kept busy. It’s hard to build one of the largest privately held corporations and do book signings.”
“So now that he’s dead, his family is—how to say it?—nuclear Armageddoning?”
“Close enough.”
Master Kwon had moved his headquarters and main
dojang
into the second floor of a building on Twenty-third Street near Broadway. Five rooms—studios really—with hardwood floors, mirrored walls, high-tech sound system, sleek and shiny Nautilus equipment—oh, and some of those rice-paper Oriental scroll-posters. Gave the place a real Old World Asia feel.
Myron and Win slipped into their
dobok
, a white uniform, and tied their black belts. Myron had been studying tae kwon do and
hapkido
since Win had first introduced him to them in college, but he hadn’t been to a
dojang
more than five times in the past three years. Win, on the other hand, remained devoutly lethal. Don’t tug on Superman’s cape, don’t spit in the wind, don’t pull the mask off the ol’ Lone Ranger, and you don’t mess around with Win. Bah, bah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee.
Master Kwon was in his mid-seventies but could easily pass for two decades younger. Win had met him during his Asian travels when he was fifteen. As near as Myron could tell, Master Kwon had been a high priest or some such thing at a small Buddhist monastery straight out of a Hong Kong revenge flick. When Master Kwon emigrated to the United States, he spoke very little English. Now, some twenty years later, he spoke almost none. As soon as the wise master hit our shores, he opened up a chain of state-of-the-art tae kwon do schools—with Win’s financial backing, of course. Once he saw the
Karate Kid
movies, Master Kwon started playing the old wise man to the hilt. His English disappeared. He started dressing like the Dalai Lama and began every sentence with the words “Confucius say,” ignoring the small fact that he was Korean and Confucius was Chinese.
Win and Myron headed to Master Kwon’s office. At the entrance, both men bowed deeply.
“Please in,” Master Kwon said.
The desk was fine oak, the chair rich leather and orthopedic looking. Master Kwon was standing near a corner. He held a putter in his hands and wore a splendidly tailored suit. His face brightened when he saw Myron, and the two men embraced.
When they broke apart, Master Kwon said, “You better?”
“Better,” Myron agreed.
The old man smiled and grabbed his own lapel. “Armani,” he said.
“I thought so,” Myron said.
“You like?”
“Very nice.”
Satisfied, Master Kwon said, “Go.”
Win and Myron bowed deeply. Once in the
dojang
, they fell into their customary roles: Win led and Myron followed. They started with meditation. Win loved meditating, as we already graphically witnessed. He sat in the lotus position, palms tilted up, hands resting on knees, back straight, tongue folded against the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose, forcing the air down, letting his abdomen do all the work. Myron tried to duplicate—had been trying for years—but he had never quite gotten the hang of it. His mind, even during less chaotic times, wandered. His bad knee tightened. He got fidgety.
They cut down the stretching to only ten minutes. Again Win was effortless, executing splits and toe touches and deep bends with ease, his bones and joints as flexible as a politician’s voting record. Myron had never been a naturally limber guy. When he was training seriously, he could touch his toes and complete a hurdle stretch with little problem. But just then, that felt like a long time ago.
“I’m already sore,” Myron said through a grunt.
Win tilted his head. “Odd.”
“What?”
“That’s precisely what my date said last night.”
“You weren’t kidding before,” Myron said. “You really are another Red Buttons.”
They did a little sparring, and Myron immediately realized how out of shape he was. Sparring is the most tiring activity in the world. Don’t believe
“So now that he’s dead, his family is—how to say it?—nuclear Armageddoning?”
“Close enough.”
Master Kwon had moved his headquarters and main
dojang
into the second floor of a building on Twenty-third Street near Broadway. Five rooms—studios really—with hardwood floors, mirrored walls, high-tech sound system, sleek and shiny Nautilus equipment—oh, and some of those rice-paper Oriental scroll-posters. Gave the place a real Old World Asia feel.
Myron and Win slipped into their
dobok
, a white uniform, and tied their black belts. Myron had been studying tae kwon do and
hapkido
since Win had first introduced him to them in college, but he hadn’t been to a
dojang
more than five times in the past three years. Win, on the other hand, remained devoutly lethal. Don’t tug on Superman’s cape, don’t spit in the wind, don’t pull the mask off the ol’ Lone Ranger, and you don’t mess around with Win. Bah, bah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee.
Master Kwon was in his mid-seventies but could easily pass for two decades younger. Win had met him during his Asian travels when he was fifteen. As near as Myron could tell, Master Kwon had been a high priest or some such thing at a small Buddhist monastery straight out of a Hong Kong revenge flick. When Master Kwon emigrated to the United States, he spoke very little English. Now, some twenty years later, he spoke almost none. As soon as the wise master hit our shores, he opened up a chain of state-of-the-art tae kwon do schools—with Win’s financial backing, of course. Once he saw the
Karate Kid
movies, Master Kwon started playing the old wise man to the hilt. His English disappeared. He started dressing like the Dalai Lama and began every sentence with the words “Confucius say,” ignoring the small fact that he was Korean and Confucius was Chinese.
Win and Myron headed to Master Kwon’s office. At the entrance, both men bowed deeply.
“Please in,” Master Kwon said.
The desk was fine oak, the chair rich leather and orthopedic looking. Master Kwon was standing near a corner. He held a putter in his hands and wore a splendidly tailored suit. His face brightened when he saw Myron, and the two men embraced.
When they broke apart, Master Kwon said, “You better?”
“Better,” Myron agreed.
The old man smiled and grabbed his own lapel. “Armani,” he said.
“I thought so,” Myron said.
“You like?”
“Very nice.”
Satisfied, Master Kwon said, “Go.”
Win and Myron bowed deeply. Once in the
dojang
, they fell into their customary roles: Win led and Myron followed. They started with meditation. Win loved meditating, as we already graphically witnessed. He sat in the lotus position, palms tilted up, hands resting on knees, back straight, tongue folded against the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose, forcing the air down, letting his abdomen do all the work. Myron tried to duplicate—had been trying for years—but he had never quite gotten the hang of it. His mind, even during less chaotic times, wandered. His bad knee tightened. He got fidgety.
They cut down the stretching to only ten minutes. Again Win was effortless, executing splits and toe touches and deep bends with ease, his bones and joints as flexible as a politician’s voting record. Myron had never been a naturally limber guy. When he was training seriously, he could touch his toes and complete a hurdle stretch with little problem. But just then, that felt like a long time ago.
“I’m already sore,” Myron said through a grunt.
Win tilted his head. “Odd.”
“What?”
“That’s precisely what my date said last night.”
“You weren’t kidding before,” Myron said. “You really are another Red Buttons.”
They did a little sparring, and Myron immediately realized how out of shape he was. Sparring is the most tiring activity in the world. Don’t believe
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