A Clean Kill in Tokyo

registered at some level of my consciousness.
    I used everything I had to project that I was just Joe Pedestrian wanting to go around him, to buy myself the extra second. I moved to the left, took two more steps. Caught the recognition hardening on his face. Saw the cane start to come up, his left foot driving forward to add power to the blow.
    I flung the sand in his face and leaped aside. His head recoiled but the cane kept coming; a split second later it snapped down in a blur. Despite the power of the blow he brought it up short when it failed to connect with his target, and then, with the same fluid speed, he cut through the air horizontally. I moved back diagonally, off the line of attack, staying on my toes. I could see him grimacing, his eyes squeezed shut. The sand had hit him squarely. Keeping his hands from wiping his eyes showed a lot of training. But he couldn’t see.
    He took a cautious step forward, the cane on guard. Tears were streaming from his wounded eyes. He could tell I was in front of him but he didn’t know where.
    I had to wait until he was past me to make my move. I’d seen how fast he was with the cane.
    He held his position, his nostrils flaring as though he was trying to catch my scent.
Jesus, how is he keeping himself from wiping his eyes?
I thought.
He must be in agony.
    With a loud
kiyai
he leaped forward, slashing horizontally at ankle level. But he’d guessed wrong; I was farther back. Then, just as suddenly, he took two long steps backward, his left hand coming loose from the cane and desperately wiping at his eyes.
    That’s what I’d been waiting for. I plunged in, raising my right fist for a hammer blow to his clavicle. I brought it down hard, but at the last instant he shifted slightly, his trapezius muscles taking the impact. I followed with a left elbow strike, trying for the sphenoid but connecting mostly with his ear.
    Before I could get in another blow, he had whipped the cane around behind me and grabbed it with his free hand. Then he yanked me into him with a bear hug, the cane slicing into my back. He arched back and my feet left the ground. My breath was driven out of me. Pain exploded in my kidneys.
    I fought the urge to force myself away, knowing I couldn’t match his strength. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck and swung my legs up behind his back. The cane felt like it was going to cut through my spine.
    The move surprised him and he lost his balance. He took a step back, releasing the cane and pinwheeling his left arm. I crossed my legs behind his back and dropped my weight suddenly, forcing him to overcorrect and pitch forward onto me. We hit the ground hard. I was underneath and took most of the impact. But now we were in my parlor.
    I grabbed a cross grip on the lapels of his jacket and slammed in
gyaku-jujime,
one of the first strangles a
judoka
learns. He reacted instantly, releasing the cane and going for my eyes. I whipped my head back and forth, trying to avoid his fingers, using my legs to control his torso. At one point he grabbed one of my ears but I yanked loose.
    The choke wasn’t perfect. I had more windpipe than carotid, and he fought for a long time, his groping getting more desperate. But there was nothing he could do. I kept the grip even after he had stopped struggling, rotating my head to see if anyone was coming. Nobody.
    When I was sure we were well past the point where he could be playing dead, I released the grip and kicked out from under him. Christ, he was heavy. I slid away and stood, my back screaming from the cane, my breath heaving in ragged gasps.
    I knew from long experience he wasn’t dead. People black out from strangles in the
dojo
with some regularity; it’s not a serious thing. If the unconsciousness is deep, like this one was, then you need to sit them up and slap them on the back, do a little CPR to get them breathing again.
    This guy was going to have to find someone else to jump-start his battery. I would have liked to question him, but this was no Benny.
    I squatted, one hand on the ground to steady myself, and went through his pockets. Found a mobile phone in his jacket, and the pepper spray. Other than that, I came up empty.
    I stood, pulses of pain shooting through my back, and started walking toward my apartment. Two schoolgirls in their blue sailor uniforms were passing just as I emerged from the alley and turned left onto my street. Their mouths dropped when they saw me, but I ignored them. Why were