Bishop crossed the alcove and stepped into the divider's doorway. He leaned against the wood frame and watched the kata. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was wearing his ironic smile too. He held his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He watched as the seven bully boys spun and blocked and shouted. Their eyes were blazing with focus. Their expressions were set and grim.
As the kata wore on, Bishop's gaze wandered. First, he looked to the far side of the room. There was a door there, in the right corner. That was the door he wanted.
When he was done considering the door, he looked up casually at the dojo's walls. They were decorated with weapons: samurai swords, a couple of the long staffs called bo s, a couple of the long knives called sai s. There were some num-chucks, some whip chains, some throwing stars. And there was one particularly vicious-looking Chinese broadsword, its keen, flat silver blade curling almost like a scimitar, a black-and-scarlet cloth hanging from its pommel.
Bishop admired the array. He had fooled around a little with samurai swords in his youth. He tried to remember the Japanese words for the various parts of them and the various classifications. The cutting edge of the blade was called the ha, he remembered, and the part that went into the handle was called the tang. There were the long ones, daito, and the short ones… which was a longer word. Most of the rest of what he'd taught himself escaped him now. Still, he liked the look of them. He'd always thought that Zen Japanese warrior-type shit was cool.
Another loud " Keeyai! " brought his attention back to the room. The men were on the kata's final leg, a flurry of sliding steps and blocks and blows that carried the seven black belts as one from the rear wall toward their images in the long mirror that lined the wall in front. As Bishop watched them, his smile grew distant; his eyes grew blurred and dreamy. That cold, steely edge that sometimes gleamed in his core gleamed now.
The kata ended. In a single motion, the seven men pulled back from a final punch, drawing their extended legs under them, bringing their hands together. They bowed once in unison. Then they stood erect, two rows of three and the man in front, their elbows raised, their hands together before their faces, the right hand, the male hand, a fist, planted in the left, open, female hand.
After a long moment, the lead man broke the stance and turned to face Bishop.
Bishop looked the man over. He was a big, evil chuckle-head. A white guy, approximately the size of Denver. He had short blond hair and stupid eyes and a vague pharmaceutical smile. He had a voice so deep it sounded like an earth tremor. His muscles filled his gi like rocks in a canvas sack.
"Help you, brother?" he rumbled.
Bishop went on leaning against the door frame. He nodded slowly. His own smile was friendly and dangerous. "My name's Jim Bishop," he said. "I'm here to see the Frenchman."
That got an instant reaction, not just from the evil chucklehead but from his six bully boy pals as well. The chucklehead gaped in surprise. Then he guffawed in surprise, his massive shoulders jerking up and down. The six others, though they were standing rigid at attention, started laughing, too, after a second, their locked hands quivering in front of them.
Bishop stayed as he was, leaning against the door frame. That cold edge gleamed at his core, and a sort of bright metallic singing started up all through him, as if that inner edge were a sword blade whistling endlessly through the air. If he had been thinking anything, anything in words, the words would've been: Here we go. But he was not thinking anything. He was just leaning there, smiling, waiting for it.
The Denver-sized leader of the pack stopped laughing. Slowly, the laughter of the others faded too. The chucklehead glared at Bishop with his stupid eyes. "What Frenchman?" he said grimly. "I never heard of him."
Bishop breathed out sharply once through his nose. "That's funny. Thanks-a chuckle always brightens up my day. But listen, I'm pressed for time. You're a flunky-go flunk yourself upstairs and tell that gun-running Belgian prick I'm coming up to see him."
At this, all signs of laughter-all signs that he had ever laughed at all-vanished from the evil white Denver-sized chucklehead's face. "What're you, looking for a fight?"
"No, that's close, very good. I am looking for something. But I'm looking for the fucking Frenchman. Now, either you tell him I'm here, or I walk up and surprise him."
"Or we cram your head up your ass and use you for a hula hoop," came a soft, snaky voice from the assembled bully boys.
That got another murmur of laughter out of them. Bishop turned his head their way. He could tell right off which one of them was the wiseass. Big Asian or maybe half-Asian kung-fu type. Burly yellow fucker with a big round face, long stringy hair, and a sort of modified Fu Manchu mustache blossoming out of his stubble. He stood loose at the hips, his bowling-ball fist lightly punching into the maw of his open hand. He had his eyes to the side, watching Bishop. He grinned broadly.
"Oops," he said, "did I say that out loud?"
Bishop grinned back at him. "You did, in fact, yeah. And if you speak out of turn again, I'm gonna make you write 'I'm sorry' a hundred times on your body cast."
That doused the murmur of laughter like a bucket of water douses flame. A sort of collective growl rose from the assembled bully-boy multitude. Fu Manchu's grin froze on his face.
"Oops," Bishop added. "Did I say that out loud?"
Fu Manchu's eyes narrowed. His hands came down slowly to his sides. But it was the evil white Denver-sized chucklehead who moved first. Hooking his thumbs in his black belt, he swaggered over toward Bishop on bowed muscle-bound legs.
"Uh-oh," one of the bully boys murmured.
Bishop, even with that bright metallic blade whistling through the core of him, thought pretty much the same thing. He straightened off the door frame as the chucklehead came to a stop in front of him. Smiling, the two men stared death at each other.
This staring-death business went on for some long silent time. The chucklehead seemed to be waiting for Bishop to try something. But Bishop stood relaxed, his jacket over his shoulder, and made no move.
Finally, the chucklehead snorted. "Listen, shit for brains. You're too skinny to kill for food and too stupid to kill for fun, so why don't you just get the fuck out of here before you start to piss me off. Awright?"
And having offered this helpful hint, he started to turn away, to turn his back on Bishop.
This was an important moment. It was a long way to that door across the room. Bishop knew that if he tried for it, this bunch would swarm him and bring him down. He knew he needed to goad one of them into a man-on-man confrontation if he was going to bluff his way across without getting gang-stomped. In order to do that, he needed to impress them with the fact that he was worthy of such a fight. And this was the moment in which he would or would not.
Because the chucklehead was only pretending to turn away, of course. Another second and he would wheel oh so unexpectedly and put a move on Bishop, probably a punch to the face or the solar plexus. If it was a fake punch and Bishop flinched, he would lose the manhood cred he needed to get the confrontation going. If it was a real punch and he didn't get the hell out of the way-well, the confrontation would be over before it began.
Bishop decided to stand fast and hope the punch was a fake. He didn't have to wait long to find out. The evil chuckle-head was now finished pretending to turn around. Oh so unexpectedly, he spun back and drove one of those vicious corkscrew karate fists directly at Bishop's mouth.
But Bishop had guessed right. The punch stopped just short-about a quarter inch short-of connecting. Which left the unflinching Bishop standing with his smile intact and his jacket still over his shoulder, looking very steely-eyed and cool, indeed.