DeVries said she had a lot of karate obligations, that she had to cancel our Saturday date, the third weekend in a row. I told her karate obligations sounded like fun, that I’d tag along. She asked if I was sure and I said, “Definitely,” because I really liked DeVries. She said okay and picked me up at four the next morning.
We drove an hour to the beach. I sat in the car while she ran the shoreline, down then back up, gone over an hour. At sunrise, she stood on top of a rock and did crane kicks, a hundred each leg (I counted), followed by fifteen minutes of meditation in the surf.
We drove back, to the Civic Center, where DeVries was entered in a tri-state black belt tournament. She took down her first opponent in two seconds. She surprised me by running across the street to the County Coliseum, where she was entered in a separate tournament. She defeated that opponent: same finishing move—roundhouse kick to the jaw—same miniscule time. We back-and-forthed like that all morning, DeVries taking down competitors like a weed wacker. Her only dilemma came when both finals were scheduled at the exact same time, but because she deposed her foe at the Civic Center in less than five seconds, she was able to sprint to the Coliseum before she was DQed, then dispatched that rival just as efficiently. Her back seat soon sported two giant trophies, each with a little shiny kicking woman on the top.
“Congrats,” I said. “I didn’t know you knew karate.”
“Thanks,” she said. “A little.”
I suggested we get ice cream to celebrate and DeVries drove us to Chinatown. While we ate our cones, some local toughs in shirts with the sleeves cut off came in and started trouble for the old couple who owned the place. I didn’t know what was going on, everyone speaking Mandarin, but DeVries, apparently fluent, said these nogoodniks were there for their protection money, the old couple didn’t have it (and was tired of paying), so the toughs were going to beat the old man up then burn down the store. Before they could blink, DeVries leapt in-between and thrashed the punks, throwing the last one standing through the pane-glass front window. DeVries yelled for them to never return, to tell their boss to get out of town. Then she pulled a roll of bills out of her jeans and tossed it to the old woman, saying, “For the window. Sorry about the mess.”
We next drove to DeVries’ house. Outside a kid was cutting her hedges with a pair of hand clippers; DeVries’ had a lot of hedges, circling her impressive property several times. When he saw her pull up, the kid complained, watching her eat the last bite of cone. The kid said he was quitting, said he wasn’t her slave. DeVries screamed at him—the first time I’d heard her raise her voice—ordering him to stand before her. She said, “Trim the hedges” and the kid bent to grab the clippers. DeVries slapped his hands and made a motion like she was clipping the hedges, only in front of her, in the air. “Trim the hedges,” she repeated, and the kid did what she’d done, making the trimming motion in the air. DeVries then started punching at the kid, but he blocked every blow. Neither me nor the kid could believe it. He smiled and said thanks and resumed trimming the real hedges, but not before DeVries handed him an ice cream cone—I couldn’t figure out where she’d be keeping that this whole time.
From there, we drove to a construction site, where it looked like someone was shooting a movie. DeVries drove right up to the set and everyone seemed to know her. All of a sudden, DeVries was introducing me to Susan Sarandon. After a stint in makeup, DeVries was wearing the same outfit as Susan Sarandon, a purple jumpsuit with a shoulder torn off, exposing a black bra strap. DeVries sported a curly red wig and blood dripped from both women’s noses. The director yelled Action! and DeVries was up on an I-beam that dangled from a crane on a wire, fifty feet in the air, kickboxing some giant shirtless guy with a dragon tattoo across his back. DeVries-as-Susan-Sarandon kicked him in the chest at the end of the fight and the guy flew backward, falling to his death … only he was also on a wire. Cut! the director yelled and the whole crew cheered. “One fucking take,” the director said, laughing and shaking his head. “Only you, DeVries!”
That night, we returned to the Civic Center, where a teen tournament had just begun. The hedge-clipping kid was making his way through each round, winning each match, but barely. There was a lot of clip-the-hedges going on, what was clearly saving his ass. From what I could tell, a bunch of guys from a local dojo were also entered, all in black, all of them trying to cheat in some obvious way. DeVries’ kid overcame it all and hoisted the trophy. Later, when the evil kids’ sensei attacked the kid in the parking lot, DeVries dealt her a serious beatdown then tossed her in a dumpster.
After, we took the kid and his single mom back to the ice cream place in Chinatown, where there was already a new window in place. The old couple gave us cones on the house, but DeVries slipped a twenty in the register when they turned their backs to make the cones. They told us the big crime boss had left town and they thanked DeVries for everything. She said, “Now you just need to get some sprinkles in this place!” and everyone laughed out loud.
I was thinking what a good day it was with DeVries when a dart, shot from behind a paper wall, hit me in the neck, everything turning black.
