Words With Fiends Page 4

  “And is that consultation to be with you, or with Hamlet?” James wanted to know.

  Darla watched for sarcasm in his expression but, seeing nothing other than genuine interest, admitted, “Actually, I’m not sure. I made the appointment with his assistant, and she was pretty vague about the whole thing. If Dr. B hadn’t recommended him, I’d think it was a scam. But from what she says, the man gets results.”

  “Indeed. Will this take place here in the store, or upstairs in your apartment?”

  “I’ll leave that up to the cat guy. His assistant said, and I quote, ‘Brody will feel the vibes and let you know where Hamlet’s center is,’ unquote. Though as far as I know, Hamlet’s only center is somewhere in his belly.”

  She would have added a few more observations regarding what was sounding more and more like some strange New Age, touchy-feely experiment, except that her worry over the once-cantankerous feline was growing. This morning, he’d merely pawed at his kibble and then had given what had sounded to Darla like a very human sigh before padding his way to the sofa. And it had been only in the last half hour that he’d finally made his way into the shop. He’d taken up residence on the bright green beanbag in the kids’ section, much to the consternation of the preschooler who was waiting in that area while his mother browsed the nonfiction shelves nearby.

  “I shall keep an open mind,” James agreed. “I have watched a few of those animal behaviorist shows on television, and they do seem to accomplish some remarkable results. Perhaps this Brody person will restore Hamlet to his usual cheerful self.”

  Darla smiled a little at this gentle sarcasm—Hamlet was many things, but never jovial—and replied, “Speaking of cheerful selves, how was your date last night? Yes, I know it wasn’t an official date,” she hurried to clarify when he gave her a stern look, “but how was it, anyhow?”

  “It was . . . edifying,” was his only comment before he gave his vest a tug and turned on his heel, marching in the direction of the stairs.

  “What does edifying mean?” Robert wanted to know, sidling up beside her.

  Darla smiled. “If you want the dictionary definition, it means ‘instructive.’ If you want the King James version, I think it means Martha surprised him, but in a good way.”

  The youth nodded in approval. “Very awesome. Ms. Washington is a nice lady, and the Big Hoss needs someone to hang with after everything that’s happened.”

  “What do you mean, everything that’s happened?”

  Robert gave her a quizzical look. “You know, everything. His wife leaving him, his daughter being some kind of radical. All that.”

  “What? Who told you this?”

  “Uh, he did?” Robert replied, looking suddenly chastened. “Uh, maybe it was supposed to be a secret or something?” Then, reaching under the counter for a box cutter, he added, “Guess I should get to work.”

  He scurried off toward the stack of boxes that had been delivered right after lunch. Darla was tempted to follow after him, but decided against putting the youth on the spot. Still, she couldn’t help but silently fume. Another secret? Bad enough that she hadn’t known about her store manager’s various avocations. Now, James was apparently confiding details of his personal life to Robert while leaving her, his employer, totally out of the loop.

  Remember what you told Jake. No more digging around in other people’s pasts.

  She allowed herself to feel noble about that particular resolve. Even so, she was still inwardly grumbling a little when five o’clock came, and it was time for her and Robert to head to the dojo for their Friday night lesson.

  “I may stop back in before closing if I don’t stay to watch the sparring class,” she told James as she and Robert pulled on their coats and shouldered their gym bags. “But don’t wait on me if I’m not back by seven.”

  “Hamlet and I have everything under control,” James assured her with a glance at the feline, who had made his way to the main counter and now lay on his back with his rear paws shoved up against the register.

  Darla nodded. “All right, then we’ll play it by ear. And if you want to come in early tomorrow to meet Hamlet’s, uh, therapist, please do.”

  “Actually, I have already committed to be out with Ms. Washington again tonight, though I can cancel those plans if you feel I should be here with you.”

  Darla raised a brow. James and Martha, two nights in a row? All she said, however, was, “No, you have a nice night out, and I’ll see you when you come in at your usual time.”

  “Very well, then. You and Robert enjoy your evening, as well, and consider the shop to be in good hands—and paws—until tomorrow.”

  The walk to the dojo was swift and, by mutual choice, relatively silent. Robert had been avoiding her since his seeming slip regarding James’s personal life, likely feeling that she would grill him on it, given the chance. Not that she would ever do such a thing, Darla virtuously reminded herself. She didn’t want to put him in the uncomfortable position of worrying about betraying one or the other of his bosses.

  Truth was, her only thought for the moment was getting to the dojo, and fast! She was sure she was on the verge of frostbite by the time they reached the Tomlinson Academy of Martial Arts. Compared to Darla’s building’s elegant entry, with its balustraded steps leading to a glass-windowed door, the street-level storefront that housed the dojo was workman-like, save for a pair of knee-high concrete fu dogs painted red that flanked the doorway. A large window gave a glimpse into the studio, where passersby could see the students practicing their synchronized moves.

  And, just in case it wasn’t obvious what was taking place inside, the red wooden door was emblazoned with both the dojo’s name and the TAMA logo: an anime-styled, oversized punching fist with the letters T, A, M, and A tattooed on its respective knuckles. Cliché and macho as it might be, the logo made for a cool-looking T-shirt. She and Robert had each bought one after their first class.

  Inside the dojo was a wide vestibule leading directly to the sensei’s office. Darla privately called that hallway Master Tomlinson’s Hall of Fame. Interrupted only by the broad archway midway down, which opened to the training area, the walls were a veritable scrapbook of the man’s long martial arts career. In one large glass case, ribbons and medals covered four decades of championship wins, while another case held rows of trophies. The rest of the wall space was covered with photographs of Master Tomlinson over the years.

  He’d worn his dark brown hair tied back in a short ponytail in some pictures, while in others he’d had the long hair and bangs look straight out of Woodstock. He’d been rugged-looking rather than movie star handsome in his prime, his six-foot-tall frame straight and well-muscled, but what Darla found most attractive about him was his grin, which was toothy, and filled with welcoming good humor.

  Some snapshots were of him alone, and others taken with martial arts pioneers whose names she’d looked up in a reference book she had at the shop. Probably her favorite memorabilia were a dozen framed martial arts magazine covers that featured Tomlinson as the cover model kicking and jumping and punching along with such corny headlines as, Learn to Knock Out Bad Sparring Habits.

  Of course, these days the sixty-something sensei didn’t look much like the virile man in the photos. He’d packed on a good fifty pounds over the years, primarily to his belly. His once dark hair was mostly gray now, and thinning, cut shorter though combed back rakishly and held in place with a strip of black cloth. The toothy grin was a bit yellowed with age, combining with the rest to give him an unremarkable appearance. But anyone doubting his rank had only to look at the faded black belt, embroidered with five red stripes and a tiny red dragon, that tied his black gi jacket.

  “Do you think Roma will be here tonight?” Robert asked as they slipped past the archway. “I wanted to, you know, see her for a few minutes before class started.”

  Darla gave him an indulg
ent smile. “She’s usually here on Fridays. If she is, she’s probably at the front of the class with Master Tomlinson. Come on, let’s get dressed while the kids’ class is finishing up, and then you can go look for her.”

  They swiftly changed into their uniforms and then joined the parents watching from behind the windowed panel, rather like a section of office cubicle wall, which ran along one side of the training area. On the other side, the entire floor was covered by a series of thick red mats, while both front and back walls were covered by mirrors. At first glance, the room reminded Darla of a gymnasium or dance studio, but a closer look revealed American and Japanese flags gracing one side wall, the dojo’s traditional altar with its reclining Buddha and a single flower in the front corner, and in the rear corner, a trio of man-shaped kicking dummies—upper torso only—awaiting their nightly punishment.

  At that moment, twenty miniature would-be warriors—both boys and girls—were punching and kicking their way through a kata, which Darla had learned at her first class was the Japanese term for the choreographed forms they performed. Most of the kids already had moved up the ranks to yellow, orange, or even green or blue belt.

  Darla self-consciously tightened the knot on her beginner’s white belt. Made of heavy cotton material that had been parallel stitched to hold its shape, the belt was long enough to wrap twice about her waist and still leave long floppy ends hanging even after it had been knotted. Here was one place where being an adult didn’t automatically confer status, she wryly reminded herself. And she hadn’t yet gotten used to the idea of bowing to someone twenty years her junior just because they were a black belt.

  Robert, however, had something other than rank on his mind. As the kids’class finished the drill and settled on the floor in a kneeling position for a moment of silence, he gave Darla a nudge with his elbow and stage whispered, “You were right. Look, she’s here.”

  Darla smiled as she followed his glance through the glass to see Roma sitting daintily at the front of the class next to Master Tomlinson. Seeing Robert, she cocked her head in their direction and flashed bright brown eyes at him. Apparently, the admiration was mutual.

  “She’s like, so sick,” Robert whispered, a bit of teen-speak that Darla mentally translated as really cool. “I wish I could take her home with me.” Then, at Darla’s stern look, he sighed and shook his head. “Don’t worry, I won’t do it.”

  “Good, because Hamlet would be pretty ticked off if he thought you were two-timing him—and with a dog, no less.” She added a smile, “Besides, you know Master Tomlinson would never give up Roma without a fight. He might be older than James, but you’d last about two seconds with him in a ring!”

  But even the prospect of losing a theoretical battle to his sensei wasn’t enough to dampen Robert’s enthusiasm. He’d been smitten by the tiny gray and white Italian greyhound—not a miniature whippet, as Darla had first assumed—the first night he and Darla had shown up for class. Darla had always preferred large dogs, the sort one could trip over with no resulting injury to said beast; still, she had to admit that Roma was a cute little thing. Like her larger greyhound cousins, she appeared to be all legs and whip-thin tail, her sleek fur softer even than Hamlet’s. Her delicate ears usually were folded back into neat rosettes against her narrow head, but they could fly up at a moment’s notice when something caught her attention, making her look like a goofy, long-nosed fruit bat.

  Just as Hamlet ruled the roost at Pettistone’s Fine Books, Roma was the mascot of the martial arts studio. And to all the students’ delight, her owner had taught her dojo etiquette. That meant that she made a doggie bow when entering and leaving the mat area, and sat quietly at full length with her dainty paws crossed before her whenever the students assumed a kneeling position. But what never failed to make Darla laugh was the way Roma would give a little howling bark whenever the students uttered their kiais—a quick exhalation that sounded like a yell—while practicing their punches.

  By now, Master Tomlinson was dismissing his junior students, who promptly made beelines to where their parents waited.

  “Good job, everyone,” he called, sounding sincere despite the gravel in his voice that portended an incipient cold. “Don’t forget to turn in your tournament registrations. And remember to bow before you leave the mat.”

  The prompt caused several students who’d been remiss to rush back to make a quick obeisance. Roma the dog, meanwhile, lightly padded her way across the mat, high-stepping like a dressage horse. Once she reached the mat’s edge, she turned and gave what Darla knew in the dog training lingo was called a play bow. Then, with a happy if surprisingly deep bark for such a small dog, she waited for Robert to walk around the panel before bounding toward him, her whiplike tail creating a small breeze with its wagging.

  While Robert gently wrestled with Roma, the rest of the adult class filed in. As Darla joined her fellow students, she heard a vehement female voice from behind the windowed wall. “You can’t ban my son from the tournament! I pay good money for his lessons, and he’s gonna be there. That first-place trophy is his!”

  Darla covertly glanced over to see which parent was taking out her frustration on the sensei. She’d quickly learned that martial arts, like any other sport that catered to children, had more than its share of “karate moms.” These mothers—though a few fathers also fit that bill—spent class time on the sidelines alternately cheering on their kids and attempting to countermand the sensei’s instruction.

  To his credit, Master Tomlinson was not one to tolerate that sort of interference for any extended period, so it wasn’t as disruptive as it could have been. And, to be fair, those same involved parents were the first to volunteer to take tickets and run the food concession at the local events.

  Tonight, the mom currently venting was one whom Darla had seen most class nights.

  Of course, Grace Valentine was hard to miss.

  With her “mob wife” wardrobe that leaned heavily toward tight leopard prints, short hemlines, and dominatrix boots, Grace stood out from the other, more conservative moms. In her mid-thirties, and with black hair that had been straightened into a submissive long bob, she’d also been Botoxed and enhanced to the point that she resembled a living Barbie doll. Even with the windowed panel serving as a barrier, her strident “New Yawk” accent was always noticeable as she offered nonstop correction and encouragement to her son, Chris, during the course of every class.

  But the other thing that distinguished her was the fact that she, too, was a student. A few other parents took beginner classes with their kids, but most never progressed beyond a couple of belt ranks. Grace, however, was working toward her black belt. From what Darla had heard, the woman mainly took private lessons with the sensei, apparently not wanting to mix with the other students. Every so often, however, she joined in the sparring class with her son. According to Robert, who’d seen her in action, the woman was a pretty competent fighter.

  Not surprisingly under her self-important tutelage, her high school freshman son Chris had an overdeveloped ego regarding his own skill on the mat. While the other students routinely went through a basic aerobic warm-up prior to class, Chris could never resist showing off. He tirelessly performed spinning and leaping kicks straight out of a Jackie Chan movie, his Bieber-inspired blond do swirling with equal vigor.

  Most of Robert and Darla’s class was male, though tonight there were two other women, both red belts. And the age span amongst students was large—the adult class was open to any student over fifteen years old. Darla always dreaded being partnered up with Chris during drills. This was partly because, though only a high school freshman, he was already several inches taller than her five feet four inches, with a reach to match, and partly because of his obnoxious attitude. He always seemed to conveniently “forget” the dojo rule against higher-ranking students making actual physical contact with the newbies. More than once, she’d come home from class with
bruises because of him. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up with ten crooked toes just like Master Tomlinson, who, from the sorry look of his swollen feet, had obviously broken every single digit at least once.

  And Master Tomlinson had grown tired of the junior black belt’s attitude, too. A week ago, he’d warned the boy in front of the entire class that one more breach of dojo rules would leave him sitting on the sidelines at the next tournament. From the current argument Darla was overhearing, it seemed that Chris had not taken the warning seriously. He must have transgressed in some way, and Tomlinson had enforced his threat, banning Chris from participating in the event. Much to his mother’s vocal displeasure.

  Darla could hear the rumble of the sensei’s calm voice explaining the situation to Grace, but she could only make out a word or two . . . self-control and opportunity being among them. A wave of sympathy for the sensei swept her. Retail could be challenging enough, but at least it wasn’t usually personal. She didn’t envy Master Tomlinson’s ongoing balancing act between parents and students.

  Apparently, the sensei won this particular match. Darla saw Chris’s mom throw up her hands in disgusted surrender and flop into one of the hard plastic chairs, her bright red lips pressed into a hard line. Master Tomlinson, looking equally disgusted, reappeared around the divider and signaled to the two black belts lounging in the far corner.

  “Hal, Hank, line them up and warm them up,” he ordered between coughs, waving in the direction of Darla and the rest. “I’m going to grab another lozenge, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Trailed by Roma, Tomlinson limped off in the direction of his office—apparently his gout, as well as a head cold, was kicking in—leaving the class to the tender mercies of his two stepsons.

  “Great, the Steroid Twins,” Robert murmured as the pair sauntered to the front of the room. “Hope you ate your Wheaties this morning.”