TONER LOWE IN NY

 (Photo by Christopher Ginnaven)

TONER LOWE: Washington Square Park -- brief moments of some early mornings and late afternoons -- somehow transforms to a Renoir. Sunlight transposes trees, lampposts, landscape and people with a rainbow brilliance stunning the psyche. This was one of those afternoons, and I was ambling the winding walk, mesmerized by it.

Then I heard a loud yelp of pain from behind me, and Renoir suddenly morphed to frames from “Sin City”. Some casually dressed guy was hitting a woman half his size. With his fist. I’m no gentleman, but I seem to have the human’s innate sense of justice. I moved quickly the some 10 yards to them.

I heard a voice, my voice, commanding, “Stop.” Not a yell. A firm order like I used to hear from Yip Man, my Wing Chun teacher in LA. The guy turned toward me. He was a hulk, a la NFL defensive end, actually a handsome Nordic type. And he was angry. I was two feet away from him now, and he telegraphed a punch. He shouldn’t have.

My right hand, open thumb and fingers, cuffed his throat. Not enough to kill him. Limited to my old Special Forces days, it would have. But my later learning Wing Chun had instilled me with a clarity and peace in motion that’s hard to explain to a non-practitioner. I had been able to combine that with my raw, lethal techniques, adjust my strength and impact to the occasion.

This only took a second. The blow’s strength lifted him to his toes, almost off the ground. The impact didn’t crush his windpipe, but shut off his air, making his eyes bulge like a crawdad that just bit into a hook. He made a sound like the first breath of a commode flushing. Then he collapsed at my feet.

I bent down, studying him, making sure I’d done nothing lethal. He was gasping, limp as jelly.

“You fucking brute! You killed him!” It was the woman he had been beating. She pushed at me. I stepped away and she bent down, taking the hulk in her arms.

“No, m’am,” I replied. “He’ll recover. Are you alright?”

Her head raised. Her left eye was cut and closing, and her jaw was swelling. Her right eye glared at me.

“You fucking brute!” she repeated.

“Have a peaceful day, m’am,” I said softly. Then I turned and walked away, looking for Renoir.

TONER LOWE IN LA

TONER LOWE: He didn't say why he wanted to meet. But he needed to see me soon, and in secret at an out-of-way place. He chose a rooftop downtown. As I waited, I studied the two giant construction cranes hovering like praying mantises over the rising new hotel, and at the horizon's spine, and sunset flaming through clouds like a furnace of molten fury conjured by the gods...

TONER LOWE: I tailed Snidley on the Red Line, keeping my distance. He exited in North Hollywood, walking quickly and entering a drab-brick two-story office building gouged between a couple of lanky palm trees. While I waited I studied the far-off San Gabriels. It had snowed overnight, coating them with a glaze seeming almost mystic in the hazy sunlight -- a muscular sculpture of pearl and shadow...

TONER LOWE: Ever since I read how they screwed homeowners with subprime loans leading to the 2008 crash, I’ve shunned Bank of America. But a friend had keyed me to an art display in their downtown LA building. I bit, and on a muggy Friday stood on their slick floor with bare white walls studying a lower-ceiling-sized fiber net sculpture like a glowing aqua vortex. At its base a wrinkly dressed singer – flashback to Cat Stevens – strummed his guitar, the sculpture altering shades with each chord.

The corner of my eye caught a blonde figure in lavender, floating like a graceful scarf in gentle breeze toward the fiber art. I glanced to verify loveliness, then focused back on the sculpture. But I noticed the scarf began winding my way. Still, my gaze stayed on the artwork and singer. Then suddenly the fragrant fist of Chanel stunned  me, and close to my ear I felt the warm whisper:

“Mr. Lowe…I need your help.”