Blessed Are Those Who Weep by Kristi Belcamino

he’s narrowed it down to four in Oakland and two in San Francisco that might sell kubatons.
    We split up. He has to shoot the San Francisco Giant’s game this afternoon, so he offers to take the San Francisco dojos. My job is Oakland.
    Before he leaves, he hands me a key. A bump key he made for me by carefully sanding down the grooves. Now I really am a burglar.
    The first dojo is on fancy, yuppie Piedmont Avenue, across the street from the famous Fentons Creamery. The woman who runs this dojo knows exactly what I’m looking for, but she says she hasn’t seen one for years, not since she was in Japan.
    The next stop is on the border of Berkeley and Oakland. The kid inside takes my card and says he’ll have his father call me. The third dojo has a FOR L EASE sign in its window.
    My fourth stop is at the dojo in Oakland’s Chinatown. A small door has the dojo’s name on it—­Kocho Bujutsu Dojo—­but the door is locked, and nobody answers when I punch the doorbell ringer a few times. The street is busy with ­people chattering as they go about shopping and taking lunch breaks.
    On the sidewalk out front, an odd-­looking chair on wheels sits next to a pile of trash. It smells like rotten produce from the shop next door. And stale beer. On the other side, braids of bread hang in the front window of a bakery called See Yee Yum.
    The screen door clangs shut behind me as I enter. The ripe smell of the street is replaced by something sweet and fresh. A long, narrow walkway borders bakery cases that almost extend the length of the shop. At the far end sits a single bistro table and a refrigerator full of American sodas. Inside the bakery cases are all sorts of unidentifiable pastries. Even though I’m not hungry, the bakery smells amazing—­a combination of fresh baked bread and barbecue.
    A small woman in a crisp white shirt with rolled-­up sleeves looks up at me without smiling.
    â€œCan I help you?”
    â€œWhat do you recommend?” I ask, while the woman busies herself rearranging pastries with a pair of tongs.
    â€œPork bun,” she says matter-­of-­factly without looking up.
    â€œI’ll take two.”
    While she packages them up, I ask about Kocho Bujutsu Dojo. She tells me the dojo is on the second story, above her bakery.
    â€œDo you know what time it opens?”
    The woman looks over my shoulder, as if she is thinking. “Sometimes not till five, but most of time, they are open by two.”
    It’s noon. I’ll come back later.
    â€œOne dollar.” She hands me a white bag with the top neatly folded shut.
    I rummage around in my bag and extract a wrinkled dollar, which I try to smooth out before I hand it to her. “Best deal in town,” I say.
    Finally she cracks a smile. “You try first.”
    Outside, I cross the street and eye the bank of windows above the bakery. It could be my imagination, but for a split second, I think I see a shadow move in front of the window.
    I stare for a few seconds longer before I head to my car.

 
    Chapter 16
    I’ M FINISHING UP my profile story about Maria Martin when Liz, the news researcher, comes over to my desk. In my story, based on what Mrs. Castillo told me, I’ve painted a portrait of a sweet woman who studied nursing in the hopes of living a life devoted to helping others. Now she’s dead.
    Liz watches as I swallow my last bite of pork bun. A small paper bag holds another pork bun. I was crazy to think I could eat two of them. Last year, I would’ve been able to scarf six of these puppies down in the blink of an eye. Now, I’m forcing myself to eat.
    Liz smiles. Her soft brown eyes twinkle behind her purple eyeglass frames. She wears her signature long flowing skirt and Birkenstocks, like a real Berkeley hippie should.
    â€œYou kill me,” she says. “The way you love food is practically pornographic.”
    Guilt streaks through me. She