Read Online Giri by Marc Olden - Free Book Online

Morris is ducking you? I mean, he’s the champion and—”
    “Hey, you said it, man. I didn’t. I’ll fight anybody, anytime. Whether he’s got a rating or not. Doesn’t matter.”
    “Any truth that Waterling got the lion’s share of the purse and you got stuck with what was left?”
    He waved the question away. “Talk to the promoters about money. I got a lawyer in New York handles contracts and money. Let’s just say I’m satisfied with the way things turned out.”
    Laughter.
    “Robbie, I hear Manny Decker still trains. They say he’s in great shape. Any chance of you two meeting again? Some people say that was your greatest fight, until Decker broke his knee.”
    Robbie picked at the protective tape around his hands. “That was my last point fight. Decker’s not into full contact, so I guess he and I aren’t going to meet anymore. I took him twice. Nothing left to prove there.”
    “Robbie, what about the World Open Championships in January?”
    “You mean for the suibin trophy.”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll be there. Man, everybody will be there. Should be some kind of war.”
    Suibin was a square-shaped vase used in flower arrangements in Japanese temples, shrines and homes. The January tournament, to be held in Paris, was a world-class competition open to all black belt karatekas between the ages of twenty-one and forty, professional or amateur, any style, any weight. Sponsored by Japanese and European businessmen, the tournament was not only the talk of martial arts circles but had attracted the attention of the world press.
    To discourage the foolhardy, contest rules required each contestant to sign a release absolving sponsors of liability in case of injury or death. In addition, each contestant had to post a nonreturnable entry fee of $700. That money was to cover transportation, hotel and living expenses of those ten karatekas who survived the grueling eliminations to qualify for the finals.
    There was a single prize. It was a beautiful suibin, a replica of a priceless 1,200-year-old original on display in Japan’s Imperial Palace. Like the original, the bronze replica was a square-shaped vase whose four corners rested on a miniature dragon, a fox, a gnarled tree and the shoulders of an ancient fighting monk, all in exquisite detail. A skilled workman had spent two years creating the replica, worth over fifty thousand dollars. With it came two gifts from Emperor Hirohito: a handwritten scroll and a small gift from the palace, a secret. And also to the winner went the honor of being acknowledged as one of the finest fighting men in the world.
    “Morris, if you’re listening,” said a grinning Robbie, “I’ll be at the Sports Palace in Paris, come January.”
    “Robbie, I’ve got a date in January in Los Angeles and I’d like to match you with—”
    “Sorry, no business tonight. Contact Management Systems Consultants in New York. My lawyer’s there and he handles bookings and contracts. If I’m free, maybe we can work something out”
    “Robbie, you were dynamite out there tonight. Really took care of business.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Doctors say Waterling’s jaw is broken in three places and he’s got a couple of cracked ribs.”
    Robbie shrugged. Right now he didn’t feel shit about Waterling one way or another. The man didn’t exist for him any more than the woman did, the woman Robbie had sacrificed tonight to ensure his victory.
    “Robbie, I’m with the network. I just want to say you were the Second Coming out there. This is my first full-contact karate fight and I’m hooked. I mean it was Star Wars, World War Three and the Bolshoi Ballet all in one. Robbie, we’d like a couple of quotes to use when we televise the fight over Thanksgiving weekend. We’re told that something like ten million men, women and children in America alone now practice karate in one form or another.”
    “Hey, I guess so.”
    “Most, I assume, do it for self-defense. Some for exercise or