Bad Business (27 page)

“Damn!” French Fry finally gave up and flopped back on his heels. His face was beaded with sweat, and he reached into his
gi
jacket for a handkerchief to mop his face.

“See?” Tozzi said. “Muscle doesn't stand a chance against positive
ki.”

French Fry made a disgusted face and put the handkerchief back inside his jacket. “Yeah, man, but how it do against
this?”
His hand came back out fast.

Tozzi saw the glinting flash of the blade as it came at him, a direct jab aimed right at his throat. A big fucking hunting knife. He quickly twisted to the side to get out of the way,
and the blade somehow caught him under the armpit, piercing his
gi
and tasting flesh. Without thinking, Tozzi rolled over backward and got to his feet. He backpedaled away, looking inside his jacket. There was a small bloody flap of meat hanging off the flesh over his rib cage.

Son of a bitch
.

French Fry was on his feet, lumbering toward Tozzi in a crouch, leading with the knife, holding it with his index finger on the flat of the blade. Tozzi didn't like that. An amateur will hold a knife clutched in his fist over his head, ready to hack down, the way Tony Perkins did to what's-her-name in the shower in
Psycho
. But French Fry was no amateur. He knew how to handle a knife, and from the look on his face, he didn't seem to have any qualms about cutting people up.

“Where's the rug, man?”

Tozzi didn't answer. He watched French Fry stalking closer. Be big, he told himself. Make yourself a big target. Neil Sensei was always telling them that. Sucker the other guy into committing himself to an attack.

“You wanna die, man? I say, where's the fuckin' rug?”

Tozzi arched his back and squared his shoulders, presenting his chest. French Fry shuffled closer, then suddenly lunged, slashing at Tozzi's face. Tozzi moved out of the blade's path and met the back of French Fry's hand with the back of his, continuing the arc of the attack until he had French Fry's arm wrapped around his neck. He slid into French Fry's space and hurled him down onto his back. Scarf technique, they called this.

The big guy growled and rolled over on his side, getting up more quickly than Tozzi thought he could. He'd thrown the big mother, yes, but it was the wrong throw. He realized too late that he'd wasted a good opportunity to get the knife away from him. He was too worried about getting rid of the guy, throwing him away as hard as he could.
Shit
.

“I want that rug, muthahfuckah.” French Fry was coming
back now, slashing the air in front of him like Zorro. He stalked Tozzi, slashing out randomly at Tozzi's face, waiting for his moment. Then he moved in, fast and serious, blade poised to make a slash at Tozzi's throat. Tozzi forced himself to stand erect—be big!—until the very last microsecond, then he ducked and the knife swished over his head. Missing his target, French Fry stumbled and lost his balance. Tozzi quickly grabbed his
gi
jacket by the elbow and the scruff of the neck, turned the big man around and sent him to the mat, face first. French Fry bounced on his big belly, went “Ooofff!!!” as the wind was knocked out of him, and skidded a few feet. But he still had the goddamn knife.
Shit
.

Tozzi felt his wound and pressed his elbow into his ribs to staunch the bleeding. His jacket had a big red blotch under the armpit. He wished he hadn't stopped to look because he was thinking about it, picturing the wound, and he felt a little light-headed now. He told himself this was all in his mind, the cut was not that deep.

French Fry was back up, scowling down at his sleeve. There was blood on the cuff. “Yo, man, ya bleedin' on me. Sheeeett.”

“Send me the cleaning bill.”
Asshole
.

“Fuck the cleaning bill. How I know you ain't got no AIDS?” He shook his head, disgusted. “I finished playin' 'round wit you, man.”

French Fry rushed him and made a backhanded slash at Tozzi's face. Tozzi turned so that he stayed behind French Fry, keeping the attacker's arm in front of him like a guardrail. He took French Fry's wrist with one hand and dug his fingers into his blubbery neck with the other, then pulled back and dropped down on one knee. French Fry tumbled back and landed on his ass with his elbow positioned over Tozzi's knee. Tozzi bore down on the wrist so that French Fry understood that he could snap his arm in half at the elbow very easily.

“Drop the knife, asshole.”

“Fuck you, man.”

Tozzi cracked the arm over his knee as if it were a stick. The big man let out a wail, and the hunting knife bounced to the mat.

“I warned you, asshole. Whadja think, I was gonna give you a second chance?”

French Fry was howling like a dog in a Chinese restaurant. Tozzi let him go, and French Fry rolled on his side, clutching his arm. Tozzi reached for the knife on the edge of the mat, but his head started spinning again and he stopped on his hands and knees. He looked into his jacket. He was still bleeding, and the bloodstain was as big as a pizza now. He groped for the knife, but it was out of reach. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes for a moment to make the room stop spinning.

“Yo! Get in here and gimme a hand, goddammit.”

Tozzi opened his eyes. French Fry was at the door, clutching his elbow, yelling out into the hallway. Three young guys shuffled into the
dojo
. They looked like an interracial rap group—one black, one Hispanic, and a white “wannabe”—all gold chains, untied Nikes, and running suits under bulky parkas. And they were all big.

“Go git that muthahfuckah. I make him tell me where he got that rug. You watch me.” French Fry was mad.

Tozzi's head wouldn't stop spinning. He tried to focus on the knife, but his eyes wouldn't clear. “Hurry up! Git 'em!”

Oh, shit
.

French Fry's arm was hanging off his shoulder like a dead python. He was making all kind of faces—flaring his nostrils, wiggling his lips, and working his eyebrows up and down—but Tozzi wasn't sure if this was pain or anger. He yelled to his three homeboys, “Git that muthahfuckah an' kick the shit outta him.”

But the homeboys just stood there looking at him, waiting to see who'd make the first move. The white wannabe with the crinkly high-hat hairdo went over to the rack on the wall where they kept the wooden practice weapons and grabbed a
jo
stick. “I got 'im, I got 'im,” he said.

Tozzi got to his feet and forgot about his wound. The white guy was coming closer, step by step, holding the five-foot wooden staff as if it were a baseball bat.

Hold your ground, Tozzi reminded himself. Wait for the attack, wait for the guy to commit himself. Relax completely. Settle yourself and sink into your one point. And be big, goddammit! Think positive. That was the hard one.

He stuck his chest out, took a deep breath, and squared his
shoulders. Then he remembered something Neil Sensei always said to the class.
Win before you get there
. Tozzi squeezed out a small grin to make himself believe that he'd already won. But even though this kid was an overweight punk, he had a
jo
stick and he looked like he was out to impress his buddies.

“You gonna tell us where it is, or you want your head cracked open?” He moved in closer.

Tozzi forced himself to stay put. He didn't answer the guy. He didn't want to be distracted with talk.

“Hey, I asked you a question, man,” the kid yelled. “I want an answer.”

Tozzi said nothing. Just stood his ground.

“Fucker,” the kid grumbled as he made his move. He raised the
jo
stick over his head and lunged, intending to bash Tozzi over the head with it.

Tozzi waited, made the moment stretch, waited for the stick to start its downward arc toward his head. Then when the guy was totally committed to his attack, Tozzi moved slightly to the side to avoid the blow and caught the
jo
stick, underhanded in the middle of the stick, overhanded at the end. Without disturbing the flow of the attack, he guided the stick and swung it down between them, then back up until they were back to back, continuing the motion so that the guy had his hands over his head, still gripping the stick. Tozzi swung the stick down and behind the guy's head so that he fell over backward, losing his grip. Remembering that there were two other homeboys waiting for him, Tozzi jabbed the end of the stick into the kid's face and bashed his nose as if he were breaking the balls on a pool table. The kid grabbed his face and yelped as Tozzi spun around to greet whoever was coming next.

The other two homeboys were rushing toward him, the black guy and the Hispanic, but they were hesitant, one waiting for the other to go first.

French Fry yelled to them. “Go, muthahfuckah! What'chu waitin' for?”

The black guy stepped forward. He was holding a
bokken
, one of the wooden practice swords, and he came at Tozzi, slashing it from side to side one-handed, like a pirate. The whoosh of the
bokken
sounded menacing, but he was committing his balance with each swipe. Tozzi waited for him to slash all the way to one side, then he moved in fast and took advantage of the length of the
jo
stick and poked the end into the black guy's throat, pushing him back, sinking the stick into his vocal chords. The guy made a sound like he was going to throw up as he fell back on his haunches, clutching his neck and gagging.

“Hey, what's going on here? What is this, Mike?”

Tozzi looked up and saw Neil Sensei coming out of the locker room. He was wearing his street clothes.

“I could use a little help here, Sensei,” Tozzi called out.

The Hispanic kid turned away from Tozzi and dashed toward Neil. Sensei wasn't very big, so the dope must've figured he'd have an easier time with the little guy. He figured wrong.

“You ain't helping nobody, cocksucker,” he grunted as he ran up to Neil with his fist cocked, thinking he was gonna punch Neil's head off. But as he delivered the punch, Neil deflected it and extended his arm, so that the guy clothes-lined himself with his own momentum. He fell backward and hit the floor hard, his head bouncing off the bare wood. In a daze, the stupid kid raised his knee and tried to lift his head, but he could barely roll it from side to side.

Tozzi was watching Neil, admiring his calm and effortless movement when suddenly he was grabbed from behind. He felt cold metal under his chin. That goddamn hunting knife. Instinctively he'd grabbed the huge hand to save himself, pressing it against his collarbone to keep it from cutting him, but the guy was fucking strong. Tozzi tucked his chin in and
looked down. He recognized the baloney forearm and felt the big belly against his back. Fucking French Fry.

“You think you funny wit' dis aikido shit, you and you frien'. Now
I'm
gonna be funny. Tell me where that fuckin' rug is or I cut your fuckin' head off and throw it out the window.”

Tozzi scanned the room, struggling to keep the blade off his throat. Then he spotted Neil waving to him from the other end of the room. “Bow,” he yelled.

With that one word, Tozzi knew what to do. He relaxed his shoulders and settled into his one-point as he bowed from the waist, holding French Fry's arm against his chest and flipping him over his back. French Fry hit the mat with a colossal thud and screamed like a cat, writhing and clutching the other arm, the one Tozzi had already fractured.

“Whoa, I'm gettin' the fuck outta here, man.” The Hispanic guy zigzagged out the door, holding the back of his head.

The black kid was already gone.

The white guy, whose nose was a bloody mess, ran to his boss's aid and helped French Fry to his feet. He kept looking to see where Tozzi and Neil were, afraid of what they'd do next. “C'mon, French Fry. Let's go. C'mon, C'mon.” French Fry moaned and wailed like an old momma at a funeral, his eyes squeezed shut as the white kid led him out the door. They forgot the hunting knife and left it on the mat.

Good, Tozzi thought, dropping his head in exhaustion. At least we can get fingerprints.

Feeling faint, he got down on one knee and examined his wound. His
gi
was soaked with blood. He sat down and closed his eyes, trying not to pass out.

“You're bleeding, Mike.” Neil Sensei was on the mat, standing over him.

Tozzi nodded and opened his jacket to show him.

“Don't get up. I've got a first-aid kit in the locker room. Just yell if they come back.”

Tozzi nodded. “Okay.”

But when Neil was out of the room, Tozzi scooted to the edge of the mat, looked over at the doorway to make sure no one was there, then peeled back the mat. As soon as he saw it, his body went slack and he relaxed. The blue and beige pattern on the maroon background that was etched in his mind was right there in front of him, right where he'd put it that afternoon after he and Lorraine were attacked at Uncle Pete's.

Tozzi let the mat fall back into place, covering the rug again. He scooted away from the edge and lay back on the mat, looking up at the cracked ceiling, listening to his heart work. It was beating hard and slow, like a gong.