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My Kind of Town Don Chapman |
Reasons to shoot
>> Kaneohe
When Bodhicita Guzman called with news of the failed attempt on Jey's stunt double and the chaotic aftermath, Kamasami Khan's initial jolt of glee -- we beat 'em! -- was followed by a more sobering thought -- these freakin' Chinese do not let up. Keeping the second Lama Jey Tsong Khapa safe from Te-Wu would continue to be a challenge for the Free Tibet Warrior Society.
And what the hell was the young lama's stunt double doing kicking his assailant in the head with a flying martial arts move? How many times had Khan told Michael Tenzin-Campbell to think, move, speak and react as a living Buddha, with compassion for all beings? Instead he goes all Bruce Lee, with Fon Du and at least three other members of Te-Wu watching. Far from scaring them off, they would only come harder now.
The real Tsong Khapa was outside, sipping tea and writing in a notebook. Khan was pleased to see a slight growth of dark hair on his head. The shaved look had to go. Khan and Michael, a UH drama student, had concocted several disguises, including the blond surfer boy wig topped with a Quiksilver cap, and black Kailua Boys T-shirt, baggy jeans and Nike T-Macs he wore to slip out of the Blaisdell Arena last night. The best costume of all would be a full head of natural hair to cover up the glowing head thing. And maybe some facial hair, if he had any.
A security alarm went off, the one indicating someone -- not a vehicle -- had entered the property. Khan glanced outside.
"What the hell?"
A nun in gray and white habit, more salt then pepper hair, was walking purposefully up the driveway. Since when did Catholics go door-to-door like those guys handing out Watchtowers? Whatever her intention, Gomes didn't have time to be proselytized. He was waiting at the open door when she stepped onto the porch.
"What can I do for you, sister?" Thinking, I haven't seen wing-tip glasses like that since my mom's high school yearbooks.
She crossed herself, dipped her head. "God has led me here."
"No offense, sister, I think he gave you the wrong address."
"That's hardly likely, I think. You're Mr. Khan?"
That stopped him for a moment. How'd she know his name? "Yes."
"Then this is the right address. This is where God told me I would find the holy boy."
The words Te-Wu! screaming in his head, Khan went for the pocket-size four-shot .22 he'd decided to carry for as long as he was in the lama protection biz, dropped into a shooting crouch.
The nun put her hands in the air. "Jeez, Khan, it's me!" She removed the glasses and what turned out to be a wig.
"Dammit, Bodhicita, I ought to shoot you for that!"
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Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek. His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin. He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com