Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [145]
We drove to the warehouse—slowly, carefully, no need to attract any attention right now. As the Plymouth hummed and I felt Flood’s warmth beside me, I was thinking how fine it would be for me to be taking her to the racetrack instead. Or the zoo. I get enough pain in my life from other people—I don’t need to put any on myself, so I stopped thinking like a fucking citizen.
I pulled the car right into the warehouse, all the way up to the back wall. The door closed behind us before I turned off the engine, and I knew that Mama had reached Max.
“Come on, Flood,” I said, extending my hand for her to take. She held out her hand as trustingly as a child. A soft, slightly damp chubby little palm—and on its other side, two enlarged knuckles with a faint bluish tinge. Would her hands be like Max’s someday, when she finished her training? I pushed that thought into the part of my mind that dealt with questions like that, questions like my father’s name.
Flood followed me into the back room. I motioned her to sit down on the desktop, lit a cigarette, and waited for Max. She opened her mouth to ask me something and I told her to be quiet.
Max the Silent materialized in the doorway wearing a black silk gi, a duplicate of the one he’d given Flood. Flood came off the desktop without moving her hands, flowed to her feet, opened her hands to Max, bowed. Max bowed in return, deeper than Flood.
I told Flood, “This is Max the Silent—my brother. He knows what you want and he has agreed to allow his temple to be used for your ceremony.”
Flood spoke without taking her eyes off Max. “Tell him thank you, Burke.”
“Tell him yourself, Flood.” And Flood brought her two hands together in front of her face, bowed over her hands, saying thank you as clearly as any speech.
Max pointed at Flood, curled his pointing finger into a fist, tapped his head. Flood nodded yes. They were of the same school. Then Max pointed at me, turned the finger back on himself, curled into the fist again, tapped his heart twice, half-smiled. Flood understood that too.
Max turned and we followed him out of the back room around to the stairs. Up one flight, then another. We came to a door covered only with a bamboo weave. Max pushed the bamboo aside for Flood to enter, and we were in Max’s practice room. The rough wood floor was hand-sanded and bleached so it was clean as an operating table. Flood didn’t have to be told to remove her shoes. The floor was slightly rough to the touch. Against one wall was a giant mirror, against another were Indian clubs, long wooden staves, a pair of fighting swords. A heavy bag like prizefighters train on was suspended from the ceiling in one corner.
Max approached the center floor, arms at his sides. He swept his hand to cover the surroundings, bowed toward Flood with an after-you-please gesture, and Flood knelt in front of her duffel bag and brought out the robes Max had given her. She shucked off her outer clothes, stuffed them into the bag, and put on the black robes.
She sprang onto the floor, spun into a kata that vibrated with grace and power. Her kicks became hand-thrusts so smooth that I couldn’t see the transition—her breaks were as clean as surgery. She worked against the mirror as she was supposed to, finishing in a deep bow to Max. No change in breathing, like she was at rest. A lioness returned to the jungle, and glad of it.
Max bowed in respect. He opened his hands, caught Flood’s nod and stepped onto the floor. He knife-edged one hand, blurred it toward his own neck and pulled it to a dead stop maybe an inch away. He bowed again to Flood, motioned her forward to him.
Flood stepped onto the floor, twisting her neck from side to side to get loose. Max moved his hands in gently waving patterns in front of his face and chest—like he was carefully gathering cobwebs. He held one leg slightly in front of the other, bent at the knee.
Flood danced in on her toes, twisted her body to the side and faked a left-handed chop, then spun into a kick from the same