designations.
On the odd-shaped thirteenth block, Nicholas found what he was searching for. The building overlooked a small ancient temple and, just beyond, Atago Hill.
Inside, he changed cut of his street clothes. Reaching into the black bag he toted, he withdrew a pair of white cotton wide-legged pants. These were kept up by a drawstring. Over this he drew on a loose-fitting jacket of the same color and material. This closed by means of a separate belt of black cotton tied low on the hips. Finally, he stepped into the hakama, the traditional black divided skirt worn now only by those who had mastered kendo, kyudo, sumo or held danblack beltranking in aikido. This, too, was tied low on the hips to give a further feeling of centralization, handed down from the time of the samurai.
Thus dressed in his gi, Nicholas went up a flight of perfectly polished wooden stairs. In his mind he heard the click, clack-click of wooden bokken clashing against each other. And it was suddenly last summer. He and Lew Croaker were in a New York dojo and he was watching the look in his friend’s eyes as for the first time Croaker saw the flash of kenjutsu.
Nicholas had always been slow to find friendship, principally because that concept in its Eastern form meant a great deal more than it did in the West. For him, as for all Orientals, friendship meant duty, the upholding of a friend’s honor, bonds of iron no Westerner could fathom. But Lew Croaker, within Nicholas’ orbit, had learned those definitions and had chosen to be Nicholas’ friend.
They had promised each other that after Croaker returned from Key West and finally wrapped up the Angela Didion murder, they
would go fishing for blues or shark off Montauk. Now that would never happen. Croaker was dead, and Nicholas missed him with a fierceness that was almost physical pain.
He knew that he should clear his mind in preparation for what was waiting for him at the top of the stairs but he could not get the memory of his friend out of his mind. What turned out to be their final good-bye was a poignant moment full of the kind of hushed feeling two Japanese friends might express.
They had been at Michita, the Japanese restaurant in midtown Nicholas frequented. Their shoes were just outside the tatami room’s wooden lintel, Croaker’s heavy Western work shoes lined up next to Nicholas’ featherlight loafers. They knelt opposite one another. There was steaming tea and hot sake in tiny earthen cups between them. Sushi and tonkatsu were coming.
“What time are you leaving?” Nicholas said.
“I’m taking the midnight plane.” Croaker grinned lopsidedly. “It’s the cheapest flight.”
But they both knew that he had wanted to get into Key West under cover of darkness.
The subdued clatter of the restaurant went on around them as if for once it had no power to touch them. They were an island of silence, inviolable.
Abruptly Croaker had looked up. “Nick”
The food came and he waited until they were alone again. “There isn’t much but I’ve got some stocks, bonds, and such in a safety deposit box.” He slid a small key in a brown plastic case across the low table. “You’ll take care of things if…” He picked up his chopsticks, pushed raw tuna around with the blunt ends as white as bones. “Well, if it all doesn’t work out for me down there.”
Nicholas took the key; he felt honored. They fell to eating and the atmosphere seemed to clear. When they were through and had ordered more sake, Nicholas said, “Promise me one thing, Lew. I know how you feel about Tomkin. I think it’s a blind spot”
“I know what I know, Nick. He’s a goddamned shark, eating up everything in his path. I mean to stop him and this lead’s my only way.”
“All I mean is don’t let this… passion of yours lead you around by the nose. Once you get down there take your time, look around, size up the situation.”
“You telling me how to do my job now?”
“Don’t be so
On the odd-shaped thirteenth block, Nicholas found what he was searching for. The building overlooked a small ancient temple and, just beyond, Atago Hill.
Inside, he changed cut of his street clothes. Reaching into the black bag he toted, he withdrew a pair of white cotton wide-legged pants. These were kept up by a drawstring. Over this he drew on a loose-fitting jacket of the same color and material. This closed by means of a separate belt of black cotton tied low on the hips. Finally, he stepped into the hakama, the traditional black divided skirt worn now only by those who had mastered kendo, kyudo, sumo or held danblack beltranking in aikido. This, too, was tied low on the hips to give a further feeling of centralization, handed down from the time of the samurai.
Thus dressed in his gi, Nicholas went up a flight of perfectly polished wooden stairs. In his mind he heard the click, clack-click of wooden bokken clashing against each other. And it was suddenly last summer. He and Lew Croaker were in a New York dojo and he was watching the look in his friend’s eyes as for the first time Croaker saw the flash of kenjutsu.
Nicholas had always been slow to find friendship, principally because that concept in its Eastern form meant a great deal more than it did in the West. For him, as for all Orientals, friendship meant duty, the upholding of a friend’s honor, bonds of iron no Westerner could fathom. But Lew Croaker, within Nicholas’ orbit, had learned those definitions and had chosen to be Nicholas’ friend.
They had promised each other that after Croaker returned from Key West and finally wrapped up the Angela Didion murder, they
would go fishing for blues or shark off Montauk. Now that would never happen. Croaker was dead, and Nicholas missed him with a fierceness that was almost physical pain.
He knew that he should clear his mind in preparation for what was waiting for him at the top of the stairs but he could not get the memory of his friend out of his mind. What turned out to be their final good-bye was a poignant moment full of the kind of hushed feeling two Japanese friends might express.
They had been at Michita, the Japanese restaurant in midtown Nicholas frequented. Their shoes were just outside the tatami room’s wooden lintel, Croaker’s heavy Western work shoes lined up next to Nicholas’ featherlight loafers. They knelt opposite one another. There was steaming tea and hot sake in tiny earthen cups between them. Sushi and tonkatsu were coming.
“What time are you leaving?” Nicholas said.
“I’m taking the midnight plane.” Croaker grinned lopsidedly. “It’s the cheapest flight.”
But they both knew that he had wanted to get into Key West under cover of darkness.
The subdued clatter of the restaurant went on around them as if for once it had no power to touch them. They were an island of silence, inviolable.
Abruptly Croaker had looked up. “Nick”
The food came and he waited until they were alone again. “There isn’t much but I’ve got some stocks, bonds, and such in a safety deposit box.” He slid a small key in a brown plastic case across the low table. “You’ll take care of things if…” He picked up his chopsticks, pushed raw tuna around with the blunt ends as white as bones. “Well, if it all doesn’t work out for me down there.”
Nicholas took the key; he felt honored. They fell to eating and the atmosphere seemed to clear. When they were through and had ordered more sake, Nicholas said, “Promise me one thing, Lew. I know how you feel about Tomkin. I think it’s a blind spot”
“I know what I know, Nick. He’s a goddamned shark, eating up everything in his path. I mean to stop him and this lead’s my only way.”
“All I mean is don’t let this… passion of yours lead you around by the nose. Once you get down there take your time, look around, size up the situation.”
“You telling me how to do my job now?”
“Don’t be so
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