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Author's Chapter Notes:
SEVEN HOURS LATER
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"So what did you think of his theory?" asked Buck, as soon as they got back to their room at the local YMCA.

Chet shook his head: "I don't know. It's been drummed into every baby-boomer's head, since Day 1 of first grade, that FDR died of cerebral hemorrhage. But, then, again; Bruce Lee is only supposed to have died from over-sensitivity to painkillers!"

"Don't tell me. You're one of those who believe otherwise."

"The Dim Mak Touch isn't just a bedtime story for misbehaving kids, Buck. Not after Uncle Jiro used it to save me from a rabid coyote when I was five!"

According to a legend on Chet's paternal grandmother's side of the family, there was once a yamabushi (and part-time sarumawashi) who had studied under Nichiren, himself, during the latter's 13th-century exile to Sadogashima, off the coast of Niigata Prefecture, Japan.

This yamabushi later went on a pilgrimage to Buddha's birthplace via Bali, Ceylon, and India. By the time he returned to Sado, he had developed a martial art that hybridized Indian kalaripayit with the natural acrobatics of his pet snow monkey!

He called this art "eguzairu-do" ("the way of the exile"). And, he taught it only to his relatives in the island's ruling family; the Honma-Harada Clan. By 1900, however, Harada Botan was the last living direct male descendant of that clan. So, in 1905, he began teaching the art to his son-in-law, Watanabe Masahiro.

Twenty years later, Masahiro began teaching it to his own son, Anjiro, in Hawaii. And, by 1943, Anjiro was using it to good effect--as an O.S.S. radio pirate--in the CBI Theater of World War II!

"You don't have to sell _me_ on your uncle's ninja prowess, kid. Not after the way he literally saved my ass back in the Big One! But, let's table this discussion until we meet Percy's client. We've got some shopping to do."

By seven-thirty, the two newsmen had donned the formal evening wear they had rented, in order to conform to the nightclub's customer dress code. Chet showed off his white dinner jacket, black trousers, and matching loafers and socks in a slow turn. For which, Buck gave him a thumb's-up. Then, it was Buck's turn to do likewise.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"You look like the first token white man in a Motown singing group."

"Kiss mine, and up yours!"

Both newsmen laughed before going down to the sidewalk, in front of the "Y," and hailing a pedicab. When they reached the now-closed sidewalk cafe, at which they had first met Throckmorton, they saw the identically-garbed Englishman had been true to his word.

He was smiling, and waving at them, from the front steps of Club 23 Skiddoo.

Five minutes later, they were in the cocktail lounge. With Percy drinking a gin-and-tonic, while his two acquaintances split a Scotch-and-soda (the soda going to Chet).

At quarter after eight, Buck understandably became impatient.

"Where is she, Percy?"

Before the Englishman could offer any reply, a waiter came up and apologized for interrupting them.

"Your table is ready, Mr. Throckmorton. And, your goddaughter has already been seated."

The two newsmen looked at the Englishman, quizzically. The latter merely shrugged, however, just as puzzled as them. Even so, none of them offered any comment aloud, as they followed the waiter to a table near the bandstand, in the main showroom.

Chet's eyebrows instantly shot to their maximum height when he saw the slightly older woman sitting there. She had auburn hair; hazel eyes; black elbow-length gloves; and a sleeveless, matching-colored evening gown with shoulder straps knotted at the back of her neck.

"Messrs. Fogarty and Northfield?" Throckmorton formally intoned: "Meet Senorita Dolores Gutierrez."

tbc
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