Chapter 16
Michaels decided to accept Toni's invitation and go along to the silat class. He ought to work out, he'd been neglecting his practice the last few days, and God only knew when they'd get home and back into a normal routine. So far, they had zip on this new threat. He'd probably feel a lot better if he exercised, developed a good sweat.
"You've got the long stare," Toni said.
She sat in the seat across from him in the cab, and he smiled reflexively at her. "Sorry. I spent most of the afternoon counting figurative paper clips. I'm not any closer to this guy than I was before. I feel stupid."
"Why do you feel as if you personally are responsible for catching the mad hacker? Dozens of governmental agencies around the world are chasing him, and none of them are any further along than we are."
"Yeah, but I sit at the top of the pyramid in the can-do U.S. of A. Nobody is eyeballing the Portuguese or the Tasmanians and expecting them to track this guy down. We're the only superpower left."
"Hi ho, Silver!"
He blinked at her. "Huh?"
"How the Lone Ranger got his name. Tonto nursed him back to health after the Butch Cavendish gang am-bushed the ranger troop. He came to, asked about the others. Tonto said, 'Him dead, all dead. You… only ranger left. You… lone ranger.' "
"Really?"
"Truth. You know what it says on the barrel of the Cisco Kid's gun?"
He blinked at her. "What?"
" 'Don't make me hurt you.' "
He smiled at her. "How do you know stuff like that?"
"A misspent youth. Older brothers who collected everything from cars to old 78 rpm vinyl records. I can tell you about Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, and Gene Autrey, if you want. Want to know about Red Ryder's sidekick?"
"Maybe not," he said.
"You don't want to hear about Li'l Beaver?" She batted her eyes at him and smiled.
"Well… yeah. But… not in front of the cabbie."
They both laughed.
The silat school was a dump, in a ratty neighborhood that made Michaels wish he had brought his taser. It was clean enough inside, though, and the students were polite when Toni introduced him.
The instructor, Carl Stewart, arrived, and Michaels met him, too. Seemed like a nice guy, a few years older than Michaels, in pretty good shape. A little taller, a little grayer, a little wider across the shoulders and thicker through the arms. He wore bifocal aviator glasses, and Michaels wondered why he wasn't wearing contacts or droptacs instead.
"Toni tells me you've begun studying silat, " Stewart said. "Are you going to join the class this evening?"
"If that would be all right, yes."
"Certainly." He smiled at Toni, she smiled right back, and Michaels felt a little pang of… something.
Jealousy? No, of course not. He trusted Toni.
The class began, and Michaels dutifully went up and down the floor practicing the two djurus he had learned. He stole quick glances at Toni, saw her footworking first the tiga, then the sliwa—the triangle and square — for her djurus. She looked very sharp.
Stewart paused in front of Michaels. "You seem a bit distracted, Mr. Michaels. It would be better if you concentrated on your own form."
Michaels flushed, nodded, said, "Sorry, Guru."
Steward nodded, smiled, and moved along to watch other students.
Good thing this wasn't sitting Zen exercise, or he'd have gotten whacked with a stick, Michaels thought. He refocused on his moves, but he felt awkward. He'd only been doing this a few months, and much of it still seemed counterintuitive and unnatural.
After about fifteen minutes of djurus, Stewart called a halt and took questions. Even though his students were doing different forms than Michaels had been doing, he heard a couple of things about stepping in balance and keeping his hips corked that Toni had stressed.
"All right, then. Let's work on combinations," Stewart said. "Toni? Let me use you."
Toni offered Stewart a quick bow. The hand position was slightly different than the bow Stewart returned. Toni's right fist was held in front of her chest, suppinated, the left hand cupping it from the side; the knuckles on Stewart's fist faced into his cupping hand.
"A right punch, please, here." He touched the tip of his nose.
Toni stepped in and shot a fast right punch. If it had connected, it would have surely broken his nose. He slapped her arm with both hands, fired an elbow at her ribs, twisted, stepped, punched at her ribs again, then swept her front foot out and upended her. He caught her around the chest with one arm before she fell. "Okay?"
"Yes."
"Again please, slowly."
Toni repeated her attack, and Stewart did the block-elbow-punch, sweep combination again, and kept her from falling with an arm around her chest.
Right across her breasts, Michaels noted with a small feeling of irritation. Was that really necessary? Toni could fall without hurting herself, he'd seen her hit a hard floor and come up like a rubber ball. This floor had mats all over it.
Toni grinned at Stewart, and the expression was one of pure joy. Michaels had seen that look a few times, usually right after a sexual climax — his or hers.
He did not like seeing the look now.
He mentally chided himself: Get a brain, boy! This is a martial arts class! He's not copping a feel, he's demonstrating a way to beat the crap out of somebody stupid enough to attack him!
Yeah, well, okay.
"Any questions?"
Michaels decided he had one. "Why didn't you hit her in the face instead of the ribs?"
Stewart smiled — as did most of the class. Michaels caught it, but didn't say anything. Stewart caught his look, though.
"Sorry, Mr. Michaels, but I've been telling the class that you can do all the damage you need to an attacker most of the time with body shots. The Indonesians seldom go for the face; the biggest headhunters are… westerners."
Michaels nodded. But that pause before "westerners" told him that Stewart had started to say something else, and Michaels would bet dollars to pennies that the something else was Americans.
"All right, pair up and let's try it. Toni, give me a hand watching?"
Toni said, "Yes, Guru."
Michaels found himself standing across from a skinny kid with a short crew cut and a pair of nose rings who looked to be about seventeen. The kid said, "Giles Patrick."
"Alex Michaels."
"Want to defend first?"
"Sure," Michaels said.
The kid stepped toward him in slow motion, his punch floating toward Michaels at about an eighth speed.
Michaels blocked, got the elbow in, then stalled. What came next?
"Left punch to the ribs, here," the kid said.
"Right, right. Let me try it again."
The kid launched his molasses attack again, and Michaels got the block, elbow, and punch in, but when he tried the sweep, he was off balance and the kid's foot stayed on the floor.
"Got to square your hips," the kid said, "Twist in, shoulders and hips facing the same way."
"Right."
"One more?"
"Sure."
This time, Michaels got all four of the moves, and the kid went down with the sweep. All right! He felt pretty good about that.
Toni moved to stand next to him. "Looked pretty good, Alex, but when you block the punch, do it more upward, like so. Giles?"
The kid grinned and came at Toni, and this time he put some speed into the move.
Toni moved easily, deflected the punch upward, giving herself plenty of room for the elbow into the armpit.