Andrew Vachss: Sacrifice

I love you.

16

The next morning, I took a short walk. Brought back the newspapers and a bag full of bakery for Pansy. Took my time, stretched things out. I read the paper the way I used to in prison, sucking every ounce of juice from the pages. It didn't bother Pansy— she has a dog's sense of time. Only two limits for her: never and forever.

It was almost ten by the time I entered the garage from the back stairs. A piece of paper torn from a yellow legal pad floated under the windshield wiper. Two broad slashes with a heavy black felt-tip pen, running parallel to a small circle at their base. The number 7 to one side.

Max. Telling me I should come see him right away. Telling me where. Not a sign of forced entrance to the garage. I'd offered him a key once— he thought that was funny. Max the Silent doesn't speak. Doesn't make any noise at all.

I found a parking place in Chinatown, just off the Bowery. Made my way to one of the movie houses standing under the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. Narrow alley along the side. Back door, dull green paint streaked with rust. I turned the knob, not surprised to find it unlocked. Metal stairs to my left, winding up in a Z pattern. I put a hand on the bannister and two Orientals materialized. They didn't say anything. They worked it together: one watched my hands, the other my eyes.

"Max?" I offered.

They were as silent as he is.

"Burke," I said, pointing at myself.

One moved to me, ran his hands over my body, a light, spider's touch. He wasn't looking for a knife…anything less than a machine gun wouldn't do much good where I was going.

They stepped aside. I climbed to the landing, found another door, entered. Followed more stairs, this time up.

Another door. I opened it to a long, narrow room with a high ceiling, lit by suspended fluorescent fixtures. I was facing a row of windows, pebble-glassed, caked with a hundred years' worth of yellowing cigarette smoke. The floor was broken into sections with neatly painted areas: a square, a rectangle, a circle. One wall was lined with weapons: Japanese katanas, Thai fighting sticks, Korean numchuks, throwing stars, kongos. It wasn't for show— in this joint, you checked your carry-weapons at the door. The other wall was mostly Orientals with a light sprinkling of roundeyes, black, brown, and white. Men and women, young and old. No mirrors, no mats, no stretching bars. A combat dojo— bring your own style.

Max moved in next to me, his hand on my forearm. I followed his lead to an empty space along the wall. A short, fat man stood in the center of the rectangle, bent at the waist, the back of his right hand at his hip, the other extended, wrist limp, fingers softly playing as if in response to air currents, almost a parody of effeminacy. He looked like a soft dumpling— nobody'd step aside for him on the street.

A slightly built young man stepped onto the floor. Bowed to the fat man. Moved in small, delicate circles, his body folding into a cat stance, front leg slightly off the floor, pawing. Testing the water.

The fat man stood rooted, only his extended fingers in motion, as though connected to the younger man by invisible wires. All balance centered deep within his abdomen, keeping his point.

The young man faked a sweep with his leading foot, flashed it to a plant, firing off a back kick with the other leg. The fat man made a whisking motion and the kick went off the mark— a motion-block too fast for me to see.

The fat man was back inside himself before his opponent recovered. He waited— the sapling facing the wind.

The young man tried again…drew blanks. He threw kicks from every angle, went airborne once…but the fat man deflected every attack with the extended hand, never moving from his spot.

The younger man bowed. Stepped off the floor.

An ancient man in a blue embroidered robe stepped to the border of the rectangle. Barked out something in a language I'd never heard before. I didn't need a translator: "Who's next?"

I glanced at Max. He put three fingers against my forearm. The young man hadn't been the first to try and penetrate the fat man's crane-style defense.

I held my left hand at an angle, parallel to my shoulders, in the middle of my chest. Moved my right hand into a fist, swept the left hand aside, smacked the fist against my chest off the carom. Opened my hands in a "why not?" gesture.

The warrior's mouth twitched a fraction, quick flash of teeth behind the thin lips. Pointed toward the floor.

A behemoth stepped into the rectangle, his glossy black hair woven into the elaborate set of the sumo wrestler. Looked like an old oak tree, sawed off halfway up. He bowed to the fat man, dwarfing his opponent. The knife hadn't worked— they were going to the club.

The sumo crouched, snorted a deep breath through his nose, trumpeted his battle cry, and charged. The fat man flicked his extended wrist, spun in place with the rush, and lashed the back of the sumo's head with an elbow as he went past, driving him into the far wall.

The wall survived the impact.

The sumo rolled his shoulders, waiting for the battle music in his head to reach crescendo. His eyes turned inward and he charged again. The fat man's left hand fluttered, a butterfly against an onrushing truck, extended fingers darting at the sumo's eyes. The sumo's fists shot up toward the fat man's face just as the fat man's right hand came off his hip, a jet stream striking the sumo's sternum. The bigger man stopped like he'd hit the wall again. The fat man fired two side kicks into the same spot, snapped back into the circle stance before the sumo could react.

The sumo bowed to the fat man. All around the room, everyone was doing the same.

A dozen languages bubbled in a rich broth. I couldn't understand any of them. Max couldn't hear them. But we both got the message. The ancient man stepped forward again. Said something, pointing to Max.

The Mongolian folded his arms, eyes sweeping the room, measuring. He nodded his head a bare fraction. It was enough. The room went quiet as Max walked into the rectangle.

He was wearing loose, flowing dark cotton pants and a black T-shirt. He bent at the waist, pulled off the thin-soled shoes he always wore, no socks. Bowed to the fat man.

Max stood rigid as steel, vectoring in. The fat man was a master of some form of aikido. He would not attack. Balanced in harmony, he would only complete the circle.

Max bowed again. Extended his own hand, fingertips out. Ki to Ki.

The hair on my forearms stood straight up from the fallout.

Max slid forward into a slight open crouch, rolling his head on the column of his neck. The fat man waggled his fingers, still into his stance, waiting. Max stepped forward as if walking on rice paper, working his way into the zone. He moved to his left, testing. The fat man's hips were ball bearings— he tracked Max, locked on to the target.

In the space between two heartbeats, Max dove at the fat man's feet, twisting into a perfect forward roll even as the fat man flowed backward— too late. Max was on his back, both feet piston-driving in a bracket at the fat man's body. One missed, the other was a direct hit to the belly. The fat man staggered as Max rolled to his feet, the Mongolian's right fist hooking inside the fat man's extended hand, driving through, spinning, his back against the fat man's chest as he turned, launching the left, chopping down into the exposed neck.

It was over. The fat man held his hand against the strike-point, rubbing the feeling back into his neck. It wasn't broken— Max had pulled the shot.

They bowed to each other. Barks of approval from the crowd. Max pointed to the fat man. Held up his hand, fingers splayed. Touched his thumb, pointed to the fat man. Then his index finger. Same thing. He did each finger in turn, until he came to the little finger. Pointed at himself. Held his chest, panted heavily. Pointed at himself again— held up the thumb. Pointed at the fat man. Held his opponent's hand in the air. Telling the crowd that the fat man had fought four men before Max had his chance— if Max had gone first, the fat man would have won.