Blessed Are Those Who Weep (9 page)

 

Chapter 19

T
HE
SUN
IS
setting as I pull into Chinatown in Oakland. By the time I park, the windows of the dojo are lit up. Kocho Bujutsu Dojo is open for business. I'm tempted to buy another pork bun, but I head for the door to the dojo.

Although my finger presses down on the white button, I can't tell if it's ringing inside or not. I wait to the beat of ten and try again. Nothing. After I press it for the third time, I run across the street to see if I can catch anyone peeking out the windows to see who is calling below. But I don't see anything.

That's okay. I'm patient.

After fifteen minutes of waiting by the door of the dojo, I'm growing sleepy and hungrier when the door swings open so quickly I jump back.

A man in dark sunglasses, dressed all in black, flies by me on the stairs. A sliver of light shines down from a crack in the door. Trying not to step on every squeaky stair, I make my way up and knock on the door, which is partly ajar.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

I can hear heavy breathing. I nudge the door open a bit more. I take in a flash of someone in white flying across bare wood floors at the same moment a cold, hard piece of steel is lodged under my throat.

“Don't move.”

The words are whispered in my ear, accompanied by warm breath. The man in white comes to a halt and smiles.

“You were so focused on me, you didn't see him behind you.”

The blade is removed. I clutch at my throat, expecting it to be wet with dripping blood.

Turning, I see a man all in black, with only his eyes showing.

He's dressed like the man who flew out the door downstairs, except this man's face is covered. He bows to me and walks over to a table, where he lays the blade on a black velvet cloth among several other swords. My eyes widen as I spot other weapons—­ flat metal stars and kubatons laid out on the other side of the cloth in different types of metal and sizes. I try not to make it obvious I'm interested in them.

The space is wide open, with bright lights high in the tall ceiling, illuminating polished floors. Besides a half dozen chairs against one wall and the small table with weapons, the room contains no other furniture.

“Your first time.” It is not a question. The man in white takes a towel and wipes his brow before chugging on a bottle of water, keeping his eyes on me.

“What's up with the swords?” I say, trying to shake off my unease and sound confident.

“Along with military-­style Budo, we also teach the art of samurai bujutsu—­the ancient art of swordplay.”

“Gee, what a coincidence,” I say, walking over to the window and looking down at the Chinatown streets teeming with shoppers and ­people on their way home from work. “A few ­people have died from a sword in the past few days.”

As I say this, I turn to see the man's reaction. His smile has faded.

“Yes. So I've been told.”

“Any of your students gone missing?”

“The police came to us to tell us about Javier. It is a shame. He was a promising student.”

A promising student? Is that all he was?

“Did you know him well?”

The sensei shakes his head. “No, sadly. He kept to himself.”

He said the detectives came to the dojo a few days ago—­Saturday—­when they found Javier's body. I wonder if they connected his death to the Mission Massacre. I wander over to the table with the swords and stars and kubatons. “What are these?” I point at the star.

“We are the only dojo in the state that fashions these ancient fighting stars.” The man in white fingers them lovingly and holds one out for me to take. “Careful. The blade is extraordinarily sharp. They are called shurikens. We are also the only dojo in the United States that teaches students how to use them. They are a ninja art.”

I finger the blade lightly. “Do many of your students train in the use of these?”

“No,” he frowns slightly. “It is a lost art. We only have maybe twelve students who use these.”

“What about this?” My hand hovers over a pink kubaton.

“A kubaton.”

“May I?”

The sensei nods his approval. I reach to pick it up.

“You like that one? Would you like a demonstration? We sell more of that style than any other. Women attach it to their key ring. It is an extremely effective form of self-­defense if used properly.” He nods, and the man in black appears before us.

Without explanation or conversation, the sensei and the man in black demonstrate how a well-­placed thrust of the kubaton can easily take down an assailant. At one point, the sensei uses it to split a chunk of concrete.

“Impressive,” I say. “What about this one?” I finally point to the one with the dagger-­like tip that matches the one I handed over to Khoury. “This one would cause more injury, right?”

His expression does not change. “Yes.” He says it in a low voice.

My heart speeds up. How far should I push this?

“Have you sold any exactly like this one?”

It is almost unnoticeable. His back stiffens and his eyes slightly narrow, but his voice remains flat. “Yes.” His words are careful and measured.

“How much for this one?”

“Twenty dollars.”

I hand over a twenty and tuck it into my bag.

“Do you keep a log of your sales?” I hold out another twenty.

The doorbell interrupts us, and he leans over, pressing a small button. Within seconds, the sound of male voices and laughter drifts up the stairs. He remains silent.

Feet pound up the stairs, and a group of men enters the room, greeting the sensei.

“Here is my card.” I lay it directly on top of the twenty-­dollar bill and leave.

Downstairs, the air is chilly as I emerge onto the sidewalk. I cross the street and look up at the window. A dark figure stands there, watching.

I duck into the bakery and pick up a few pork buns. When I come out, there is a piece of paper under my windshield wiper. When I unfold it, I see a list of names under the words “Bought kubaton.” Sure enough, one name stands out: Joey Martin. I dart a glance up at the windows of the dojo but only see shadows flitting back and forth.

 

Chapter 20

T
HE
ADDRESS
FOR
Fellatio, the sex club on the matchbook cover, is in an Oakland warehouse building near a back entrance to the Bay Bridge. This is the part of town that has given Oakland a bad rap over the years.

I pull in front of the address and look around, wishing I had asked Lopez to come with me.

Trash lines the gutters, and ­people cluster in groups in empty parking lots or gather around bus stop benches under billboards, staring down anyone who drives by. A group of young men across the street stops talking and watches me park. A few lean back on a small stone wall and smoke, talking and gesturing to my car. A fight breaks out nearby, and they turn their attention to that. One man punches another man, knocking him down and then kicking and spitting on him.

For a second, I debate calling 911, but the man on the ground gets up, holding his palms out, and backs away. The other man gets in his face, until finally someone whistles and the attacker turns away.

I dig the kubaton out of my bag and clutch it in my palm before getting out of my car. Pulling my shoulders back, I head toward the steel door with Fellatio's address on it, keeping the group of young men in my peripheral vision. I push all the doorbell buttons and wait, glancing back over my shoulder. The group has grown larger, milling around. Like the little piece of metal in my hand will help me. I don't even know how to use the thing. My heart is racing. It's stupid to be here alone. This is not a part of town anyone should come to alone.

I pound all the doorbells again but don't hear the click of the door opening. Probably too early in the day for the wild sex I saw on the matchbook. I head back to my car, eyeing the group across the street and slamming the lock as soon as my legs swing inside my car. Across the street, a parked motorcyclist I didn't notice before revs his engine. The rider is dressed all in black, with the black visor on his helmet pulled down over his face. I can't tell for sure, but it seems like he's looking my way.

Clutching the steering wheel, I scold myself. Young men gathering in a bad part of town doesn't equal criminals, does it? I've interviewed crazy killers in jail, ridden along with girl gangbangers for three weeks for a story, sat in on autopsies, and I'm intimidated by a group of punk kids on a street corner? I'm a shame to the cop reporter profession.

I unlock my door and unfold my legs from the car. As I do, the man on the motorcycle roars off. Standing, I pull my shoulders back and assume my most badass demeanor. Stalking over to the group in my girlie high heels doesn't help much, especially when I stumble a little on a pothole, but when I walk up to the group, I look them all dead in the eye, one by one.

“My name's Gabriella Giovanni. I'm a reporter with the
Bay Herald,
and I need to ask you about that building.” I throw my arm behind me without turning. “What can you guys tell me about it?”

Leaning back on the wall, a bigger kid with a skullcap pulled low to his brow glares at me and spits. “What makes you think we know anything?”

“You know every single fucking thing that goes down on this block,” I say without blinking. “Don't tell me any different.”

A teenager in the back chuckles.

The bigger kid straightens up. “What you gonna give us if I tell you?”

I square my shoulders. “I'm a real reporter. Not some TV bimbo or crooked fuck at the
National Enquirer
who pays for her stories.” I fold my arms across my chest and wait.

“I could talk to her.” A smaller kid with a baseball cap on sideways says this and gives me a shy smile.

“Shut the fuck up,” the bigger kid says. “I'll tell her. Listen, lady, there is some funky shit that goes on there. I'm talking sex stuff. You come here at eleven at night, this whole street is full of cabs. Everyone who gets out looks like they're starring in a fucking porno or something with big old leather straps up their ass and stuff.” His friends all chuckle. “Some come straight from out of town in those airport vans. They got little suitcases on wheels and shit. I don't know what happens inside. Ain't never been invited in.”

His friends laugh.

“Do you know what time the place opens or closes?”

“Some ­people never leave. I think there are rooms there. Sometimes in the morning ­people come down and go over to the minimart there and buy milk and smokes and shit and go back in. It's some crazy-­ass shit going down inside there, I know that much.”

When he's done, I nod my head and start to leave, but I turn back to the teen in the skullcap.

“What's your name?”

“Tre.”

I hand him one of my cards. “Thanks, Tre. You did me a solid. I won't forget that.”

“Stay cool, Lois Lane.” He tucks my business card into the edge of his hat.

 

Chapter 21

S
OMETIMES
I
WONDER
what I ever did to deserve Donovan. I'm not an easygoing, even-­tempered type of girlfriend. I come with a little more baggage than most.

I am passionate about . . . everything. What I like and don't like. There is little gray in my preferences. I either love or hate. It sometimes is exhausting. Sometimes my passion gets too intense even for me. I blame it on my Italian blood.

Tonight, when I get home, my studio apartment is lit with glowing candles, and U2's “Walk On” is coming out of the speakers. I throw the bag of pork buns on the counter, and we head straight for my bed.

But something is off. I can't figure out if it's him or me. Deep inside, I know it's me. I have a kernel of resentment that is slowly growing. All I can think about is how right now I can't get pregnant, so what's the point of even having sex. I know this is totally crazy thinking, and it fills me with guilt.

Lying in bed later, Donovan traces his finger around my breast and says, “You've lost a lot of weight, haven't you?”

I shrug. “I don't own a scale, remember?” I don't mention that most of my pants are sagging off my hips.

“That's what I love about you,” he says, starting to kiss my hip bone. “A woman who isn't obsessed with her weight.”

He scoots up and props himself on one elbow. “I think you are incredibly sexy whatever weight you are, but this”—­he gestures at my naked body—­“it worries me. I mean like I said, you gun my motor no matter what, but I like my women with a little meat on their bones.”

“Gun your motor? How you like your women? Meat on the bones? When did Mr. Macho Cop show up?” I say, teasing.

His words are interrupted by Dusty's meowing from the bathroom. I've started locking him in there during sex because he freaks Donovan out with his staring. It is sort of unnerving.

“I'll go let the cat out,” I say, getting up.

We eat a European, snack-­type dinner, breaking off hunks of baguette and shoving slices of Gruyère between us, munching on green grapes as Donovan polishes off an old bottle of cabernet sauvignon. I manage to swallow a chunk of bread and several pieces of cheese and feel better. We have pork buns for dessert, and I eat every bite of mine.

I didn't like it when Donovan pointed out I was losing weight. I'm a girl who loves food. I love my curvy body, and I love to eat. It's something that until recently has always brought me pleasure. A small part of me worries over my lack of appetite lately, but I brush it off. I'll never be a toothpick girl on a date, moving around the lettuce on her plate. God forbid. Give me a big plate of pasta, some bread slathered in butter, and a glass of wine, and I'm a happy girl. Maybe not right now, but that is who I am at my core. That can't change. At least I hope it can't.

After we eat, we plop on the couch and watch an old Alfred Hitchcock movie,
Vertigo,
which we've seen at least three times together already.

I know Donovan usually prefers movies with happy endings, but he indulges my love for this movie. I sit up straight when James Stewart (Scottie) and Kim Novak (Madeleine) arrive at the mission in San Juan Bautista. Next time I go there, I'll see if I can get up in the bell tower. I kick myself for not trying when I visited Mrs. Castillo.

Right after the end credits roll, Donovan turns to me.

“How are you?”

“A little sleepy,” I say and yawn.

“No,” he sits up. “I mean, how
are
you?”

I swallow. I know what he means. I've been avoiding this conversation for some reason. I'm not sure why. It's only been a few days since I stumbled onto that scene of carnage, yet it is hard to remember my life before that. So much has happened, and because of Donovan's homicide investigation, we've spent much of the past few days apart. I fill him in on what has happened, including my visit to Mrs. Castillo and being attacked in the Mission apartment. I tell him my theory that Martin is the one who attacked me, that he's supposed to take custody of Lucy a week from Friday, and that I have to stop him. I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction.

His brow furrows. “You were attacked? Jesus Christ, why didn't you tell me earlier?”

I swallow my guilt. “I asked Khoury not to call you. She wanted to. I didn't want to worry you.” It's true. I didn't realize it until now.

“You can't do that to me. You have to tell me what's going on.”

“Okay.” I don't argue. It's something I know I need to work on.

“You really think the military is lying?”

“I know what I saw. It was him.”

I'm instantly defensive, expecting him to tell me my judgment is skewed because of my miscarriage, but he surprises me and leans into me, breathing into my hair.

“Promise me something?”

I pull back and look into his eyes.

“Promise you'll be extra careful investigating this. If the military is lying . . . there must be a reason for it. Something they are trying to hide. This is a dangerous game they're playing, and you might want to consider staying far away.”

I don't answer. I can't promise, so I'm not going to lie.

Later, when we go to bed, I can't fall asleep.

In the dark, I can still feel Lucy in my arms, how she clung to me and wrapped her fingers in my hair. Holding her made me ache with longing for my own child.

Shortly after I found out I was pregnant, I began thinking about my baby girl—­I'm convinced it was a girl—­constantly. I couldn't help but imagine my child's entire lifetime played out in vivid Technicolor. In my mind, I saw her birth, I saw her birthdays, and I imagined her as a young woman graduating from college. This unborn baby had taken on an entire life before she drew her first breath. There were so many hopes and dreams wrapped up in her that I felt her presence in my life even though I had never actually met her.

The life inside me might have been too small to see with the naked eye, yet I'd already seen that child's lifespan from birth to death in my hopes and dreams for her. And when that vision was ripped out of my arms, my world dimmed. And those shadows cling to me.

It's also not the first time this has happened. When I lost my sister and father both in one fell swoop, it took a long time for the colors to return to my world.

It was so easy, stupidly easy, to get pregnant.

But keeping the baby wasn't.

I can't help but worry I'll never be able to have a baby. That I'm being punished for taking a life. Taking two lives.

For long, dreary days, the only light at the end of the tunnel was hitting that three-­month mark—­the time my doctor said we could try again. And my lifeline was clinging to what the doctor said that day in the office. “ . . .
I've told hundreds of women the same thing, and within a year, I've delivered their baby
.”

Last month, my scientifically proven method of getting pregnant should've guaranteed a pregnancy. But it doesn't work like that, does it?

Or maybe it does for everyone but me. Maybe it does for women who are not killers.

Despite what Father Liam says, I will never be able to forgive myself for taking a life. And worse, I'll never be able to forgive myself for knowing that if I had the chance, I would do it again.