Death Before Dishonor Page 10

  “Everything okay?” Francesca asked, losing interest in the dead chicken finally.

  “Oh, nice of you to show up,” Pat said.

  Francesca cocked her head and smiled sourly. “Where’s this place at?”

  Pat pointed to one o’clock. “Right there.”

  “What’s this place’s M-O?”

  “Not sure. This is my first time here too.”

  Francesca’s face became frosty. Pat didn’t pay any attention as he opened the center console and grabbed his wallet. He opened the door and climbed out. “Let’s go, team.”

  Francesca exited the vehicle and opened the passenger door to let Yuri out. She commented that Terry shouldn’t take his time. Then she shut the door and moved to the front of the vehicle, where Pat was waiting.

  “What’s gotten into that boy today?” Pat was referring to Terry. “I need you and your attitude to get out of the car, Terenzio. We don’t have all day.”

  “The question that should be asked,” Francesca said, straightening Pat’s collar, “is what has gotten into you?”

  Pat shook his head. “Nothing. Why?”

  She looked into his face, unconvinced. “You seem a little edgier than usual.”

  “Nope—I’m good, hun.” Pat watched Terry’s feet finally hit the ground, and he was turning to shut the door. “For crying out loud, Terry, c’mon.” Terry slammed the door and hurried to his parents. Pat was none too happy. “Do we slam doors?” Pat asked. It wasn’t a question.

  “Pat?”

  He acknowledged her.

  “Give it a rest. He didn’t mean it.”

  Pat nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Francesca gripped Terry’s shoulder. “Walk, honey,” she said tenderly. “Mind your father and watch your manners, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Terry said before starting off after Pat.

  Francesca held Yuri’s hand as they approached. She mimicked Pat’s scrutiny of the building and the area that it occupied, looking for the things that were drawing his interest. The edifice that Pat claimed was their destination had no sign nor street address, and it looked weary and run-down.

  The toe of Yuri’s shoe became lodged in a crack of the unkept sidewalk, and splat, he was on his chest, face down and crying. Francesca cursed and demanded that Pat pick him up.

  “C’mere, fireplug,” Pat grunted, scooping Yuri off the ground and wiping the dirt from the raspberry spot that had appeared on his cheek. “It’s all good, son,” Pat said, trying to settle Yuri with a hug. “Falls happen. You’re okay.” Pat heaved Yuri onto his shoulder and pulled the door open, gesturing for his wife and Terry to go first. Francesca stopped to wipe tears from Yuri’s face, but Pat urged her to leave Yuri be and go inside.

  Just then, a middle-aged Japanese man dressed in an exquisite suit and mirrored shades and flanked on both sides by two young, brash-looking Japanese males who were equally dressed to kill but in a more urban fashion that showed off their heavily tattooed arms, forced his way out of the door, nearly knocking Francesca and Terry over. Francesca was outraged and let the men know it animatedly. The two younger men moved threateningly in between Francesca and the older Japanese man. She didn’t appear the least bit intimidated as she continued to curse them loudly—her brothers were twice the size of these punks.

  Pat put Yuri down and rushed in between the men and his wife. Then Pat recognized the man. “Mr. Oharu?”

  “Patrizio! How unexpected!” Oharu said.

  “Well, I came to check out the karate school you recommended.”

  “I see you have taken my advice, then. Splendid!” Oharu then barked at the younger men in Japanese, and their postures slackened. “I think you will find something special here. I assume this beauty is your wife?”

  “Yes, sir, it—I mean, she is.”

  “It is a grand pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mrs. Ciccone,” Oharu said, bowing his head slightly.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” she replied hostilely.

  There was loud “hai!” from the door, and all heads snapped in the direction. Another middle-aged Japanese man, perhaps in his late forties with a full head of hair, dressed in modest robes and bare feet, stood in the doorway. He had a ruddy, harsh face with a jagged scar running the length of the right side, his neck sloped to his shoulder, and he was broad across the chest. The man stood there in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back. He barked something else.

  The younger men eyed him knowingly. One spoke as if defending his position. The man in doorway cut him off with a grave tone. Then he looked towards the exquisitely dressed older man and barked something else. The exquisitely dressed man spoke in a tone that had little regard. The man in the door barked some more, and the younger men swaggered away.

  “Well, this is indeed awkward. I really must go. Patrizio—warm regards.” Oharu said, scurrying off behind the younger men.

  Pat and Francesca watched them leave and then turned to the man in the doorway.

  “Konichiwa,” the man said with a nod, his eyes searching the Ciccones suspiciously.

  “Konichiwa,” Pat replied, alternatingly watching Oharu depart and looking at the man in the doorway.

  The man asked Pat a question; his voice was soft but exacting. Pat’s expression flattened, and he looked back at Francesca, who simply shrugged. Pat returned his attention to the man and smiled weakly. The man’s brow rose as if to say he were unimpressed.

  Then Pat remembered that Terry spoke Japanese. “Terry, what did this gentleman just say?”

  Terry peeked out from behind his mother. “He asked if we were lost, Dad.”

  Pat shook his head. “No—tell him no. We’re not lost; we’re looking for a school.”

  Terry translated his father’s words into Japanese for the man. The man looked intrigued. He spoke to Terry, who responded to the man’s words rather quickly.

  “He says this is a school and wants to know if you’re looking for it,” Terry relayed.

  “Tell him that I was referred to a school here.”

  “Dad, I don’t know how to say referred.”

  “For Christ’s sake, just tell him that someone told us to come here,” Pat said impatiently.

  Terry did, and then he said, “He wants to know who told you to come here.”

  “Tell him the man that just left, Mr. Oharu from the embassy, recommended us.”

  “Dad, I don’t know how to say embassy either.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud—”

  “Try not to be too hard on the boy, sir,” the man recommended in crisp English with a hint of a British drawl. “His Japanese is quite impressive for an American.”

  The whole family was shocked—except Yuri; he was too busy stomping on ants.

  “You were able to speak English this whole time?” Pat said, feeling a little misled.

  “Quite aptly, yes.”

  “Why didn’t you just speak in English in the first place?”

  “Americans don’t frequent this area. You’ll have to excuse my apprehension.”

  What could Pat say? He glanced over his shoulder at Francesca. She was at a loss too.

  “So, you are acquainted with Oharu Shinji?” the man asked.

  “Yeah—he’s a colleague.” Pat rub the back of his neck. “I take it you know him as well?”

  “He is a…colleague as well.” The man shook his head. “Where are my manners? My name is Omiyoshu Kintake, and this is my school.” He stepped through the door and gestured through its opening. “Please, come in.”

  Pat glanced at Francesca. She made the words, “Well, go on,” with her mouth. Pat turned and made for the door, and the rest of the family followed. The family filed into a ten-by-ten-foot waiting-area sporting a single rusting chair, a faded portrait, and a damaged wooden floor. There was a door opposite the entrance, and through it, the Ciccones could see a group of people moving about to a cadence.

  Pat passed through the door that opened up into the much lar
ger, partially carpeted, windowless room, where a class consisting of twenty students, ranging in age from child to teenager, conducted drills in unison. At the commands of two more young adult males who walked the rows that the students formed, the students threw a kick followed by a punch, then a dip, a spin-kick, followed immediately by a sweep. Then the two instructors commanded the students to reset so the drill could begin again. The two young men—one tall, lanky, and awkward, the other one lean and chiseled—corrected the hand and the foot positions of the students and provided momentary one-on-one instruction where needed before moving on to the next student in need. Both had noticed the Ciccone family but continued instructing despite them.

  The Ciccones watched the class sweat and pant through each drill, their movements crisp and controlled. The youths’ precision and focus were impressive. Besides heavy breathing, they made no sound and were chastised by the two instructors when their feet made a sound louder than a light swish. For the Ciccones, once the initial mystique faded, they began to notice the furnishings in the chamber beyond the students hard at work.

  The walls were lined with weapon racks stacked full of swords, training blades, spears, staves, different chain weapons, and knives. Hanging above them, and not in any sort of discernable pattern, were scrolls inscribed with tons of kanji or depicting scenes of traditional Japanese warriors in action.

  “I am sorry,” Kintake said, coming in between Pat and Francesca, interrupting their musing. “You have me at a bit of a disadvantage. I do not believe that I got your names.”

  Pat and Francesca both looked inward towards Kintake, but no one said a thing. Pat let out a nudging cough to motivate his wife—after all, it was her idea come. Francesca sprang to life. “Oh God, how rude of us. We’re so sorry.” She pressed her hand into her chest. “I’m Francesca Ciccone. This is my husband, Patrizio,” she said, gesturing in his direction, “and our two sons, Terenzio and Yuri.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances,” Kintake said, bowing his head at each of them, and then he bent over and placed a tender hand on Yuri’s head. “Hello, little one. You honor me with your presence.”

  Yuri curled around his mother’s leg and managed a shy smile.

  “Yuri,” Pat said, flabbergasted, “when did you become shy?”

  Francesca nodded, agreeing with Pat’s question.

  “Delightful, that one.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t say that if you saw him at home,” said Pat wryly.

  “Very well,” Kintake chuckled. “Now, how may I be of service, Mr. and Mrs. Ciccone? You mentioned that Mr. Oharu recommended my school.”

  “Well—yeah—at least, that’s what my husband said.” She indicated Pat, and he nodded in response.

  “My husband and I are looking to put our son, Terry, in a self-defense class. He’s been getting into fights at school, and we just want him to be able to defend himself.”

  “I see,” Kintake replied.

  Francesca continued, “I also want Terry to learn discipline.”

  “Very good.”

  “Do you think you can help us, Mr. um…?”

  “Omiyoshu. Omiyoshu Kintake.”

  Francesca made several attempts at Kintake’s name, butchering it every time. He repeated it several times to help, but she still couldn’t make the name properly. Terry, embarrassed by his mother’s lack of culture, even chimed in a few times to help. Francesca struggled in spite of him. Kintake laughed and eventually resorted to comically breaking his surname into syllables. Finally, she got it.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Omiyoshu.” Francesca’s faced flushed visibly. “How embarrassing.” It wasn’t anything personal. She was just terrible with names, especially Japanese ones.

  “It is quite alright, Mrs. Ciccone. Now,” he said, approaching the line where the hard floor ended and where the carpet began, “this is, as you have already noticed, the main training area. Here, the school is instructed as a group. In the rear of the room”—he pointed beyond the students, toward the back wall—“you can see some weapons that we teach. Those wooden boxes that you see stacked sporadically along the walls are obstacles that we use to train and hone our agility.”

  “You don’t use punching bags?” Francesca asked, looking at him.

  “No, Mrs. Ciccone, we do not.”

  She turned to Pat and said, “They don’t use punching bags…” Pat just shrugged.

  “If I may request that you remove your shoes, I would like you all to follow me, please.” Kintake gave them a moment to kick off their footwear and then crossed the training floor toward a door on the opposite wall that led outside, pointing as he went. “Over there are two individual training rooms where smaller groups can be taught. Through here is the garden.”

  The group emerged into a lush, abstractly-designed nursery with thoughtfully placed rocks and umbrella-shaped trees that leaned at impossible angles. It was a huge departure, to the say the least, from the urban grit and decay that surrounded the school. Suffice it to say that the garden was better maintained than the school itself.

  “Wow, Mr. Omiyoshu,” Francesca aspirated. “This is beautiful. Baby, this is amazing, huh?”

  “Grand,” Pat said, unconvinced.

  Kintake continued, “I know it is small, but it affords students the opportunity to meditate and reflect on the world around them.”

  Terry lit up like a Christmas tree. “Sir, who prunes the trees?”

  “Why, the students do, Terry. Bonsai is one of the arts we teach.”

  “Really?” Terry asked excitedly.

  “Yes, Terry, really.” Kintake pointed at a lonely tree nearest the corner of the garden. “That one is called—”

  “Han Kengai!” Terry exclaimed before his hands found his mouth when he realized that he’d interrupted and adult.

  Kintake raised a brow. “You are familiar with bonsai, Terry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kintake was impressed. Children lacked the patience and the appreciation for the transcendental art of bonsai, the art that commanded nature to redefine its laws to match the will of an artist. But not this child.

  Francesca bristled with pride. “Terry watches the bonsai channel all the time.”

  “At such a young age, too?” Kintake noted in a humbled tone. “Remarkable.”

  “Mr. Omi…uh…” Francesca struggled to remember Kintake’s name yet again.

  “Omiyoshu, Mom.”

  “Mr. Omiyoshu. Thank you, Terry.” Her face flushed again. “Mr. Omiyoshu, does your school award belts or—like—break boards and stuff?”

  “No, madam.” An amused grin stretched across Kintake’s face. “In contrast with the more cosmopolitan schools that teach the arts internationally, this school and the art that we teach has not been altered by commerce.”

  Francesca feigned understanding, but Kintake knew otherwise; he could also sense Pat’s apprehension. Kintake’s expression became rock solid with conviction. He could sense that there was something special about these people—these boys—otherwise, Oharu wouldn’t have recommended they come to Kintake’s school. Kintake clasped his hands behind his back and whipped around, barking a command through the door in Japanese.

  The two instructors looked up immediately. The class ceased their individual movements, shot up as stiff as boards, and bellowed an intimidating ki-ai in response to their sensei’s beckon. The instructor of average height hastily approached Kintake, bowed, and exchanged remarks, repeatedly nodding as Kintake spoke. After a moment, the instructor bowed deeply to Kintake and returned to the class.

  Kintake turned back to Francesca and Pat and spread his arms. “Would your children care to join in this drill?”

  “What drill?” Francesca asked as she, Pat, and the boys watched curiously through the doorway as the class spread into a rough circle that began whirling around counterclockwise faster and faster and faster. As their speed increased, so did their laughter. Then one student leaped into the center of the circle a
nd spun slowly while eyeing the other children hungrily as they passed him on the outside of the ring.

  “Essentially, it is a game of tag. It really is quite simple: One student is chosen as the demon—he’s the one in the middle—and all other participants are lotus flowers. Each lotus flower must remain as close to the demon as possible without being tagged. If the demon should manage to tag a lotus flower, that individual has been captured and must remain still just inside the spinning arc with his feet shoulder-width apart while the game continues.”

  “Why shoulder-width apart?” Francesca asked.

  In a display of youthful athleticism, a lotus flower went on his belly through the legs of a captive, the demon just missing him. The captive sprinted to the outside of the circle to join his fellows.

  “As you can see, Mrs. Ciccone, when lotus flowers pass between the legs of one of the demon’s captives, the captive is freed. Eventually, we assign more than one demon to increase the difficulty.”

  Yuri let out a gleeful squeal and pointed at the other children having the time of their lives.

  “The game is quite pleasing to watch,” Kintake said, his voice becoming less grave, “and most of all, the children find it quite amusing. Plus, it’s great for their fitness and nominal for team building.”

  Yuri spasmed. “Mommy, can I play?” He spasmed more.

  “Sure, honey.”

  Yuri chirped with excitement as he raced through the door and sprinted to the circle to join the larger children.

  Kintake looked in Terry’s direction. “Terry, would you care to participate?”

  Terry shook his head. Pat signaled to him to move inside—Go. Terry lowered his eyes and reluctantly headed for the training room. The adults weren’t far behind; Francesca and Pat followed Kintake.

  As they crossed the training floor again, Francesca spoke up: “Mr. Omiyoshu, I have to ask: Where are you from?”

  “I am from a very remote village in the countryside of Iga.”

  “I’m not sure I know where that’s at.”

  “Iga is in the Mie Province, southwest of here.”

  “Is that a tourist area?”