Applaud the Hollow Ghost by David J. Walker Read Free Book Online Page B

black leather boots and crossword puzzles.

CHAPTER
8
    I DROVE AWAY FROM the neighborhood, learning yet again why I hate being out on the streets at that time of the morning. For one thing, whether you’re headed into or out of the city, rush hour is there, both ways. Worse than that, though, I usually end up comparing myself with all those other drivers—people who have real jobs. Chastising myself, consoling myself, finally questioning my choices … again.
    Who do you think you are, I ask, with no paycheck, no health benefits, no retirement plan?
    True, I answer, but also no mortgage payments, no tuition bills, no—
    Uh-huh, sure. And no family life, either. And no routine to keep you sane.
    So I headed for Western Avenue, recalling the times I’ve had regular employment. There’s a lot to be said for not having to think, every day, about what time to get up, when to leave home, where to go. At Western, I slowed when the light turned yellow, then gunned into a left turn just after it went red. Horns blared. The sun was barely up and people seemed mad as hell already, as though they couldn’t wait to get to their real jobs and complain about the traffic.
    One block north on Western, I threw a hard right and fishtailed on a patch of ice onto a residential street. It hadn’t been plowed, but it was one-way and previous cars had dug ruts in the snow, which was now frozen firm. I pounded hard on the accelerator. The Cavalier’s rear tires wanted to slither side to side, but couldn’t because of the ruts, so they finally grabbed hold and sent me forward. One more block and another hard right. A few more blocks, a few more turns, another questionable lurch through an intersection, and pretty soon I was on Ashland Avenue, headed north again.
    Yes, there’s something comfortable about routine. But there’s consolation, too, in knowing you can still shake off a car that’s tailing you, without making it obvious you even know it’s there. On the other hand, maybe those two goons in the dark blue Ford that wasn’t behind me any more just weren’t that good. Or maybe they weren’t trying all that hard by the time I’d spotted them, which was a couple of blocks from the church. After all, I hadn’t noticed any blue Ford when I left the coach house an hour and a half earlier.
    And certainly the coach house must have been where they started to follow me. Because no one could have known I’d be at Our Lady of Ravenna for seven o’clock Mass. Could they?
    *   *   *
    I DON’T KNOW WHERE Dr. Sato lives, but at eight-thirty in the morning he was there at his dojo, smoking a cigarette in his glass-walled office in the corner, on the second floor over the cleaners on Central Street in Evanston. A few of his other students were there, too. After I bowed and stepped onto the mat that nearly covered the entire floor of the huge, bare room, I waited for Dr. Sato to stab out his cigarette and walk barefoot across the mat to me.
    â€œGood morning, sensei, ” I said.
    â€œGood morning, Malachy.” Another one who never got the last syllable wrong.
    After a ritual exchange of greetings, I told him about my bruised ribs, courtesy of Goldilocks and his brass knuckles.
    I could swear Dr. Sato stifled a grin then, but maybe he was just trying to look sympathetic. He always smiled a lot, anyway. “Ah, well then,” he said, “let me watch you stretch out.”
    I did the best I could, but it hurt like hell to move.
    In a moment he said, “You are fine. No problem.”
    â€œThank you, sensei. ” No problem that he could feel.
    â€œSo,” he said, “prepare yourself. Ten minutes for the mind. Ten minutes for the body. Then we will begin, and I and the others will take it easy with you.”
    The hour and a half session was the usual whirlwind of throws, rolling falls, kicks, and punches, with Dr. Sato