and Lew Croaker were in a New York dōjō 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 sakē 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 sakē, 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 touchy. I just mean that life’s more often shades of gray than it is all black and white. Tomkin’s not the Prince of Evil; that’s the role you’ve assigned him. It’s just possible that he didn’t have Angela Didion murdered.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t think it matters what I believe.”
Now Nicholas did not know whether that was true, because he had become involved. He had accepted Croaker’s abrupt death so far away in Key West; he was here now in Japan because of it. Giri.
“So long, Nick.” Croaker had grinned in the multicolored street lights just outside the restaurant. He had half stuck out his hand, then, thinking better of it, had bowed instead. Nicholas returned the gesture and they had both laughed into the night, as if warding off any kind of trepidation.
Their last moments together had been so casual, in the manner of most men parting for a short time. Despite what Croaker had given Nicholas, neither man believed anything would happen to the cop
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 sakē 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 sakē, 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 touchy. I just mean that life’s more often shades of gray than it is all black and white. Tomkin’s not the Prince of Evil; that’s the role you’ve assigned him. It’s just possible that he didn’t have Angela Didion murdered.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t think it matters what I believe.”
Now Nicholas did not know whether that was true, because he had become involved. He had accepted Croaker’s abrupt death so far away in Key West; he was here now in Japan because of it. Giri.
“So long, Nick.” Croaker had grinned in the multicolored street lights just outside the restaurant. He had half stuck out his hand, then, thinking better of it, had bowed instead. Nicholas returned the gesture and they had both laughed into the night, as if warding off any kind of trepidation.
Their last moments together had been so casual, in the manner of most men parting for a short time. Despite what Croaker had given Nicholas, neither man believed anything would happen to the cop
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