The next available cab pulls up from a long queue. I had just arrived at Grand Central Station from Boston. I always prefer to travel by train whenever I can. Why take the risk, I always say. My supervisor puts up with my flying phobia because when it comes to the bottom line, I always deliver. This hang-up of mine isn’t strictly just about flying and it definitely predates our post 9/11 world. It’s really about personal control and safety issues. I like to be in control of my environment whenever possible and let’s face it, in an airliner there isn’t any.

The driver turns his head and through a thick, grimy bulletproof protective plastic shield asks “Where to Mistah?”

I pull out a slip of paper from my briefcase and answer “4265 East Tremont Avenue.”

I glance at the barely visible cab driver’s license holder to notice his name and it is absolutely unpronounceable. It starts with the name Mohammed and that’s as far as I can make sense of it. He wears an Islamic style bleached white lace skullcap. I figure he must be from somewhere in the Middle East. The music coming from his small CD Player on the front seat reminds me of two strays in a late night catfight.

“You sure Mistah?”

“That’s what I said.”

As the cab pulls away from the curb I notice that it’s close to midnight. I left Maine early this afternoon. I would have been here by early this evening even with all the extra security procedures at the airport. Oh well that’s the price I pay for taking a train instead of a plane. My meeting is scheduled for early tomorrow morning.

My name is Bill Turner and I am a sales representative for a leather tannery by the Salmon River up in Berwick, a small town in southwestern Maine. The narrow river separates it from Somersworth, New Hampshire. We have been trying for quite some time to create a business relationship with Ringcraft, a leading professional boxing glove manufacturing company. It’s been the owner’s dream to capture this account for all the years I’ve worked there, and I started at the loading bay. In the last few years, with the disappearance of the Maine shoe industry it has become even more critical to the tannery to bring in new business. This account could possibly double our business. This meeting tomorrow morning is the most important of my career so far.

I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get here today to make sure I arrive at my appointment on time, rested and refreshed. I always try to see potential clients early in the day. I perform better that way. A client is also not tired yet from a long day at the office and is usually much more responsive to my pitch. If things go well it also allows us the opportunity to go out for a business lunch complete with cocktails. The cocktails certainly can’t hurt in clinching a lucrative deal for my firm. In fact they tend to make it quite a bit easier.

I would have made reservations at a fine midtown Manhattan hotel but there is a major jeweler’s convention going on at the Javits Center this week and there isn’t a room to be had anywhere near it. I can’t believe there are that many jewelers in this country that they can fill all the descent hotel rooms in the heart of the world’s largest city. I’ll have to take my chances and find a suitable hotel or motel room near my sales call. I hate to rely on impromptu travel arrangements but the opportunity that has presented itself to me with this company was a last minute minor miracle. Their long-time leather supplier has recently changed ownership and management team. Ringcraft apparently doesn’t like the new team and has decided to look for a new supplier. I don’t want this huge opportunity to slip by me. All our competitors are chomping at their bits to be the first to make their presentation.

We cross a rusty bridge slopped with fading gray paint over more rust in a vain attempt to make it look safe. At least that’s all I can make out of it by the gloomy streetlight available. As we rumble over the metal grating underneath I wonder if we’ll make it to the other side. As soon as we drive off the bridge into the Bronx I notice that the scenery outside the cab has abruptly changed. Abandoned cars and condemned tenements are so numerous here that they seem to overwhelm everything else.

Is this where the world’s leading boxing glove manufacturer calls home? In my mind’s eye I can imagine how at one time in the now distant past it may have been a vibrant, thriving neighborhood. It must have been that way when the company was founded. I guess I should be grateful that I’m here at all. Most other boxing glove companies are manufacturing in China now and it would definitely not be cost effective for them to do business with us. I must admit, I don’t know New York City very well and if I had known this sales call was in the middle of a nasty ghetto I would definitely have taken the risk and waited until next week to be able to stay in a nice midtown hotel.

“Are there any hotels near here?” I ask the driver anxiously.

“You kidding Mistah? By the hour, maybe.” He responded.

As we pull up to the address I had given him I glance up the street. Two blocks away there is a sleazy looking hotel. The antique, flickering green neon light marquee above the entrance reads: TR_MONT H__TEL. The missing neon letters a flagrant testimonial to the quality to be expected at this squalid inn.

“What about that place up there?”

“Sure Mistah.”

He drives up to it and double parks next to a sparkling new turquoise colored Fleetwood.

“Will you wait a minute? I just want to find out if they have a vacancy.”

He nods in consent. As I extricate myself out of the cab I figure I’m definitely going to have to hang my luggage from a ceiling light fixture just to keep the cockroaches out of my clothes tonight. I can only imagine what the rooms must look like. I suddenly wish I had brought a plastic sheet to place over the very likely soiled, seldom changed bedding.

As I walk toward the hotel entrance it all becomes moot. The cabby peals away with a shrieking squeal of rubber. With a sudden shock I realize he is stealing my brand new Hewlett Packard laptop computer as well as my leather briefcase and overnight luggage. No wonder he didn’t mind letting me get out of the cab without paying him first. He must have been eyeballing my laptop as I got in the cab earlier and thanked Allah for it as I got out. Just great, there goes my presentation, my credit cards and all my cash, still in the briefcase. I swear I will never care about bulging jacket pockets again. How could I have trusted him? I must look like what I really must be: a naive country boy from the back woods of Maine that only imagines he’s street smart. Damn it all to Hell! I can’t even remember his last name, never mind his taxi driver’s license number.

“Come back here you son of a bitch!” I yell loudly as I start to lamely run after the quickly disappearing taxi.

As I start back toward the hotel entrance I notice a tall thin black man in what looks like an expensive dark green double-breasted Armani suit and sporting a wide brimmed matching fedora. He slothfully leans against the passenger side front bumper of the Cadillac. He casually turns his face toward me as I pass by him and flashes me a toothy grin that I can only imagine a predator giving its prey just before devouring it. Is that a diamond in-bedded in his front teeth? It must be at least half a carat. He flicks his cigarette butt to the sidewalk and crouches back into the back of his limousine.

I remember my cell phone is still attached to my belt. I pull it out and I start to punch up 911. My stomach does a somersault inside of me as it informs me that the batteries are totally drained. Mr. Murphy is certainly working overtime tonight.

I walk into the shabby hotel lobby. The smell of urine intermixed with disinfectant pine-sol cleanser is enough to make me gag. I fight the urge to heave and go up to the clerk’s counter. He’s busy watching the Conan O’Brien Show on a tiny TV set and his body language as he tears himself away from it to walk over to the counter shouts: “Why the hell are you disturbing me? Asshole!”

What actually come out of his lips is “ Yeah...what.” The strong odor of marijuana, cheap liquor and stale armpit sweat emanates strongly from him as he leans lazily toward me with one elbow on the counter.

“A cab just took off with everything I had. Can you help me? I need a phone.”

“We haven’t got a pay phone. Everybody’s got cell phones now.”

“Can’t I use the phone right there behind you? Can’t you call the police for me?”

“Listen buddy, live with it. Cops don’t exactly come rushing over here for petty crimes. You’re right smack in the middle of a bad assed neighborhood, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t like cops and I certainly don’t want them anywhere near here. It’s bad for business. Besides that cabby must be half way down to the East Side Highway by now. Did you get the plate number?”

“No, I was too busy trying to run after him.”

“Then you’re totally screwed.”

“Why would a nice whitey like you be up here alone in the middle of the night anyway?”

“It’s too long a story. I don’t want to bore you.” I can’t bear the stench in here a minute more.

As I walk out, a young olive skinned, bleached blond Hispanic hooker in extremely short, almost thong-like hot pants and tall spike heeled shoes stumbles into me. She was too busy supporting her drunken john who was barely on his feet to notice me coming out. Her enormous breasts spill out from her skintight halter-top as she tries to regain her balance. They seem out of all proportion to the rest of her otherwise thinly lithe body.

“Sorry.” She blurts out as she starts to adjust her top. I sense her avaricious thinking process as she provocatively advertises her breasts for my full visual inspection before cramming them back in her flimsy halter. Quickly calculating, I gather, whether I might make a better prospect than the john she already has. I can see the track marks on her arms and the bruise on her face that she is desperately trying to mask with her make-up. She certainly needs more cash than a simple trick can provide.

This john is definitely going to be robbed. She decides to stick with a sure thing and drags him inside. I decide to try to find a police cruiser or better yet, a subway station. I’d rather sit in a subway car for the rest of the night. It would be much easier on my legs and a hell of a lot less dangerous. I eventually come across a subway station entrance. I climb down the filthy, urine drenched, dark staircase. The putrid air breathable only because of the strong rush of dry, hot ozone permeated wind that blows up from below as trains screech into the station or fast moving ones pass by on the express track.

After fishing for coins in my pockets I realize I don’t even have enough for a token. The turnstiles are of the jump-over proof variety. Ceiling to floor painted steel bars surrounding a matching ceiling to floor style rotating door entrance. The hermetically sealed token booth attendant could care less about my predicament.

“No token, no entry. That’s the law!” At least that’s all I could make out of the garbled noise coming out from the cheap intercom system. Screwed again!

As I climb back up the stairs to street level I notice a large, neon lit clock through a steel grated storefront window. It’s now close to two in the morning. Suddenly my instincts tell me I’m being watched. A car pulls up from behind. Three young men rush out to surround me on the otherwise deserted sidewalk. I have always heard that in situations like this you better have something of value to give or they will shoot you out of spite for wasting their time. I have nothing but my inexpensive Timex watch and a run of the mill cell phone, peanuts to these hoods. I’m toast!

As they encircle me I quickly analyze the immediate terrain around me and quickly pick out the leader of this pack. They are wearing their gang colors: yellow and black silk blazers over T-shirts with black bandanas on cleanly shaved heads, heavy gold necklaces dangling around their necks. Expensive sneakers adorn their feet under their very baggy blue jeans. The chief gangster sports a short goatee, a facial tattoo and is wearing a lot more gold around his neck than the other two. He’s the one who steps in front of me extending out in his right arm a nickel-plated 9 mm semi-automatic to only inches from my nose. What he commences to bark at me I don’t hear. Mind is too busy reeling from this surreal and dangerous situation that I suddenly find myself in.

My whole life flashes in front of my eyes in a flash as my adrenaline reaches a new height that I previously would have thought impossible. Before tunnel vision starts to set in I take a deep but silent breath and go into motion. No time to think, only to act if I want to survive. I lift up my arms as I assume he must have just requested. I carefully keep my elbows down, already preparing to execute an abbreviated form of Kotegaeshi. As he starts to blink, I twist my upper body clockwise in less time than he can reopen his eyes again. Simultaneously I reach for and grab his death dealing hand with my raised left hand. I start to spin my entire body around in the opposite direction instantly, wrenching his wrist and gun barrel toward his face.

With blinding speed my other hand also grabs the same gun holding hand to help wrench the gun barrel toward him even more viciously. It discharges into his face as his reflex action pulls the trigger. His whole head explodes behind his face. As I continue to spin around in a counter clockwise direction I cause it to discharge again, this time right into the chest of his now stunned back-up partner. As he goes down, the gun is now firmly in my hands as their leader finally slumps backwards unto the now blood, gore and bone splattered front hood of the parked car behind him. I stand pointing the 9 mm at the third hood. He’s been caught off guard by the suddenness of my response. Their car speeds away immediately. The driver obviously wants no part of me. As we stand there facing each other the alarm of the parked car starts to blare away.

I yell to the one left standing, only a youth really “Put the gun down gently on the sidewalk.” He does so.

“ Kick it to me, gently now, no fast motions, now lie face down on the sidewalk with your hands at the base of your back with your legs spread wide apart. Don’t even look at me. Look straight down at the ground.”

I continue to point the gun at him with both my hands. I have no choice. I’m trembling so much I would otherwise drop it.

I can finally make out police sirens in the distance and they are getting much louder quickly as he complies. Thank God, I think to myself, I don’t know how much longer my knees will hold out. The fear I had just experienced had almost completely consumed me. All the years of training at the little dojo back home had unbelievably paid off tonight, big time.

My head is ringing from the noise of the gunshots and my Sensei’s favorite proverb, “To be a pacifist is to be a man of peace. To truly be one you must first be able to defend yourself. Then you have a choice you can make: To fight or not to fight. If you cannot defend yourself, you do not have that choice to make. You are merely helpless.”

I have always been a practical kind of guy. I was never quite athletically talented enough to be a first stringer in high school sports teams. After sitting on the bench for a while I wisely figured out that martial arts training would be more rewarding. I could also accomplish two things at the same time, fitness AND self-defense.

After looking around for quite some time I chose a small traditional school that emphasized age tested, no-nonsense, practical self-defense instead of a larger, much more popular tournament oriented sport school. I was already sick of athletic competition. In my forties now, I still get to the dojo twice a week religiously to keep healthy, fit and for much needed stress relief. A few of the same people are still there although the majority of them have moved on with their lives and away from our rural area. The dojo is still in the same location and it seems nothing in it has changed in thirty years except for the faces of the students. The only obvious difference is Sensei’s hair; it used to be jet black, now it’s snow white.

I spent the rest of the night in a haze of police interviews. They are quickly convinced of my insistence of self-defense, especially since the rap sheets of the three men were massive. Two of the three were actually wanted by the police for a vicious home invasion and rape the night before. I have no criminal record whatsoever, not even an unpaid parking ticket. When I finally look at my watch it’s a quarter to nine. I ask the desk sergeant if I can get a ride to Ringcraft’s building.

“There’s been a car waiting for you outside for about fifteen minutes already.” He informs me.

“That’s very nice of you.” I respond.

“It’s not one of ours. I believe it belongs to Ringcraft.”

I go outside and spot a limousine waiting there. The driver comes around and opens the door for me. I get in and find an immaculately dressed black man with short-cropped salt and pepper hair talking on his car phone. He puts it down and extends his right hand to me. I take it firmly in my right hand for a moment as I sit down next to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Turner, I’m Michael Corley, the owner of Ringcraft. May I call you Bill?” To my friends I’m just Mike. I’d be honored if I could count you as one of them.”

“I’m the one that should be honored sir.” I reply in my humblest voice, suddenly all too aware of my unshaven, disheveled appearance and that I have nothing to present to him this morning.

“I’m sorry but I had a hell of a night and have lost my presentation material.”

“I know all about it, the whole city is buzzing about it this morning. As a matter of fact, excuse me a moment...George let’s get the hell out of here before the TV crews get here. I want to talk to this young man before the media vultures get to him.”

“You don’t need to make a presentation to me. I am more than confident your product can fit our manufacturing needs. I have an unwritten rule in my business, Bill. I do business only with people I respect. That’s why I stayed with the Jones Tannery for over a decade. Dick Jones ran his business like I built mine, with integrity. When he passed away recently, his family was forced to sell his business. They couldn’t afford the inheritance tax. The new owners are jerks as far as I’m concerned. They fired all of Dick’s upper management team without even meeting them. I’ve picked up as many as I could, excellent people, all of them. Dick never could stand ‘yes’ men, and neither do I.”

“Anyone who can handle himself so well in a such a dangerous situation the way you did speaks volume to me about you, as well as your character. I’m an old boxer myself and I have become a good judge of character because of it. You are as good as gold with me Bill.”

“What you did last night was, how should I put it, just short of downright spectacular. I wish I had been there to see those scumbags get what they deserved.” Mr. Corley continued.

“I have seen this neighborhood go down the gutter in the last twenty years. I live up in Greenwich now with all the ‘beautiful people’ but I insist on keeping my firm here where I grew up. Someone’s got to help out the vast majority of good people still left here in the old neighborhood. I try in my own small way to fight back against the sub-human filth that is trying to take it over. I supply as many good, quality jobs as I can to those I find are worth helping out.”

“Now, when are you going to invite me to come up and see your Maine? I hear it’s stunning up there this time of year.”

The End

Sanford ME

http://www.northerncrane.net

senseiphil@northerncrane.net

Martial Arts

http://kirkhamsebooks.com/ShortStoriesNPoems/MartialArts/index.htm

Short Stories and Poems

http://kirkhamsebooks.com/ShortStoriesNPoems/index.htm

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