Changes (6 page)

"To throw off the scent maybe?" he said.

The bartender returned with my beer. 

"What scent?  You’d be out looking for some throat-crushing hooker-killer and you wouldn’t know dick about dick if not for my help. 
I
did it?  Way to break that case wide open, Detective.  Good work."

We both drank.  A lot.

And then, the awkward, techno music-filled silence.

"Shit," Knox said finally, "I guess that was pretty fucking flimsy.  Sorry, Lee."

I shook my head and frowned.  "You got one thing right."

"What’s that?"

"I’ll tell you later." I said, getting up.

"Where you going?" he asked.

"I’ll tell you later."

Sure, I’d pissed him off, but what can I say?

The bastard had screwed up my date.

12

I spent half of the next morning on the phone.  First, I called Tracy to apologize and explain.  She hinted that lunch in Forest Park would make us even.

I told her that sounded nice. 

I have never told anyone that anything sounded nice.

The other phone calls didn’t fill me with glee, butterflies, or mild nausea.  They also weren’t particularly helpful, but at least nothing else sounded ‘nice.’

Knox was right, but his point was so obvious I wasn't going to admit to him that I hadn't already thought of it:  if the killer knows a rare martial art, a super genius detective would, y'know, check out all the places where one might obtain that type of hard to find knowledge.  Out of all the schools I called, only one would accept visitors.  The others claimed to be closed-door systems, strictly invitation only.  I'd deal with them later.  I glanced at my appointment book; I had five appointments that afternoon.  I scheduled my visit for immediately after lunch.

Hopefully Tracy was as adventurous as I believed her to be.

I met her by the St. Louis Art Museum, on the huge, sloping hill creatively known to locals as… Art Hill.
 
She wore a black tank top, shorts, and tennis shoes.  It was the most casual I’d ever seen her.  Her hair was tied up in a loose ponytail, and wisps of blue-black flitted around her face with the breeze. 

She didn’t wear makeup.  She didn’t need to.

I spread a blanket and we sat overlooking the Grand Basin.  Below us, joggers jogged, children played, and executives played hooky.  Tracy brought sandwiches from a place across the street from her apartment.  We talked and ate and laughed. 

My cheeks actually started to hurt from smiling.

When the food was gone, she looked up at me and smiled shyly before sliding closer on the blanket and lying against me.

I’ll admit it, I froze. 

I choked. 

I damn near soiled myself.

Some people say that dating…or whatever this was… is like riding a bicycle. 

Some people are frigging idiots.

She nestled her head into the crook of my arm and closed her eyes with a contented sigh.  Looking down, her face dappled with the late summer sunlight, I couldn’t breathe.  Because I had never seen anything as beautiful as that girl in that moment.  And the feel of her in my arms?  And the fact that she smelled the way that angels smell, in the best dreams you’ve ever had?

What else could I do?

Of course I kissed her.

I kissed her until there was no air left in my lungs, and my lips burned and buzzed in protest.  I touched her face and studied her while we caught our breath.  And when I leaned down to kiss her again the corners of her lips lifted in the slightest of smiles, as if to say, "Yes.  Again. 
Please."

13

We arrived at the Synergy of Heaven studio with two minutes to spare.  In truth, I’d nearly forgotten all about the whole thing.  As they say, time flies… 

The school was located in a big, upscale storefront, with great plate glass windows in the front.  A massive Yin and Yang symbol adorned the window, along with some Chinese characters.  I scanned the characters, but they didn’t seem to make any sense.  The characters for ‘harmony’, ‘chaos’ and ‘peace’ were positioned inexplicably next to the characters for ‘snow pea’, ‘pork’ and ‘fist’.

I opened the door for Tracy and followed her inside.

I did not stare at her ass when she went in.

Much.

I’m a gentleman, after all.

The school looked as if an episode of Kung Fu had exploded in an aerobics studio.  Plaster Fu dog statues guarded every doorway.  All the walls were decorated in red and gold.  A massive stick of incredibly shitty incense burned in front of a tacky plastic altar.  A tape of Chinese lute music played over the speakers.  A few beginners were on the mat; I think they were trying to practice Pushing Hands, but I couldn’t be sure.  They may have been performing a dramatization of young girls slap-fighting over who the cutest Backstreet Boy was, I don’t know.

An overweight American guy walked out of the back room and headed straight for us.  He looked to be about forty-five, with long, braided salt and pepper hair, a goatee, and serious eyes.  He wore a black and white silk kung fu uniform and an air of superiority that stunk up the place worse than the shitty incense or his blue light special aftershave.

We shook hands, and he introduced himself as
Sifu
Mort Green.  We introduced ourselves.  Sifu Mort immediately took a liking to Tracy.  He moved as if to kiss her hand, but she managed to pull away in time.

I liked her more and more.

Mort didn’t seem to notice.  He just turned to me and said, "So, y’all are interested in Tai Chi?"

I nodded.  Tracy, I think, was still in shock over the attempted hand molestation.

"What most interests you in Tai Chi, Rand?  Mind if I call you Rand?"

I smiled feebly and said, "That’s fine.  Mostly, sir, I was interested in the martial aspect of Tai Chi."

He laughed and said, "Tai Chi is not about
fighting
, Rand.  Tai Chi is about harmony.  It’s about
synergizing
."

"…Synergizing," I said.  The word tasted retarded on my tongue.  It made me want to ask for an order of the chaos pork or harmony snowpeas that were advertised on the window.

"That’s right.  For instance, if you were to push my right arm…" he said, raising his arm to indicate where I should push, "…I would
synergize
your energy."

I pushed his arm lightly.  Every muscle in his arm and chest tensed as he turned robotically.  I remained attached to him and didn’t feel the least bit synergized, but he said, "Well, you get the idea."

A playful gleam sparkled in his eye as he said, "Now you try!"

He shoved.

Hard.

I turned, dissipating his energy…
synergizing
it, if you will.  I expected him to at least know how to fall correctly, but his face skipped across the wooden floor like a pebble across a placid pool.

Tracy, the dear, immediately tried to help him up.  Mort managed it on his own, though, and mopped his sleeve across his face; it came away bloody.  I expected anger from him, but he merely extended his right fist, covered it with his open left hand in the traditional martial salute, and bowed.

"Forgive my arrogance, sir," he said.

I could feel Tracy staring at me, and I felt that old familiar heat in my cheeks.

"Listen… are you the only instructor here?" I said.

"Yes,
Sifu
."

I sighed.  "I’m not your master.  Is there anybody else in town that you know of, any other teachers, maybe?"

"Cheng Xing is the best, I’m told."

"Yeah, and available through invitation only." I said.

He smiled a pink-toothed smile and said, "Perhaps I can assist.  A letter of introduction from me may get you in."

I didn’t have anything better going for me, so I waited while he scribbled out a brief letter.  He stamped a red ink seal on it and handed it to me.

Mort grinned a pink-toothed grin and said, "I do know that Sifu Cheng often takes his students to Millar Park for practice.  I have gone there to practice sometimes, and his students often gather to watch my form."

Yeah, I bet they do.  Wide-eyed with disbelief.

I thanked him for the letter, though, and Tracy and I went out to her car.

I opened the letter and read it.  The red seal at the bottom proclaimed ‘Happy Choi’s meats are best.’

I folded the letter, stuck it in my pocket and looked up to see Mort waving to us from the window.  We both smiled and waved, and Tracy quickly drove away. 

At the next stop light, Tracy kept staring at me until I said, "What?"

"You… That was amazing."

"No," I said, "amazing is not the word.  Sad.  Sad would be the word for that."

14

We went back to the park for my car.  As much as I hated to leave the magical, candy-colored, teenage wasteland of giddy lust that was my time with Tracy, I had to get back to work.  On the drive back to the shop, I turned up the radio really loud and sang badly to whatever was on.  I think it was Chicago.  The Peter Cetera incarnation.  It may even have been "You’re the Inspiration."

Clearly, I have neither shame nor musical taste.

The afternoon’s clients provided a nice break from reality.  Things like asthma and irritable bowel syndrome I could deal with.  Hell, even the police stuff wasn’t too bad, now that I had a plan.  Never mind that my plan was basically to poke around where I didn’t belong until somebody poked back.  It was something, at least. 

As far as Tracy, well, I was at a bit of a loss.  I couldn’t stick a needle in her, or kick her ass, and really, those are my only comfort zones.  I didn’t know what to do with anybody who could, at any point, make me bust out in that "Power of Love" song from Karate Kid II.

So I focused on healing. 

And did my best not to fixate too much on my dinner with her at eight.

At my place.

Gulp.

The minute Mrs. Sanchez, my last pincushion of the day, was out the door, I ran up the stairs and surveyed the damage: Dishes in the sink, dirty laundry on the floor, and a general unpleasant funk about the place.  The place looked like a combination between the average bachelor pad and a Turkish prison cell.

 I rummaged through a kitchen drawer for some incense and came up with a single shriveled stick of Nag Champa. 

Good enough.

I opened the windows, lit the incense, and got to work straightening the place up.

Amazing how much mess you can cram into a place in just six months.

With the dishes washed, the laundry done, and the cardboard boxes shoved away into a back closet, the place started looking halfway presentable.  Didn’t smell too bad, either.

I took a quick shower, shaved, and dragged a brush through my hair.  My closet was a disorganized mess, but I grabbed a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt.

Feeling pretty good about things, I checked the time.  Everything was set, and it was only quarter till eight.

I was a master of the universe.

Then it hit me…

‘Dinner’ meant that I was supposed to provide some sort of food, usually of the cooked variety.

Shit.

I ran to the cupboards and scrambled to find something remotely edible.

And the doorbell rang.

I spat out as many curses as my deflated lungs would allow and went to answer it.

I stopped in front of the door, ran my fingers through my hair, wiped the sudden abundance of sweat from my face, and cleared my throat.  Then I opened the door.

"Hi." she said with a slight wave, her eyes downcast shyly.

"Er…hi."  I said, because I’m smooth like that.

After an awkward minute, I moved my stupid, gawking ass out of the way so she could come in.  She wore a black and violet dress that accentuated curves I never knew she had, and that was impressive since I liked to think that I was becoming something of a scholar when it came to her curves.  Her jet black hair was swept up and secured with long, deadly-looking pins; I made a mental note to keep my hands to myself.  I also noted her big, dark eyes, her pale, fine neck, those ever-lovely legs, and her long and delicate fingers. 

I cleared my throat again and offered her a drink.

She asked if I had beer.  I didn’t let on that beer was about the only thing I had.

I took two bottles from the fridge, popped the tops, and explained how I’d completely spaced dinner.  While I fumbled the words, she watched with an amused, lopsided grin and finally said, "That’s okay.  We could order in."

There was something predatory in her eyes that said I wasn’t getting off the hook this time.  That was okay by me.  While I was on the phone, she scanned my bookshelves and ended up at the CD rack.

"…Huh…"

"What?" I said.

"What what?" she said, wide-eyed.

"You made a disappointed ‘huh’ sound." I said, grinning.

"No, I didn’t."

I nodded.  "Sure did."

She blushed slightly and said, "It’s just…you have really weird taste in music."

"I do?"

She raised an eyebrow and said, "Um, yeah?  You have a royal crap-ton of, like, Chinese CDS and then…it’s… I mean, classic rock, anyone?"

"What’s wrong with that?" I said.

She poked me in the stomach and said, "Live in the now, man!  Don’t be an old geezer!"

"I told you.  I’m older than I look."

She stuck the tip of her tongue out at me and said, "You’re not
that
old."

I grinned.  "Okay.  How old do you
think
I am?"

"Unh-uh.  I’m not playing that game," she said.

"Why not?"  I said.

"Because I’ll guess one way or the other too far and insult the shit out of you.  Just tell me."

"Does it matter?"  I said.  I’d wondered that a lot, myself.

"No," she said, laughing, "Why, what are you….thirty?"

"I’m forty-two."  I said.

She laughed again and said, "Bullshit."

I smiled and shrugged.

"You are not," she said, looking to see if I was indeed pulling her leg.