on hold — but was talking to a teacher beside her about report cards, jotting down notes on a Post-it pad, and directing traffic in the room — all at the same time. She saw me walk in and waved me over with her free hand. She handed me a blue sheet of paper emblazoned “Substitute Pay Form,” then went back to her traffic direction.
I found a shelf to lean on and filled out the paper.
By the time I was finished, the room had emptied. I handed the form to Diane, thanked her, and headed out. As I walked down the corridor filled with the student cubist art, I hoped I would bump into Katie Harris before I left. I smiled picturing her smile. My thoughts shifted to Alli. I owed her a phone call to set up dinner tonight, but I’d deal with that later. My mind went back to Katie.
I headed down to my office on North Charles Street. This area of town was a few miles north of the city center and had a mixed commercial-residential feel to it. On the main street, stores lined either side, however, the road itself was not all that wide. In fact, it was one-way northbound, and where the shops were mostly at street level, apartments filled the upper two stories. I pulled into a tenant’s only parking lot behind my building, then headed around front.
My modest place of business was located between the offices of a radio station and a natural food restaurant. Both had been there when I first rented my place. I had never set foot in the radio station — no need to — but I was familiar with the natural foods place. It was run by a Latino husband and wife who seemed to always be there.
I hustled up the five steps to my entrance: a single, nondescript glass door that had orange paper lining it on the inside so you couldn’t see through. There were no signs, no markings of any kind as to what lay inside. I unlocked the door and walked in.
The entranceway soon gave way to a decent-sized hardwood-floored open room. There weren’t many accouterments to give away what went on here. The walls — simply painted white — were pretty much bare; there was a punching bag hanging from supports in one corner, and there was a lone bookcase against the back wall that had a shelf-full of arm and leg pads and a collection of miscellaneous books. Two good-sized windows, both of which were open, let in plenty of light.
The one thing that gave away the purpose of the room was a young man in his mid-twenties, holding a pair of Chinese broadswords. He wore loose black pants and a red T-shirt with a black dragon emblazoned on the back. At the moment, he was moving vigorously about the room flashing the swords, constantly rising up on one leg, and then sinking low. I watched from the side.
After about thirty seconds he came to a stop. He turned to see me and came right over.
“Sifu, hi.”
“Good morning, Jon.”
Jon was about five-ten, lean, and curly-haired. Sweat was running down his cheek and the front of his T-shirt was patterned with wet spots like an ink-blot test.
“That last section looks good,” I said. “Smoother than last week. Not bad for a young guy.”
“Thanks. Some old guy showed me what to do.”
I smiled. The “old guy” was me.
He smiled back, then asked: “Did you get my message last night?”
“About the uniforms and about the new student? Yes. I look forward to meeting her.”
We walked through a door and into my office. Like the main room, the office had the essentials: a desk, some chairs, plus a tall filing cabinet. The only elements of luxury were an old sofa that I had rescued from a second-hand shop and a TV/DVD player. On top of the filing cabinet was a green towel. I tossed it to Jon.
“So how’d last night go?” Jon asked, mopping his face.
“You know, Oh Young Student, there aren’t too many people I let pry into my private life.”
“If I didn’t pry, you’d end up telling the whole class anyway.”
I smiled because it was true. I sat down in the desk chair and looked up at my student. “It was definitely an interesting night.” I told him everything, from spotting the waiter to the discussion with the Shin Bet guy. The only thing I left out was my emotional state at the beginning of the evening.
“So what do you think about the Israeli dude?”
“He’ll be by. He knew I wasn’t giving him the entire story. And while that may not affect his investigation, these guys hate not knowing everything about everything.”
“So he doesn’t know your background?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Maybe by now. I don’t know.”
Jon began playing with one of the broadswords, moving it from side-to-side. “So, when do you think he’ll show up?”
“This morning, I’m sure. I had to give him my home phone number. He’ll trace me here.”
“Anything you want me to do, Sifu?”
“You may want to offer me a can of soda when he comes in.”
He smiled, knowing exactly my intent.
“After that, be invisible. Don’t give him a reason to notice you.”
“I’ll be as clear as a fresh mountain stream.”
“Uh huh.”
With that, Jon went back to his work-out and I went about some paperwork. My attention span for that was about five minutes, so I left my desk and went about my own martial routine. It was very dull to look at: several sequences of stretching exercises and then a lot of standing around and staring off into space.
About an hour later the door buzzer sounded. Jon and I exchanged glances and he went to see who it was. In a minute he came back, as expected, with David Amit, the Shin Bet man from last night. Amit looked a little more worn than the evening before. He was wearing a sport coat with an open collar — Israelis detest ties — and his thinning hair was slightly disheveled. He came in alone, though I doubted he was by himself.
“Boker tov,” he said almost flatly. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. What can I do for you?”
“Is there a place where we can talk privately?” He looked at Jon.
I led Amit into my office. I opened a folding chair for him and placed it opposite my desk. I grabbed the cushioned desk chair across from him.
He sat in his seat with his legs crossed, ankle on the opposite knee, and tried to look casual. “You didn’t tell me everything last night.” He looked around the dojo office. “Where did you train?”
“Here and there. It doesn’t matter does it? What can I do for you, Mr. Amit. You know what I told you about the waiter was accurate.”
He uncrossed his legs. “You said you didn’t see the waiter talking to anyone, that you thought he was working alone.”
“From what I could see.”
“We don’t think so. We don’t think he was by himself.”
