“This is fine right here. How long had Lt. Shannon been a member? Your rates are pricey on a civil servant’s pay.”
The trainer shrugged. “He had a trial membership, three months. It was almost up.”
No, completely up. Now.
“Rod, how did he get along here?”
“He was like you, Mr. Hammer. Really good shape for his age.”
Thanks a bunch, I thought.
I asked, “I mean, did he make any friends in particular?”
His smile was on the vacant side. “Oh yes. They didn’t come in together or anything, but he always seemed to be here when Mr. Colby... Mr. Vincent Colby?... was in for a workout.”
I was fishing and surprised to get so immediate a bite.
“I’m acquainted with Mr. Colby,” I said. “Does he have a regular workout time?”
“He does. Three times a week, late afternoon Monday, Wednesday and a little earlier on Friday. Or he did. You may not be aware that Mr. Colby had an accident a few weeks ago, and hasn’t been in since. But I’m sure, when he’s recovered, he’ll be back at it. He’s a natural athlete. Played rugby at Princeton.”
Harvard, actually.
“Tell me, Rod — would they ever work out together, Colby and Shannon?”
“Sometimes. They seemed friendly. Conversed. Not warm, but... people concentrate on their personal programs here. Of course, that brought them together in itself, since they had the same personal trainer.”
“Who would that be?”
“Mashy.”
“Pardon?”
“Mashy Sakai. Well, Masahiko Sakai — we just call him Mashy for short. Very proud to have him on staff.”
“Oh?”
The trainer nodded. “He’s achieved the final Dan level of Judan. That’s—”
“Tenth-degree black belt.”
“That’s right. But Mashy does more than just teach martial arts with us. Oh, he includes that in the training, but as part of an overall fitness program, if you’re interested. He’s here right now, if you’d like to talk to him. Just finishing up a class on the second floor.”
The black-trimmed white room upstairs that I slipped into was divided in half, one section with polished wood flooring, for exercises, the rest shielded by a green mat, for sparring. Each wall had a framed kanji print. Along the periphery of the matted area, a dozen students watched as a little slender round-faced man in his fifties, wearing the traditional loose-fitting uniform called a karategi, was squared off with a much larger, younger man similarly attired — of course, the larger, younger man was not wearing a black belt, which proved a factor.
The two faced each other poised for hand-to-hand combat. The small round-faced man made a quick sidestep, placing his right leg behind the bigger man’s left leg, taking him down with a wham.
Both men rose, bowed, then the shorter one said, “Now that move, the ōuchi gari, or great inner reap, is an effective, simple way to bring your opponent down... unless he or she anticipates you and employs an ashi barai, a foot sweep. So try a hooking motion, not a reaping one.”
They went through the routine again, with the sensei demonstrating that slight variation as the bigger man whomped down once more, poor bastard. Again they rose, bowed. The student returned to the periphery with the others.
Their teacher reminded them of the time and day of their next class, bowed, dismissed them, and they bowed in return, then trooped out, looking beaten and tired. Their sensei didn’t appear to have broken a sweat.
The martial arts teacher turned to me — I was over on the slick wood floor, watching — as if he’d known I was there all along. Perhaps he had. His smile was almost angelic as he approached and held his hand out.
“Mr. Hammer,” he said.
I took the hand, shook it, neither of us trying to impress the other, and he took it back.
“You’re Mr. Sakai.”
A head bow. “Call me Mashy. Everyone does, even my wife.”
I looked at him curiously. “Did, uh, Rod give you a call that I was heading up to see you?”
Tiny shrug. “No, I just recognize you. From the papers and TV.”
Well, he was over fifty.
“How can I be of service, Mr. Hammer?”
No need to talk badges with this guy.
“If you follow the papers,” I said, “you probably know your client, Casey Shannon, was killed recently.”
“Murdered. Yes.” His expression turned somber. “A shame. Good man. Fine man. But I felt he was at Solstice under... false pretenses.”
“Really? Why is that?”
His smile was a fleeting thing as he gestured toward the mat. “Shall we sit?”
We went over and sat like Indians, the Mick and the Jap. Half a lifetime ago we might have been in foxholes in the same war. Different foxholes.
Sakai picked right back up. “I believe he was here not seeking fitness, but to investigate another student of mine.”
“Vincent Colby.”
“Yes.” He raised a gentle palm. “I should not have qualified that. When he first came to Solstice, Lt. Shannon came to me privately and asked a few questions.”
“What, specifically?”
“Nothing specific. Generalities. What was my opinion of Vincent Colby as a person? I said I found him affable and hardworking, a good student. I explained that my context was not sufficient to discern more. I asked him what he was looking for. His answer was... remarkable.”
“Oh?”
“He said he was looking for a killer.”
I nodded, thinking about that. “Was there hostility between Colby and Shannon? Tension?”
“No. They were friendly. Not warm...” A faint smile. “...other than the sweat we work up here.”
Said the guy who didn’t seem to be able to work up a sweat.
“So I would say,” the sensei said, “Lt. Shannon was not certain of Mr. Colby. Was Vincent Colby a good man or a bad man? Or, like so many of us, something in between? The lieutenant sought the answer.”
“Is Colby a good student? Would you say he’s proficient?”
Several emphatic nods. “Yes. One of my best. Took right to it.”
I thought about that for a while and the sensei patiently waited for me.
Then I asked, “Is it difficult to kill someone with karate, Mr. Sakai?”
I thought the quick shift in subject might throw him; but this was not an easy man to throw in any sense of the word. His immediate response was only to say, “Call me Mashy, please, Mr. Hammer.”
“Yeah, and I’m Mike. But is it?”
“Possible to kill with martial arts techniques? Certainly. Not so simple as on television and in the motion pictures, but... yes.”
“Is there a karate move that could cave in a man’s chest?”
He actually blinked. Once. “What a specific question, Mike.”
“Is there?”
“I teach various aspects of martial arts here. If you are familiar with such things, you probably know I was sharing judo moves with my students when you came in. But I can assure you I have never taught that... particular move to any student, ever. Including Mr. Colby.”
“What particular move?”
He sat silently for perhaps ten seconds, which is longer than it sounds. Try it. Then finally he spoke, quietly. Gravely.
“It is known as migi-hiza age-ate ryo-ken ryo-soku hiki-oroshi.”
“That’s a mouthful in any language.”
He nodded, once. “A lot of words for a simple move, one that is useful in particular in close quarters. It is a concealed bunkai, a move hidden in plain sight — a self-defense technique that can save a life... and take one.”