In the Name of God. Stephen J. Gordon

      “They can not help us.”

      “Why not?”

      “The waiter is involved in a group that the police don’t know very much about.”

      What he meant was he knew the group, but probably didn’t have the time or the resources to infiltrate them. I looked down at the can of soda in my hand and put my right index finger against its side. About halfway down I began to make a slow drilling-type movement with my finger. Amit looked for a moment at what I was doing then turned back to me.

      He sat forward in his chair. “You teach here. You can maybe get one of their group to join your class or use one of your students to get close to them. Maybe one of the girls... preferably someone in high school.”

      I was on my feet. “That’s it, we’re done. ‘Use one of my students!?’ You know your way out.”

      Amit stood up casually. “They were watching you last night when you came out of the synagogue.”

      I looked at the Shin Bet man. I looked at his black wire rim glasses and at the lines at the corner of his eyes.

      I looked right into his black pupils. “Mr. Amit, it’s time for you to go.”

      “Consider this your meluim, your reserve duty.”

      “We’re not in Israel.”

      “You are involved.”

      “I am not involved. I helped you last night, that’s all.”

      “I’m sorry you feel this– ”

      “Just tell your bosses in Ganei Yehoshua that you couldn’t recruit me.”

      His right eyebrow went up as I mentioned the location of Shin Bet headquarters in Tel Aviv.

      As I finished this last statement, I pushed my right index finger through the side of the aluminum Coke can. This time both Amit’s eyebrows went up. I pulled my finger out and then tossed him the can.

      “Like I said, I can’t help you.”

      Amit looked down at the punctured can and then back at me. “You are a very interesting man, Gidon.” He said the same thing last night after my interview. I didn’t like it.

      He turned to leave, but looked back. “You asked me last night how the waiter smuggled a gun past us. He hid it in a tray of silverware. He had help.”

      “We’re done, Mr. Amit. Atah meyvin? Do you understand?”

      “Yes, I understand.”

      “Good. Let me see you out.”

      I escorted him out of the office and into the main practice hall. Without looking around I could tell Jon was not in the room, though I knew he was nearby. I walked the Israeli agent to the entrance.

      There was nothing else to say, so he just looked at me and then opened the glass door and went outside. I locked the door behind him.

      “Shit,” I said aloud. “Now he’ll be back.”

      Jon appeared at my side. “I thought you were pretty chill.”

      I looked at my finger. It was bleeding from where I punctured the soda can. “Not chill enough.”

      5

      I needed to get my meeting with Amit out of my system. Fortunately, I had a class to teach in a few hours and that would distract me. Unfortunately, my growing distaste for what just happened would come out somehow, either in my physical handling of my older students or in what I said. In any case, not good. I needed to mellow out. Jonathan took off to get some work done: his family was into commercial real estate and he had to check on some properties, so this left me alone.

      I worked out for an hour and a half — not the meditative stuff I did before, but intricate, active physical movements — and then I showered and went next door for lunch. I ordered a roasted vegetable sandwich, and instead of any number of natural iced teas, I opted for plain water. As I sat at a table facing the room, I reviewed my actions of last night. I replayed how I handled the waiter and my conversation with the police and Shin Bet. The only thing I could have handled differently is what I said to the Israelis. I could’ve been more forthcoming, but I wasn’t sure what that would have accomplished, except for revealing personal information I wanted to keep to myself. I shrugged and bit into the sandwich.

      After finishing my sandwich and draining my glass of water, I headed back to the studio to call Alli. Since I had a late afternoon class, she volunteered to come by after work so we could go out to dinner from there. I still wasn’t sure what was going on with us, but we might as well continue seeing each other until our feelings became more clear — one way or the other. Lord knows what she was expecting. Lord knows what I was expecting.

      By the time my five o’clock class came around, I was feeling better... more upbeat, more centered. Something continued to nag at me, though. Amit said that last night someone was watching me when we came outside. I wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth, but if he was, I should’ve noticed.

      With all this bouncing around my head, I let Jonathan start the new beginner’s class. There were about fifteen new faces for this session, and they were all crowded in front of him. Half of the group were ten and eleven year old boys and girls, while the rest were older kids and adults. The three older students were in their late teens/early twenties — college age — and two were co-eds. The ladies were slender, while the lone young man was more filled out. They joked with each other, obviously good friends.

      For the most part, the newbies were dressed in T-shirts and shorts. A few of the after-school kids had white gis from a previous martial arts experience. Since this was the first class, of a new session I didn’t make uniforms a requirement. That would come in time.

      Jon divided the entire group into three rows of five and had the class spread out across the room. He kept younger kids up front, the older, taller students toward the back.

      After the traditional bow, Jon led the workout, beginning with head rotations to loosen their neck muscles. In the minutes that followed, he took them through more stretching routines from top to bottom — head, arms, trunk, and legs. He worked on balance exercises for kicks: they stood on one leg, with the supporting knee slightly bent, and then they extended the other leg. Most of the students were able to keep their balance for the allotted time. Some, though, teetered on their supporting leg and kept falling over. The college women seemed to do well, as did a few of the younger students.

      At one point Jon and I made eye contact, and with a slight nod he called me over. “That’s her in back,” he whispered, “the one I left you a message about last night.”

      I looked at the college kids in the back row. He had described the new love of his life as being tall with long blonde hair and an amazing smile; a junior at Hopkins. Both college girls were on the tall side and both had long hair, so I couldn’t tell which one he meant.

      “All right, everyone on the floor, on your backs,” Jon got back to work. “Leg lifts.”

      He had them supine, with hands tucked under the small of their backs for support. Jon ordered them to raise their feet about a foot off the floor. He modeled everything from up front.

      “Now, hold it.” Everyone, including Jon, froze with legs off the ground.

      As he worked them — and probably harder than he had to — I wandered up and down the lines to see if I could make anyone nervous. For the most part, they all seemed pretty focused. But then they hadn’t seen me hit Jon yet.

      The after-school kids in front began to moan. The class was still in the leg-raised position. One student dropped his feet to the floor. Then another kid did the same.

      “Keep those legs up there.” The students struggled to lift their legs. “Okay, now on your bellies. Push ups on the knuckles, except for you kids in front. You guys just use open palms.”

      Jon