Lawrence Sanders - Tenth Commandment

There was a small open space as one entered. Apparently it was used as an office, for there was a battered wooden desk, an old, dented file cabinet, three chairs (none of which matched), a coat tree, and several cartons stacked on the floor. They all seemed to be filled with used and tattered paperback novels.

Beyond the makeshift office was a doorway curtained with a few yards of sleazy calico nailed to the top of the frame. I pushed my way through and found myself in a large bare chamber with fluorescent lights overhead. On the discoloured walls were charts showing positions and blows in judo, jiu-jitsu, and karate. There were also a few posters advertising unarmed combat tournaments.

In one corner was a tangle of martial arts jackets, kendo staves and masks, dumbbells. There was a rolled-up wrestling mat against one wall.

I was inspecting an illustrated directory of kung fu positions and moves taped to the wall when the Reverend Godfrey Knurr entered from a curtained rear doorway.

'Joshua,' he said, 'good to see you. Thanks for coming.'

'Here,' I said, thrusting the damp brown bag at him. 'I brought along a cold six-pack. For lunch.'

He peeked into the bag.

'Wonderful,' he said. 'Come on back. I'll put the beer in the fridge and you can hang your things away.'

There was a short corridor that debouched into kitchen and bedroom.

The kitchen was just large enough to contain a wooden table and four chairs, refrigerator, sink, cabinets, and a tiny stove. The walls were pebbled with umpteen coats of paint. There was a small rear window looking out on to a sad little courtyard, squalid in the rain. The same view was available from the window in the bedroom. This was a monk's cell: bed, closet, chest of drawers, straight-back chair, bedside table with lamp and telephone, a bookcase.

'Not quite the Kipper townhouse, is it?' Knurr said. He was putting the beer in the refrigerator when we heard the jangle of the front door bell.

'They'll be coming in now,' he said. 'Let's go up front.'

I followed him to the gym. He was wearing a grey sweatsuit, out at elbow and knee. His sneakers were stained and torn; the laces broken and knotted.

Three boys were taking off wet things in the office. They tossed their outer apparel on to the desk, then came back to the larger room where they divested themselves of shoes, sweaters, shirts, and trousers, kicking these into a corner.

Knurr introduced me casually: 'Joshua, these brutes are Rafe, Tony, Walt. This is Josh.'

We all nodded. They appeared to me to be about 13 to 15, bodies skinny and white, all joints. Their faces and necks were pitted with acne.

The bell jangled again; more boys entered. Finally Knurr had a dozen boys milling around the gym in their drawers and socks.

'Cut the shit!' the Reverend yelled. 'Line up and let's get started.'

They arranged themselves in two files, facing him. At his command they began to go through a series of what I presumed were warmup exercises, following Knurr. He stood with left foot advanced, left arm extended, hand clenched, knuckles down. The right foot was back, right arm cocked, right fist clenched. Then, at a shouted 'Hah!'

everyone took a step forward on to the right foot, striking an imaginary opponent with the right fist while bending the left arm and retracting the left fist to the shoulder. At the second 'Hah!' they all took a step backwards to their original position.

I revised my guess at their age group upwards to 12 to 17. Some of them were quite large, including a six-foot black. There were four blacks, one Oriental, and two I thought were Hispanic. All were remarkably thin, some painfully so, and most had the poor skin tone of slum kids.

There were scars and bruises in abundance, and one shambling youth had a black patch over one eye.

Knurr led them through a series of increasingly violent exercises, culminating with a series of high front and back kicks.

After the exercise period was finished, Godfrey Knurr assigned partners and the boys paired off. They went through what appeared to me to be mock combat. No actual blows were struck, no kicks landed, but it was obvious that all the youths were in dead earnest, punching and counterpunching, kicking out and turning swiftly to avoid their opponents' kicks. As they fought, Knurr moved from pair to pair, watched them closely, stopped them to demonstrate a punch or correct the position of their feet. He had a few words to say to each boy in the room.

'All right,' he shouted finally. 'That's enough. Unroll the mat. We'll finish with a throw.'

The wrestling mat was spread in the centre of the bare wood floor. They gathered around and I moved closer.

Knurr strode out on to the mat and beckoned one of the lads.

'Come on, Lou,' he said. 'Be my first victim.'

There was laughter, some calls and rude comments as the six-foot black stepped forward on the mat to face Knurr.

'All right,' Knurr said, 'lead at me with a hard right.

And don't tighten up. Stay loose. Ready?'

Lou fell into the classic karate stance, then punched at 208

Knurr's throat with his right knuckles. The pastor executed a movement so fast and flowing that I could scarcely follow it. He plucked the black's wrist out of the air, lifted it as he turned, bent, put a shoulder into the boy's armpit, pulled down on the arm, levered up, and Lou's feet went flying high in the air, cartwheeling over Knurr's head. He would have crashed on to the mat if Knurr hadn't caught him about the waist and let him down gently.

There was more laughter, shouts, exclamations of delighted surprise. The Reverend helped Lou to his feet and then they went through the throw very slowly, Knurr pausing frequently to explain exactly what he was doing, calling his students' attention to the position of his feet, how his weight shifted, how he used the attacker's momentum to help disable him.

'Okay,' he said, 'that was just a demonstration.

Tomorrow you're all going to work on that throw. And you'll work on it and work on it until everyone can do it

right. Then I'll show you the defence against it.

Now … who's going to show up for the bullshit session tonight?' He looked around the room. But heads were hanging; no one volunteered. 'Come on, come on,' Knurr said impatiently, 'you've got to pay for your fun. Who's coming for the talk?'

A few hands went up hesitantly, then a few more.

Finally about half the boys had hands in the air.

'How about you, Willie?' Knurr demanded, addressing the shambling youth with the black eyepatch. 'You haven't been around for weeks. You must have a wagonload of sins to confess. I especially want you.'

This was greeted with laughter and shouts from the others.

'Right on!'

'Get him, Faddeh!'

'Make him spill everything!'

'He's been a baaaad boy!'

'Aw right,' Willie said with a tinny grin, 'I'll be here.'

'Good,' Knurr said. 'Now dry off, all of you, then get the hell out of here. The gym will be open from five to eight tonight if any of you want to work out. See you all tomorrow.'

They began to pick up their garments from the floor, with the noise and horseplay you'd expect. Knurr rolled up the mat and flung it against the wall. His sweatshirt was soaked dark under the arms, across the back and chest.

While he showered I sat at the kitchen table, sipping beer from the can, listening to shouts and laughter of departing boys. I looked up through the window. In the apartment house across the courtyard an old woman fed a parakeet seeds, from her lips, bird perched on finger.

Godfrey Knurr came into the kitchen wearing a terrycloth robe, towelling head and beard. He put the towel around his neck, took a beer from the refrigerator.

He said across from me.

'Well?' he demanded. 'What do you think?'