Damnation Street

19.

It was about eleven o'clock the next morning when Bishop pushed into the dojo. The Frenchman's bully boys were there in force. There were seven of these dick swingers all told, musclemen with tattoos and sneering smiles. Their faces were different colors, white and brown and yellow, but they were all wearing white gis with black belts.

They were going through a kata when Bishop entered-a sort of karate dance. They were sliding in unison across the hardwood floor, pivoting as one, kicking the air as one. Two rows of three and one man in front. Seven arms twisting out together in a corkscrew punch. Seven voices shouting-" Keeyai! "

Just within the door, there was a carpeted alcove, a small waiting area with chairs and a watercooler. There was a rice paper divider with a wooden frame separating the alcove from the hardwood dojo.

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.

The bully boys were impressed, all right. Even the chucklehead frowned and nodded with grudging admiration. He opened his fist and slapped Bishop on the cheek-not hard-just a sort of token slap of condescending appreciation.

Bishop smiled deep into the chucklehead's stupid eyes and kicked him hard in the shin.

The chucklehead went down, screaming, rocking on his back, and clutching his leg in his two hands. Bishop sneered down at him. He could hear that bright metallic singing inside him like a sword blade whistling through the air.

Or wait a minute-maybe it wasn't inside him. Maybe it was coming from somewhere to his left, along with another noise-a noise that sounded something like hwa hwoo hwee hwa.

He looked in that direction and, sure enough, there was the Fu Manchu guy rushing at him, going hwa hwoo hwee and so on-and also wielding that goddamned Chinese broadsword Bishop had noticed on the wall.

Well, this was a surprise. Not exactly the kind of confrontation he'd been looking for. In fact, the sight of that sword stunned Bishop so much, it slowed his reaction time. Meanwhile, the Fu Manchu guy came in low and fast. Gripping the broadsword's handle in one hand, he made the wide, curved silver blade spin and twirl through blurring crisscrosses and figure eights. " Hwa! Hwoo! Hwee! " he remarked again. And all the while, the black-and-red scarf flying from the sword's pommel flapped and spiraled, adding to Bishop's distraction.

The approach took barely a second. Then, as Bishop stood more or less stupefied, the Fu Manchu guy brought the big sword around in a vicious arc and hit him with it alongside the head.

He struck with the flat of the blade-this wasn't a killing situation yet. And at the last moment, Bishop did manage to twist his body, headfirst, to absorb some of the force of the blow. All the same, the thing smacked into him with brain-rattling force. He saw white sparkles and felt himself falling helplessly through the air, his leather jacket flying out of his hand as he went down. The next instant he hit the hardwood floor with a jolt that made his bones ache. But he took the shock on his shoulder and kept rolling, kept rolling, and was on his feet again in a defensive stance before he could even think about it.

Now he found himself facing his attacker in a crouch, his arms up in front of him. Which wasn't going to help him much unless he happened to want his arms lopped off and mounted on a plaque. Which he didn't. And the Fu Manchu guy was still coming after him- Hwa! Hwee! Hwo! -a steady, unstoppable onslaught with the silver broadsword in his right hand singing through the air in dazzling patterns and the distracting scarf flashing now black, now scarlet, as it whipped and fluttered unnervingly out of sync with the rhythms of the blade.

Bishop's face was stinging like ants were on it. His left eye was pouring tears, and his brain was still slow and numb from the blow of the sword. Around him the bully boys were clapping and whooping. And where the evil chucklehead had gotten to, he hadn't the foggiest fucking idea.

But there was no time to think about any of that. The swordsman was on him. The blade was arcing up again, preparing for a second attack that could come at him high or low. All Bishop could manage to do was circle away. Keep the distance between them. Keep moving, circling, circling, staving off the moment when the Fu Manchu guy would strike again.

" Hwa! Hwee! Hwoo! " the swordsman shouted, circling opposite Bishop.

The other bully boys gathered around the two of them, shouting encouragement, clapping, moving as they moved. They loved this stuff. As the blade snaked out in a lashing circle under Bishop's nose, Bishop dodged back and felt one of the thugs put hands on him to shove him toward his opponent. The Fu Manchu guy saw this happen and instantly moved in for another strike.

That turned out to be a break for Bishop. He pivoted, grabbed the gi of the thug who'd pushed him, spun him around in front of him. Blocked by his fellow bully boy, the Fu Manchu guy froze, mid-hwa! Bishop shoved the thug-a dim-witted redhead-straight into his attacker. It only slowed him for a second. The Fu Manchu guy caught the dimwit redhead's arm and hurled him aside.

But by then Bishop had dashed away. The redhead had left a gap in the circle of bully boys. Bishop slipped through it and rushed for the wall. He grabbed the first samurai sword he could get his hands on and yanked it free of its mount. What he planned to do with it he wasn't sure, but it was better than his bare hands-it had to be. He swept it quickly from its sheath and tossed the sheath away. The blade gleamed bright, a shorter one- katana, that was the word! Well-balanced and with a full tang, set deep and solidly into the handle.

None of which was any comfort. All he could remember from his casual study of samurai swordplay was some Zen bullshit about having No Mind and being One with the Blade. He figured he'd have No Mind in a big hurry if this crazy Asian fucker hit him in the head with his fucking broadsword again. And as for being One with the Blade-that was exactly what he was trying to avoid.

But he seized the handle of the katana with both hands as he recalled you were supposed to. He held it up in front of him, pointing the blade at the Asian's eyes just as he would've done in a knife fight-that made it hard for his opponent to judge the distance of the point and also distracted him from the feints and movements of his body.

As Bishop began to circle again, it came back to him what a natural weapon the samurai sword was, a comfortable extension of the hands and arms. A desperate little hope flared in him. The Fu Manchu guy was so busy putting on a show for his pals, so busy hwa-hwo-hweeing and swinging the sword in fancy eights and arcs, that if Bishop could stay focused, he might just have a chance to get in on him quick and drop him.

He circled away cautiously, the samurai sword held out before him. The Fu Manchu guy came charging in, the broadsword dancing in the air. The bully boys catcalled. They caught the uncertainty in Bishop's stance and motions. They urged Fu to finish him off.

"Slice him, slice and dice him!"

"Cut him bad, baby!"

"Make meat out of him!"

Bishop forced the grinning, crowing thug faces into the soft blur of his outer attention. He watched the Fu Manchu guy, saw his eyes flare. The broadsword seemed to spiral out of flashing heights and sweep toward his shoulder, edge first. Bishop twisted his wrists, and his katana went horizontal. With a metallic shock, the two blades met. Bishop parried the broadsword, turning his body out of its deflected path. In the same movement, he brought the katana around and swung it low at Fu Man's kneecap. He hoped to hit just hard enough to slice the tendon. But the strike was met by the sweeping block of the broadsword. Another metallic sting and Bishop was pushed back. Fu Manchu stepped in with a direct thrust-a genuine thrust that would've opened Bishop's belly. Bishop was startled by its deadliness. The fight had turned serious, and only a hurried, almost panicked recovery-an inversion of the wrists that turned the katana nearly straight down-fended off the broadsword's point and gave him the chance to step back and away.

Both men were in their stances again, both were circling. There was a little less hwa-hwa crap coming out of Fu Man now. He was breathing hard, and the arcs of the broadsword were slower and less ornate. That didn't mean he was easing up, though. Bishop could see the anger contorting his mouth. He knew that last reckless thrust had been powered by raw temper. And he knew the next attack would have the same mortal rage behind it, maybe worse. Even the shouts and jokes of the bully boys had dropped a key, had become guttural and murderous.

This had gone too far. Bishop knew he had to end it quick or he'd go home with his head in his hands. The shock of the first onslaught had worn off. That weird killer cool of his was coming back. Even with his pulse pounding, even with his eyes fastened on the swinging broadsword, a feeling that could only be described as mirth was pumping out of the center of him, coursing through his veins. This was it. This was the finish of it, one way or the other.

The Fu Man was gearing up for another attack. Looking for a weak spot. Sidestepping, swinging the silver blade, whipping the black-and-scarlet cloth poetically through the air. Bishop was still on the defensive, circling away, circling away, ready to fend off the strike and answer with a strike of his own. He knew he wasn't good enough with the sword to make an effective assault, but if he could get the Fu to commit himself…

Then… something… the slightest shift of Fu Man's ferocious gaze. A glance over Bishop's shoulder as if someone was coming up behind him. Maybe it was a trick, but maybe…

With a swift pivot of his arm, Bishop brought the katana crosswise at his own eye level. There-reflected in the gleaming steel-the furious features of the evil white chuckle-head were rushing straight at him.

Bishop released the sword handle with his right hand and drove his elbow backward into the chucklehead's throat. He heard a liquid gurgle; a thud as the Denver-sized enforcer dropped to the hardwood.

At the same moment, Fu Manchu came at him from the front. He feinted low, slipped Bishop's parry. Then he hoisted the broadsword high and brought it crashing down toward Bishop's skull.

With a cry, Bishop spun to the side. He felt the cold wind on his face as the silver blade sliced down past him. He saw the wide front edge of it hit the floor, notching the shiny surface. The momentum of the strike brought the Fu Man forward. On the instant Bishop stepped on the blade, pinning it to the hardwood. He put his other foot on the blade above the first, scrambling straight up the edge of the sword toward his opponent's head.

Fu Man straightened, trying to pull the broadsword free. The motion exposed the side of his neck.

Bishop had him. With a rush of savage joy, he hammered the pommel of the katana into the thug's carotid artery. The Fu Man's eyes flew up and his body dropped down. He crumpled to the dojo floor as if he were made of string.

It was over. Bishop dropped back, crouched low, turned round, pointing the katana 's blade at the circle of leering faces all around him, face by ugly, murderous face. A slow, seething growl seemed to come from all the bully boys at once. Bishop answered them with a slow, seething growl of his own.

He backed toward the door, that door he wanted on the far side of the room. From the corner of his eye, he saw his leather jacket on the floor. He swooped down and snapped it up, held it in his left hand, while his right kept the sword pointed at the bully boys.

The bully boys edged toward him, growling. Growling, he backed away until he felt the door at his shoulder.

Then he was through it, gone.