Naked Tao (16 page)

“Give up self-improvement and embrace yourself.” - Ch’ing

Dragon Gate Motorcycle Club was formed after World War II by a couple of fighter pilots. They were joined by other servicemen who got a taste of the world in their fight against the evil empire and still weren’t ready to settle down. Like the cowboy migration in the 1800’s, they mounted their iron horses and hit the trail.  Their only goal was to explore the land of the free and home of the brave. 

The club had its ups and downs over the years. In the 1960’s an over-zealous prosecutor looking to advance his political career fabricated a case against one of their members. It resulted in a high profile prosecution that was, eventually, withdrawn for lack of evidence.  It had left a bitter taste in their mouths. 

The incident also created a public perception that motorcycle clubs are infested with violent criminals. Hollywood made a few movies about bikers that reinforced the public perception that they are dangerous outlaws. 

Of course, some bikers really are thugs who do nothing to dispel the outlaw myth. Instead, they use it to intimidate others and very few are willing to show them any disrespect. Of all the biker clubs, Dragon Gate had the worst reputation. The menacing group that now surrounded me certainly lived up to it. 

The ragtag group of bikers standing in front of me thought that I had killed the president of their motorcycle club. If not handled well, somebody was going to get hurt, and it would likely be me. 

Most martial arts make a show of being hard, strong, and fast.  By contrast, Tai Chi is calm, centered, and peaceful.  It is a mystery to most people how something so peaceful-looking can be used for self-defense purposes. Yet, in ancient China, it was revered as one of the most effective fighting styles. So what is the secret? 

I first learned the secret of Tai Chi on my sixteenth birthday when Ch’ing tossed me the keys to his car and said, “Let’s try out that new learner’s permit.” 

I jumped at the opportunity to get a driving lesson. A license is everything to a teenage boy. Without one, dating is impossible. Thinking we’d start slow, I asked, “Are we going to stay in the neighborhood?” 

“Head to the Interstate,” he answered. 

I felt my stomach flop. I’m not sure what I expected, but Ch’ing told me to relax and not overreact. “Just point it between the lines, Grant. If you remember to make small adjustments, then you’ll be okay.” 

Gulping, I backed down the driveway and did what he said. I figured he’d offer more driving instruction, but instead, he talked about his life in the monastery. 

“Once a year, the old monks descend the mountain with food, wine, and medicine,” Ch’ing said. “First, they tend to the sick. Afterwards, they throw a huge party for the villagers, entertaining them with stories and martial arts demonstrations.” 

“I wish I could watch them do Kung Fu,” I said. “Ch’ing, what is the ultimate martial art?” 

Without hesitation he answered, “Tai Chi.” 

“Yea, right,” I said. “It’s so slow. How could anyone fight with that stuff?  I mean, it’s for old men, isn’t it?” 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he said we needed gas and told me to take the next exit.  Ch’ing went inside to pay as I began pumping fuel into his old convertible Cadillac. 

For the first time, I gave our surroundings a good look. It was a very rough area.  The streets were empty. All the other businesses looked closed.  Most of the buildings in the immediate area were boarded. Vacant structures were covered in gang graffiti. The convenience store windows were covered with bars.  I realized this was a very scary place. 

As I surveyed my surroundings, I saw something move in the shadows. I couldn’t quite make it out at first. Slowly, a sinister figure emerged and took shape.  His face was hidden by a hooded sweatshirt.  He paused for what seemed like an eternity, and then began to move in my direction. 

I did not like the looks of this at all. I felt my heart start pounding and I couldn’t catch my breath. My blood pressure increased a notch with each menacing step. By the time he stopped a few feet in front of me, I was in a full blown fight or flight state. 

Time slowed. Sweat trickled down the small of my back. He shifted his feet and mumbled something unintelligible. It was a strange garbled sound. I wasn’t even sure it was speech. So much information can be gained about a person in just a few sentences. If you listen carefully, you can read their intentions. I learned nothing from the garbled sounds coming from him. I was frozen.  I waited. 

I tried to see his face…read his eyes and expression.  Even at close range, his face was still obscured. He was like a shadow and it totally creeped me out.  He spoke again. I still didn’t understand him. This time I responded, but my voice cracked before coming out high and sharp. Damn, I didn’t mean to do that. 

He snorted in disgust and reached for his pocket. He was going for a weapon. My only chance was to hit him hard and fast. I was a split second away from attacking when I heard Ch’ing say in a warm friendly voice, “What can we do for you friend?” 

Ch’ing had appeared out of nowhere. He quietly sided up to the stranger and put his arm around him. His manner was friendly. The embrace was warm. He used the connection to trap the mugger’s arm against his body. The hand reaching for the weapon was immobilized in the thug’s pocket. Ch’ing’s smile never wavered. His kindness was genuine. His control of the situation was absolute. 

The shadow turned to look at Ch’ing.  For the first time, I could see the mugger’s face. It quickly shifted from hatred to shock and confusion.  Ch’ing’s appearance had been so unexpected. His lighthearted and friendly demeanor was equally astonishing. 

As I processed this unexpected turn of events, I witnessed the most amazing transformation. Slowly, the mugger’s face changed until it mirrored Ch’ing’s warmth and friendliness. He visibly relaxed. His eyes began to twinkle just like my teacher’s. Ch’ing repeated his question. This time more softly, “What can we do to help you friend?” 

After handing him a couple of cigarettes, Ch’ing gave him a pat on the back and sent him off into the night. His parting words were, “Be careful my friend. It can be dangerous out there.” 

We climbed into the car and started for home. Neither of us spoke for a while. I was thinking about what could have happened and my hands started shaking. I needed to talk about it so I asked Ch’ing, “What happened back there?” 

“Tai Chi lesson,” he answered. 

“Lesson?” 

“It’s easy to hurt people,” said Ch’ing. “That takes little skill. The greater skill is to diffuse aggression without causing harm. The best way to do that is to win the fight before it begins. “Nip it in the bud,” to quote your great American philosopher, Barney Fife.” 

“I don’t understand,” I said. “That wasn’t a fight.” 

He looked at me and said softly, “Then, why are your hands still shaking.” 

I thought I had hidden it. I should have known better. Ch’ing doesn’t miss anything. I knew better than to give him a bullshit answer. 

“I thought he was going to kill me,” I said. “It scared me.” 

Ch’ing patted me on the shoulder. 

“You did good,” said Ch’ing. “You stood in the face of danger and didn’t overreact.” 

More honesty from me, “The truth is I was about to punch him when you appeared out of nowhere.” 

“The better strategy is to embrace rather than destroy,” replied Ch’ing.

“How do I do that?” I asked. 

“Join energy at the onset of conflict,” said Ch’ing. 

“Huh?” 

“Never run from conflict,” said Ch’ing. “Enter a dangerous situation and lead the attacker to safety. That is true martial mastery. Anything else falls short of the objective of an enlightened master.” 

That’s exactly what Ch’ing did. If I had not seen it for myself, I would have thought he was talking about an unrealistic philosophy. 

“Can you teach me Tai Chi?” I asked. 

“Tai Chi is for living,” said Ch’ing. “It is about balance. The symbol people call the yin-yang symbol is a graphic representation of Tai Chi. It depicts opposites in balance.  Opposites need each other. Light does not exist except in relationship to dark. Good and evil define one another. Grant, did you think that young man at the gas station was evil?” 

“I thought he was bad guy,” I confessed. 

Ch’ing pressed, “Do you wish there was no bad in the world, Grant?” 

I answered without thinking. “Yes, I do. Then, we would have a perfect world, don’t you think?” 

Ch’ing shook his head. “Good and bad define each other. If bad ceases to exist, then, so does good. When good and bad are out of balance, our life is filled with turmoil. The goal is to embrace life as it is. It does no good wishing things were different.  If you can manage this, then you will be able to smile in the face of danger.” 

I was brought back to the present by a low growl.  Ole’ George was waiting for an answer to his question. He thought I was Tiny’s killer. As I looked into his eyes, I saw his pain. I know what it feels like to lose someone you love. I didn’t know if he would believe me, but it was time to tell him what happened. 

“I found Tiny in a pool of blood,” I said. “I did everything I could to save him, but…I’m sorry you lost your friend, man.” 

Ole’ George studied me long and hard before reaching around to his low back. Remembering Ch’ing’s lesson, I resisted the temptation to spring for his throat. It was the right decision. Ole’ George pulled out a bottle of Angel’s Envy, slowly opened it, took a long draw, and then, offered the bourbon to me. 

It seemed a strange choice of bourbon for a tough guy. Angel’s Envy comes in an unusually shaped bottle, patterned after angel’s wings. Bourbon is aged for several years. Each year, during the aging process, a small percentage evaporates from the barrel and is lost to the angels. Angel’s Envy is the share that the angels would like to have had. 

Even though I had just had breakfast, it somehow seemed to fit the moment, so solemnly I took a drink. It was the strangest communion I ever shared. 

Bourbon burns as it slides down the throat, but Angel’s Envy burns more softly than most. It is smooth, very smooth whiskey. Instead of fighting the burn, I embraced it and let it send my thoughts back to race days at Church Hill Downs and my dad, whom I’d also lost. 

My dad had loved the track, but not because he was gambler. Dad loved the horses. For me, a day at the track was a day filled with the smell of bourbon, cigars, and horse manure. It was something we did together and bourbon always reminded me of those happy days. 

After the Angel’s burn subsided and I returned to the present moment, I handed the bottle back to Ole’ George. Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any weirder, my hand touched Ole George’s on the bottle of Angels’ Envy and he said, “It’s a good day to die.” 

And that’s when the phone finally rang. 

“Your center is the commander and chief of all movement.” – Ch’ing

Disrespecting a Dragon is never a good idea, but the most important thing at that moment was the phone call. Tiny was dead. Ginny might end up that way too, if I didn’t take the call. 

I looked at Ole’ George and said, “I’m sorry your friend is dead, but I am taking this call. It’s a matter of life or death.” 

As I dug a hand into my pocket, the biker scowled and spat an ugly green mess at my feet. That wasn’t the reaction I hoped for, but now he was starting to piss me off. 

“Someone I care about was abducted,” I said. “I think it was Tiny’s killer who took her.” 

I didn’t wait for his permission. Instead, I answered the phone hoping to hear Ginny’s voice. I was disappointed. It was the same voice that had forced its way onto the line earlier. Androgynous, is the best description of the voice I heard…not masculine or feminine...neutral. 

“They’re going to kill you, you know,” said the caller. 

“Maybe,” I said. 

“It would save me the trouble of doing it myself, but I need to talk to you first.” 

“I’m not talking to you until I know Ginny is okay,” I said. 

“Patience grasshopper,” said the caller. 

“Do you still have Ginny?” I demanded. 

“There’s an abandoned warehouse on West Market near the Shawnee Expressway,” said the voice. “Bring the monk and be there in an hour. If you’re one minute late…she dies. If you call the police, she dies.” 

“If you hurt her I will kill you,” I said. 

The caller paused before answering, “If you want this pretty little thing to live, find a way to stay alive.” 

That was it. The call abruptly ended. Sometime during the brief call the Dragons had pulled weapons and moved a step closer. Ole’ George was pointing a .44 Magnum at me. Why do the little guys always carry the biggest guns? It was almost as big as him. He was maybe 5’7” and couldn’t have weighed more than 130 pounds, soaking wet. 

Ms. Dom brandished the cat o’ nines. The crack of her whip added a surreal sound to the scene. The Amazon held her knife commando-style. Mr. Braids was pointing a Glock at my chest. The tip of the barrel was all I could see of the gun in King Kong’s massive hands. 

I needed to convince them I wasn’t Tiny’s killer, but, when I opened my mouth to speak, Ole’ George shook his head and pulled the .44’s hammer. That’s when a red dot appeared on the first knuckle of his forefinger. Someone had him dead in his sights, and I knew that someone had to be Uncle Jim. 

Ole’ George saw it and muttered, “What the…” 

The laser dot quickly moved to Ole’ George’s heart and, then, to his right eye. But, it didn’t rest there. In a flash, it moved to King Kong’s forehead and, then, to Amazon’s chest. The red dot never stopped. It continued dancing from target to target. 

“Uncle Jim was a marine sniper,” I said casually. “If you lay down your weapons he might be willing to tell you about the time he snuck into Pakistan and singlehandedly took out an Al-Qaeda cell.” 

Surprisingly, it was Ms. Dom who showed the first signs of submission. I guess she figured a whip wasn’t much use against a sniper rifle. Or maybe, she had a streak of sub deep inside of her that was dying to get out. Either way, Ole’ George was having none of it. 

He glared at me and said in a voice loud enough for Uncle Jim to hear, “Man, I ain’t leaving nothing on the table. I’m gonna use every bit until there ain’t nothing left of me. Not a damn thing for any of you fucking buzzards. One minute Ole’ George will be here and then poof I’ll be gone. That’s cuz I’ll be all used up. So, just try to shoot me motherfucker before I put a golf ball size hole in pretty boy’s chest.” 

Let me tell you what folks…Ole’ George is one crazy dude. I knew at that moment, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he was going to get a bunch of us killed. 

Just when it seemed like my death was imminent, I was granted a reprieve. It was the sound of a Harley that provided a moment of respite. It’s like biker catnip. They can’t seem to get enough of it. No matter what they are doing, they pause and turn their attention toward an approaching bike. 

Unlike the bikers, I never once took my eyes off Ole’ George. Ch’ing had taught me well and I knew better than to let anything distract me from a threat. It wasn’t until the rider pulled into my field of vision that I recognized the bike. 

Eric is one of those guys who wear a smile like it’s their favorite pair of jeans. Comfortable, may be the best way to describe it. He wasn’t smiling as he backed the Road King next to the other motorcycles, dropped the kick stand and dismounted. 

Ch’ing did his best to teach Eric that fighting is never the solution to a problem, but Eric loves a good fight. A few years ago, he was confronted by four muggers as he and Kinsey were leaving a bar. Eric grinned and said something to Kinsey about how much fun it was going to be.  When she rolled her eyes and yawned, the muggers fled. 

I figured this situation was going to escalate now that Eric was here, but he surprised me. Instead of displaying his usual macho attitude, he walked straight to Ole’ George, placed himself between me and the gun, and gave him a warm hug. 

Ole’ George laid his head on Eric’s chest and began crying. At first it was just a tear slipping down his cheek, but then it turned to sobs. Eric didn’t say a word. He just held him. 

When Ole’ George was cried out, Eric finally said, “I can’t imagine the pain of losing the love of your life, my friend.” 

That started another round of tears. Not just for Ole’ George, but all of the biker’s had tears in their eyes. It only lasted a minute or so before King Kong realized he was crying in front of strangers.  Looking thoroughly embarrassed, he wiped his eyes with the back of his gun hand and pulled himself together. One by one the others did the same. 

“You all need to put your weapons away,” said Eric. 

Ole’ George nodded and slipped the Dirty Harry cannon into his waistband. I’ve never understood why someone would want to point the barrel of a gun toward their junk. The rest of the bikers followed his lead and stashed their weapons in various nooks and crannies. 

“Tell me, my friend, why you were pointing that cannon at Grant,” said Eric. 

“A friend on the force told me his prints were on the murder weapon, his and some chick’s,” said Ole’ George. 

The Amazon jabbed her thumb at me and said, “He doesn’t think a chick could ever take Tiny out, so, it had to be him. Especially, since he was trained by the same guy who taught you to fight.” 

“The chick’s name is Kim Slotter,” I said. “She’s ex-special forces and a serious bad-ass.” 

I pulled up my shirt and pointed to the knife wound. “It’s just a scratch, but she cut me when I found her in Tiny’s office,” I said. “Same with the bullet wound next to it. There was a shooting at the Center and I caught a bullet.” 

“Show them the truck,” said Uncle Jim. 

I had no idea Uncle Jim was right behind me. For a guy with a cane, he can move like a cat when he needs to. The truck had been parked on the street in front of my apartment when the swat team arrested me, but there it sat in the driveway. The back glass was shattered and the tail gate sported three bullet holes. 

“There was a second shooting in the parking garage lot at the Kentucky Center,” I said. Nodding in Padma’s direction, I continued, “Somebody wants us dead. It’s starting to look like they may have hired Slotter to do the job.  Ginny was kidnapped and they are holding her hostage at a warehouse out by the Shawnee Parkway. If Padma and I don’t get there soon, they are going to kill Ginny.” 

Gil spoke up for the first time and asked, “Is she the one who gave me the ring and then walked out on you?” 

“Yes, that’s her,” I answered. 

“I like her and am not going to let someone hurt her,” said Gil. “She may have just saved your life. Let him go, George.” 

Ole’ George nodded. “Okay, but Slotter is mine,” said Ole’ George. “I’ll show the bitch what a bad ass is.” 

I pulled Eric aside and said, “This guy is a loose cannon. He could get Ginny killed.” 

“I know Grant, but you’ll never convince him to stay behind,” said Eric. “Let’s find a way to make him an asset.” 

“I got a bad feeling about this, Eric.” 

“Ah, don’t sweat it man,” said Eric. “It’ll be fun. So, what’s the plan, buddy?” 

I didn’t have a plan, so, what I said was, “We’re going to do whatever it takes to rescue Ginny.” 

Eric grinned at me and said, “I like it.” 

“We could use the bikers as a diversion,” I said. 

“Now were getting somewhere,” said Eric.  “While the bad guys focus on the bikers, Uncle Jim can slip in and position himself at a strategic location with his sniper rifle.” 

“Time is not on our side right now,” said Uncle Jim. “It’s time to move out. Grant, I need to speak with you for a minute before we leave?” 

As the bikers rode off in a thunder with Eric trailing them, Uncle Jim pulled me aside.  Looking a little uncomfortable, he said, “I just wanted to say, I love you, son. Be safe.” 

This was so unexpected. I know he loves me, but he’s never actually said it. I was choked up and tried to respond, but he waved it off as he walked away. 

I was still recovering from the shock as Uncle Jim backed his classic 1963 Corvette Sting Ray out of the garage. It’s the model with the split rear window, and it’s in pristine condition. Uncle Jim had it painted a beautiful candy apple red and usually only takes it out for an occasional Sunday drive or other special occasions. I guess he figured this was a special occasion. 

Padma’s eyes bugged out of his head when he saw the car. Uncle Jim smiled and asked, “Padma, do you want to ride with me?” 

“Slotter is expecting me and Padma,” I said. “He has to ride with me.” 

It might be the only time I’ve seen Padma show disappointment as Bird hopped from his shoulder and took his spot in the passenger seat. That surprised all of us, and I think Uncle Jim was about to tell him to get out of his car when Bird glared at him. Bird’s glare is not something you take lightly and Uncle Jim knew it. So he shrugged, fired up the 360 horse power V-8, and followed the bikes out of the neighborhood. 

Time was running out on Ginny. Padma and I hurried to the truck, but when I turned the key, nothing happened. I tried again and still nothing. The truck was dead in the water. Shit, we had no way to get there.