13thWR

LEGEND / D.J. Olsen

Nobody knew much about Kii, but he was a most recognized man in the neighborhood. Everybody held at least two lengthy conversations about the small undefinable man. First when they noticed him in unexplained places, moving with his short shuff1e that lead one to believe he was going nowhere. Then they'd find him waiting when they got to where they were going. He worked for pennies, yet often had money. He spoke as if he were slow-witted, yet gambled shrewdly. He appeared beyond Viagra, but pleasing women ran fingers through his oily brush of black hair. He said wise things with an idiotic face. He leaned on a stick that supported his weight and his pocket.

It was this firm stick that provided a second conversation about Kii, a cue-stick with notches cut in it.

Usually at a poker game (though he preferred gin-rummy to poker and pool to both) is when they asked about it. "My scrap books" he'd say and stroke it like a phallic extension of his own. When a hand in stud-poker got a high pair up, Kii would pull his cards together as if folding, look worried, but bet. Those who played often grew to know when Kii looked worried it was time for them to do so.

As in most borderline communities nowadays₁ there's mugging and jack-rolling. Usually games lasted until three or four in the morning, a time when muggers are either stoned or busted. When games broke-up early they'd accompany each other home except Kii who'd disappear with a worried look and leave them wondering what was going on in that old head.

This much they knew. Kii was born in the Philippines. He'd fought the Dutch, the Japs and the Americans. It was during Marcos' regime he'd decided to leave. His answer as to why: Better to live where money talks rather than fools. That, of course, would bring up the subject of where he got his money. "Shitate" he'd say then get that worried look on his face. When people got mad at him, they'd go after his race. "What the hell are you? Chink? Nigger? You look like a fuckin' aborigine, But you sure as hell don't look Filipino. What the hell are you?" they'd blurt from injured pockets or pride. He'd look worried and stupid, answer "Dumagat." "Dum a what?" they'd roar hazardously believing they"d struck a throughly belittling blow. Some of these got to know Kii better than they cared to. These came back with respectful attitudes, or left quickly if he arrived.

As said, Kii carried himself as if he were on wheels. His small sinewy body had the color and feel of old leather; at least that's what a woman said. He lived in what had been the back porch of a big house and claimed the yard as his enclosure with a high board fence. When one passed they could hear strange sounds and utterances:

Wok! Thud! They could also hear silence yet sense his presence.

There'd been a series of events in the alley beyond Kii's fence.

It was a long dark alley filled with trash barrels, half burnt sofas mattress, discarded clothes that street-people picked through to replace their rags. Around the first of the month, and on Fridays it was a party hall where songs and drunken laughter turned to shrieks of assault. It emptied then; leaving only fallen lambs. What happened, every now and then, one of the predators was beaten to a stupor and staggered away bleeding and striped of loot and sometimes clothes. Thieves whispered it was a tall guy with a hell of a kick; others confessed it was a kid with a baseball bat. This didn't help the fleeced, but it thinned thieves. Of course authorities never knew about these offenses. Until dead was found.

The previous evening Kii had left a game at a property owner's house. This man of property had seen early-on luck was not his And he knew it took luck to whip Kii. He offered Kii a ride, which Kii accepted, but only far as a park near his place. "Glad to take you all the way, the man told, but Kii excused himself with thanks and was left in darkness when the car door closed and slid away.

Kii employed his stick several yards then balanced it on the palm of his hand to tight-rope walk through the park, an unlit no-man's-land full of moving shadow caused by glow from downtown, beyond gnarled black trees striving in unattended life. Wind riffling leaves concealed any sound his footfalls made. Grass did not answer or pebble turn under his step. At the curb he crossed a narrow strip of asphalt and continued along a fractured walkway toward the alley.

Turning in, he clutched his stick as a nine-iron addressing the dark. Floating deeper into the pitch he breathed baby breaths. At each point of each step any shift was possible. Balance; perfect balance. It was not

a grain of starlight but a skittering cat that ripped open the night.

And cold words "alright sucker, give it up" were said in Kii's ear.

Sen was Kii's. Before the assailant's motion confirmed location, Kii thrust his stick. A grunt gave Kii the man's throat The stick found it, slid back, and the heavy handle cracked the assailant's skull even as he toppled. But the villainous hand rose and a bullet found Kii. Stumbling back he attempted Zanshain, but gurgling told him it was unnecessary. Kii tumbled away from the searing white pain into darkness. The wind swept the sound of stumbling, collisions, the slam of dumpster lid, the click of a loose gate, all swept ahead leaving silence or a moan that could not be distinguished from the wind itself.

Because of technique in the assailant's death it was lead story for one day. Then only the neighborhood spoke of it. The police were diligent for several hours. They mapped out the area: where the gun fell, where the body laid in it's basin of blood, another bloody patch several feet away, the shell beyond that. They were through. Fingerprints on the weapon belonged to the dead man found. His palm had residue in it. They guessed it was self-defense, one way or the other. From the size of the patch of blood, they guessed the second was dead or dying. They gave up. Who cares in a case like this in a place like this?

The woman who knew Kii read the note on his door:

Gone to see relatives. She did not knock.. Someone who knew her told others: that's what Asians say when they were dying. Everyone accepted that. After a couple weeks of Kii missing the gossip was: it's like him to crawl into some dumpster to die, Card games were played. They missed Kii's easy way of losing, but not his worried wins. Respectful ones began calling him nigger.-again. After a month no one mentioned him.

Until a first Friday game when the table was crowded with infrequent players. A bold guy with a lazy way of talking said, "I saw that there fella other morning." He was night guard of a ditch and saw early risers. They examined their cards, bet. A foulhead (one of Kii's respectful) asked, "whose that?" as he dealt cards.

"That there Filipino fella."

The deck exploded from the dealer's grip. The group leapt up, cussing, slamming chairs back, hard words and fists pounding the table.

The dealer jumped grabbing the guard's shirt. "You 're a goddamn lair. That nigger's dead." The guard used a sap beside the dealer's head, who tumbled back; swimming in air.

They gathered up the cards, arguing how to rectify the situation, decided to split the pot around; except for the dealer who sat rubbing his head; opened beers and settled back with elbows on the table. Two hands were played before one said, "You sure?" They all looked at the questioner, but he was looking at the guard.

"Sure as hell," the guard's big jaw pressed against his chest twice in affirmation. "Had his arm bound to his chest with a belt. Spoke to him." Other players sat their cards aside, muttering a jagged chorus of "what did he say?" The guard shrugged. "You know him...but I asked right out how he did it;~like I knew all along it was him." He began picking up his cards one at a time. "Surprised me. Had help. Gave me a name. Never knew him to partner up before." He picked up his fifth card.

"Who?" they insisted

He held the last card apart, thinking. "Kelly... Keldo...no...Ken...do." he nodded, placing the fifth card next to the second. "Open." He tossed a nickel with the ante. "Noticed a fresh nick, raw wood. On that there stick of his."

The nervous foul head tossed in his cards. "I'm out" he pushed away from the table. "I'm going." He went and stood by the door, as if afraid to go into the night, or fearing what might come from it.