Same with the other guys in the crew. He’d worked with them all at one time or another. They formed a small fraternity. If something like this Clayton thing fell into their laps, they’d call him.

“He’s a grown man, Karen.”

“He’s still my baby!” she said, her face screwing up.

Oh, no, he thought. Not another crying scene.

“He’s my baby and you made a monster out of him. I’ll never know why he looked up to you.”

“Maybe because I was the only man who stayed in his life for more than a year or two.”

“You made him join the marines!”

“I didn’t make him do anything. He didn’t want to be like all those creeps who kept coming and going through that revolving door in your place. He wanted a little stability. The marines made a man out of him.”

“Some man! He’s a goddamn mercenary! If anything happens to him, Sam, I’m holding you responsible.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him. Better care than you ever did when he was growing up.”

She let out a loud sob and hurried from the room.

Baker sat and stared at his mother. Go ahead, Karen. Say it like it’s a dirty word, but this gig is going to assure that Mom’s taken good care of for the rest of her life. And even if something happens to me, my life insurance policy will do the same thing.

You look out for your own. Whatever it takes.

He rose, wincing at the pain in his kidney. He took another swig of seltzer. He’d switch to beer when he got back to his place in the city. If he hurried he could catch the Giants-Cowboys kickoff.

“Bye, Ma. See you next week.”

Mom looked around. “Where’s Janey?”

5.

5.

Yoshio Takita could not locate Sam Baker, so he chose Thomas Clayton as his surveillance subject for the day. He consumed a bag of Krispy Kreme donuts as he sat outside Clayton’s apartment building on Eighth Avenue. They were all delightfully heavy, but the blueberry glazed were the best.

He was about to give up and call it a day when he spotted Clayton stepping from his building. He walked east. He seemed to be in no hurry.

Yoshio followed him to the West Twenties where he saw him enter a club called Prancers—”All Live! All Nude! All Day!”

Yoshio sighed. He knew this routine.

He spotted the sign for a dojo spread across a set of second-floor windows down the block. To kill some time, he climbed the steps and peeked in. After only a few minutes of watching the lazy, overweight instructor, Yoshio left in a fury. If this was a representative example of the way the martial arts were being taught in America, then… then…

Then they needed someone who really knew what he was doing. Someone like…