshi, hand angelically outstretched, facing away from him.
The driver roared like a wounded bear and charged, the tire iron lifted high. A woman screamed.
Hiroshi waited until the driver was almost upon him, following the sounds with his acutely trained ear. Then he turned, grabbed the man's wrist, and performed a kote-nage swing-throw, pulling back while swiftly turning the wrist. The driver somersaulted forward and landed on his back, his wind knocked out.
In the distance a siren sounded. The traffic snarl was such that the police would be a long time arriving.
Hiroshi walked on in the direction he had been traveling, nodding amicably to the gaping spectators. The lesson in courtesy was complete.
The police lieutenant mopped his sweating face with a sodden handkerchief. "He arrived from Japan this morning; we verified that with the airline. Everything in order. Then he headed into the city on foot. First thing he does is beat up a man waiting in line at the post office."
"Hiroshi?" I repeated incredulously. "He would never—"
The lieutenant silenced me with an imperious gesture. "After that, he wrecked a truck and roughed up the driver and destroyed city property. No provocation at all—just yanked the poor guy out at an intersection and dumped him in the gutter. We have the victim's complete unbiased statement."
I shook my head. "This is a case of mistaken identity! Hiroshi is a man of peace. He always does the right thing."
The lieutenant grabbed his cap. "Well, come see for yourself, skeptic! If we're lucky, we'll catch him before he kills somebody."
I blew my breath out through puffed cheeks and followed him. I was now hopelessly late for my judo class; I only hoped Ilunga was able to cover for me properly, though her specialty was karate. Something was certainly wrong.
The cab careened toward the pregnant woman. She had no chance at all to get out of the way.
Hiroshi, unused to the ways of this violent country, did not realize the facility with which such vehicles maneuvered. The cabbie, intent on catching the 10:40 for a five-dollar tip, was shaving it close. He was an expert dealing with moving, changing spaces at high velocity, instinctively figuring what would be there for his cab before it actually manifested. He was acutely aware of the flexible pattern of traffic, for he had honed his skill on fifteen years' experience in this jungle, with no more than one accident a year, with only one-fifth of those actually his fault. He saw a gap developing ahead in the other lane, and the blockage shaping up in his own lane. He saw the jay-walking woman, twice a fool to risk her swelling baby, and had made due allowance. There was just room to squeeze into the inner lane without slowing. He would miss her by a good eighteen inches as he swerved. Like a fine musician, he played his singing vehicle through the shifting spaces available, phasing through a parameter of vectors, just so.
"But the little sensei did not know that. His field was hand-to-hand combat, not vehicular phase racing. He saw death in the making, and he acted instantly.
From his robe he drew a ninja weapon, a shuriken. It was a tiny star-shaped throwing blade. He hurled it almost in the same motion, with uncanny accuracy. It punctured the speeding cab's front tire.
The tire exploded. The car swerved, for it had been under severe stress before the blowout. It slewed about as the driver fought for control in an abruptly diminished parameter. In a moment there was a three-car pileup.
But the pregnant woman was safe. "Idiot driver!" she bawled as she stepped back and lost herself in the crowd.
With surprising alacrity, two of the city's finest were on the scene. "There he is!" one cried.
They ignored the pileup. With guns drawn, they converged on Hiroshi. They were both beefy cops, red-faced Irish, with an aggregate of thirty-five years' experience on the force. They knew their business.
"Get over by that wall!" one snapped at Hiroshi.
Perplexed, the little man obeyed.
They made him lean against the building at a forty-five-degree angle, balanced on his fingertips, feet spread apart. One policeman stood with one foot inside Hiroshi's, in order to trip him if he tried to move. The other stood to the rear on the other side, covering Hiroshi with his gun. The first policeman holstered his gun and put his left hand on Hiroshi's spine, to feel for any telegraphic muscle movements.
It was the standard setup for frisking a suspect, a procedure considered foolproof all over the world. They were taking no chances, they thought.
But Hiroshi was an extraordinary man, and he felt that it was discourteous of them to treat him like a common criminal. He who had instructed thousands of policemen of many nationalities in the rudiments and refinements of the martial art of aikido. In fact, he was the author of an authoritative text on the subject. They should at least have explained what they suspected him of, and formally acquainted him with his rights. These minions of the law, like certain other parties, required a lesson in manners. After all, if the police were not polite, who else would be?
He moved like lightning. It was as though he disappeared for an instant and reappeared in a more commanding position. Abruptly he had disarmed the frisking policeman and held him as a shield, his own gun to his head. The man's hand was twisted against his own forearm, the wrist bent inward at his back. Hiroshi's fingers pressed the pain centers at the base of that wrist and in the soft fold of flesh between thumb and forefinger. The other policeman could not shoot, lest he hurt his partner. At a gesture from Hiroshi, he dropped his gun.
Hiroshi shoved his hostage into the other man, and such was his skill that the big cop, over twice Hiroshi's weight, was propelled violently forward. The two collided belly-to-belly with a loud smack.
"Now," Hiroshi said, making a small bow, "allow me to run through that again, more slowly, so that you may see where you erred. Pick up your weapons; I shall stand at the wall again, so." And he assumed the forty-five-degree lean.
One policeman looked at the other, shaking his head unbelievingly. They were now ringed by a substantial crowd. From somewhere in the rear came a guffaw. Red-faced, they resumed their positions for the frisking. There was little else to do. Hiroshi spun around slower than
before, but still amazingly rapidly. One hand knocked up the policeman's hand at his spine. He then seized this hand and twisted into the submission hold. The officer tried to resist, but seemed powerless.
"One must frisk very quickly and lightly," Hiroshi said, as though addressing recruits. "So as not to be caught by such a motion. Instead of touching the suspect's spine with the fingertips, do it with the barrel of the gun, so as to be able to shoot him if he makes a break. But mainly"—here he frowned like a little professor, commanding their attention—"be alert. When it becomes routine, it grows careless, and a desperate man can strike. Never take a suspect for granted."
The policemen were disgruntled but impressed. "I was alert," the frisker said. "But it was like I was frozen for an instant there."
"Oh, yes," Hiroshi agreed. "Never go against someone with highly developed ki. There are those who can stun you without touching you. I regret I had to use mine, so as to minimize the risk of injury to either party."
"Key," the man said, puzzled.
"Ki. Inner force. All people have it, but in most it is untrained."
"Yeah," the policeman agreed, shaking his head numbly.
"And now, farewell," Hiroshi said, bowing. He walked on, leaving the disgruntled policemen to unsnarl yet another traffic jam. They had even forgotten they were supposed to arrest him.
I looked at the carnage: three cars wrecked, a hundred stalled in the press, three people injured, and the ambulances still trying to get through. The two officers on the scene were tight-lipped and uncommunicative; apparently Hiroshi had escaped them and made a profound impression. Positive or negative? Both, evidently.
"Satisfied?" the lieutenant demanded. "That little Jap is a criminal menace! He's turning the whole city upside-down, and he's got to be stopped. One more episode like this, and I'm issuing a shoot-on-sight bulletin!"
"I'll stop him!" I said. This officer was prone to overstatement, but I certainly didn't want Hiroshi in any more trouble. "Just give me a chance to catch up."
"You'd better!" he snapped.
I ran on down the street, forging through the throng. Quite a number of people were snickering, which was incongruous. Just what had Hiroshi done, to spread such simultaneous carnage and goodwill? Such mischief was hardly like him.
I was now certain it was Hiroshi. All descriptions tallied, and no one else was capable of the deeds he seemed to have done. The police had called me because I had many worldwide martial-arts contacts, and he was obviously martial artist. Simplistic logic, but valid, in this case. It was just as well they had.
I had to catch him and stop him before someone really did get killed.
Hiroshi entered the dojo, the judo and karate practice hall. The students were doing uchi-komis, or one-to-one practice drill. They were trying the same isolated movement again and again, so as to perfect it. There is no easy way to achieve perfection.
A tall black woman with a broken nose and a remarkable figure was in charge. But she was having difficulties. Hiroshi's experienced eye took it in at a glance: she was a karateka, and this was a judo class. Karate is basically a system of unarmed striking, a deadly form of boxing, while judo consists primarily of throws and holds, like wrestling. She might be competent in her specialty, but was not properly equipped to instruct here, and was evidently a substitute.
He approached her. "If you please, miss..."
The woman whirled, startled, for he had come noiselessly. Beads of sweat stood on her forehead and upper lip. "Get out of my way; can't you see I'm busy?"
Undaunted, Hiroshi persisted. "I wish only to speak with Jason Striker. Is this not his dojo?"
"Yes, it's his dojo!" she snapped. "But you can't see him."
Hiroshi's brow furrowed. "It is not like him to leave his students to one not qualified to instruct. Where is he now?"
The woman's lip curled. She had mobile features, and it was an effective expression. It was obvious that her temper was not normally long, and now it was unusually truncated. "You can talk to me! What the hell do you want?"
"I want to speak with my friend Jason Striker," he repeated patiently, as to a child.
"So I am not good enough for you!" she said challengingly. Hiroshi realized that this person, too, required a lesson in courtesy. The people at the post office were correct: rudeness and disrespect were endemic in this busy city. Courtesy was fundamental to martial art, for such powers should never be used arrogantly. "I regret that is so," he said, making a little bow. "I seek your master."
"No man is Ilunga's master!" she cried. She rushed at him with upraised arm, ready to give him the bum's rush out. The students, true to the mores of the city instead of the dojo, had formed a crowd of avid spectators. They stood in a tight ring around the two, watching silently.
Hiroshi now made a formal bow of welcome. He dropped to his knees and lowered his head, placing both hands flat on the mat. As it happened, by no coincidence, he made his obeisance right against Ilunga's knees as she charged. The momentum of her rush carried her right over his body. She flipped in the air and sprawled on her back, hard. A driblet of blood flowed from her nostril.
Suddenly Hiroshi was on his feet and leaning over her. His two hands touched the sides of her head, putting pressure on the nerve centers behind her ears. It was a submission hold that had her powerless.
The students watched, amazed. "It is nothing," Hiroshi said, letting her go. "She is very tired. I will make it better." He gestured to the shaken woman. "Kneel, please."
Like a dazed tigress, she yielded, reluctantly. Hiroshi made a little bow, then made a terrific kiai yell.
Ilunga jumped up, hands to her face. The blood was gone.
"Cold water!" she said. "Like a current of water up my nose!" The students saw something she could not: the nose also appeared straighter, as though the fall had somehow reset the cartilage. But that could have been a trick of the lighting.
Hiroshi nodded benignly. "An excellent description, my dear." He looked about. "But where is Jason Striker?"
"We don't know," one of the students said. "He's usually right on time. Something must have held him up."
"Very well," Hiroshi said amicably. "I will instruct your class until he returns. My specialty is aikido, but a number of the techniques overlap."
And while Ilunga sat on the mat, amazed, he organized the class and proceeded to give authoritative instruction in judo, demonstrating throws and holds with unparalleled expertise.
The trail led, of all places, straight to my own dojo. Hiroshi had been coming to see me all the time!
As I entered the door, I saw a surprisingly well-organized class in session. But Ilunga was not conducting it.
Well, this was no wackier than the rest of the morning's activities. Who had come to handle things, unbidden, in my absence? A little old man in a skirt.
"Hiroshi!" I cried. "What are you doing here?"
"Substituting for an errant judoka," he said mildly. The students chuckled, much as the people in the street had. He had done it again.
"You didn't come all the way from Japan just to visit!"
Hiroshi frowned. "I have a matter of some privacy to discuss," he said. "Look at this while I finish the job at hand." He handed me a small leather pouch, and returned to his instruction. I felt like an intruder in my own dojo.
I took the pouch and opened it. And gasped.
It was full of large uncut diamonds.
This meant something extremely serious. "Ilunga, can you wrap things up here?" I asked her. "I'd better talk with Hiroshi, alone. Now."
She nodded sullenly. She looked subtly better, but I saw that her pride had been hurt. I would have to attend to that later. I had to settle with Hiroshi before the police caught up with us. His other actions were mischief enough, but with these stolen diamonds...
What was Hiroshi, the original impoverished philosopher, doing with what might be a million dollars worth of hot stones?
"There's a bar a couple blocks down the str
eet," I said. I wasn't much for drinking, but that wasn't the point. "They carry sake, and it is private."
Hiroshi nodded amicably. We set off for our talk. I already felt like a criminal collaborator.
Chapter 2:
Fu Antos
A young boy walked through the forest of Hokkaido island, Japan. He wore black cotton trousers, ragged at the fringes, a frayed white shirt, a wide-brimmed peasant straw hat, and cleated sandals fashioned from cut rubber tires. But he was no peasant child; he had obtained the clothing from a man who had a child his size, paying for it with the least of the several fighting knives he possessed. He did not like the outfit, for much of it was machine-made, and the composition of the sandals he did not comprehend at all.
Yet his eyes, under the wiry black hair, were bright. There was a certain aura about him, the way he moved and looked about, that suggested a mind of uncanny comprehension. And he was well-armed. He used a long wood staff to assist his footing, but it doubled as a bo, an effective weapon. Under his hat were hidden several shuriken. From his belt dangled nunchakus, the linked clubs concealed by the overlap of his shirt so that their nature was hardly evident. Around his waist was the chain of a kusarigama, the chained sickle. He wore a small backpack, and in it were packets of poisons and blinding powders, a pair of tekagi, or iron spikes for the palms of the hands, a grappling hook with a long rope attached, the rope made of twined human hair, several caltrops, or spiked balls used to impede pursuit on the ground, and, almost incidentally, a little food.
Tonki, small throwing knives, were strapped to his back, and a kyoketsu-shogi, a double-pointed knife attached by a cord to a metal ring, was bound to one leg.
But to the casual glance, he was just a wandering child, and little in his manner indicated otherwise. One would have had to observe him for several hours before his true strangeness became evident. And that was problematical, for though he seemed to be paying only indifferent attention to his surroundings, no one could have followed him undetected for long.