Extreme Justice (29 page)

“I don’t—”

“Kung fu dates back to the fifth century B.C. It is a discipline of defense, not offense. It is a way of harmonizing with the universe, not conquering it. It was Lao-tzu, the great Taoist philosopher, who said, ‘The world is ruled by letting things take their course.’ ”

Mike interrupted. “That’s great, Jim. But let’s get on to the—”

“Lao-tzu also said, ‘When nothing is done, nothing is left undone. In the pursuit of Truth, every day something is dropped.’ ”

“Right, right, right. But our time is limited. Cut to the chase.”

Sensai Papadopoulos sighed. “That is the problem with the world today. No one wants philosophy; they just want to get on with the head-bashing.”

“Too true. But I’m only going to be able to sit on my man here so long.”

“Very well. Perhaps we should begin with the forms.”

The forms were a series of traditional postures and positions adopted by the Buddhist monks who first devised kung fu. Some forms were designed to thwart an attack; some were simply used for meditation purposes. Ben never obtained a clear sense of which was which, but it didn’t much matter, because he couldn’t do any of them.

Sensai Papadapoulos started by trying to show him the panther’s crouch.

“You must bend the knees,” he repeated, kicking Ben’s knees in the most vulnerable spots.

“They’re bent already,” Ben snapped.

“They should be bent like you are about to pounce, not like you are about to pass out. Lean back. Raise your arms.”

“What do the arms have to do with it?”

“It’s part of the form.”

“You don’t pounce with your arms.”

“I’m aware of that. But it’s part of the form.”

“I don’t see any reason—”

“It’s been done that way for twenty-five hundred years.”

“But it’s pointless. Why should I do it if it serves no purpose?”

“What are you, a lawyer or something?” The Sensai whipped his head back in time to see Mike wearily nod his head. “That explains a great deal,” he growled. “Now bend your legs.”

Ben managed to complete the form, but he looked more like a man experiencing gastrointestinal difficulties than a crouching panther. Nonetheless, Sensai Papadopoulos decided to move on.

He tried introducing some kicks, but that was even more fruitless. Ben’s kicks wouldn’t have tickled a butterfly, much less crippled an assailant. Every time Sensai Papadopoulos said “Harder,” Ben made a louder grunting noise, but the kick was no more forceful than the one before.

Two hours later, the Sensai had taken Ben through the first ten forms, and none had come out looking half like they were supposed to. Mike called the Sensai over for a brief moment of meditation.

“He’s going to walk soon,” Mike whispered. “What do you think?”

“What do I think? What do you think? He’s hardly ready for the Circle of Fighting.”

“Look, I know you’re supposed to start with the forms and all that, but he’s probably never going to practice what you’ve taught him, and he’s probably never going to come back. Couldn’t you teach him some little flip or something that might help him get out of a scrape?”

“Sure? Why not? I’m sure this is exactly what the Buddhist monks had in mind when they invented kung fu. Helping lawyers out of scrapes!”

Papadopoulos walked over to Ben, who was panting heavily and dripping with sweat. “When you enter the discipline of kung fu,” the Sensai explained, “you must forget your former judgmental concepts of good and bad. You must seek out a higher Truth. Whatever you do is an expression of your inner nature, the Original Face you wore before you were born.”

“That would be kind of a scrunched-up wrinkled face, right?”

Papadopoulos clenched his teeth. “No. But never mind. When you see danger coming toward you, you must forget good and bad, forget true and false. Act, don’t think. Uncover the Original Face.”

“And kick the hell out of ’em?”

Papadopoulos threw up his hands. “Something like that. Here, let me show you a flip.” He turned around and took Ben’s right wrist.

“A flip? What, like in the movies?”

The Sensai ignored him. “The advantage of a flip is that you can use your opponent’s greater strength to your advantage.”

“How do you know my opponent will have greater strength?”

“Just a hunch. Now look. It’s this simple. Your opponent rushes toward you. At the last sparrow’s breath before he arrives, you whirl around, grab his extended arm and, using his own velocity for momentum, flip him over your shoulder.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“It is, if you time it properly. Timing is everything. Timed properly, an insect could flip an elephant. Timed wrong, the opponent will fall on top of you and crush you like a bug.”

“Wonderful.”

“Let’s give it a try.” Papadopoulos walked to the opposite end of the studio, then began moving toward Ben in exaggerated slow-motion. “I am approaching you,” he shouted.

“I know that,” Ben replied.

“What will you do about it?” Too late—the Sensai was nose to nose with Ben.

“No, no, no!” he shouted. “You were supposed to whirl!”

“I knew I forgot something.”

“We’ll do it again. And this time, whirl!”

Sensai Papadopoulos came at him again, this time even slower than before. A few moments before he arrived, Ben whirled around. Papadopoulos thrust his arm over Ben’s shoulder and waited. And waited. And waited.

“Take my arm!” he shouted at last.

“Oh. Right.” Ben took the arm.

“And pull!”

Ben pulled, but nothing happened. “Nothings happening.”

“You’re not pulling hard enough.”

Ben pulled harder.

“Aaarghh!” The Sensai leaped away. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“You told me to pull harder!”

“You’re supposed to use the opponent’s velocity for impetus.”

“You were standing still.”

“I know that!” He waved his hands in the air. “It’s useless. I cannot teach this man!”

Mike stepped forward. “But it’s very important, Jim. He could be killed—”

“Let him be killed then! Survival of the fittest!”

“Now, Jim, calm down.”

“I will not calm down. And I will not continue this waste of my life.”

“I was hoping you could give Ben some serious training.”

“You can’t train cannon fodder!” Papadopoulos marched to the back of the studio and disappeared into a private office, slamming the door behind him.

Ben stood in the center of the studio. “So,” he said, “how do you think I did?”

Neither Mike nor Christina felt moved to respond.

A
S SOON AS BEN
escaped from the Chinese Boxing Institute, he headed south toward the Memorial Heights Condos. His eyes widened as he drove his van through the restricted entry gate. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised—what was he expecting, after all? He wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t this.

He pulled into the parking lot and slowed, checking the doors until he saw number 22. It was a two-story condo with a wood and white plaster, faux-Tudor exterior. Ivy crept up the walls surrounded by assorted greenery Ben couldn’t begin to identify. They were very attractive condos—well-kept, exclusive and expensive.

Which was what was bothering him, Ben realized, as he climbed out of the van and ambled toward the weathered steps that led to the front door. He hadn’t expected Scat to be living anyplace half so nice. He had expected something, well, grungier. Scat was, after all, a jazz musician—one who had been making the rounds for a long time. Where was the two-bit rooming house with the grumpy alcoholic matron, the buzzing blinking red light, the rummies draped across the stairs? This place looked like it catered more to suit-and-tie types than musicians.

Well, he was probably being ridiculous. The influence of too much bad TV. If Scat had been a professional musician for thirty or forty years, there was no reason he couldn’t have saved enough money to afford a decent place to live.

He rang the doorbell. The response was a nine-note chime.

Ben smiled. He recognized the familiar opening riff from Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue
. This must be the right place.

He heard some shuffling on the other side of the door. He knew someone was there, but it was taking him an eternity to answer.

A few moments later, Scat opened the door. “Ah, Ben, my man. You’re early.”

Ben nodded. “I found your place sooner than I expected. Following directions normally isn’t my strong suit. Is this all right?”

“Sure, sure.” He was trying to seem relaxed and at ease—trying a bit too hard, Ben thought. “Come on in.”

Ben entered the condo. The interior did not disappoint; it was every bit as impressive as the exterior had suggested. The furniture was all top quality, if ordinary. Two plush sofas flanked the living room. There was no coffee table, though Ben saw small round indentations in the carpet that suggested there had been one in the past. The kitchen was modern, lots of open spaces and white, and equipped with many snazzy appliances, including a cappuccino maker.

And there was a porch with a panoramic view of the city. “Do you mind?” Ben asked.

Scat shook his head. “Please do.”

Ben opened the sliding door and stepped out. He hadn’t noticed coming in, but the condos were constructed on the edge of Shadow Mountain. From this perspective, the whole city seemed to be at his fingertips.

“That’s spectacular,” Ben said.

“You should see it at sunset,” Scat replied. “It’ll stop your heart.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Some of the best music I’ve ever played came out right here on this porch, drinking in the sweet sights and sounds and smells of the city.” He turned toward Ben. “Would you like to stay out here?”

“Sure.”

Scat pulled over two deck chairs and gestured for Ben to sit.

“Now,” Scat said, “what’s so important it couldn’t wait till we all get back together in the club tonight?”

“It’s about the murder,” Ben said. “Murders, actually.”

“Murders? There’s been another one?”

“A long time ago. Twenty-two years to be exact.”

“Oh.” Scat’s face became grave. “You’re talking about Professor Hoodoo.”

“I’m told you knew Earl and the Professor—George Armstrong.”

“ ’Course I did. I played with both those boys. We were considered the best blowers in the business. Some said the best on all of God’s green earth. They even compared us to Charlie Parker.”

“And you were still around when the Professor was killed.”

Scat lowered his head. “That’s true. I was there.”

“And you knew Lily Campbell?”

“Oh, yes.” A soft smile played on his lips. “Everyone knew the Cajun Lily. And everyone loved her. She could do things to a song no one else ever even thought about doin’. Ever dreamed about doin’.” He looked up. “We were all four in Oklahoma City, as I recall, playing the Double-Deuce Festival, when the trouble came down.”

“I’ve been told Lily and the Professor were … dating?”

“I probably wouldn’ta used that word, son, but you’ve got the right idea. They were definitely together.”

“But Earl also had a thing for Lily.”

“Like I said, everyone loved Lily.”

“I heard there was some … unpleasantness between them.”

“There was always unpleasantness between Earl and the Professor. That was just the way it was. They were both so good, so strong. Music lived and breathed in their souls. There were bound to be complications. Hell, they never hammered out a number together but what they didn’t end up screamin’ and shoutin’ at each other. And if it wasn’t the music, it was women. And if it wasn’t women, it was booze.” He paused, drew in his breath. “And if it wasn’t booze, it was junk.”

Ben listened intently. This was quite a different account of the two men’s relationship than the one he’d gotten from Earl. “Junk?”

“Drugs, son. Sweet white snow.”

“Apparently the Professor had a drug problem.”

“I suppose that’s what you’d call it today. Nobody saw it like that back then, though. We just thought it was a way for the Professor to escape. Maybe the only one he had.”

“Escape what?”

Scat drew in his breath. “You gotta understand what it was like, hearing the Professor play. It’s like you’ve lived your whole life thinkin’ you’re just an ordinary mortal, and suddenly, you hear the Professor work his axe and you think—my God! There must be something more! I must be some kinda angel or somethin’, ’cause this is absolutely for goddamn certain the music of the gods I’m hearin’! That’s what the Professor could do for you.”

“I wish I could’ve heard him,” Ben replied. “Earl said he never made any recordings.”

“That’s right. Never even had his picture taken, that anyone knows of. Once he was gone, he was all the way gone.”

“That’s a tragedy.”

“More than that, son.” Scat sank lower into his chair. “It was the end of an era. Thanks to the Professor, we all had a chance to glimpse somethin’ better than ourselves.” He paused thoughtfully. “But after he was gone, well, so were all those dreams, those possibilities. Without him, we were mere mortals again. Absolutely ordinary, workaday mortals.”

The porch fell silent. “It must’ve been tough on you,” Ben finally ventured. “When the Professor died.”

“It was. But that’s not what I was talkin’ about. The Professor was gone a long time before he died.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was the junk, boy. When he started with it, he thought it would squelch the pain. Let him focus on his music. But it didn’t work that way. All those stories about people creatin’ great art or havin’ brilliant ideas when they’re high—it’s just crap. Ain’t possible. May seem brilliant at the time, but when you’re cold sober, you realize it’s crap. And meanwhile the junk is killin’ your body. Eatin’ away at your soul.”

“Is that what happened to the Professor?”

Scat nodded. “ ’Stead of helpin’ him, it hurt him bad. He was losin’ the music ’cause he couldn’t shake the habit. That’s what he and Earl fought about most of the time. It wasn’t Lily, least not till the bitter end. It was the music. Earl tried everythin’. He dried the man out, learned his songs and played them so they wouldn’t be lost. He tried to save the man before he lost his music to the smack. But he couldn’t do it.”