The Man Who Fought Alone
by
Stephen Donaldson

"Stephen Donaldson... writes in overdrive... corruption is rife,

gangsters and fraudsters abound, layer upon layer of environmental and
moral pollution... life in the uncontrollable fast lane.

lillLY TELEGRAPH

STEPHEN R. DONALDSON is a DO.!  best-selling fantasy author all around
the world.  With amongst others his THOMAS COVENANT series, he has
dominated the charts and the awards for over 20 years, He was born in
Cleveland, Ohio in 1947 and made his debut in 1977.

Copyright Stephen Donaldson 2002 All rights reserved

The right of Stephen Donaldson to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of
the copyright owner.

First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Orion Books an imprint of
The Orion Publishing Group Orion House, 5 Upper St.  Martin's Lane,
London we2H 9EA

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library

ISDN (haMlioolQ 0 TC204 M7 fT ISBN (trade paperback) 0 75284 688 4

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St.  Ives plc

To 'the boys' Don Westervelt Rich Jacobs.  You're irreplaceable.

Acknowledgements

My particular thanks to Howard Morhaim and Evelin Yourstone-Wheeler,
both of whom went out of their way to help me with this book.

Carliss Swilley's remarks about Chinese antiques have been extrapolated
from Fang Jing Pei's exhaustive Treasures of the Chinese Scholar
(Weatherhill, 1997).  Details about the history of Wing Chun have been
condensed from "The Truth about Wing Chun's Past by Benny Meng and
Richard Loewenhagen, Inside Kung-Fu, May 2000, Vol.  27, No.  5.

Author's Note

I wish to emphasize that this is a work of fiction.  I have done
everything I can think of to ensure that the general information it
contains is accurate.  But I have not based any of the characters here
on anyone I have ever known, read about, or heard about.  Nor do the
schools have any 'objective correlative' in the real world.  A student
of Shotokan myself, I have nothing but respect for all martial arts and
admiration for all true martial artists.  The opinions and attitudes
expressed by my characters belong exclusively to them.

In addition, I can state categorically that Fumio Demura Sensei, Bill
"Superfoot' Wallace, and Benny 'the Jet' Urquidez have never attended a
martial arts tournament in Garner.

The Man Who Fought Alone One.

For two weeks Ginny concentrated on taking care of me.  Ordinarily she
didn't have much tolerance for inactivity, but she stood it with as
much grace as she could muster.  She force-fed me pills, changed my
bandages, stocked the pantry and fridge, picked up tapes and books to
keep me from driving her crazy, and generally made herself responsible
for my recuperation.

A week or so after being shot, I could walk upright most of the time,
and her regimen of vitamins and antibiotics had just about knocked out
the infection.  But I still couldn't move fast, or think very quickly,
or tie my shoes without groaning.

She even kept the apartment clean, which was usually my job, since even
her best friends never accused her of being tidy.  Compensation, I
think.  If you've got a mind like a ledger, you surround yourself with
the most ungodly mess.  But if your head could stand in for a witches'
cauldron, you're inclined to clean everything in sight.  Whenever she
mopped or dusted, I had to bite my tongue so that I wouldn't nag her
about missing the corners.

I kept my mouth shut because I didn't want to punish her for taking
care of me.  It wasn't her fault I had a hole in my stomach.

We were private investigators by which I mean, she was.  Ginny
Fistoulari, owner and sole proprietor of Fistoulari Investigations.
Tall and good-looking.  So good-looking, in fact, that you would've
considered her beautiful if you liked broken noses.  Mid-thirties. Lean
and poised, ready for anything.  And keen as a hatchet.

Or she used to be, until she lost her left hand during the case that
first got me in trouble with el Senor, Puerta del Sol's only real crime
lord.  For a while afterward, she felt so maimed and maybe unloved or
unworthy that she could hardly figure out how to go on living.  But
now, after a period of what you might call disarray, she'd started to
regain her edge.  She wore a stainless steel prosthesis her "claw" with
two hooks that worked like pincers off the muscles of her forearm.  She
could pick up all kinds of things with it.  Also punch holes in
double-glazed windows.  And because the edges of the hooks down near
the base were sharp, she could cut things with it tape, string, cloth,
even rope if it wasn't too thick.

Years ago I was her partner, but I'd lost my license.  Negligent
manslaughter, the commission called it.  I'd killed a man whose only
crime was being nearby while I was drunk.  Other than that, he was just
a cop trying to chase down a purse snatcher.

Unfortunately he also happened to be my younger brother.

Since the purse snatcher had a gun, I wasn't indicted.  In one sense or
another, I'd tried to stop him with "necessary force."  But Puerta del
Sol's licensing commission would never re-certify me, so now I was just
the hired help at Fistoulari Investigations.

I wanted to be Ginny's partner again.  I wanted to earn it.  But I
wasn't there yet.

I'm Mick Axbrewder.  I always liked to say that no one calls me Mick,
but the truth was that people by the busload did it practically all the
time.  Everyone who elicited even a smidgen of restraint from me did it
with impunity.  I probably hadn't actively punched out someone who used
my first name since my last hinge.

I was what you might politely call a recovering alcoholic.  Back in my
drinking days, I had "the courage of my convictions," if nothing else.
Put your hand on me, and I broke it.  Call me Mick, and I rearranged
your face.  But now?  Something had replaced that kind of courage, but
I wasn't exactly sure what it was.

That's probably all anyone actually needs to know about me.  Everything
else is just more of the same.

I'm too tall.  And I used to weigh too much, but recently a thug named
Muy Estobal put me on a .38 caliber diet, and I slimmed down nicely. On
those days when my vanity poked its battered head out of the closet, I
was proud that I had to tighten my belt an extra notch to keep my pants
up.

Indirectly, Estobal was the reason Ginny and I came to Garner.  His
version of a diet involved shooting me in the gut which didn't do much
to improve my already sour temper.  In a fit of von might say.  I
thanked him by breaking his neck.  Un fortunately he worked for el
Senor, and his boss took exception to his demise.  After a week or so,
the crime lord succeeded in running Ginny and me out of town.

Or maybe I should say she got me out to keep me alive.  But any way you
looked at it, we were pretty far from home.  After our last job, we
drove here in Ginny's worn-out Olds, with me sprawled along the back
seat hugging my guts most of the way.  She found us a cheap apartment
in a building that looked like a poster child for Genteel Poverty, and
we moved in for the duration.

She'd chosen Garner for the simple and sufficient reason that she had a
contact here who might help her get a job while we waited for el Senor
to get tired of craving my blood.

When I was feeling optimistic, I thought Ginny and I were back on the
road to being partners.  Maybe even to being lovers.  The rest of the
time I knew better.

Most of the time, her bedside manner stank.  She detested being my
nurse.  But I was used to that.  What I couldn't adjust to was the way
I felt with our caretaking roles reversed.

For six months after she'd lost her hand, I'd been the nanny.  And
she'd hated it hated it so bad that it charred her heart.  But she
hadn't believed that she had any choice, so she'd turned as much of her
anger against herself as she could.  In the process, I'd damn near lost
her.

You'd have thought that might make me more sympathetic now.  For some
reason, it didn't.  I disliked my pain, hated my general uselessness,
and positively loathed being dependent on her.  Occasionally I was so
charming about it that I said things like, "I guess when this is over
we'll be even."

She gave me one of her special glares the kind that made complete
strangers duck for cover but she didn't pretend to misunderstand.
Instead she muttered, "I'm not keeping score."

"Maybe not.  But you were.  The one who feels like a cripple always
keeps score.  This time it's my turn."

"That's right."  She turned her glare on one of the chairs and watched
it cower.

"And the way I count, if you don't shut up about it we're never going
to be even."

She was using her take-no-prisoners voice.  If I hadn't been such an
asshole, I probably would've winced.  The chair sure did.

Sometimes mostly late at night after she went to bed, and I

couldn't distract myself with inane remarks I got the distinct
impression that I was living on borrowed time.  She'd made a point of
renting an apartment with separate bedrooms.  In the dark hours I was
sure that her reasons for wanting her own room had nothing to do with
letting the wounded man sleep soundly.

When irritation and waiting got the better of her during those two
weeks, she made phone calls.  Business, most of them.  We'd left Puerta
del Sol in a hurry, and she still had details to take care of banking,
mail, credit cards, the leases on her apartment and office, insurance,
that sort of thing.  And she harassed the commission regularly.

They'd suspended her license after I killed Estobal.  Not because of
him, but because she'd killed our client.  Which didn't exactly make
the commission feel all warm and fuzzy about her.  She'd done it in
self-defense, but the ethics committee still took joy in delaying her
reinstatement.

Naturally she wanted her license back.

Since she needed a job, she also got in touch with her contact the
reason we'd driven to Garner instead of some other, more familiar
city.

In college, she told me, she'd been friends with a man named Marshal
Viviter.  Just friends, she told me.  After college, he'd been a cop in
Puerta del Sol for a few years, so they'd stayed friends.  But he was
ambitious, and when he quit the force to become a private investigator,
he'd left Puerta del Sol because she told me he wanted to work
somewhere with more money and a bigger client base.  Apparently Garner
fit his requirements.

As it turned out, the city supported an entire gaggle of rent-a-cops
and snoops.  Which made sense in a town where so much cash changed
hands all the time.  But he'd made a success of it, despite the
competition.  His ad in the yellow pages "Professional Investigations:
proven, prompt, discreet" was ostentatious enough to sell cosmetics.

Her first call to this Viviter left her smiling, something that I
hadn't seen in more than a week.  Until her face lifted, I hadn't
realized how much strain she carried around.  Marshal, she reported,
had more clients than he could handle.  He wanted her to come in for an
interview, discuss the situation, but off the top of his head he didn't
see why he wouldn't be able to put her to work rieht away.

For some reason, I didn't ask the obvious question.  Put you to work?
Not us?  Maybe all those antibiotics had killed off my intuition as
well as my common sense.  Instead I challenged her.

"Does he know about your license?"

If I'd been listening to myself, I would've known I was in trouble.
Whenever I started to act like a professional nag, something went
wrong.  But I wasn't paying any attention.

Her smile disappeared like closing a shutter.

"Of course he knows," she snapped.

"What do you think?  I can't get a job unless I lie to prospective
employers?"

I waved a hand airily.  Axbrewder the effete invalid.

"You know that's not what I meant.  I'm just surprised that he's
allowed to hire you with your license suspended."

She studied me for a minute, then sighed.  Got a grip on herself.  But
her smile didn't open again.

"The laws are different in this state.  His whole office rides on his
license.  He can hire the homeless if he wants to.  As long as he
accepts responsibility for everything they do.  If they screw up, it's
his problem."

She shrugged.

"That's why he needs an interview.  He's known me for a long time, but
he still has to be sure what he's hiring."  Her attention trailed
away.

"We haven't seen each other for years."

I let it go.  What lay behind it was too scary to contemplate.

But the second time she called her old friend, they talked for a long
time.  On the phone in her bedroom, with the door closed.  And when she
emerged she wore an expression that I'd never seen on her face
before.

She looked wistful.

Ginny go-for-broke Fistoulari, the eager racehorse champing at the bit.
She looked wistful?

I was splayed out on the couch at the time.  I sat up, acting like my
stomach hurt worse than it actually did.

"So what did he say?"

Ignoring my performance, she shook her head absently, her mind still on
the phone.

"Nothing, really."  Hell, she even sounded wistful.

"We talked about old times.  People we used to know."  A faint smile
softened her mouth.

"There was this guy in college.  We figured out he was cheating on his
exams.  Of course, we didn't want to snitch on him.  But we also didn't
want him messing up the curve for the rest of us.  So we worked out
this elaborate con to trick him into betraying himself."

She drifted farther away.

"I can't remember the last time I had that much fun.  Now everything
matters too much."

For some reason, my heart had started to jump and spatter like beads of
water on a hot griddle.  I was only convalescent, not stupid.  The
Ginny I'd known for years hadn't cared much about fun.  Or she hadn't
let it show Mostly because I wanted to be able to recognize her again,
I asked, "Did you tell him about your hand?"

Then I flinched to myself.  That question was a low blow, and I
expected her to lash back.

But she didn't.  Instead she simply turned away, picked up her purse,
and walked to the front door.  Without a word, she left the
apartment.

All of a sudden I felt more completely alone than any time since we'd
left Puerta del Sol.  Actually, I hadn't felt that alone since I'd
caught her in bed with another man.

Because she hadn't said it, I told myself for her, Axbrewder, you are
such a nice man.  You didn't feel bad enough about it when she was
maimed and dependent, and hated herself even more than she hated you?
You want her to go back there?

Unfortunately that didn't relieve my alarm.  Sweat oozed inside my
bandages, and my heart rattled around in my chest like it'd broken
loose.

I couldn't pretend there was nothing wrong.

Making a production out of it, I got to my feet.  But I didn't fool
anyone.  I wasn't well yet, but I was a hell of a lot closer to it than
I'd been for a while.  No matter what I felt like at the moment.

Exercise was supposed to be good for me, so I started pacing.  At first
I couldn't be bothered to stand up straight.  But then I managed to
stiffen my spine and do better.

One of my more ambiguous gifts was an ability to recall conversations
pretty much word-for-word.  Now I couldn't help remembering the last
time Ginny and I'd really talked to each other.

First she'd said, I thought I'd have to carry your self-pity and your
stupid drinking around on my back for the rest of my life.  I wanted to
believe I was strong enough, but I knew I wasn't.

When I'd asked her what she wanted to do about it, she'd answered, The
truth is, I don't know what I want.  I don't know how I feel about you.
I don't like cripples.  I don't like being one, and I don't like you
when you're one.  But then she'd corrected herself.  I want you to go
away with me.  Somewhere we can think.  If we have reasons to go on, I
don't know it right now.  And if we're finished, I'm not going to admit
it until I've had a chance to think.

Before that conversation, I'd believed she was going to say goodbye.
When she'd insisted instead on taking me out of el Se-nor's way, I'd
nearly collapsed in relief.  But now I wondered how I'd contrived to
confuse myself so completely.

She'd had a week and a half to think.  Judging by appearances, she'd
reached conclusions I suddenly didn't want to hear.

I don't like cripples.

Since she wasn't there to argue with me, I decided to exercise with a
bit more fervor.  Proving how tough I was, I took a band saw to my guts
by attempting a push-up and almost survived the experience.  Which did
wonders for what I liked to call my clarity of mind.  If we have
reasons to go on, I don't know it right now.  Obviously I wasn't ready
for that.  Muttering curses, I levered my body upright on the arm of
the couch and went back to ordinary pacing.

I promised myself that I'd apologize when she came back.  But when she
did, the words stuck in my chest.

She looked at me just once, straight and hard.

"No, I didn't tell him."  Her tone reminded me of push-ups.  Like me,
she'd almost survived.

"I can't exactly hide it, but I'd rather deal with it in person."

Then she concentrated on ignoring me for the rest of the day.

From then on I drove my exercises harder.  I probably would've been
well by now if I hadn't given myself peritonitis by neglecting my
pills.  One thing for sure, I knew how to be crippled.

That had to change.  This time, I promised myself this time I'd be
stronger.

Naturally pacing got old.  Also it made Ginny twitch.  So as soon as
she bought me a pair of sunglasses I started walking outside.  I did
laps around the blocks in our neighborhood until I had them memorized.
Since push-ups were too much for me, and I didn't even want to think
about sit-ups, I started on squats.  The first day I worked my way up
to one.

That night I was so sore I thought I'd torn something inside.  But I
kept at it.

Against no detectable resistance, I began to pick up some of the
cleaning chores.  And from there I planned to move on to cooking.  I
thought I'd be able to handle that.  In a week or so, I told myself,
I'd be ready to go back to work.  Then she could stop waiting for me.

The next Monday, she went for her interview with Professional
Investigations.  She didn't ask me if I felt well enough to go along
she just went by herself.  Which made my bowels squirm in ways that
resembled entry wounds.  But I still tried not to understand.
Apparently I'd forgotten how to trust my intuition.

So I decided to cook a special meal to welcome her back.  Also,
presumably, to congratulate her.  First I cleaned the apartment the way
it should've been cleaned all along.  I even took my life in my hands
and cleaned her room, just to show that I never did actually learn
anything from experience.  Then I took over the kitchen.

But she didn't come back.  She didn't call.

Eventually the first meal was ruined, so I made another one.  I
defrosted the fridge, which didn't need it, and scrubbed out the
pantry, which did.  After a couple of years, the sun gave up and let
electricity take over, but I didn't turn on any lights.  Or the TV.  Or
my optimism.  Instead I stripped down my .45, took a fine brush and gun
oil to all the parts, then put it back together so that the mechanism
clacked with the surgical precision of a guillotine.  Next I greased
fresh rounds and nestled them in the magazine.  Finally I oiled and
polished my shoulder holster until the leather flexed like skin.

After that I sat alone in the dark.  Outside, Garner shone like a
nuclear blast, but I kept the blinds closed and contemplated my sins.

She didn't show up until after midnight.  I heard her heels outside the
door before she got her key into the lock, which gave me plenty of
warning.

She came in without turning on any lights.  Apparently she thought that
she could avoid disturbing me.  She may have been humming under her
breath, but I couldn't be sure.  My heart laid down a barrage so heavy
that I didn't trust my ears.

We talked about it in the dark.

I kept h simple.

"Where were you?"

"I had my interview," she answered softly.  I couldn't tell whether she
was glaring at me or not.  But every word had the force of a bullet in
flight.  They were so accurate that she might've been using tracers.

"Marshal showed me around.  We had dinner.  We talked.

"I didn't try to keep track of the time."

No, of course not.  Why should she?

My next question sounded thick, labored congested by bandages and
self-neglect.

"Did we get the job?"

Her voice might've come from anywhere in the room.

"Not we.  I. I got the job.  You're on your own."

A gulf opened at my feet.  I sat still and hugged my chest so that I
wouldn't fall into it.

She pushed it wider.

"We'll stay here until you're well enough to find work.  Then I'll move
somewhere else."  No ground remained between us.

"Or you can move, if this rent's too high."

When I couldn't say anything, she went into her room and closed the
door.

That was a good thing.  I didn't really want her to hear me whimper
like a beaten hound.

Two.

That night I didn't go to bed.  For an hour or two, I paced.  After
that I sat up in one of the living room chairs, holding my .45 like an
offering in the palms of both hands, and trying to think.  Or I told
myself I was trying to think.  What I meant was that I didn't want to
feel.

Sometime around 4 A.M. I pulled off my bandages and took a shower. That
was probably safe enough a good three weeks had passed since I was shot
but it felt like baring my soul.

By the time Ginny got up to start her first day working for Marshal
I-can't-remember-the-last-time-I-had-that-much-fun Viviter, I.had
myself dressed.  As ready as I was likely to get.  I'd shaved so hard
that the follicles on my face still cringed.  I'd eaten as much
breakfast as I could stomach.  And I'd put on my best which was also my
only suit.

As soon as she took a look at me, her face turned belligerent.  If I
tried to foist myself off on her now, she'd probably give me a new gut
wound to match Estobal's.  I had other plans, however.

Wanting to prove I could do it, I faced her head-on.

"I still have about five hundred dollars in the bank."  I sounded like
I was chopping wood.

"But I don't have any cash, and I need wheels.  I can't hunt for a job
if I can't get around."

Hell, in a city like Garner I might not be able to reach an ATM without
a car.

While she studied me the hostility drained out of her eyes.  I'm sure
she heard self-pity in my voice, but apparently she'd picked up
determination as well.  Frowning, she chewed on the inside of her cheek
for a couple of heartbeats.  Then she said carefully, "You aren't
ready."

She sounded just a touch unsure of herself.

I liked that.  Somewhere deep inside, I was angry enough to catch
bullets in my teeth.  The more I managed to keep her off balance, the
better.

"That's my problem, not yours," I told her.

"Leave me some money.  I'll pay you back."

She wanted to argue with me I knew the signs so she tried to get mad.

"Goddamn it, Mick " I stopped her there.  I was fast when I needed to
be, and I already had my hand in her face, with my index finger
pointing rigid as a gun barrel between her eyes.

"Don't call me that.  You fucking know better."

She took a deep breath.  A struggle I couldn't identify conflicted her
reactions.  Now that she'd decided to walk out of my life, she may've
felt guilty about it.  Her grey eyes held a hint of violet, like a
threat of bruises or thunder.

As she let that breath go, she said, "You're right, Brew.  I know
better."

Like flipping a switch, she turned businesslike and started fishing in
her purse.

"I can only spare twenty bucks right now.  But I'll leave you the
company credit card."  She'd kept Fistoulari Investigations alive on
the assumption that we'd manage to get home someday.

"You can use it until you start getting paid.  And I'll have more cash
at the end of the day."

With her claw, she pointed two tens and a piece of familiar plastic in
my direction.

I took them.  What the hell else was I going to do?

She also gave me my antibiotics.  I took them, too.

By the time I'd put the money and credit card in my wallet, and dropped
my pills into a pocket, she'd left the apartment, closed the door
behind her.  I was alone again, lumped in the middle of the living room
floor like a pile of unsorted laundry.

Which meant that I had to face the consequences.  I'd staked out my
ground.  Now I had to stand on it somehow.

Unfortunately I didn't know a soul in Garner.  And my resume wasn't
likely to inspire confidence.  I'd spent too many years being drunk.
Not to mention dependent.

But I'd decided during the night that I didn't mind making a fool of
myself, if I had to.  In reality, of course, I did mind, but since I
couldn't imagine any obvious alternatives, I might as well swallow it.
Add it to the list of pains in my gut.

On the theory that what's good for one pain is good for another
pharmacology as sympathetic magic I took my pills.  Then I picked up
the phone book and located the nearest rent-a-relic agency.

The address wasn't much help at first.  The yellow pages included a
rudimentary map, however, and eventually I deduced I was only fifteen
or twenty blocks away.  Presumably I could walk that far.  I'd been
practicing.

Garner's climate didn't exactly encourage pedestrians, but it was still
winter, so the heat didn't kill me.  By the time I reached Acme Cars
Cheap, I was wearing just a shower, not an entire hot tub.

Once the credit card cleared, Mr.  Acme put me in a perky Subaru that
would've been small for someone half my size.  And he deigned to sell
me a real map.  After that, I was ready to embark on my new career,
Indignation-For-Hire.

The map, and the complexity of the route I had to take, confirmed the
impression that reading the paper and watching TV had given me.  Garner
was only two states away from Puerta del Sol, but it might as well have
been in a completely different world.  It made the city I called home
look like a hick town.

For one thing, it was huge.  A crooked valley between low rumpled hills
confined its downtown to some extent, but its suburbs and malls,
convention centers and car dealerships, parks and stadiums there were a
lot of stadiums lapped away from the valley in every conceivable
direction, sending out ripples of fresh concrete, glass, grass, and
stucco to cover every viable patch of ground and dirt for a thousand
square miles.  And with all that room, Garner was still crowded.  It
had enough inhabitants for a Third World country.  The airport was so
vast you could've staged an invasion of Europe from it.  Two beltways
four lanes wide spread out the traffic jams while three freeways pumped
in more cars.  Hundreds of buses crawled the streets as if no one ever
needed or wanted them to get anywhere.  Some of the malls could've
hosted Alpine skiing events without any significant remodeling.  Hell,
even the city Animal Shelter occupied a building the size of a
cathedral.

But Garner wasn't just huge, it was new.  In fact, practically
everything you could see anywhere looked new.  Towering offices, banks,
and hotels by the dozens clotted the horizons down-sky into nieces like
construction blocks.  Some of them had so much glass on their sides
that sunlight came off them whetted keen as knives.  If the skyscrapers
hadn't spent so much time shadowing each other, the reflections
would've driven every sane human being in the vicinity blind.  As it
was, even on cloudy days earner's denizens wore sunglasses welded to
their faces.  Otherwise they wouldn't have been able to walk downtown,
never mind drive.

That section of Garner was so comfortless and artificial, so full of
buildings pretending they weren't identical to each other, that it
should've ceased to exist as soon as the sun went down and you couldn't
see it anymore.  Darkness doesn't ordinarily tolerate pretension on
that scale.  So, I learned, the city fathers had ordained that the sun
didn't set.  When the actual sun ignored their designs, they replaced
it with so much glaring incandescent neon, sodium, and halogen
illumination that you wouldn't know night ever happened if the city
didn't cool off occasionally.

The suburbs weren't that bad, but they weren't much better, either.
There the zoning board allowed trees and grass, which took some of the
glare off the cement, but still didn't prevent the houses, apartment
buildings, mini-malls, and convenience stores from looking like they'd
arrived prefabricated from some happily rich Developers' Heaven.

And all of them were lit.  Garner spent electricity like a city that
owned its own public utilities.  Streetlamps as harsh as spotlights
guarded the roads.  At night every right-of-way looked like a
landing-strip.  Lights watched over the mansions, malls, dealerships,
privacy walls, and stores.  Even in the ghettos, you couldn't go to a
park at night without getting a tan.  And as the sun set the stadiums
seemed to go off like nuclear blasts except your average thermonuclear
device probably wasn't that bright.

One way or another, Garner did its utter damnedest to look like a place
where no one had any secrets.  Every furtive human desire or deed must
surely have withered away decades ago, shamed to death by all that
illumination.

As far as I could tell just watching the news and reading the paper,
most of the cash that kept the place going came from sports.
Professional, university, college, high school, middle school, for
God's sake, minor league, semi-pro, amateur, tour, back-room you name
it, Garner had it.  Most of the high schools sprouted gymnasiums on the
scale of Olympic venues, plus separate amphitheaters for football,
track, and tennis.  Even the churches worshipped with basketball courts
and swimming pools in their basements.  Every citizen who wasn't an
athlete either owned, supported, worked for, or watched spectator
sports, and well-toned bodies insulted their own mortality at every
imaginable opportunity.

All that dedication to sweat and injuries, as well as franchises,
concessions, merchandising, nutritional supplements, and TV contracts
never mind good old-fashioned gambling, the foundation and tombstone of
the American Way gave me hives.  That, and the incessant pitiless glare
of the lights.

I was completely and entirely out of my element.  The kind of people I
could really understand and talk to didn't even come out of hiding
until after dark.  And they sure as hell weren't athletes.

Nevertheless Ginny's contact flourished here.  I didn't see how.

By the time I found my way to "Professional Investigations: proven,
prompt, discreet," I felt more than a little shaky.  So far, being on
my own was the shits.

But that changed nothing.  I still didn't know a soul in Garner.

I had two different plans, depending on how much Ginny had told Marshal
Viviter about me.  If he knew enough to recognize me, I intended to ask
for advice, contacts, a reference, whatever.  Hell, I had to ask
somebody.  But if my name didn't mean anything to him, I wanted him to
give me a job.

For a while during the night, my famous intuition had gone into
overdrive.  Now I felt sure that despite all the time she'd spent
talking to her old friend recently, Ginny hadn't said much about me.

For one thing, I guessed, she was ashamed of what had happened to our
relationship.  She wanted a clean start with Viviter, no baggage or
self-justification.  And no limits.  Because she was already half in
love with him or so my sore stomach proclaimed vehemently.  All that
fun and all those happy memories made my contribution to her life look
pretty abject.  The last thing she wanted to do with him was discuss a
former lover.  Especially a former lover who made her feel ashamed.

I could've been wrong, of course.  Intuition is like that.  Sometimes
it functions like effective prescience.  And sometimes it laoirao
irr.ii far-orlrrwrn in vnur own muck.

But even if I was right, I still had to ask myself why I wanted to risk
undermining her by trying to get a job with Professional
Investigations.  At the moment, the only answer I had was that I didn't
know where else to turn.  To pacify my conscience, I promised it that
I'd be straight with Viviter and that I wouldn't give away anything
Ginny might've kept to herself.

What I hadn't figured out, of course, was why Viviter would even bother
to talk to me.  My inspiration didn't stretch that far.  But I didn't
let that stop me.

With my obligatory sunglasses clamped to my face, I squeezed like a
circus trick out of the Subaru and went to meet Marshal Viviter as if
he were the Oracle at Delphi.

Nevertheless I distrusted Professional Investigations before I even
left the sidewalk.  Its offices they took up the whole eighth floor, I
discovered were in a massive glass-and-concrete skyscraper that also
featured title companies, lawyers, accounting firms, and sports
agencies.  It was, I told myself acidly, no place for a private
investigator.  People like Ginny and I were in the pain business
uncovering it, containing it, avenging it, occasionally relieving it.
We needed seamy offices in run-down buildings that made no pretense of
tidiness, never mind sterility.  We didn't belong in an edifice where
people got rich riding on the backs of their clients.

And inside the place was worse.  It had scarlet carpets so thick that
if you dropped a coin you'd never see it again, and potted trees ten
feet high positively gleaming with health, and wall after wall of
mirrors clean enough to focus surgical lasers.  The expensive air was
so balmy it must've been imported from a beach somewhere.  Polite
functionaries hovered everywhere to assist the bewildered.  Where I
came from, the elevators could've been rented out as apartments.

Bordellos should look so good.

Professional Investigations wasn't just successful, it was bloody
triumphant.  Ginny's college boyfriend had raised pain-for-profit to a
level I couldn't even imagine.  Of course, this was Garner, not Puerta
del Sol.  But still It seemed to me that Marshal Viviter must be a
proven, prompt, discreet scumbag, as dirty as death almost by
definition.  The only reason I didn't turn my back and leave was that
Ginny obviously had a good opinion of him.  And I still didn't have any
choice that I could see.

Girding up my loins, as they say, I braved the foyer, got directions,
and rode the elevator up to the eighth floor.

For once there wasn't any glass.  The agency probably didn't want its
clients to feel like they were being watched.  A tasteful brass
nameplate on the rosewood door announced:

Marshal Viviter PROFESSIONAL INVESTIGATIONS proven, prompt, discreet.

The door opened without a sound when I turned the knob.

On the other side, I found myself in a lobby that might've been small
by the standards of the rest of the building, but that was still bigger
than Ginny's entire office in Puerta del Sol.  Cushioned armchairs and
deep love seats which matched the carpet here a reassuring taupe
instead of scarlet arranged themselves decorously among the potted
plants, end tables, and ashtrays.  Deliberately meaningless paintings
in muted colors softened the walls.  As soon as I closed the door, I
felt like I was in the waiting room of a funeral home.

Three other people had taken up residence ahead of me, a youngish
couple with anxiety as thick as stage makeup on their faces, and an
older businessman digging his heels into the carpet like he wanted to
hurt it.  They glanced at me when I entered, but didn't pay any real
attention.

The far end of the room sported several doors, but still no glass.  In
front of them, a receptionist at a sleek rosewood desk presided over an
intercom phone console and a computer monitor.  By then I felt so
intimidated that at first I didn't notice she wasn't blond, or pretty,
or even especially polished.  And I didn't realize until I got closer
that she was sitting in a wheelchair.

Like the outer door, the desk had a brass nameplate.  This one
introduced her as "Beatrix Amity."

"May I help you, sir?"  Her tone, like her mild smile and her remote
gaze, was perfect for the job impersonally welcoming and relaxed,
without a hint of intrusion.  Her capable hands rested on the desk as
if they were at my service.

I coughed at a sudden dryness in my throat.  Now that I'd spotted the
wheelchair, I also saw plastic runners over the carpet behind the desk,
presumably so that she could move around easily.  And at least two of
the doors had electric eyes to open them automatically for her.

"My name's Axbrewder," I informed her with an uncomfortable rasp.

"I'm here to see Mr.  Viviter."

"Do you have an appointment, Mr.  Axbrewder?"  She managed my name
smoothly, like she practiced it every day.

Warming up to feel foolish, I shook my head.

"Afraid not.  But I want you to tell him I'm here anyway.  I think
he'll see me."

That was pure bullshit and she probably knew it, too but she kept her
opinion to herself without any visible strain.

"Certainly, Mr.  Axbrewder."  She turned to her console.

"May I say what this concerns?"

I tried to smile, but only managed a spasm.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"As you wish," she replied immaculately.  The merest hint of a frown
warned me that I was out of line.

"I'm sure you understand that Mr.  Viviter is quite busy.  We usually
insist on appointments.  Otherwise his schedule becomes impossible.

"If you'd like to take a seat ?"  She nodded toward the chairs,
promising me nothing.

I didn't move.  Whether or not what I wanted made sense, I wasn't any
good at backing down.  And I've never been gracious about it when I
feel intimidated.

"And I'm sure you understand, Ms.  Amity, I wouldn't do this if I
didn't consider it important.  I'm not rude by nature."  Then I
shrugged.

"Well, maybe I am.  But I'm also housebroken.  I would've made an
appointment if I could afford to do things that way."

Unpersuaded, she faced me steadily and waited for me to say something
reasonable.

Floundering inside and determined not to show it I said, "If Mr.
Viviter wants to know why I'm here, ask him why he spent the money to
make it easy for you to do this job.  That isn't something you see
every day," despite the Americans with Disabilities Act.

"Not in places like this, where the decor is sacred enough to
worship."

Apparently this episode of "Adventures in Charm, with Mick Axbrewder,"
was just like all the others.  Sometimes even I wondered why I didn't
change the channel.

"Mr.  Axbrewder."  For all the mark I made on her, Beatrix

Amity might as well have been cast in teflon.

"I don't need to ask him.  I already know the answer.  Now if you'll
please be seated?"

I got the message.  She wasn't going to touch her intercom until I
parked my ass somewhere else.

Suddenly, however, I didn't mind.  For no particularly obvious reason,
I found that I believed she played fair.  Another intuitive leap.
Despite my manners, she'd make an honest effort to get Marshal
Viviter's attention for me.

Maybe Professional Investigations took the pain business seriously
after all.  Why else would Beatrix Amity work here, when she could've
spent her time complaining about an employer who treated her wheelchair
like a hindrance?

Since I'd claimed to be housebroken, I retreated to one of the love
seats and lowered my aches into its embrace.  From there, I watched her
work her intercom.  But some trick of the soundproofing prevented me
from hearing what she said.

I couldn't relax anyway, so the absence of magazines didn't bother me.
I guess they weren't necessary.  Viviter's clients weren't people who
waited around much.  Within five minutes after I sat down, the other
people in the lobby had been escorted to privacy through doors behind
Ms.  Amity.  Their guides looked more like stockbrokers than rented
snoops.  But one of them walked with the kind of jerk you get when
you're wearing an artificial leg.

Apparently hiring the handicapped was fashionable this year.  Maybe I'd
get lucky.

While I waited, I tried to believe that Viviter would actually see me.
But I couldn't carry it off.

Nevertheless I knew who he was as soon as one of the inner doors let
him into the lobby.  He had to be Ginny's Marshal Viviter for the plain
and simple reason that I hated him on sight.  He was everything I
wasn't fit, affable, good-looking as sin, and so sure of himself that
you could've used his radiance to toast bread.

He stood maybe three inches shorter than me, a couple taller than
Ginny, but he obviously kept himself in a whole lot better shape. Every
ounce he carried must've been muscle of one kind or another.  And he
knew how to dress.  His tailored suit was busiformal, and expensive
enough to suggest that he was good at his job without implying that he
got paid more than he deserved.  He wore his hair tousled, which gave
his charm a boyish tinge.  His eyes were so clear you'd think he
polished them on the hour, and he smiled easily without seeming soft or
diffident.  When I thought back, I realized that I'd seen a picture of
his chin in the dictionary under "rectitude."

Where I came from, no one looked that good unless they were too dirty
to live.  Ordinary innocence not to mention honesty had more flaws.

He grinned at Beatrix Amity, then looked straight at me.

"Mr.  Axbrewder?"  A couple of steps brought him close enough to stick
out his hand.

"I'm Marshal Viviter.  You wanted to see me?"

Graceful as a wounded bull, I heaved myself upright.  Hoping to score a
couple of points, I took his hand and squeezed.  But his grip was
strong and dry, and I suddenly had so much sweat on my palm that I
might as well have shaken his hand with a used dishrag.

No question about it, my whole life would've been simpler if I'd ever
learned how to turn and run.

Gritting my teeth, I managed to croak out, "Thanks for making time."

"No problem.  I had a cancellation."  He said that so smoothly it
must've been a lie.

"Come on back to my office.  We can talk there."

I'd expected him to say, I'm glad to meet any friend of Ginny's.  Maybe
he planned to mention it later.

A touch on my arm steered me in the right direction, just in case I was
having second thoughts.  I wanted to hack his hand off, maybe break his
wrist on general principles, but he removed it almost immediately.
Among his other virtues, he was too professional to touch his clients
unnecessarily.

Beyond the door, halls seemed to run here and there for no particular
reason.  Presumably they accommodated offices, file storage, rooms for
conferences or interrogations, maybe even a law library.  But none of
the walls or doors had any windows.  Professional Investigations kept
everything it did private at least as far as the paying customers were
concerned.  If Ginny was in the building, I could work there for a week
without laying eyes on her.

I couldn't tell the difference when we reached Viviter's office.

If I'd been here on my own, I wouldn't have found it without
divination.  He seemed to pick a door at random and open it for me. But
as soon as I walked in, I knew this was his office, the real thing, not
some convenient impersonal substitute.

For one thing, it had enough space for volleyball practice so much
space, in fact, that a sculpted rosewood desk which could've slept
three fit in perfectly.  And for another, it featured one entire glass
wall, giving anyone who wanted it an expansive view of the canyons
between the skyscrapers.  Venetian blinds managed the sunlight without
defusing the impression that if you got too close you'd fall out.  Dark
wooden bookcases with glass fronts softened the other walls.  Heavy
frames held the full spectrum of diplomas, certificates, and licenses.
But that window dominated the room.

Viviter must've chosen his office to remind his clients that they stood
on the edge of an abyss.  Ergo they needed him.

"Have a seat."  He gestured at a selection of armchairs while he
crossed behind his desk and sat down in one of those executive chairs
that looked like it floated on air and gave massages while taking
dictation.  When I didn't join him, he added, "Please?"

I needed the reminder because the window kept tugging at my attention.
With an effort, I picked a chair facing away from the glass and eased
myself into it.

I assumed that he'd noticed the pain I carried around, but if he did
his clear gaze didn't give off any hints.

"Now, Mr.  Ax-brewder," he began, "what can I ?"

I interrupted him.

"Call me Brew."  I needed to do something to disrupt the effect he and
his window had on me.

He raised a manly eyebrow.

"That's your first name?"

I shook my head.

"It's Michael.  But I haven't used it since I was born."  Actually
since my brother was born.  We were the Axbrewder boys, Mick and Rick.
I hated the reminder but it helped.  Memories like that put calcium
back in my spine.  Sounding a bit stronger, I finished, "Brew suits
me."

He was comfortable with that.

"Fine.  I'm Marshal."  He may've been comfortable with anything.
Shifting gears smoothly, he remarked, "Beatrix tells me you're
interested in our employment policies."

Apparently nothing slipped past him.  He even knew that I needed helo
setting started.

"Indirectly," I admitted.

"What I want is a job."

He didn't react.

"And what does that have to do with why I put in a few carpet-covers
and electric eyes for Beatrix?"

"Nothing, really," I said, hoping that the hole in my guts didn't
show.

"I was just trying to get her attention."

This was what I'd come for, so I forged ahead.

"I'm a private investigator," I told him, taking the go-for-broke
approach, "but I lost my license a few years ago on a negligent
manslaughter charge.  Since then I've been working for another
investigator.  I'm in Garner mostly because I don't know where else to
be.  But I'm new here.  I don't have any contacts, and you might not
recognize my references."  Before he could ask me why I'd picked him, I
added, "I got your address out of the yellow pages.  Your ad's bigger
than anyone else's."

I did not want to reveal anything that Ginny hadn't already told him.

He grinned cheerfully.

"Do you always leave that many gaps on your job applications?"

No doubt women fell down dead when he looked at them like that.  Since
I hated him, I didn't smile back.

"Some days are worse than others.  What do you want to know?"

He still hadn't mentioned Ginny.

He spread his hands like a man who wanted everything.

"If you don't have a license, what are your credentials?"

He made my position easier by reminding me to be mad at him.

"This, mainly."  Glaring indiscriminately across the desk, I took out
my .45 and thunked it down in front of him.

"That I have a license for."

This time he raised both eyebrows.

"That's it?  Your credentials are an old .45 heavy enough to break your
foot if you dropped it?"

"No."  I faced him head-on.

"I'm also a really lousy shot."

For a second or two, I thought he might laugh out loud.  But his laugh
was probably as affable and self-confident as the rest of him, and I
didn't want to hear it, so I tried to distract him with a real
answer.

"I've been doing this for a long time, and I can watch out for myself."
While I talked, I retrieved the .45 and put it away.

"When I'm on a case.  I I don't take no for an answer.  I'm not
particularly smart, but I'm stubborn as hell.  I'm good with secrets. I
can follow orders.  I don't cheat and I don't sit on my hands while
other people cheat.  And I've told enough lies in my life" mostly to
myself "that I'm starting to hate them.

"Oh," I finished grimly, "and I'm a recovering alcoholic."  Just in
case he wondered how I felt about negligent manslaughter.

He studied me hard enough to leave holes in my head, but he still
sounded cheerful.

"And you're rude to receptionists.  You should add that to your
list."

This wasn't an interview, it was a damn game.  He didn't like what he'd
heard from Ginny about me, and now he was just entertaining himself
while he waited for an excuse to throw me out.

Or else I'd pissed him off by leaning on Beatrix Amity.

Ignoring my stomach, I sat up straighter.

"I forgot that one.  But it's trivial.  I'm also rude to employers."

This time he did laugh.

"And I guess you have a gift for it, too."

Then he leaned back in his chair, folded his arms behind his head, and
lost his sense of humor.

"I'm sure everything you say is true."  I couldn't help noticing that
he didn't seem to sweat.

"But from my point of view it isn't much.  Unless you want to fill in
some of those gaps ?"

Since he hadn't asked a specific question, I didn't volunteer anything.
Without specific questions, I didn't know how much I could tell him.

"In fact," he went on after a couple of moments, "from my point of view
it's worrisome.  Experience tells me that lousy shots who commit
negligent manslaughter have a tendency to repeat themselves.  And
recovering alcoholics don't have a very good track record in this
business."  By which he meant that sooner or later the pain got to
them, and they started drinking again.

"This is a clean, professional organization, Brew," he explained
patiently, like he wanted to be sure that I understood the problem from
his perspective.

"Around here we dot our i's and cross our t's.  We play by the rules,
and our clients get honest work for an honest buck.  We guarantee
discretion we're serious about it."  Just for a second he gave me a
glimpse of steel.

"But the last time an investigator who was 'good with secrets' worked
here, he ended up homeless.

"I'm willing to talk about this," he finished, "but you haven't given
me much to talk about."

That sounded pretty final.  Just because I was desperate didn't mean
that he had to help me.  In any case, I didn't think that I could stand
working for a man who made me look like a pile of uncollected
garbage.

"Never mind."  I almost managed to stand up without wincing.

"I get the message.  Sorry I wasted your time."

Putting on a show of dignity, I headed for the door.

He waited until I had my hand on the knob.  Then he suggested casually,
"Leave me a phone number, Brew.  In case something changes."

I was primed to say, Fuck that.  But before I got my mouth open, I
remembered that I didn't know my way out of here.  If he didn't escort
me, I might never find the lobby again.

I might stumble around until I ran into Ginny.

That went way beyond acting like a fool.  I still had enough sense to
know that coming here put me on what you might politely call shaky
moral ground.

Awkward as a marionette, I walked back to the desk, picked up a pencil,
and scrawled my number on a scrap of paper.  Then I stood there stiffly
with nothing to do while I waited for him to get up and guide me out.

Glancing at the number, he started to his feet.

And stopped abruptly.  Still only half upright, he took another look at
what I'd written.

When he finished standing, I could tell by the look on his face that
I'd made a mistake.  He wasn't angry, but he was scrambling inside.  I
could almost see him chasing implications behind his mask of mild
surprise.

"You didn't tell me," he remarked quietly, "you know Ginny
Fistoulari."

I shrugged, mostly so that I wouldn't compound this foul-up by swearing
at myself out loud.  That damn woman hadn't told him anything about me.
Anything he could use, anyway.

Swallowing at the anger in my throat, I gave him as little as I
could.

"She's the investigator I worked for after I lost my license."

With a sigh, he dropped back into his chair.

"Sit."  The steel was back in his voice.

"Start over again.  How long have you known her?"

I ignored him.  Steel didn't scare me.

"I told you," I said carefully, "I already got the message.  You didn't
take me seriously when I walked in, and you still wouldn't if you
hadn't made the connection.  I do need a job.  But if you change your
attitude now, you're doing it for the wrong reasons.

"Get me back to the lobby, and you can forget we ever met."

Ginny hadn't told him anything about me.  She hadn't so much as
mentioned my name.

His stare didn't waver.

"Wait a minute."  With one hand, he waved my indignation away.

"You said you wanted a job.  You asked for help."  His tone took on a
flensing edge I hadn't heard him use before.

"You didn't tell me that my attitude mattered.  You didn't tell me
you're qualified to evaluate my state of mind.

"Put your damn crystal ball away, or your degree in psychoanalysis, or
whatever the hell it is you think you're using, and sit down."

For a heartbeat or two, I couldn't move.  I wanted to take a swing at
him, but unfortunately the damn sonofabitch was right.  I'd made about
ten assumptions that I couldn't justify, and most of them involved
thinking that I knew what went in his head.  Which was what usually
went wrong when I tried to talk to Ginny.

Hell, I didn't even know this guy.

I crumpled back into my chair and braced myself on its arms to ease the
pain in my guts.

"Listen, Marshal."  For a while I let the way I hurt do the talking.

"She's an old friend of yours.  You've already given her a job.  I may
look like trouble, but I'm not trying to cause any."  Not anymore.

"I came to you for help because I'm lost here.  But I don't want to
tell you anything she hasn't already mentioned."  Stiffly I concluded,
"She has her own reasons for doing what she does."

I didn't see him move a muscle, but somehow I could see his attitude
shift again.  He put his flensing knife away.

"OK," he said slowly, "fair enough.  That explains some of the gaps."
He touched his hair quickly, checking the tousle, then went on, "But
there's at least one I need filled in.  If you don't do it, I'll have
to get an answer out of her.  That" he paused to look at me hard "might
make your problems worse."

At least he was willing to be specific.  That helped.

"Which gap?"

of you leave Puerta del

Sol?  She doesn't want to talk about that."  He glanced briefly out the
window.

"I thought she was settled there."

No shit she didn't want to talk about it.  She couldn't explain without
telling her old boyfriend about me.  And she'd made her desire to keep
me out of the discussion obvious.

I suppose I should've kept my mouth shut.  But I figured I had a right
to answer that particular question.  I was the one who got shot and
couldn't go home.

Trying not to think about bullets, I asked, "You remember el Senor?"

Unexpectedly Marshal grinned.

"Remember him?  I still have nightmares about him and I never actually
had any trouble with him.  He used to make some of the cops I knew
sweat shit."

That, as they say, was gratifying.  Without meaning to, I relaxed a
bit.

"He sent one of his goons to cap a client of mine."  I caught myself.

"I mean a client of ours.

"I got in the way."

"So he shot you," Marshal put in.

"That's why you have trouble moving.  The wound hasn't healed yet."

I shrugged.

"I couldn't think of anything else to do about it, so I broke his
neck."

"Which 'he'?  Who did el Senor send after you?"

I hesitated, then answered the question.

"Muy Estobal."

Marshal laughed out loud.

"Muy Estobal?"  Amazement filled his face.

"Christ on a crutch.  You broke Muy Estobal's neck?  I didn't know he
had a neck.  My God, Brew, you ought to proclaim yourself a hero.  You
should have placards printed up."

Then he gradually turned sober.  After a moment, he drawled, "Makes you
wonder why Ginny didn't tell me, doesn't it?"

Not me.  I already knew.

"Marshal," I warned him, "this is what I was afraid of.  I don't want
to confuse things for Ginny here."

He dismissed my scruples.

"Don't worry about it.  She's a big girl.  And I'm not that easy to
confuse.  I just like explanations.  They're cleaner than guesswork."

But he didn't give me a chance to respond.  Apparently he wasn't
interested in my version of Ginny's mental state.  Instead he stood up
all at once, like he was immune to gravity and scar tissue.

"This makes a difference.  Brew."  he announcer!.

Puerta del Sol well enough to be impressed.  But I still need to think
about it.  I've already given Ginny a job.  And, as you say, we've been
friends for a long time.  I don't want trouble.  Or conflicts of
interest.

"Tell you what," he went on briskly.

"I'll call you.  Before the end of the week.  If I decide I'm not
comfortable putting you to work myself, I'll give you some names and a
reference.  That should help you get started."

I hated him.  I didn't want to feel grateful.  But I had trouble
controlling it.  Trying to fend it off, I said the most graceless thing
I could come up with.

"You're going to rely on what Ginny says about me?"

He stared at me humorously.

"What do you think I am, crazy?  Of course I'm going to rely on what
she says.  So far you've avoided mentioning any other names I can
use."

Damn.  Damndamndamn.  He was still right which I disliked so much that
I actually blushed.  In particular, I hated having people be nice to me
when I needed to stay angry.

Muttering, "You didn't ask," which was only marginally true.  I
appropriated his pencil again and wrote down the names of a couple of
honest cops back home.  Then I added two or three of Ginny's clients
who wouldn't have forgotten me.  None of them knew where I was
anyway.

When I finished, he grinned as if I'd pleased him somehow.

"All right.  This almost looks like a real job application."

Charming me out of my underwear the whole time, he helped me locate the
lobby.  Then he shook my hand again and sent me off on a surge of
clear-eyed bonhomie.  Apparently he expected me to have as much
confidence in his promises as he did.

Eventually I found my way down to my car.  It seemed to fit me better
than it did before.  I must've shrunk in the past half hour.

The Subaru's AC worked, but it didn't help.  By the time I got back to
the apartment, I'd sweated right through my suit.

Three.

Two days later he called me.  By then the apartment was so clean that
you could eat off the floor under the fridge.  I'd tightened the covers
on my bed until your eyes bounced when you saw them.  The windows had
the clarity of Marshal Viviter's gaze, and I'd beaten the rugs
practically threadbare.

Under other circumstances, I would've called that plenty of exercise.
But not this time.  In addition, I'd flagellated my body until I'd
achieved an actual sit-up, and the first five push-ups were almost
easy.  If this part of Garner had offered any shade, I probably
could've walked five miles.  Just to keep in practice, I took two
showers a day.

Meanwhile Ginny and I didn't talk to each other much.  Because of her
work schedule or her social life she came back to the apartment at
irregular hours.  When we were both there, and awake, we attempted a
couple of aimless conversations, but they didn't accomplish much.  I
asked how her job was going.  She said fine.  She asked about my search
for work.  I said I was waiting for an answer on one prospect.  At some
point, she remarked on the state of the apartment.  She may've been
trying to suggest that I should beat the pavement instead of the rugs,
but I didn't react, and she didn't push.  In every way that mattered,
she'd already moved out.

Mostly to stave off the sensation that I'd been abandoned, I spent a
fair amount of my time fuming.  But being mad at her just made me feel
even more alone, and being mad at myself was so normal that I did it on
auto-pilot anyway, so I concentrated on manufacturing disgust for
Marshal Viviter.

Anyone who looked that good, I told myself, and made that much money in
that line of work had to be crooked.  A moral pretzel.  With plenty of
salt so it tasted almost like food.  He'd been toying with me the whole
time I was in his office.  No doubt he and Ginny had already milked my
squirming for hours of innocent hilarity.  If he called, it wouldn't be
to offer me anything I needed.  He'd be looking for some way to keep me
on his hook.

I told myself.

Which gave me a charming motivational lift, like one of those
leadership seminars where they teach you to achieve comparative
excellence by tearing other people down.  But it didn't do much for my
morale.  Soon I'd start to dissolve in my own acid.

When the phone finally rang I was sitting practically on top of it.
You'd have thought that I wanted to hatch the damn thing.  Since I was
in Stoic Mode anyway, impeccably resigned to the vagaries of my fate, I
snatched up the receiver before the end of the first ring.

"God, Brew," Marshal chuckled, "what kept you?  I've been waiting here
for nanoseconds."

Obviously he knew it was me as Ginny's boss, he could be sure that she
wasn't here so I didn't bother to introduce myself.  Swallowing my
lungs, I croaked, "Sorry about that.  I didn't expect the head of
Professional Investigations to make his own phone calls.  I was just
trying to be rude to your receptionist again."

"Well, at least you're consistent," he conceded.

"That's a virtue.  I guess."

Before I could muster another of my elephantine ripostes, he went on,
"Considering the mood you're in, you probably won't ask why I called,
so I'll just tell you.

"I've got a job for you."  Then he corrected himself.

"I mean a job possibility.  But if you can keep that sunny disposition
under control, I think your chances are good."

Luckily I was sitting down anyway.  Otherwise I would've been forced to
collapse somewhere.  My heart had attempted a triple toe-loop in my
chest, missed the landing, and gone into a skid.  For a moment or two,
I couldn't remember how to breathe.  Somehow I managed to say, "Tell me
about it."  I may've been panting.

"When you were here," he began promptly, "I mentioned conflicts of
interest."  Apparently one of his professional gifts was the ability to
sound casual and serious at the same time.

"I was talking in generalities then, but now I have a more specific com
"Professional Investigations" proven, prompt, discreet "has been hired
by a woman named Mai Sternway.  She's separated from her husband, and
now she thinks he's stalking her.  She says he wants to intimidate her
so that she'll be afraid to go after the kind of divorce settlement she
deserves."

Right away I wanted to know why he'd violated her confidence by telling
me her name, but I didn't get a chance to ask.

"That's not a problem, as far as it goes," he explained.

"Some research and a few hours of protection a day.  We do that type of
work all the time.

"The problem is that now her husband, Anson, also wants to hire us."

When he said that, my stomach twisted around the memory of Estobal's
bullet.  I thought I knew what was coming.

"Ordinarily I wouldn't even listen to him," Marshal remarked like he
expected me to believe him.

"But what he wants doesn't have anything to do with his wife.  And he
isn't the kind of client I enjoy turning down.  There are too many
other things he might want to hire us for down the road.  I hate to
burn a bridge like that.  So I let him go into detail.

"It's still a conflict of interest."  Marshal's disembodied voice
conveyed a shrug.

"Or close enough that it's too messy for me.  But then I thought of you
" Damn him anyway, I was right.

I cut him off.

"You thought of me," I retorted with massive sarcasm, "because I don't
care about conflicts of interest."

"No."  Without much effort, he matched my good humor.

"I thought of you because you need a job.  And if you get this one you
won't be working for me."

I bit down on my tongue and waited for him to go on.  Sudden relief
made me light-headed.  At the moment I didn't care whether I trusted
him or not.  I could decide that later.  Right then I wanted a job as
much as I'd ever wanted a drink.

"It's only for three days," he said, "but I think it could turn into
something steady.  If you'll tone down your hostility long enough to
pay attention."

"Go on," I told him noncommittally.  The receiver had started to make a
dent in the side of my head, and I could feel the pressure building on
my brain, but my arm refused to relax.

He sighed, then got down to business.

"Anson Sternway runs a karate organization called the International
Association of Martial Artists.  It's what I think of as an umbrella
organization.  Individual karate schools and martial artists sign up as
members, and in return the IAMA provides inexpensive insurance and
promotion, publishes newsletters, runs seminars on subjects like
'effective business practices' and 'advanced kama' whatever that is. In
addition, it sponsors tournaments.

"Apparently karate tournaments are big business.  People from around
the country or around the world, for all I know get together and pound
on each other to win trophies.  According to Sternway, these
tournaments are already a cash cow, and their popularity is growing
every year."

I did my best not to sound impatient.

"And ?"

"And," Marshal told me, "this weekend, starting tomorrow, the IAMA is
holding its 'world championships' right here in Garner.  At one of the
convention hotels."  Of which Garner had a few dozen.  He paused for
effect, then added, "They need extra security."

I wanted to ask, For what?  I couldn't imagine a room full of Bruce Lee
wanna bees needing any security.  But I kept my mouth shut.  Even if
the job was just an insurance boondoggle, I needed it.

I needed work.

"Under normal circumstances," Marshal was saying, "they don't have this
problem.  Their contract with the hotel relies on hotel security.
There's always trouble with petty theft and crowd control.  It seems
these tournaments are like zoos where they lock in the spectators and
let the animals run free.  And I gather a few of those martial arts
suffer from testosterone poisoning.  Sometimes they try to settle their
differences outside the ring.  But hotel security is usually adequate
to the situation.  The hotel's insurance covers the losses.

"But this tournament isn't normal.  This time one of the member schools
wants to display some kind of 'antique martial arts artifacts," for the
edification of the assembled."  Marshal paused to swallow his lack of
conviction.

"According to Sternway, these 'artifacts' are valuable, and the
insurance company has balked at the added risk.  The hotel has been
asked to hire extra security which is an expense they didn't take into
account when they negotiated the contract.  Naturally the hotel wants
the

LAMA to pick up the tab.  On their side, the IAMA wants to insist on
the terms of the contract.  Eventually they agreed to split the cost of
hiring Professional Investigations."

"But you have a conflict-of-interest problem," I put in so that Marshal
wouldn't try to explain it to me.

He completed the thought for me.

"But you don't.  That makes you ideal for the job.

"I suggested that Sternway hire you instead.  I told him you cost less
than we do."  I could hear Marshal grinning.

"He's agreeable.  But he wants the hotel to make the final decision. On
the grounds that they're legally responsible anyway.

"I've set up an interview for you with their Chief of Security this
afternoon.  If you get the job, you'll be working for them.  You'll
answer to them, and they'll pay you."

Someone had to say it, so I did.

"I don't have a license."

He dismissed that.

"Don't worry, these people won't ask."  I pictured him rolling his eyes
at the ceiling.

"I've already vouched for you."  Then he seemed to shift gears.

"Of course," he admitted, "you'll be out on a limb.  If it breaks, I
won't be there to catch you.  The rules around here give private
investigators a lot of slack, but not that much."

For some reason, he didn't mention that if I screwed up he'd look
pretty bad for recommending me.

I had a question about that, but he didn't give me a chance to ask it.
Still sounding casual, he said, "There's just one detail I haven't
mentioned.  I want you to keep me informed.  Tell me how it goes, what
happens, give me your impressions, that sort of thing."

Well, shit.  And there I was, all set to believe that he was actually
offering me help.  My anger came back in a rush.

"Just a second," I snarled.

"How do you spell 'conflict of interest'?  Are we talking about the
same thing?  I'm supposed to work for them and report to you?"

If I gripped it any harder, the receiver was going to crumple.

"No, you idiot," he retorted.  I'd finally succeeded at pissing him
off.

"Damn it, Brew, what would it cost you to jump to a harmless conclusion
every once in a while?  I'm not asking you to violate professional
ethics.  Or confidentiality."

With both hands, he shoved exasperation through the phone at me.

"You'll be working for the IAMA and the hotel.  You won't be working
for Anson Sternway.  And his wife is my client.  I'm supposed to
protect her.  If he goes ballistic and does something crazy, I don't
want to be taken by surprise.  All I'm asking you to do is warn me if
you pick up any hints of trouble.

"You want the truth?  I don't trust either of the Sternways.  They both
have perfectly reasonable explanations for wanting to hire me.  And I
haven't heard any disturbing rumors about them.  If either of them is
nuts, I don't know about it.  But coincidences like being approached by
both of them make me nervous."

In his place, I probably would've flayed my skin off.  But he was too
fucking professional for that.  He'd already recovered his equanimity.
Which gave me one more reason to hate his guts.

"I'm doing you a favor here," he finished patiently.

"But I'm also covering my ass."

Somehow he'd outmaneuvered me again.  I didn't want to admit it, but
the bastard had a good point.  I was starting to wonder if he was ever
in the wrong.

"All right," I muttered, trying to slow my heart down.

"Maybe I was out of line.  You're doing me a favor."  Then I objected,
"But I don't understand why."

"You said you wanted a job."  He sounded puzzled by my attitude.

I shook my head, even though he couldn't see me.

"That's not an answer."  Hyperventilating discreetly, I took a more
dangerous tack.

"Ginny must've said something to convince you I'm worth the risk."

That made him chuckle again.

"It wasn't her.  I talked to one of your buddies in Puerta del Sol.
Detective-Lieutenant Acton."

He was making fun of me.  I didn't have any cop "buddies" in Puerta del
Sol.  They all hated me.  I'd killed one of them once and the fact that
he was my brother only made it worse.  Acton was just honest.

Still, it seemed to imply that Marshal hadn't talked to Ginny.

"By coincidence," he went on, enjoying himself, "I knew Acton years
ago.  When I asked him for a reference, he fell on the floor laughing.
Then he gave me his version of your adventures with el Senor.  That
convinced me you aren't really as stupid as you try to look."

I felt a surge of irrational gratitude, an almost transcendental relief
that whether or not I got this job didn't depend on Ginny.  But I tried
to ignore it.  Marshal still hadn't answered my real question.

"You say you want me to warn you if I think this Sternway might be
dangerous to your client.  That's pretty slim.  What do you really get
out of helping me like this?"

"Think of me as your agent," he suggested.  He was having too much fun
to take me seriously.

"They get ten or fifteen percent.  I want you to be polite to me at
least that much of the time."

Damn, he was slick.  For a man who talked as glibly as he did about
professional ethics and conflicts of interest, he sure knew how to
avoid questions.

But I didn't have the energy to keep pushing.  I needed most of my
resources just to manage the way I felt about a chance to work, so I
conceded the field.  Politely.

"I'll try.  You aren't an easy man to be courteous to.  But I want the
job.  I'll do whatever it takes."

Then I added, "Just tell me one more thing."  Mostly because I didn't
want to get my hopes up.

"Why do you think this might turn into something more?"

"Pure speculation at this point."  Marshal talked faster now a man who
wanted to get off the phone.

"While Sternway was trying to talk me into his security job, he implied
it might lead to more work, maybe with the IAMA, maybe with a developer
named Alex Lacone.  It seems Sternway works with Lacone as a consultant
of some kind.

"Let's take it one step at a time, shall we?  First things first.  Are
you in?"

Oh, I was in, all right.  I hadn't left myself a lot of choice.  So he
told me names, addresses, and times.  Also how much I'd get paid.  Then
he wished me luck and hung up.

After listening to the dial tone for a while, I put the receiver down
carefully and spent a few minutes just letting my squeezed head throb.
The job paid less than Ginny made in Puerta del Sol, but it was still
more than I'd expected.  Garner was beginning to sound like the
Promised Land, flowing with milk and money.

I didn't trust it.  Promised Lands have a way of turning into war zones
when you aren't looking.

But I needed the work.

Torn between gratitude and distrust, confusion and hope, I

checked my watch.  Fortunately my interview was still three hours away.
I could use the time.  Once my skull moderated its complaining, I
heaved myself into motion.

I wasn't hungry, but I ate something anyway.  Practicing
self-discipline.  Then I left the apartment and coaxed ignition from
the Subaru's timid engine.  While the belts squealed to wind up the
air-conditioning, I unfolded my map to figure out where the hell I was
going.

Four.

The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center wasn't what you could call
centrally located.  In fact, it was more convenient to the airport than
to the rest of Carner which made some sense, considering that The
Luxury's more expensive competitors already occupied most of the prime
real estate near the stadiums.  At least it was easy to find.

I was still a couple of hours early when I spotted the hotel.  By
Garner's standards it wasn't particularly huge.  Nevertheless it
could've swallowed the population of a sizable town.  At first glance,
it looked like The Rubik's Cube that Ate New York, partly because it
was a cube, as wide and deep as it was tall, but mostly because some
stoned hotel designer in a moment of perfect hallucination had decided
to paint the damn thing with uncoordinated colors in random blocks
maybe forty feet square.

In front of the entry-portico a required feature for modern hotels a
fountain sprayed sheets of water that never seemed to reach the ground.
Since I didn't like the building, I hoped this wasn't really where the
LAMA meant to hold its tournament.  Unfortunately a tall stream of
running lights around the rim of the hotel identified it as The Luxury
Hotel and Convention Center, and a blazing marquee between the fountain
and the street announced:

WELCOME IAMA

World Championships.

Oh, well.  Abandoning the Subaru in a parking lot that could've landed
jumbo jets, I crouched behind my sunglasses until I reached the hotel
lobby.  Then I started to familiarize myself with the place.

For Carner, The Luxury was pretty generic.  I didn't have any trouble
locating the convention facilities, which took up at least the first
four floors.  They may not have been the best facilities in town, but
they offered enough space to hold Billy Graham's latest "crusade" plus
the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  A reduced version of the hotel
marquee told me I was in the right place.  It said:

IAMA World Championships 9 A.M. to 9 P.M. Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

Smaller print mentioned guests I'd never heard of Bill "Super-foot"
Wallace, Benny "the Jet" Urquidez, Fumio Demura.

I had less than two hours left, so I got serious.

For a start, I studied the hall itself, which turned out to be a
rectangular cavern the size of a tennis stadium, with a high
sound-baffled ceiling and the moral equivalent of Astroturf for carpet.
Lines of tape on the floor marked out twelve squares in two long rows
presumably the competition rings.  At one corner of each square, a tall
pole raised the ring's number so everyone could see it.  Exactly five
folding chairs had been placed along one side of each square, with two
more on the left.  More tape indicated aisles between the rings.
Outside the rows, chairs on adjustable tiers rose like bleachers toward
the distant walls.

At one end of the hall, a dais with a clear view of the rings held a
row of trestle-tables draped with green cloth.  The tables sported a
couple of microphones.  On both sides of the dais, large sections of
the floor had been roped off like staging areas.  Maybe Sternway's
"antique martial arts artifacts" would be displayed in one of them.
What the other was for I couldn't imagine.

Already I had to adjust my preconceptions.  Until I looked around the
hall, I hadn't realized that I'd expected something less elaborate. I'd
known vaguely that karate was a growing sport.  But if I'd risked a
guess at the size of the lAMA's championships, I would've said forty
competitors, max, with maybe twice that many spectators.  Obviously
this tournament had other ideas.

When I was confident that I knew the layout well enough to cope with
hundreds of people blocking my view, I located all the fire-alarm
boxes, phone jacks, and security cameras in the vicinity.  Then I
turned my attention to the hall's access points.

There were six, three sets of double doors spaced out along each of the
longer walls roughly opposite each other.  On one side, of course, they
opened toward the hotel's lobby, restaurant, and bar.  On the other,
service corridors led to the kitchens, offices, storerooms, and
laundries which handled conventions.  This was the part of the hotel I
worried about.  If trouble wanted to sneak in or out, it would probably
go through here.

So I spent the rest of my available time wandering those corridors,
paying particular attention to the ones that ended in exits.  They were
all windowless and blind apart from the occasional security camera.
Once I got used to them, however, the pattern seemed simple enough.
Several times I encountered people who worked there.  But they left me
alone after I told them that I had a 1:00 P.M. appointment with their
Chief of Security, and I was getting acquainted with the hotel so I'd
be ready to talk to him.

With fifteen minutes to spare, I went back to the lobby and asked the
bell captain for directions to my appointment.  Five minutes after
that, I found myself in an office midway down a long hall which left
the lobby from one end of the Reception desk.

Like the rest of The Luxury, the Chief of Security's office was
essentially generic, decorated in Mid-Level Functionary, with a
painfully artificial fern potted in one corner, a couple of modest
desks, and a large marker-board calendar scrawled black with employee
schedules and convention dates.  The man who held my future in his
hands was named Bernie Appelwait, and he wasn't glad to see me.

He was a short unshaded cartoon-sketch of a man, with the kind of
pallor that made you want to slap some color back into his cheeks.  A
swirl of white hair, watery eyes, swollen knuckles, and a larynx like a
goiter made it obvious that he was getting on in years, and age hadn't
been kind to him.  In fact, it'd made him downright bitter or so my
instincts told me.  Whenever he opened or closed his mouth, he did it
vehemently, like trying to snap flies out of the air.  The rest of the
time, he moved and talked like a worn-out wasp, whining with threats he
didn't have the energy to carry out.

When I offered him my hand, he ignored it.  His glare conveyed the
impression that I'd just proposed to rape his mother's cadaver.

Oh, well.  Viviter had asked me to be more polite.  Taking a crack at
good manners, I dropped my hand and remarked mildly, "My name's
Axbrewder.  We have an appointment."

I didn't need to ask who he was.  A silver badge on his navy blazer and
a plaque on his desk both identified him.

His mouth snapped.

"I wondered when you'd bother to get here."

I made a production out of checking my watch and looking innocent.

"Am I late?"

He snorted.

"You've been here so long we could've wrapped this up an hour ago.  I
would've come to get you, but I wanted to see how much snooping you'd
do on your own."

On the inside, where he couldn't see it, I gave him a bow.  Maybe he
wasn't nice about it, but he knew his job.  Security cameras and
employee reports had enabled him to keep track of me.

"Mr.  Appelwait," I explained more sharply, "I want the job.  The way I
figure it, I won't be much use to you if I can't find my way around the
hotel.  So I came early to look at the layout."

If he appreciated my diligence, he didn't show it.

"So you can get out fast."

I blinked.

"Why do I want to get out fast?"

"After you snatch those 'artifacts' everyone's so fastidious about,
you'll try to leave before we can catch you."

"After I ?"  For a prospective employer, he had a hell of an attitude.
Just for a second, I considered turning my back on the whole thing.
Forgetting all about Marshal and his help.  Before I said something I
might regret.  But I swallowed the impulse.  Instead I stared at him.

"You aren't serious."

He went on glaring.

"Doesn't matter whether I am or not.  Watchdog Insurance is."  He
snorted again.

"They're afraid I'll hire some crook who just wants to rip them off.
Like I wouldn't know a hard luck rent-a-cop when I see one.  Besides, I
bet you can't tell the difference between antique Chinese ivory and
plastic flatware.  You're lucky they condescended to let me make this
decision.  If they were here, they'd tell you to stand on your head so
they could interview your crotch."

Finally I got the message.  He didn't have a problem with me.  His
grievances faced in other directions.  He thought he deserved more
respect than Watchdog gave him.

I could live with that.

"This is just my opinion," I ventured, "but I think you've been
insulted."

"It wasn't an insult," he retorted.

"It was a fucking affront."  His teeth tore off chunks of air and
chewed them out again.

"Little insurance twerp who still eats Pablum for breakfast thinks he
can tell me how to do my job.

"Call me Bernie.

"Mr.  Appelwait' takes too long."

I relaxed a bit.

"That suits me, Bernie.  Call me Brew."

Buzzing harmlessly, he dismissed the idea.

"I'll call you Ax-brewder."  Something that might've been a smile
sneaked across the background of his glare.

"Remind myself not to like you."

"You're in no danger," I assured him.

"Even my friends think I'm an acquired taste."

He treated me to a show of disbelief.

"You have friends?  Now I'm impressed."

I wanted to make a snappy comeback, but I couldn't think of , one, so I
dropped it.

Slowly he moved around one of the desks and lowered himself into a
chair with a circular cushion on the seat a piles-j pillow.  When he
was comfortable, he gestured me to a seat across from him.

Folding his arms behind his head, he leaned back and got down to
business.

"I won't bullshit you, Axbrewder.  At my age, I don't have the
patience.  This situation caught us by surprise.  And Watchdog dithered
too long.  I don't have time to make a project out of hiring extra
security.  If I turn you away, I'll have to accept whatever I can
sublease from Professional Investigations, or one of the other
agencies.

"Viviter referred you.  Him I don't like, but his rep's clean."  Bernie
rolled his eyes.

"In fact, if he weren't so full of snot he'd squeak when he walks.

"Besides, it's only for three days.  What're you going to do?  Crack
the hotel safe when I turn my back?  Burgle the rooms?  Even guys like
you aren't that stupid."  He sounded like he meant, Guys like us.

"As far as I'm concerned, the job is yours to lose."

I started to say, "I'll take it," but he cut me off.

"Don't be too eager.  This kind of work is boring, but that doesn't
make it easy.  By nine tomorrow, that hall will be a zoo.  I'm told we
have 'martial artists' from all over the world staying here.  They may
even be famous, I wouldn't know.  As far as I'm concerned, they're just
a bunch of gooks in pajamas.  But they all have their cliques and
flacks and fans and teams, and their 'revered masters."  And then they
bring their equipment, which they leave everywhere.

"On top of that, they're all so tanked on competition hormones they
think they don't need hotel security to keep an eye on them, and they
as sure as shit don't need ordinary safety precautions like keeping the
aisles clear and obeying the fire regulations.  And on top of that" he
was starting to enjoy himself "they'll have an audience of several
hundred devoted 'experts' who can't tell the difference between kung fu
and cunm'lingus."

I tried to look austere so I wouldn't laugh.

"Rather like me in that regard," I remarked.

He chuckled, then snapped his mouth shut.

"Don't do that.  I already told you I don't want to like you.  I'm
trying to convince you this job isn't easy."

Raising my hands to placate him, I murmured, "Sorry."

"I can see that," he drawled.

When he'd recovered his glare, he resumed.

"The hours are long.  From eight in the morning until past midnight,
you'll be up to your navel in gooks who don't have any use for you, and
the only real reason you'll be there is to watch for petty theft.
Wallets, watches, jewelry.  And equipment."  Shaking his head in
disbelief, he explained, "According to claims from past tournaments,
some of that gear is worth stealing.  Even here, where they sell Nikes
and crotch-cups on every block.

"But," he informed me, "we'll have guards on those artifacts all the
time.  That's our only major concern, and you won't have to worry about
it."  He didn't need to say why.  I was an outsider.  No matter how he
felt about guys like me, he trusted his own people more.

"Your job will be to circulate, control disturbances, clear the way for
the paramedics when someone gets hurt, and try to catch petty crooks.

"It won't be enough to keep you awake.  In a normal year, the claims
from this tournament hardly amount to a thousand bucks.

But I don't care about that.  If you don't stay awake, I'll fire your
ass so fast you won't be able to find it for weeks."

I waved my hands again.

"Enough, Bernie.  You already said it.  I'm 'a hard luck rent-a-cop,"
and I need the paycheck."  Looking straight at him, I added, "I don't
expect you to cut me any slack.  If I can't do a job like this, I
should be in some other line of work anyway."

He nodded once, sharply.

"You got that right."  Then he changed gears.

"You're stiff when you move."  He didn't ask why.

"Can you stay on your feet all day?"

I shrugged.

"Try me.  I'm stubborn."

"I'm sure you are."  His glare had a charm all its own.

"But now that we've talked about it, you won't be able to file for
disability when you decide we crippled you."

He was just doing his job, so I didn't get mad.

"I'll expect you here," he announced, "at eight tomorrow.  After that,
I'll comp you a room for the rest of the weekend, spare you driving
back and forth.  You don't get a uniform.  I don't want you identified
as hotel security.  You'll see more if people don't know you work here.
I'll supply everything else."

While he talked, he tilted back to his desk so that he could toss me a
couple of forms to sign.  I glanced at them to make sure I knew what
they were, but I didn't bother reading them.

The main advantage of a complimentary room was that I could avoid Ginny
for a couple of days.

While I scrawled my signature, Bernie added, "You've already done your
snooping, so we'll skip the tour.

"Any questions?"

Ginny would've had questions the kind he meant and if I'd strained my
brain I might've been able to think of an example.  But my interests,
or my instincts, ran in different directions.  Which made us pretty
effective when we were together and made me feel like I only had half
my senses when we weren't.  As far as I was concerned, this job wasn't
about petty theft, and "gooks in pajamas," and security.  It was about
Marshal Viviter and Bernie Appelwait.  And, presumably, Anson
Sternway.

I didn't ask the questions Bernie expected.  Instead I asked him what I
wanted to know.  But I did it obliquely, just in case he felt inclined
to take offense.

"I guess you're prone to liking people too much, but I have to say, you
hide it well."

He glared harder to cover up a wince.

"Women, mostly.  Since my wife died."  He paused, and I thought he was
done.  A moment later, however, he admitted, "But recently I'm having
the same trouble with men.  I see a guy with an honest face, and
suddenly I want us to be friends for life.

"Take my advice, Axbrewder.  Don't get old.  They say it beats being
dead, but I say, don't talk to me until you've tried both."

Sounding more than ever like a wasp, he rasped, "Now shut up and get
out of here.  I have work to do."

On command, I climbed to my feet stiffly and headed for the door.
Bernie Appelwait wasn't going to die of old age.  If someone didn't
feed him a little respect soon, he'd die of emotional starvation.

As I opened the door, he stopped me.  When I turned around, I saw him
leaning toward me with his elbows propped on the desk top, pointing at
me with a finger that couldn't straighten all the way.

"One more thing, Axbrewder.  Leave your iron at home."

Just for a second.  I didn't understand him.  Sounding particularly
intelligent, I said, "Huh?"

"This is a hotel," he explained acidly, "not a bordello.  We don't want
anyone shot.  We don't even want guns going off.  It's bad for
business.  And Watchdog won't cover it.  We'd rather get robbed."

"No problem."  I attempted a smile to cover my confusion.  He must've
noticed the bulge of the .45 under my jacket.

"It's just bluster anyway.  I can't hit anything."

Before he started buzzing around the room again, I closed the door and
left.

Outside The Luxury, heat shimmered on the parking lot, distorting
everything, and the pavement felt vague under my heels.  Without
sunglasses I would've been too blind to find the Subaru.  The way it
slumped between its wheels made me think its tires were melting.  When
I got in, the vinyl of the seat scorched me through my suit.  I didn't
realize how hard I was sweating until drops of water smeared my
glasses.

If this was winter in Garner, I sure as hell didn't want to see
summer.

With the AC straining, I drove back to the apartment.

Along the way, I asked myself what to tell Ginny.  I liked the idea of
just keeping my mouth shut.  After all, she'd pretty much stopped
talking to me.  But I didn't trust that reaction.  Most of our problems
came from not talking to each other.

Manfully I decided to explain everything.  Which included my
conversations with Marshal.  It would do me good to clear the air.  If
I ever managed to grow as old as The Luxury's Chief of Security, I
didn't want to be bitter about it.

But that night there wasn't any air left to clear.  Ginny didn't come
home.

Five.

If I slept that night, I didn't notice it.  My heart suffered while my
brain fumed.  Marshal, I thought, she's with Marshal.  In his bed.
Tasting all that handsomeness She'd had an affair less than a month
ago, hadn't she?  Why not another one now?

Meanwhile my heart insisted that she was in trouble.  Marshal had given
her a dangerous assignment, and I was her partner, but I wasn't there
to back her up.

I didn't know how to endure it.  How had we come to this, when all I'd
ever wanted was to stand beside her?

Sometime after midnight, I called Sam Drayton in Puerta del Sol.

I considered him a friend, even though we'd spent less than a week
together.  He and his wife, Queenie, had been involved in the case that
eventually convinced Ginny to get me out of town.  And Queenie had
nearly died, accidental victim of a cocaine overdose aimed at someone
else.

I had no business calling him.  Of course.  He had his wife to take
care of.  An overdose that massive might've burned out her brain,
leaving a husk where an open and lovely, heart-wrenching woman had once
been.  The last thing he needed was frantic phone calls in the middle
of the night from men who were big enough to fend for themselves.

But he knew things I didn't, and he'd helped me before.

As soon as I heard his voice, I knew I'd gotten him out of bed.

"Sam," I said.

"It's Brew."

Then I seized up.  I had no business doing this to him.  No business
and no right.  Even his silence over the phone seemed to ache for
rest.

But he didn't try to get rid of me.

"Brew."  Recognition sharpened his tone.

"Where are you?  Are you all right?"

He knew I was on the run from el Senor.  He knew why.

I couldn't tell him where I was.  Safer for both of us.  And the sound
of his weariness closed my throat on everything else.  Awkward as a
cripple, I replied, "It doesn't matter."  Desperate inside, and afraid
to show it, I asked, "How's Queenie?"

"Brew."  From somewhere Sam mustered the strength for severity.

"Did you call me at 1:37 A.M. to ask that?"

He was my friend.

"No," I admitted.

"But I want to know."

The memory of the way she'd been hurt felt like Estobal's bullet in my
gut, leaden and cold.

His voice sagged.

"It damaged her.  She's lost seven or eight years of her life.  They're
just gone.  She has no idea how we met, or how long we've been married,
or what she did before " His throat closed, too.  He had to force out
words.

"But at least she remembers me.  And she's recovering well in other
ways.  Balance, mood, reflexes.  She may remember more as she gets
stronger."

Maybe I shouldn't have bothered him in the middle of the night.
Nevertheless he was definitely the right man to call.  The right friend
for me.  He understood

My eyes burned, for Queenie as well as for myself.

"Thanks for telling me," I said, my voice hoarse.

"She's a terrific woman."  I would've prayed for her if I'd thought my
prayers ever did any good.

"She deserves better."

"So ?"  he prompted.

So why did I call?

"Ginny and I are safe," I told him.  Fighting obstructions that crowded
my chest.

"Don't worry about that."

"So ?"  he repeated.  It was still the middle of the night.

Despite his exhaustion, I made him wait while I took a couple of deep
breaths and fought to clear the bullshit out of my way.  Then I said
simply, "She doesn't want me for a partner any I more.

Sam didn't hesitate.

"She said that?  You've been known to do some mind reading when you
think no one will notice."

I was in no condition to recite her exact words.

"She got a job without me.  She told me I'm on my own.  She didn't say
much about what she wants."

Although I could guess He paused to think.  Not long, but long enough
to scare me.  I was afraid he'd ask me why I cared.

Then he said, "Brew, I know this is difficult for you.  But you're
stronger than you realize.  You work hard not to realize it.  If you
admitted the truth, you'd have to take responsibility for yourself.

"I'm not talking about drinking.  I'm talking about not drinking.  You
pin that on Ginny.  You tell yourself you don't drink because you
couldn't survive if you lost her.  But it's your decision, Brew. You're
the one who chooses.  Every day."  He sighed.

"Then you lie to yourself about it.

"I can't make you face the truth.  I wish I could but I'd probably be
dangerous if I had that much influence on people."

Now his tone suggested a smile that I remembered vividly, full of
friendship I hadn't earned.

"Queenie remembers you and Ginny.  We talk about you from time to time.
In the morning I'll tell her you called.

"I'm going back to bed."

When he hung up, he left me with the sensation that I'd come this close
to knowing what he meant.  But the obstacles in my chest had become
storms, and I couldn't go the rest of the way.

I should at least have told him that I still wasn't drinking.

The next morning before I left the apartment, I wrote Ginny half a
dozen notes.  They said things like, "Pack your stuff and get out.  You
can stay with Marshal."  Or, "I'm working at The Luxury this weekend.
Give me a call when you get a chance."  Or just, "Are you all right?"
But I tore them all up.

I probably could've called her.  Or called Professional Investigations
and left voice mail for her.  But I didn't do that either.  Instead of
clutching after her, I went to work.

By 7:45 I was back at the hotel with my suit clean and my sunglasses
polished.  The .45 I left in the Subaru under the driver's seat.  Armed
with nothing except concern and sleep deprivation, I headed across the
parking lot to tackle my new job.

The first job I'd found for myself sort of in more than a decade.
Certainly the first job I'd faced alone.

Ginny was fucking Marshal right now.

She was in trouble she needed me.

Sam's advice seemed impossibly far away, like a voice you hear in
dreams.

The lobby was already busy.  Men, women, and kids dressed in warmup
suits or martial uniforms clustered around each other, obviously
waiting for the convention hall to open.  Various parents and
instructors kept tabs on the kids as best they could.  A number of the
competitors carried what I assumed were weapons in cloth or canvas
cases like ski totes, and everyone seemed to have a gear bag.  But I
wasn't on duty yet, so I ignored the details.  Instead I trudged across
the lobby to Bernie's office.

I found him there, apparently handing out duty assignments to half a
dozen men in hotel Security blazers with badges pinned to their breast
pockets.  Practicing my manners, I withdrew and started to close the
door, but he gestured me into the office with a vehement flap of his
hand.

As soon as I'd complied and shut the door, he announced, "Men, this is
Axbrewder.  Watchdog insisted on extra security, so he'll be working
the tournament with us."

By way of introduction, he listed a handful of names I didn't try to
remember.  His guards nodded at me like I was none of their business.
Or maybe they were just bored.  Hotel security wasn't usually what I
would've called stimulating work.

"I want you to know him by sight," Bernie went on, "because he won't
have ID.  He's undercover" he snorted the words "so the rest of us can
concentrate on staring at antique artifacts.

"Just for variety, we'll use channel seven."  Dutifully the guards
undipped walkie-talkies from their belts and clicked the dials.

"Max will be on the monitors as usual, since he seems to be the only
one who can sit there and stay awake.  Coordinate with him.  I want two
of you on that display at all times, and two more nearby."

His men nodded again.  They'd all done work like this before.

"And remember," Bernie added, "nobody goes off duty until the night
shift is in place.  Watchdog won't cover us unless we have a full crew.
Plus Axbrewder.

"Let's go."  He slapped his hands together.

"Sternway wants to open the doors as soon as those gooks deliver their
display."

Murmuring to each other, his crew left the office.

While they filtered out, he handed me up a cell phone.

"You don't get a radio.  If anyone sees it your cover is blown, but
every hotshot here already has cellular.  Just hit 'send' if you need
something.  It's set to dial straight in to Max.  He can patch you to
me."  He indicated a small receiver in his left ear.

"Or get the paramedics.  Or the cops.

"Just be discreet about it."

"No problem."  Hiding the way my hand shook, I slipped the phone into a
pocket.

"But if I have to call from the men's room, you can't hold me
responsible for the background noise."

Glaring, Bernie stifled a grin.

"Just don't puke on the air.  Max has a sensitive stomach.

"Come on."  He pointed me at the door.

"Sternway wants to meet you.  Since he's paying half your wages, he'd
like to know what he's getting."

I didn't waste any more time on jokes.  They were for my benefit
anyway, not Bernie's an attempt to defuse my anxieties.  I'd lost
something a hell of a lot more critical than a hand.  I hardly knew who
I was anymore.

If Ginny were here, I could've done this job in my sleep.

Nevertheless I wanted to do it right.  As soon as Bernie joined me in
the hall, I asked, "Who's delivering these 'artifacts'?"

"They belong to a local karate school, Essential Shotokan," he
explained as we walked.

"Or to their 'sensei," a gook named Na-kahatchi.  That's something I
don't even try to understand.  Na-kahatchi's a Jap, but the display is
supposed to be Chinese.  Has something to do with martial arts
history."  He grunted under his breath.

"Essential Shotokan is responsible for it until it gets here.  They'll
probably have a damn parade when they deliver it."

We strode briskly across the crowded lobby.

"The problems you've had at past tournaments," I asked while I had the
chance, "were they random, or did they look organized?"

He stung me with another glare.  That may've been his way of smiling.

"Stop trying to impress me.  If I knew the answer, I would've mentioned
it already.  Hell, if I knew somebody was running a team through here,
I would've pulled in the cops.

"But I've always suspected " Abruptly he paused, turned a frown on the
ceiling.

"If you want to know my personal reason for letting Watchdog pressure
me into hiring you, that's it."  Then he jerked into motion again.

"Maybe I'm getting paranoid.  The punks we've caught in the past act
like kids looking for thrills."

Which meant nothing.  A decent team wouldn't have much trouble avoiding
guards as obvious as hotel security.

In the direction of the tournament, the crowd thickened.  Competitors
and spectators wanted into the hall.  Bernie had to slow down, pick his
way.  I followed as unobtrusively as I could, and after a bit of squirm
ins I reached the nearest doors a couple of steps behind him.  He held
a door open for me, then let it close when I was inside.

"Don't worry," he muttered, although I hadn't said anything.

"Your cover's safe.  The gooks'll think you're one of the
dignitaries."

Nodding, I took a quick moment to look around.  Since my previous
visit, someone had hung a huge satin banner above the long table at the
head of the hall.  Orange letters on a black background said simply:

International Association of Martial Artists.

By the door, a large poster listed the day's events and starting times.
Some of the terms were obvious "masters,"

"junior division,"

"black belt."  Others kata, kumite, katame, kobudo didn't convey a
thing.

Arrayed in front of the head table were maybe a hundred trophies,
ranked by size.  A hundred, for God's sake.  That was way too much
self-congratulation to suit me.  They all sported a black wooden frame
like a formal oriental arch on a pedestal, with a gold figure under the
arch doing an impossible kick.  The small ones looked to be about two
feet tall.  The big ones, eight or ten of them, were practically my
height.

At the back of the hall a registration table had been set up, but at
the moment no one attended it.

The air felt almost frigid.  The Luxury had cranked up the
air-conditioning so that the hall wouldn't get too warm later.

At least twenty people had gathered ahead of us, clustered in front of
the head table two guards, ten or so men and women in business suits,
plus nearly that many more, all men, wearing formal versions of the
martial uniforms I'd seen in the lobby.  Now I understood why Bernie
called them "gooks in pajamas."  Less than half of them were Asian, but
they all could've been dressed for bed.  Some of the outfits were
bright silk pants and shirts with wooden buttons.  The rest were
wrap-around white canvas.  However, the wraparounds wore black belts
that had been knotted and re-knotted until they'd started to fray
white.  The silk suits had bright sashes in contrasting colors.

Privately I inclined toward sneering at them.  These people had
dedicated themselves to something that didn't seem real.  What the hell
was a "martial art" anyway?  If they considered violence an art, they
were all crazy.  And if they'd turned it into a sport, it was just a
game.  Sports followed rules.  Violence didn't.

Roughly half the business suits sported lightweight audio headsets.
Presumably they'd supervise the tournament.  As Bernie led me closer, I
saw that most of the suits and a majority of the canvas wraparounds
wore identifying patches, either over their hearts or on their left
shoulders.  The patches had the yin-yang symbol picked out in orange on
black, with the letters IAMA below it.  I guess the silk pajamas didn't
want needle holes in the fabric.

One of the suits appeared to be holding court for his assembled
vassals.  He was Marshal's height, but leaner, and maybe ten years
older, judging by the lines of authority on his face and the
distinguished mix of grey in his black hair.  He seemed perfectly
relaxed he didn't even use his hands while he talked.  But something
about his carriage reminded me of C-4, passive and malleable until you
stuck in a detonator.  His pale eyes moved constantly, but without
urgency, as if he searched for something that he didn't need to find in
a hurry.

Once I'd noticed his resemblance to an explosive, I caught hints of the
same thing around him.  A fair number of the suits and pajamas stood
with a kind of concussive ease, as if behind their calm they were
already in motion.  Apparently my preconceptions needed adjustment.
Joke or not, these men and women took the martial arts seriously enough
to spend years training.

Outside this hall, in the world I understood, no one except a predator
stood like that.

Despite the arctic conditions, a trickle of sweat slid down the small
of my back.  Explosives made me nervous.  Filling my lungs, I took
another crack at relaxation.

The man holding court acknowledged Bernie with a nod as we
approached.

"Mr.  Appelwait.  Glad you could join us.  We're ready.  As soon as
Nakahatchi sensei arrives, we can get started."

His voice was flat, studiously devoid of inflection, implying nothing.
But the angle of his gaze suggested scorn.

Bernie cleared his throat.

"We're ready, too, Mr.  Sternway."  Making an effort to be polite in
his own way.  Then he added, "You wanted to meet the private
investigator I hired."

"Yes, certainly," Sternway responded.

"We should all meet him.  We want to avoid confusion if any problems
develop."

He'd hardly said six sentences, but already his lack of expression
bothered me.  I wanted to poke him in the ribs, just to get a reaction.
I didn't like the sensation that he sneered at me simply because I
couldn't stand the way he did.

"Good idea."  Brusquely, Bernie introduced me.

Sternway and I shook hands.  His grip was firm and dry and oddly
threatening, like a fist full of blasting caps.  The easy balanced way
he reached out and then withdrew made me feel like I'd been put
together out of Tinker Toys.

Bernie's voice sharpened sardonically as he went on, "This is Mr.
Postal.  From Watchdog Insurance.  And Ms.  Messenger."

Two of the business suits not wearing IAMA patches stepped forward, and
the man took my hand.  He was short and baby-faced, with the kind of
muscles you get when you over-compensate in the gym for the fact that
you have to look up at everyone.

"Sammy Posten, Mr.  Axbrewder."  He had a twerp's voice, no question
about it, but until he pronounced his name Posten I didn't realize that
Bernie had been mocking him.

"Watchdog Senior Security Adviser.  I hope you're as good as Marshal
Viviter says you are.  There's a lot at stake here."

I wanted to tell him that Viviter had a wild imagination, but I didn't
get the chance.

"Or there will be," the woman at his shoulder put in, "when the chops
arrive."  Without apparent effort, she displaced him to commandeer my
hand.

"I'm Deborah Messenger, Mr.  Axbrewder."

An isolated part of my brain wondered, Chops?  but I ignored it.  The
radiance of her smile evaporated every other thought in my head.

If I'd only seen her picture, I wouldn't have called her beautiful or
even pretty.  But in person none of that mattered.  The lines of her
sleek black suit, particularly the plunge at her neck and the brevity
of her skirt, called attention to the way her body swelled and dwindled
in all the right places.  And above that her face seemed positively
luminescent, with gleaming lips, soft cheeks, auburn hair, and lustrous
brown eyes.

Suddenly I didn't feel tired anymore.

Scrambling for any excuse to keep her hand, I asked thickly, "If he's
Senior Security Adviser, does that make you Junior?"

She laughed in a low voice, just for me.

"No.  It makes me a Security Associate."

Her smile resembled a grin of conquest.

Reluctantly I opened my fingers, let her touch trail away.

"And just how much is at stake?"

"We aren't sure," she answered, still privately.

"Mr.  Nakahat-chi insured the chops for two hundred thousand dollars,
but that's low.  The real value may be quite a bit more.  This
situation came up too suddenly for an adequate appraisal."

In a sports town like Garner, experts on Chinese antiques were probably
rare.  Still, two hundred thousand bucks sounded like real money to me.
Real enough to explain Watchdog's anxiety, anyway.

Slowly normal activity wandered back into my head.

Just in time.  Sternway didn't seem to be in the mood for digressions.
He took charge again.

"Mr.  Viviter did recommend you, however, Mr.  Axbrewder.  And you've
satisfied Mr.  Appelwait.  Let's continue."

Still in no rush, he introduced me to three business suits with
headsets Parker Neill, Tournament Coordinator, Sue Rasmus-sen, Master
of Ceremonies, Ned Gage, Director of Referees and a handful of pajamas
with impenetrable names like Hideo Ko-ma tori Sifu Hong Fei-Tung,
Master Song Duk Soon, and Sake Bob Gravel.  Apparently "sifu" and
"soke" were titles, like "master" and "sensei."  Some of them bowed,
others shook my hand, but none of them took any real notice of me.  I
guess I didn't look dangerous enough.

Where was Ginny when I needed her?

Next Sternway turned to other matters, pulling his court around him.
Sammy Posten joined them, although the courtiers ignored him.  Deborah
Messenger lingered near Bernie and me.

Just having her close made my back teeth hurt, and my palms itched like
they were starting to grow fur.  But I was supposed to be working, so I
tried to stifle my hormones.  Instead of drooling on her jacket, I
asked Bernie, "What're 'chops'?"

Before he could reply, his walkie-talkie chirped.  He took it off his
belt, listened, said.

"We're on our way."  and put it back.

"That's what they call the artifacts," he growled under his breath.

"Ridiculous name."  Then he headed for Sternway's court.

"Mr.  Sternway, Mr.  Nakahatchi is out in the parking lot."

"Good."  Sternway looked at his Tournament Coordinator.

"We'll open the doors as soon as the display and security are in
place."  A small gesture of one hand broke up his meeting.

As if on cue, all the suits except Posten and Bernie's men turned to
the head table, along with most of the pajamas.  Only Hideo Komatori
and Sifu Hong Fei-Tung one canvas, one silk joined Sternway's entourage
as he drew Bernie with him toward the lobby.

I tagged along, partly because I was pretending to be a dignitary, but
mostly because Deborah Messenger did the same.

"A chop," she told me, "is like a small block print."  She had a gift
for talking to me as if no one else existed.

"You ink one side and press it to a piece of paper to print something,
usually an Oriental character an ideogram or kanji.  These are carved
out of ivory.  Instead of traditional characters, they print" she
shrugged delicately "pictures of martial arts.

"I don't know much about Chinese antiques," she finished, "but the
workmanship is exquisite."

I would've asked her more questions, just to keep her talking, but by
then we'd reached the doors, and the crowds outside made conversation
impossible.

With Bernie clearing the way, Sternway led us through the lobby to The
Luxury's formal entrance.  Under the portico, we were awaited by a
shambling old Dodge station wagon surrounded by white canvas pajamas.

At first glance, I had no idea which one of them might be Nakahatchi
sensei.  They were all men, they all wore black belts, and half of them
were Asian.  But then Hideo Komatori cleared up the matter by
approaching an older man whose belt had been worn almost to tatters and
bowing deeply.  At once, everyone else bowed back, and the older man
murmured, "Hideo-sem."

Next Nakahatchi and Sternway bowed to each other.  After that, the rest
of Nakahatchi's people started unloading a long display case from the
Dodge while Bernie positioned his guards and Posten bustled around
getting in everyone's way.

Deborah Messenger consulted briefly with Bernie, nodded approval at
what he told her, and stetmed back to reioin me.

As the case came into sight, Sifu Hong Fei-Tung made a small hissing
noise like a curse.

I studied him as unobtrusively as I could.  Apparently he was Chinese
unlike Hideo Komatori and Nakahatchi.  And Bernie had already suggested
that displaying these chops publicly might have undercurrents I
couldn't evaluate.  Still, the intensity of the Sifu's reaction
surprised me.

His face and eyes and nose, even his mouth, seemed flat, like he ironed
them every morning unmarked by age or pain, although grey spattered his
eyebrows and brush-cut hair.  And he didn't move a muscle. Nevertheless
I could see anger steaming off his whole body.  Inside his silk, he
remained quiet, untouched.  Yet his anger radiated enough heat to fry
bacon.

Sternway must've heard him, too.  The IAMA director turned a look like
a warning on Hong Fei-Tung, threatening as a fuse.  His eerie
relaxation matched the Sifu's.  If anyone lit a match, they were both
going to go off.

Nakahatchi gazed into the distance placidly, apparently unaware of his
surroundings.

The Sifu didn't back down.  In a viscous acidic tone, he pronounced
softly, "Forgeries.  The true chops are lost."

At that, Nakahatchi's students clenched like they'd been stung.  Their
sensei may've been oblivious, but they weren't.  Without warning, their
indignation crowded the portico.

Nakahatchi wasn't oblivious, however.  Still placidly, he intervened by
turning to Hong Fei-Tung.  With his eyes lowered humbly, he gave the
Sifu a deep bow.

He might've been forty-five or fifty, short and compact, with sparse
hair and a hint of dullness like fatigue or premature aging in his
eyes.  His features had more definition than Hong's, but they remained
distinctly Asian.  The only lines in his face were two deep seams on
either side of his mouth that looked like trenches in a battlefield,
cut to carry out an old war.

"Forgive my presumption, Sifu Hong."  His voice was more guttural than
Hong's.  If he hadn't spoken mildly, the contrast would've made him
sound crude, almost brutish.

"I cannot aspire to your understanding of these matters.  To us the
chops are precious, and we revere the wisdom they contain.  They have
been entrusted to my care.  It is my wish to share them as openly as I
may.  without dishonoring them or my responsibility for them."

Hong Fei-Tung snorted disdainfully.

"They belong to China.  They are dishonored in Japanese hands."

That was an insult.  It must've been even I felt it.  Ominously the
students set their case down and gathered in a clench around their
sensei.  But Nakahatchi didn't rise to the offense.

"That," he answered quietly, "is a matter which I must respectfully
defer to my masters."

"Sifu Hong," Sternway put in, "we've had these discussions before. They
can't be resolved here.  Nakahatchi sensei wishes to share the chops in
a spirit of martial brotherhood.  For the present, that's enough."

When Hong moved, I shifted toward him.  If he wanted to start a fight,
I meant to stop him.

For the moment, at least, I'd forgotten all about the pain in my
stomach.

But Sifu Hong surprised me by aiming an elaborate bow into the air
between Sternway and Nakahatchi a flourish that seemed to involve a
couple of steps and several complex arm movements.

"Sternway sensei."  His tone hadn't changed.

"Nakahatchi sensei.  I mean no personal disrespect.  These questions
will be considered at another time."

No personal disrespect, my ass.  If Hong had been any angrier, he
would've spit in both their faces.

Nevertheless Sternway and Nakahatchi bowed back like completing an
arcane ritual.  Giving each other "face," maybe.  By degrees
Nakahatchi's people relaxed.  Talking softly, they went back to their
case.

Bernie must've seen me move.  He met my gaze and nodded.  Apparently he
approved.

Sammy Posten looked around in confusion, palpably clueless.  Smiling,
Deborah Messenger moved away to exchange a few words with Nakahatchi
compliments, I assumed.  r Then the case slid the rest of the way out
of the Dodge, and I I got my first glimpse of the chops.

|; I couldn't see what the fuss was about.  The case was polished black
mahogany with a glass lid, and shaped like a coffin for some odd
reason, but larger, maybe five feet by eight.  It must've held a
hundred or more chops yellowed blocks of ivory nestled in precise rows
on a cushion of screaming scarlet brocade.  Each one was about as thick
as my two thumbs, and intricately carved, but still they conveyed
nothing to me.  I would've had an easier time placing a value on the
elephants that supplied the ivory.

While Nakahatchi's people shouldered the case, Deborah joined me again.
Before her smile could send me back into shock, I asked in a whisper,
"What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm not entirely sure," she admitted.  Then she explained, "The
question of what they're worth isn't simple.  Even a forgery that good
could be precious, for the craftsmanship alone.  But unfortunately the
issue here is more than just the difference between, say, a
nineteenth-century knock-off and an eighteenth-century original.  The
content, the information carved on the chops, also matters.  I'm told
that the originals reveal something important about the martial arts.
Something with authority.  If the chops are forgeries, the information
isn't authentic.

"In theory a forgery could have been made anywhere, at any time and
belong to anyone.  But if the chops are originals, they're a Chinese
national treasure."

That didn't quite answer my question.  I persisted.

"But if they're fake, what does it matter who owns them?  Why is Hong
in such a snit?"

She shrugged.

"Who knows?"  I loved watching her shrug.

"You'll have to ask Mr.  Sternway.  I don't understand the politics
involved."

At last the case was ready to move.  Solemn as a cortege, with Sternway
and Nakahatchi in the lead, hotel security on both sides, and Bernie
bringing up the rear, the display climbed the portico steps.  As the
lobby doors slid aside, a gust of colder air welcomed the procession
into The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center.

Sternway put his hand on my arm and pulled me to his side for a moment.
The instant he touched me, my guts remembered the path of Estobal's
slug, and I wanted to break Sternway's fingers.  But Marshal had
advised me to be polite, so I didn't slap the hand away.  Instead I
matched Sternway's stride.

He didn't glance at me.

"If those two decide to go at each other," he warned softly, "don't get
in the way.  They'll eat you alive."

Oh, really?  Two short middle-aged guys in pajamas didn't exactly
terrify me.  But it probably would've been rude to say so.  Obliquely,
I remarked, "I've survived worse."

He flicked me with a look that said, No, you haven't, then let me go.

I was starting to enjoy all this respect.  If the situation didn't
improve soon, I might tell Marshal to go to hell.  Resume my normal
charming demeanor.  Fuck the job.

Right, I snarled back.  And then what?

For maybe the third time already, I wasted a breath ordering myself to
relax.

Together, Sternway and Nakahatchi parted the crowd like Moses.
Apparently everyone except me took them seriously.  The waters closed
behind us, cutting off my retreat, but at least we didn't have any
trouble reaching the tournament hall.

Once we were inside, the cortege headed along the bleachers toward the
roped-off area at the near side of the dais.  I detached myself from
the procession to take another look around and think.  There were
questions I wanted to ask everyone in sight, but they'd have to wait. I
wasn't directly responsible for the security of the chops.  This job I
needed so badly had different requirements.

In the middle of the holding area, Nakahatchi's people stopped,
unfolded legs from the display case, and set it down neatly in the
exact center of the space.  Sternway and Hideo Komatori exchanged a few
words with Bernie while the Watchdog advisers listened.  Then they all
moved outside the ropes, and Bernie put his guards in position.

The other pajamas, including Sifu Hong, had spaced themselves out
around the hall, presumably setting up stations for their various
schools.  At the head table, Sue Rasmussen, the Master of Ceremonies,
stood deep in consultation with the Director of Referees, Ned Gage. But
Parker Neill, Tournament Coordinator, seemed to be doing the same thing
I was taking a last look around before the confusion started.  I
wandered over to join him.

He was slightly plump, with fleshy cheeks, a nose that couldn't decide
on its own shape, hangdog eyebrows, and an unnatural sheen to his dark
hair that suggested dye or sweat.  His shoulders sagged.  If I hadn't
become so sensitive on the subject, I might not have noticed the
trained ease hidden behind his blazer and his IAMA patch.

He gave me an absent-minded nod, his attention elsewhere.

"Axbrewder."  Something that resembled boredom tarnished his gaze.

Since I couldn't look relaxed, I took a stab at affability.

"Call me Brew, Mr.  Neill.  Axbrewder sounds like a medication.
Something they give you for gas."

He smiled distantly.

"OK, Brew.  I'm Parker.  Us functionaries don't stand on ceremony
here."

The implication being, of course, that under other circumstances he
would've expected more formality.

I plunged in before he could wander away.

"Parker, I've never been to one of these before.  I don't really know
what to expect."

"Oh, it's pretty simple" he could answer without thinking about it
"once you get used to the noise, and the crowding, and the people who
block the aisles.  The audience is supposed to stay on the bleachers,
but we'll spend the whole weekend asking them to leave the tournament
floor.

"Events are held in the rings.  For kata and kobudo, the judges sit in
those chairs."  He gestured at the folding chairs at the edge of each
ring.

"There are score-keepers.  Time-keepers and referees for kumite and
katame.  Sue announces the events and the winners from the head table.
For the lesser events, we award the trophies right away.  The rest we
give out Sunday night.

"That area" he pointed at the roped-off space opposite Essential
Shotokan's display "is like an 'on-deck circle."  Competitors go there
before their events to get instructions, have their gear inspected, and
do last-minute warmups."

He smiled humorlessly.

"We always run late.  But it all gets done eventually."

There were probably fifty questions I could've asked while I had the
chance.  But I wanted to understand the answers, so I kept it
practical.

"Where do the competitors warm up when it isn't the last minute?"

Still on auto-pilot, Neill told me, "They're supposed to find space
outside the aisles.  Some go out to the lobby which the hotel doesn't
like.  And a fair number use the corridor outside."

He nodded at the service doors.

"Usually they don't get lost."

That would complicate security, but it wasn't my job to say so.  Bernie
and The Luxury presumably had an understanding with the IAMA.

Just to keep Parker talking while I thought, I commented, "You must
need a hell of a lot of judges.  Where do you get them?"

Maybe all his smiles were humorless.

"That's the price black belts pay for their rank."  Or maybe he really
was bored, despite his responsibilities.

"If they want to compete, or watch their students compete, we expect
them to do it.  But even they aren't enough.  For the kids' events, we
use brown belts when we have to."

At least they didn't dragoon spectators.  That was a comfort.

"I guess you've done this before," I offered, hoping to touch something
a bit more personal.  But he just nodded.  The marginal attention he'd
allowed me began to drift away.  It seemed that no one here could think
of a reason to take me seriously.

I made one more attempt.

"Forgive my ignorance.  I don't mean to sound rude.  But I can't help
wondering what makes Mr.  Sternway so important?  Where does he stand
in the martial arts world?"

What did he have that made him a match for Nakahatchi and Hong?

Parker Neill turned to look at me.

"Depends on how you approach it," he explained without much interest.

"The IAMA was his idea.  A resource for individual schools and
karate-ka.  It provides access to insurance, advice, advertising,
tournaments, seminars.  He started it, and he runs it.

"But it wouldn't work if he couldn't command respect.  There are
hundreds of styles and thousands of schools, and they tend to be pretty
self-involved.  They're 'true believers," they all think they own a
truth no one else understands.  If an ordinary businessman tried to
launch an organization like the IAMA, he'd be laughed out of town."

Parker's attention wandered again, but he kept on talking.

"Sternway sensei is an eighth-dan in Shorin-Ryu.  They don't go any
higher than tenth.  In fact, he's my sensei.  And Sue's."  He nodded
toward the Director of Referees at the head table.

"An-son Sternway Shorin-Ryu Bushido is one of the biggest schools in

Garner.  He proved himself all around the martial arts world for a
couple of decades before starting the IAMA.  And he's friends with
people like Bill Wallace and Fumio Demura.

"The IAMA couldn't exist if Sternway sensei weren't so highly
regarded."

I got the picture.  I couldn't help noticing, however, that Parker
sounded just as bored talking about his sensei as he did explaining the
tournament.  Sternway may've been the god of Shorin-Ryu whatever that
was but he didn't inspire enthusiasm in his Tournament Coordinator.

Maybe, I thought sourly, Parker had been worn down by Stern-way's air
of superiority.

Some of the IAMA blazers now moved toward the doors.  Presumably they
were about to let the hordes in.  Neill had work to do, so I let him
go.

As far as I knew, Alex Lacone wasn't here.

He was my only hope for another job after this weekend.

Six.

The minute the doors opened, noise poured into the hall.  Men, women,
and children in pajamas and warmup suits, all jabbering at once, mobbed
the IAMA blazers at the registration table while the first influx of
spectators tried to choose seats without knowing where the events they
were interested in would be held.  Before I could decide on a vantage
point, the whole space had begun to rumble with tension, expectancy,
hopes, stifled fears.  The ceiling seemed to settle a few inches,
clamping down like the lid of a pressure cooker.

As far as I could tell, no one paid any attention to the display of
martial arts antiques.

For the moment, at least, I didn't have anything particular to do.  The
hall was too self-absorbed to need protection.  Even a thief whacked
out on crack or angel dust would probably know better than to start
poking around until people settled into the tournament and got
careless.  Assuming Bernie's men would even let someone enter in that
condition.

So I concentrated on trying to acclimatize myself.  Tune my nerves to
the pitch of the noise and the press of the crowd, the clamor of
hormones and anticipation.  The more familiar I became with it all, the
better my chances of spotting trouble.

In my present frame of mind, I had a long way to go.  Ginny's absence
ached in me like the loss of a limb.

Virtuously practicing my ability to pick details out of the human
in-rush, I scanned the hall until I spotted Watchdog's Security
Associate, Deborah Messenger.  She was talking with Sammy Posten across
the rings from me, near the head table and the display although from
this distance it looked like he did all the talking, gesturing
erratically while he worked himself into a lather over something or
other.  She listened the way you listen to your commanding officer when
you know he's crazy and you plan to disregard his orders as soon as he
turns his back.

I let my interest carry me casually in her direction.  Along the way, I
did my level best to look like a dignitary.

At the doors, the in-rush had slowed.  Apparently the crowd wouldn't
reach Big Bang proportions for a while yet.  The bleachers were less
than a third full.

Sternway, Sue Rasmussen, Ned Gage, and Parker stood together at the
head table, consulting over long sheets of paper.  Near them, another
blazer presumably a record-keeper of some kind sat in front of a
laptop.  A couple of pajamas in black belts were already "on deck,"
warming up with punches that wouldn't have stopped an angry preschooler
and kicks I could've done myself if both my legs had been ripped out of
their sockets first.  Around the walls, less ostentatious contestants
"karate-fea"?  changed their clothes and stretched.

I thought I might cross in front of the dais toward Deborah Messenger.
But before I got that far, the cluster at the table broke up, leaving
Rasmussen alone with one of the microphones.  She didn't look like she
was about to use it, however, so I deflected myself in her direction.
Presuming on my exalted status, I ascended to the head table.  I still
needed a lot of general information.

The Master of Ceremonies was a short blonde with flouncing hair and a
scrubbed and open cheerleader's face.  Her confident demeanor suggested
that she could chat happily with total strangers during a nuclear
holocaust.  Nevertheless something about her conveyed the sense that
she'd disappeared into her blazer that Sue Rasmussen in other clothes
would be a different person entirely.

She smiled like a flashbulb as I strolled toward her, but I didn't take
it personally.

"Time to start, Ms.  Rasmussen?"  I asked.  Just breaking the ice.  The
dais was the perfect vantage point.  I could watch the events as well
as the crowd.  Once I adjusted to the tournament's rhythms, the
particular ebb and flow of its manufactured tensions, I could spot
disturbances from here better than anywhere else.

Being a dignitary had its advantages.

Sue Rasmussen shook her head.

"Not yet.  Registration is still hard at work.  I won't go on duty for
another ten or fifteen minutes."

I took that as permission to ask her questions.  Gesturing out at the
hall, I inquired, "This is as busy as it gets?"

Widening her eyes, she pretended to be shocked.

"No way."  Then she lowered her voice.

"We don't usually admit it, but we schedule the less popular events on
Friday.  Too many people aren't free until the weekend.  So we do kids
and color belts, since their parents and instructors are the only ones
who pay attention anyway.  And all the katame, which " "

"Katame'?"  I interrupted.

"Grappling," she explained easily.

"Some of the best techniques in the world are joint locks and throws,
but even at their best they're hard to see from the stands.

"Of course" she laughed politely, her hair bouncing "if we didn't have
any crowd-pleasers today, no one would come.  At least not until the
Bill Wallace demonstration this evening.  And we need judges.  So we'll
do most of the team kumite sorry, sparring this afternoon, and finish
the color belts before we start the brown belts tomorrow morning.

"Still," she admitted, "the real crowds won't be here until Saturday
and Sunday.  That's when we'll hold the black belt events.  And the
Masters'."

I nodded like I understood.

"So team sparring is popular."  Why wasn't I surprised?  Garner seemed
to have a bottomless appetite for watching people in pads thump each
other.

"What else?"

"Well, the demonstrations, naturally."  As she went on, she sounded
more and more like a cheerleader.  Maybe she got off on wearing that
blazer.

"Bill Wallace is famous.  They call him "Superfoot' you'll see why.
Benny Urquidez could probably out point a tiger.  And Demura sensei
trains his students beautifully.

"Then there's individual sparring.  Black belt kata I mean forms.  And
the Masters' divisions.  Don't miss them, they're really impressive.
Kata and kobudo, weapons.  And then the finals, the grand
championships.  You won't see kata and kumite like that anywhere else.
Sunday night this place is going to rock."

That sounded like my cue to burst into applause, but I didn't.  Instead
I remarked, "I wonder why.  What's it all for?"  All this sanitized
violence?

"Why do you do it?"

I guess my cynicism showed.  Her manner stiffened.

"Don't dismiss it until you've seen it, Mr.  " Her voice trailed off.
She'd obviously forgotten my name.

"Axbrewder," I supplied.

"Mr.  Axbrewder."  The cheerleader was gone.  Now she sounded like an
indignant schoolmarm.

"This is part of any martial artist's education.  We'll see an
extraordinary display of knowledge and expertise.  And competing here
brings people as close as possible to testing themselves in real life.
We keep it safe, Mr.  Axbrewder, but we put on as much pressure as we
can.  If martial artists don't know how they react to stress, they
can't learn to deal with it."

She was actually better looking when she got pissed off.  If she tried
to deck me, she might be downright beautiful.

I kept at her.

"You make it sound like altruism, Ms.  Rasmus-sen.  Surely that's not
all the IAMA is interested in?"

The blazer at the laptop flicked a quick glare at me like I'd insulted
his mother.  Then he turned back to his LCD.

Rasmussen's tone froze.

"No, of course not."  Apparently she'd just written me off her
Christmas list.

"We're also here to promote the martial arts in general, and the IAMA
in particular.

"But," she insisted, "this isn't about money."  She said the word like
it tasted bad.

"Everyone who works here is a volunteer.  And I assure you, we wouldn't
do it if it weren't worth doing for its own sake.  The martial arts are
good for people, Mr.  Axbrewder.  If we want to share the benefits, we
have to grow."

"Excuse me."  Dismissing me, she turned back to her paperwork and the
microphone.

"We'll be starting soon.  I need to get ready."

Some days I could take a hint.

"Thanks for your time."  I bowed insincerely.

"You've been very helpful."  Then I crossed the dais and stepped down
to the main floor.

Under other circumstances, I might've asked her, Good for people?  What
the hell's that supposed to mean?  But at the moment I was more curious
about why she sounded defensive when she mentioned money.

Unfortunately I'd spent too much time talking to her.  While I was on
the dais, the Watchdog people had disappeared.  I couldn't believe that
Posten didn't plan to attend the tournament.  If I was right about him,
he'd want to defend the chops with his personal vigilance.  But maybe a
Security Associate's job didn't involve standing around for days while
nothing happened.  Maybe I wouldn't see Deborah Messenger again.

Well, drat.  She'd caught my interest in ways that I hadn't felt for a
long time.

But there was nothing I could do about it, so I decided to look for
Bernie.  I wanted to know what he'd say if I spent most of my time up
on the dais, acting exalted.  And I could always think of more
questions for him.

I was near Nakahatchi's chops.  Hotel Security had started letting a
few people into the display area for a closer look.  They all wore
pajamas apparently the competitors took the antiques more seriously
than the spectators did.  Before I moved away, I heard a man in a white
canvas suit and brown belt sneer at the case, "Big deal.  It's still
just Wing Chun."

"What's wrong with Wing Chun?"  a woman in silk countered sharply.  I
couldn't tell what the color of her sash meant.

"Kung fu," the canvas snorted.

"Soft styles.  They're for girls.  You can't really use them."

Soft?  I wondered.  As opposed to what?  Hard?

The woman didn't back down.

"Says you."

The man gave her a nasty grin.

"Says the IAMA.  Why else do the soft styles have their own divisions?
You wimps don't even compete with the rest of us in kata."  The woman
tried to interrupt, but he kept going.

"Except in the finals.  And the soft stylists always lose."

Getting mad, the woman retorted, "That's because the judges don't know
shit about it.  It's so unfair."

She had more to say, but I walked off anyway.  Parker Neill had already
warned me about true believers.

Against the wall past the edge of the stands, a small group of pajamas
crouched in postures that made them look like models for a non
representational sculpture.  Other competitors, most of them pretty
young, threw out punches and kicks.  Some of them squatted or jumped
while they struck.

Involuntarily I rolled my eyes.  I suppose it made sense that kids and
teenagers did this stuff.  Hand-eye coordination, aerobics, the
discipline of a specific skill.  But surely grown-ups had better uses
for their time?

Without warning I heard a burst of static as Sue Rasmussen turned on
her microphone.  When the noise in the hall subsided, she started to
talk.

I expected a conventional master-of-ceremonies spiel, so when she
proclaimed, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the IAMA World
Championships," I tuned her out to concentrate on locating Bernie.

But I shouldn't have.  Suddenly the audience and everyone else stood to
attention.  When I looked where they faced, I saw Anson Sternway alone
in the middle of the tournament floor.  In a loud voice, Ms Rasmussen
announced something that sounded quaintly like, "Hay sucker dock-cheat,
ray," and the whole crowd with the exception of Bernie and his guards
bowed to the IAMA director.

Holding his fists at his sides, Sternway bowed back.

The next thing I knew, the tournament was underway and I was feeling
foolish.  If everyone here thought that Sternway deserved a bow, I
should've joined in.  Acting like a dignitary was part of my job, and
I'd already fluffed it.

At least now I knew where to find Bernie.  While competitors and judges
scurried to answer Rasmussen's preliminary instructions, I filtered in
my boss' direction.

He stood like he was asleep at one of the closed doors.  Until I
reached him, I wasn't sure he had his eyes open.  Since no one paid any
attention to us, I figured I didn't risk my cover by talking to him,
but I kept my voice low anyway.

"You and Parker Neill should get together.  You have something in
common."

"What's that?"

"You're both bored out of your skulls."

Turning his head, Bernie gave me one of his amused glares.

"And you aren't?"

"I would be," I said piously, "if I didn't want to earn my paycheck."

Briefly I described the advantages of watching for trouble from the
head table.  He accepted the idea without much interest.

"You dignitaries have all the luck," he muttered.

"The rest of us get to stand around the walls for the next three
days."

"That's why they pay you the big bucks," I told him.  Then I

changed the subject.

"I'm still trying to make sense out of all this.  I don't understand
the people who run it."

I also didn't understand why Nakahatchi wanted to show off his revered
chops here.  Was he serious about sharing them?  Or was he just trying
to rub Hong's nose in them?  Was this whole world that petty?  But I
didn't expect Bernie to know the answer.

As if the reasons for my question were simple, I asked, "What can you
tell me about Anson Sternway?"

I hadn't forgotten Marshal's instructions.  And Sternway had already
pissed me off.

"Nothing."  Bernie's jaw snapped shut on the word.

"Really?"  I let my surprise show.

"I thought you've been dealing with him for years."

"I have."  He was all the way mad now, not just faking it on general
principles.

"But I work for The Luxury.  I don't discuss people who do business
with my employer."

He faced me so that I could see his anger.

"Get it straight, Axbrewder.  I told you what I think of the
tournament.  That's different.  But if The Luxury wants Mr.  Sternway's
business, so do I. Anything I might know about him is private."

Then he turned away.

"On top of that, he signs half your check.  I talk to him about you.  I
don't talk to you about him."

I nodded.  I should've seen Bernie's reaction coming.  When you pay for
hotel security or a private investigator you hire loyalty as well as
confidentiality.  Not to mention diligence, and maybe even good
judgment.

"My mistake," I told him softly.

Chewing bile, he snorted, "Damn right."

"I know better," I went on.

"I'm just out of my element.  Where I come from, people don't try to
deck each other for entertainment."  Maybe I didn't understand sports
at all.

"I'm looking for a handle on all this."

"That," he retorted, "is why I haven't already fired you."  Then he
relented a bit.

"I can tell you one thing.  That woman" he indicated the head table
"Rasmussen.  She's a lawyer.  She handles Mr.  Sternway's negotiations
with the hotel.  And she plays hardball.  Bargain basement rates aren't
enough for her.  She wants two or three suites and maybe thirty more
rooms comped.  Discounts on food.  Airport shuttles.  We wouldn't put
up with it,

but the IAMA sells out the hotel.  For the whole weekend.  And let me
tell you, these people eat."

He glanced at me.

"Considering what they charge for registration and spectators, they
must turn one hell of a profit."

My, my, I thought.  And the tournament isn't about money?  Curiouser
and curiouser.

I wanted to think about that.  I touched Bernie's shoulder briefly to
thank him, then wandered away.

Around the hall, the tournament was heating up.  Events already
occupied half the rings, and more were getting ready.  Competitors
warming up, teachers hectoring their students, and friends helping each
other stretch used just about every possible patch of floor, but that
didn't stop the crowd, or even the spectators, from being in constant
motion.  People shifted in all directions, following Rasmussen's
instructions, or improving their view of particular events, or just
working off jitters.

Meanwhile tension and active bodies accumulated against the chill of
the AC.  If the hall got warm, the fact that I hadn't slept would start
to cause problems.  Vaguely I wondered whether I'd call too much
attention to myself by dragging a caffeine IV around behind me.

From the rings, yells punctuated the general hubbub.  They were
probably supposed to sound fierce, but the kids' voices in particular
gave me an impression of pain.  Being stubborn about it, I ordered
myself to relax, and went to take a look.

Except for the differences in size and rank, all the kids competing in
the four rings at the far end of the hall might've entered the same
event.  At each ring, five judges sat holding clipboards while as many
as fifteen or twenty kids lined up opposite them.  Most of the kids
looked lost, but one or two acted like they already understood
bloodshed.  Parents who should've been in the stands squeezed as close
as they could get.  From the corner, a scorekeeper called out a name,
and a kid moved into the center of the ring.  Alone, the kid performed
a bowing ritual, shouted something Oriental, and went to work.

Presumably this was kata, forms.  The kid moved through a series of
steps, turns, kicks, punches, blocks, all obviously choreographed.  At
intervals one of the movements included a yell.  Most of them came out
sounding like questions or pleas for help.  After a minute or so, the
kid stopped, repeated the bows,

and withdrew.  The judges held up their clipboards to the score-keeper.
Then another kid was called to compete.

Trying to understand, I watched most of one event, even though it made
me queasy.  At first I thought each kid had different choreography.
That at least made the katas interesting to compare.  But then I saw
more and more of the patterns repeated.  Apparently the forms were
inherited.  Traditional.  All these kids had been taught to duplicate
someone else's ideas about violence.

Muttering disgust under my breath, I turned away.  As child abuse, this
form of competition struck me as more elaborate, but less useful, than
ordinary domestic brutality.  A kid who got hit at home at least
learned what hitting meant, for God's sake.  As far as I could tell,
these kids were being taught to act out lies.

If I wanted to survive this weekend, I'd have to concentrate on
watching adults.  Them I could hold responsible for their own
illusions.

As promised, unfortunately, the adults including a few teenagers were
engaged in grappling, katame.  It looked just like wrestling to me, and
I couldn't pretend I cared.  Sure, the more you knew about leverage and
joints, the better.  But every ground-scrabble I'd ever seen or been in
eventually came down to muscle and bulk.  Here, however, the grapplers
had the shit supervised out of them.  The center judge and the four
corner refs called breaks whenever a competitor drew breath.  Then they
awarded points arbitrarily, and after a while the score-keeper
announced a winner.

No question about it, I was having a wonderful time.  For a couple of
minutes, I drifted into a waking nightmare where I went out on the
floor to teach some of these true believers what real pounding was all
about.

Fortunately I was on duty and this was a job, not a cause.  It didn't
have anything to do with me.  If I earned my paycheck, I could forget
the rest.

With an effort, I resumed trying to tune in to the tournament so that I
could feel its rhythms and interruptions without being distracted by
particular events.  Let the yells and foolishness of the competitors,
and the uncomfortable squirming of the crowd, sink into the background,
where I could monitor them automatically instead of trying to evaluate
them objectively.

What I really wanted, however, was someone to talk to.  Someone who
could explain all this.

Or Ginny.  But that was a separate problem.

Halfway through the morning, I arrived back at the head table.  The
heat and the crowd and the yelling climbed along my nerves, and I was
starting to feel stupid.  Luckily someone had juiced up the AC, and the
heat didn't get any worse.

Rasmussen and Parker Neill were there, along with the record-keeper and
a couple of people in street clothes who looked like they might be
reporters.  In the staging area, Ned Gage directed an increasing press
of traffic karate-ka, judges, instructors.  Down on the floor, younger
kids received their trophies while older ones competed in other rings.
A trickle of competitors and spectators visited the chops, but they
weren't keen on it.  Maybe Watchdog had overrated the danger.

The Master of Ceremonies left her microphone to approach me.  She still
looked mad.  Apparently my earlier disrespect was like the German
invasion of Russia never forgotten, never forgiven.

"Mr.  Axbrewder," she demanded, "don't you have a job to do?"

Obviously she didn't want me on the dais.

"I'm doing it."  By then I was in no mood to placate her.

"I can see better from here."

"So what?  If you see anything, you'll be too far away to do anything
about it."

"Ms.  Rasmussen," I retorted heavily, "I don't know anything about
karate, and I sure as hell don't know anything about karate
tournaments.  But I know my job.  If you want me to do it better, let
me ask you some real questions.  Then give me some real answers."

She didn't bother.  Turning away sharply, she went back to her
microphone.  When she announced the latest katame winners, she didn't
sound angry at all.  She knew how to turn it on and off.

I didn't like that much.  Being such a paragon of self-control myself,
I naturally distrusted it in others.

Time crept along.  I made another circuit of the hall.  Fascinated or
horrified in spite of myself, I watched a few rounds of kids' sparring.
They flailed away at each other with such seriousness and
ineffectuality that I wanted to barge into the ring,

take them by their ears, and send them to their rooms.  Fortunately
they wore so much gear Styrofoam on their hands and feet and heads,
shin-protectors, presumably cups as well that they were in no danger of
hurting each other, even by accident.  I couldn't figure out how the
refs chose winners.  Divination, maybe.

By the time I got back to the head table, Neill had gone elsewhere. But
Sternway was there, accompanied by a man I hadn't seen before. Ignoring
the IAMA director's stolid demeanor, the other man carried on an
artificially animated conversation with the reporters.

The reporters were done shortly.  Sternway and his companion withdrew
to the back of the dais possibly the most private spot in the hall and
Sternway beckoned me to join them.

I obeyed.  I figured I knew what was coming.

For once I was right.

"Mr.  Axbrewder," he said flatly, "this is Mr.  Lacone.  Alex Lacone."
Then he told Lacone, "Mr.  Axbrewder is a private investigator.  I've
mentioned him.  The Luxury hired him to provide extra security, on
Marshal Viviter's recommendation."

"Mr.  Axbrewder."  The other man and I shook hands.  His voice seemed
to boom even when he spoke quietly, but no one turned to look at him,
so maybe he didn't attract as much attention as I thought.

"Good to meet you.  I've been looking forward to it."

He was a big guy, about my size, only heavier and a truckload heartier.
An incessant grin split his square face, exposing perfect teeth that
would've been blinding by sunlight.  With his cosmetic tan and precise
grooming, he looked like a poster boy for an expensive salon.  But
under the tan his skin tone was slack, and the lines around his eyes
and mouth ran deep, which made me think that he'd lubricated his way
through too many power lunches.  I knew the signs.

In a budget like his, I was petty cash.  Since I couldn't imagine why
he'd been looking forward to meeting me, I asked, "What's your interest
in all this, Mr.  Lacone?"

He chuckled easily.

"I can't help it.  I'm a developer, Mr.  Axbrewder, and I live in
Garner.  That means I like to build things, and I'm interested in
sports.

"Unfortunately most of the other sports are already taken.

There isn't much room for me."  He beamed so that I wouldn't think he
was complaining.

"But karate is still on the rise.  In fact, it hasn't even begun to tap
its potential markets."  He swept the hall with an expansive gesture.

"I want in on the ground floor."

He wasn't likely to stop there, but I encouraged him anyway.

"That's quite an ambition.  What does it mean in practical terms?"

Sternway regarded me with a hint of distaste, but he didn't
interfere.

The developer never turned off his grin.  However, it had enough
channels to hold my interest.  This time he tuned it to an aw-shucks
station.

"It's simple, really.  I'm building a martial arts complex, Mr.
Axbrewder.  I call it "Martial America," and it's already pretty
impressive, if I do say so myself."

Sternway offered a nod that could've meant anything.

"I'm leasing the finest dojo facilities in the country," Lacone went
on, "to any school that wants to locate with me.  In fact, I already
have four fine schools, including Essential Shotokan you've met
Nakahatchi sensei, haven't you?  and Master Song Duk Soon's Tae Kwon Do
Academy.  Two more will move in at the end of the month, one of which
is an authorized Gracie Brothers Jujitsu franchise."  Apparently that
was supposed to impress me.

"I'm hoping I can persuade Sternway sensei to join me.  I'll give Anson
Sternway Shorin-Ryu Bushido and the IAMA the best space and the best
deal in North America.

"But I'm aiming higher."  Now his grin transmitted an inspirational
glow, gospel music filtered by easy listening.

"I'm a dreamer, Mr.  Axbrewder, and I like to dream big.  If I weren't
a damn good developer as well" he chuckled again "I'd have put myself
out of business years ago.

"My master plan for Martial America includes as many as twenty schools
of all kinds, a tournament facility twice this size, and a
hall-of-fame-style museum, a complete education center, repository, and
promotional outfit for any martial art in the world.  The perfect
home," he pointed out in case I missed it, "for Nakahatchi sensei's
Wing Chun antiques, for example.  Including stores, of course, where
you can buy anything and everything that has to do with the martial
arts."

Sternway hid his reaction.  He hid all his reactions.  But he didn't
look to me like he believed in Lacone's "dream."

"Sounds expensive," I remarked.  The martial arts were supposed to be
good for people.

"Who's paying for it?"

Lacone turned up the volume on his grin.

"It'll pay for itself.  In fact, it'll make us all rich.

"But still," he admitted with less enthusiasm, "it takes money to make
money.  You know that.  Down the road, I'll need to bring in some
pretty heavy players.

"For now, I'm concentrating on my core schools.  If enough famous
martial artists locate with me" he glanced at Sternway "Martial America
will promote itself.  They'll attract attention, we'll get more and
more ink, advertisers will become interested, and the whole thing will
snowball."

I didn't think he'd ever seen a snowball.  Not in Garner, that's for
sure.  But he finished confidently anyway.

"Then we'll be off and running."

I nodded noncommittally, feeling a bit baffled.  I couldn't imagine why
Marshal thought Lacone might be good for a job.

Apparently the subject bored Sternway.  Shooting his cuff, he checked
his watch like he wanted an excuse to be somewhere else.  Then he
surprised me by suggesting to Lacone, "Tell you what.  Why don't the
two of you join me for lunch?  We can get to know Mr.  Axbrewder a
little better."

While I raised my eyebrows, the developer beamed in Stern-way's
direction.

"Sorry, Anson.  No can do.  Sammy Posten is bringing one of Watchdog's
underwriters out here to discuss Martial America's coverage.  We're
supposed to belly up to the trough in about twenty minutes."

He still hadn't mentioned anything that suggested a job.  Which was
natural, I told myself.  He knew next to nothing about me.

Sternway shrugged, then looked a question at me.

I wanted a chance to make him squirm a bit.  And I could think of
plenty of questions for him.

"I'll need to check it with Bernie," I answered promptly.

He didn't betray a reaction.

"We can do that on our way out."

We both shook hands with Lacone again, and I followed Stern-way off the
dais.

If nothing else, having lunch with the IAMA director would help confirm
my status as a dignitary.

We found Bernie where I'd left him, but Sternway didn't give me time to
ask his permission.  The director simply announced that he was taking
me to the coffee shop.  When Bernie acquiesced with a dyspeptic nod,
Sternway drew me out of the hall.

I rolled my eyes for Bernie's benefit as I passed.  Taking a swing or
two at Anson Sternway was turning into one of my life's ambitions. He'd
been "important" too long he'd gotten into the habit of presuming on
his own authority.  The prospect of asking him a few subversive
questions added a dash of adrenaline to my bloodstream.

Unfortunately I had to wait my turn.  As soon as we were seated in The
Luxury's coffee shop a generic space complete with a single plastic
flower, garish and cheerless, on every table and had ordered some food,
he started on his own questions.

His approach unsettled me a bit.  He didn't seem to care that I was
stone ignorant about him, the IAMA, or the martial arts.  While he
pried into my qualifications, experience, and training, he paid no
particular attention to the answers.  In fact, he hardly looked at me.
Despite his air of impenetrable self-possession, his gaze slid away
whenever I tried to make eye contact.

I might've thought that he was just killing time with me while he
waited for someone more substantial to come along, but he didn't carry
himself like a man who killed time.  Instead he reminded me of a coyote
circling a lost lamb pretending disinterest while he made sure the lamb
wasn't just bait.

When he did pounce, however, I couldn't figure out why he'd been so
cautious about it.

What he really wanted to understand, apparently, was my connection to
Marshal Viviter.  In view of Marshal's recommendation, why didn't I
work for him directly?  And if he wasn't inclined to hire me himself,
why did he think I was good enough for tournament security?

That, I had to admit, was a fair question although I didn't know why it
mattered.  But I couldn't give it a fair answer, not without violating
Marshal's confidential relationship with Stern-way's wife.  So instead
I told him that my qualifications had nothing to do with it.  The
problem was a practical one.  A former partner of mine already had a
job with Professional Investigations, and Marshal suspected that we'd
cause trouble for each other.  Otherwise he wouldn't have hesitated ha!
to hire me himself.

Sternway seemed to accept that.  At any rate, he didn't push it.  But I
still didn't understand his concern.

When I'd flagged down the waitress for a fresh pot of coffee, I moved
the plastic flower out of the middle of the table, giving myself a
clear shot at him.  Then I took my turn.

"You already know, Anson" he'd been calling me Brew, and I wanted to
sound polite "I'm a complete stranger to this whole world.  The martial
arts.  Schools.  Tournaments.  If you could explain a few things, it
would help me do my job."

He granted me a glance.

"Go ahead."  Maybe he thought I'd appreciate his condescension.

I bared my teeth, metaphorically speaking.

"Where I come from," I told him, "violence means blood.  Guns, knives,
clubs, fists if the guy using them doesn't actively want you dead, he
sure as hell intends to hurt you.  He's serious about it.

"But you've got kids in those rings, wearing so much gear that if they
fell down they wouldn't be able to stand up again.  From what I've seen
of the sparring, the refs stop the action as soon as anything even
comes close.  And in the forms the kata?  your contestants attack
imaginary opponents who cooperate with every move."

Somehow I caught his gaze.  Leaning forward, I faced him squarely and
counted the seconds until his eyes slipped away.

"If I were being gentle, Anson, I'd say it all looks like a game.  But
honestly, it looks like a lie.  You're selling an illusion here.  Isn't
that true?  You give out trophies the size of gazebos to convince the
'winners' that they're heavy hitters, they can whip whole platoons of
thugs, no one sane is ever going to mess with them.  But in fact I
haven't seen anyone who'd survive for twenty seconds on the street.
It's all just charades."

He didn't last long.  His gaze wandered off by the time I mentioned
trophies.  If I'd succeeded at making him uncomfortable, however, he
didn't show it.  His voice had about as much inflection as a concrete
floor.

"Of course it's an illusion.  A tournament is sport karate, and all
sports are games.  They depend on rules to keep people safe, and real
violence isn't safe.  That's obvious."

I hadn't expected him to be so open about it.

"Then why do you do it, if you know it's a lie?  Other sports use
violence.  Some of them."  Football, for example.

"Karate is about violence.  That makes the lie dangerous."

"Because," Sternway repeated like he thought I was stupid, "no one
would participate if it weren't safe."

He scanned the room, possibly counting the plastic flowers.

"Where do you suppose the money comes from?"  he asked rhetorically.

"People want to compete.  That's human nature.  They want to prove
they're the best.  And for every man, woman, or child who wants to
prove they are the best, there are a couple hundred more who want to
see them try.

"That's how it works.  First karate-ka pay for a chance to prove
themselves.  Then spectators pay to watch.  When they've generated
enough interest, newspapers report the result.  Advertisers recognize a
chance to promote themselves.  Winning means more.  More people want to
compete, even more want to watch, newspapers and sponsors increase
their vested interest.  The eventual outcome is the NFL, a
multi-billion-dollar business dedicated to the love of competition."

He'd started to scare me.

"But that's less dangerous," I insisted.

"Those games aren't about violence."

He sighed.  Just for a moment, he actually looked at me.

"That's where you're wrong, Brew.  What we do here isn't a lie.  It's
simply not the whole truth."

Probably he could've told me how many other people were in the coffee
shop.

"The skills we test," he explained without any obvious patience, "are a
starting point, a foundation.  A karate-ka who can handle competition
has begun learning to handle real violence.  Serious martial artists
pursue additional training to improve their skills further.  That's the
difference between a master and a student."

He, of course, was a master.  Eighth-dan, whatever that meant.
Worshipped nationwide.

I felt sorry for his students.

I wanted to ask, So you understand real violence?  You can defend
yourself if someone jumps you on the street?  But I didn't because what
I really meant was, Do you think you can handle me?  And I knew that
question wasn't a good idea.

Instead I reverted to the one Sue Rasmussen hadn't answered.

"But what does it accomplish?  What's it for?"

What makes the martial arts good for people?

"Do you have any idea how much those trophies cost?"  Stern-way
countered.  He must've misunderstood me.

"They're the biggest expense we have, by far."  He emphasized the words
by jabbing the tabletop with his index finger.

"Do you know how much it costs to run a decent dojo?  You need gis,
gear, belts, wood floors, mirrors, heavy bags, speed bags, makiwaras,
mats, Wing Chun dummies, shinais, bos and sais, dressings rooms with
showers.  None of us could stay in business if we didn't promote the
martial arts, attract new students, and generate new interest.

"Mr.  Lacone said, "It takes money to make money," but he's been
wealthy too long.  He's forgotten the truth.  It takes money to stay
alive."

I couldn't argue with that.  Maybe he wasn't the right man to answer
the question I'd tried to ask.  Maybe I needed to talk to Nakahatchi.
Or Hong.

But still I hoped that he'd let slip something I needed.  I kept my
tone casual.

"Does that have anything to do with why you haven't joined Martial
America?"

Sternway appeared to consider several replies before he said, "If he
were closer to his goal, I would.  But as matters stand, it's too
expensive."

Then he nodded at my plate.

"Are you done?"

I held up my hand.

"Just one more question."

He waited impassively.

"Are Hong and Nakahatchi serious?"  I didn't even try to look
innocent.

"Aren't they overreacting?  I mean, since this is all a game anyway.
They seem" I grinned uncharitably "too intense for sport karate."

I'd succeeded at last.  Sternway pushed back his chair.  A hint of
darkness disturbed his self-control.

"You haven't been listening, Axbrewder."  He could make his voice punch
when he wanted to.

"Sifu Hong and Nakahatchi sen-sei are masters.  Either one of them
could grind you into dog food with their hands tied.  I advise you to
believe they're serious.  If you don't, you will regret it."

Turning like a blow, he left me where I sat.

Dog food?  I wanted to laugh out loud.  Dog food?  Re was deluding
himself.  So far, I hadn't seen anyone here who struck me as a spice
mill, never mind an actual meat grinder.

Nevertheless something about the idea must've appealed to me.  I was in
a better mood as I headed back to the tournament.

Seven.

By midafternoon the tournament was heating up in more ways than one.
More spectators had arrived.  More rings were in use.  And they all put
out more energy.  The adults and teenagers who competed in team
sparring showed a real passion for attempting to thump on each other.
Sometimes the passion looked like eagerness.  The rest of the time, it
was plain fear, the kind that makes you overreact because you're trying
so hard to pretend you aren't scared.

On top of that, the AC had to work harder, and it was losing ground.
Sweat gathered at the base of my spine, and my shirt began to smell
like a salad going bad.

And on top of that, my nerves still hadn't made the adjustment.  I
couldn't tune myself to the hall.  Watching cost me too much effort.
Details distracted me.  And all that yelling and pounding tightened the
muscles on my scalp until my head ached.

Mostly I kept to the dais.  Its elevation enabled me to pick up a
general idea of how the IAMA ran team sparring.

Apparently there were eight divisions brown belt, black belt, advanced,
and something called "soft style," all for men, with the same again for
women.  The silk pajamas had soft style to themselves.  The other three
divisions wore canvas, most of it white.  The exceptions stood out like
stains on damask.

As far as I could tell, the silk pajamas fought with no more or less
effectiveness than anyone else.  But their approach was definitely more
flamboyant, with more elaborate stances, bigger arm movements, more
spins.  Maybe it was supposed to intimidate people.

Teams of four competed head-to-head, one member at a time.  They
flailed and kicked and yelled like it all meant something.  The action
didn't stop as often as it did in individual kumite.  The losers were
eliminated, and the winners advanced.  Apparently fighters "won" by
accumulating points for punches or kicks that satisfied the refs.
Breaking the rules produced penalties.  Groins and knees were
off-limits.  Hitting too hard whatever that meant and ignoring a ref
were definite no-nos.  Cumulative points for each team determined the
victors.

None of it made sense to me.  With all the gear they wore, the
contestants might've survived a charging rhino, so how could anyone hit
them too hard?  But of course I didn't need it to make sense.  I just
needed to know how the game was played.

The refs issued a lot of warnings.  What I saw on the fighters' faces
resembled frenzy, the same wildness you see in a horse's eyes right
before they take it out and shoot it.  Several of them kept attacking
after the ref called them apart.

Presumably that was normal for a karate tournament, anyway.  And it
wasn't my problem.  Ned Gage was the director of referees.  If things
got out of hand, he could deal with it.  Nevertheless the intensity
pouring from the rings felt like trouble to me.  Without thinking about
it, I left the dais to get closer to the action.

After scanning three or four contests from the sidelines, I found the
one that bothered me the most.

This match was men's brown belt, and it pitted white against screaming
scarlet.  At the moment, a gangling teenager in white fought a young
man who outsized him by two inches and fifty pounds.  The white canvas
carried a couple of patches, one the ubiquitous IAMA insignia, the
other too small to read.  But I couldn't miss his opponent's label. Big
yellow letters arcing across the scarlet said, "Nelson Brick's Killer
Karate."

Noise inundated all the rings as spectators and teams hollered in every
direction, but here it sounded raw and bloodthirsty, like there was
something personal at stake.  Maybe when the ref declared a winner the
losers would be put to death.

Right away I saw why this contest bothered me.  The clown in scarlet
strutted and thumbed his nose, taunting the hell out of his opponent.
Whenever they engaged he said something.  I couldn't make out the
words, but he was obviously sneering.

The kid grew more and more frantic with every attack.  Anger and
frustration cramped his punches, and most of his kicks went wild. Every
time his opponent scored on him, his face turned a more desperate
shade.

The audience loved it.

If I had been the ref, I would've disqualified them both.  Sent them
home to grow up.  But no one here agreed with me.  The Brick team
encouraged their fighter by jeering at his opponent.  The kid's
supporters shouted, "Hit him!  Hurt him!"  Meanwhile the ref called
points but not breaks, and ignored everything else.

It ate at my nerves.  I resisted an impulse to charge into the ring,
sort out the problem myself.  But I stayed ready, just in case.

A minute later, the match ended.  Killer Karate won by a landslide,
thanks mostly to this round.  The scarlet pajamas congratulated each
other like they'd just won the Battle of Britain.  In contrast, none of
the white pajamas consoled or commiserated with their thrashed
teammate.  Instead they seemed to turn their backs on him, like he'd
shamed them somehow.

I figured I knew exactly what was going to happen next.

Radiating ego and humiliation, the teams moved away from the ring.  Now
I could see the second patch on the white pajamas.  Tae Kivon Do
Academy.  Master Song Duk Soon's school.

Swaggering with triumph, the clown in scarlet headed for his gear bag,
apparently unaware that the kid he'd just crushed was right behind
him.

Shame twisted the kid's features like nausea.  When his opponent bent
to his bag, the kid aimed an elbow at his kidneys, jumping into the
blow to get all his weight behind it.

That made it easy for me to catch him by the back of his pajamas and
jerk him away before his elbow landed.

"Stop it!"  I barked into his face, doing my best drill-instructor
imitation.  I wanted to break into his dismay fast.

"You're out of line!"

Before I could go on, the young Killer sprang up and spun toward me.
Yelling even louder than I did, he wheeled a kick at the kid's head.

With me holding him, the kid couldn't protect himself.  I heaved him
back, turned to cover him with my right shoulder.

When the kick hit me, I staggered, and my arm went into shock.  For
half a second or so, astonishment paralyzed me.  I would've sworn that
was just a kick, pure stunt work, all show, but somehow he'd managed to
catch me with a baseball bat instead.

Then my brain turned red, and the next thing they knew both punks hit
the floor, Killer scarlet on the bottom, flushed kid next, with me on
top, using one knee to hold both of them down.

"I'm going to say it again."  Under the circumstances, I thought I
sounded remarkably calm.

"You're out of line.  Both of you.  If you want to brawl, take it
outside.  And I mean all the way.  Off the hotel grounds.

"Are you children listening to me?"

Let them tear each other apart somewhere public.  The cops could sort
them out.

A crowd had already gathered.  No one under me answered, so I leaned
down harder.

"I said, are you lis?"  Suddenly I caught a peripheral flash of
scarlet, and a blow hit my sternum hard enough to drive me off the
pile.  Pain tugged across my abdomen, tracing the line of Estobal's
bullet.  I barely caught my balance as my attacker advanced, ready to
club me again.

"No, you listen, bub!  This is none of your damn business!  That twerp
tried to hit my guy in the back.  He was just defending himself!"

The man had a face like permanent apoplexy, complete with bulging eyes
and an assertive mustache you could've used to sweep out the hall.  He
may've been six inches shorter than me, but he outweighed me easily.
Every bit of him seemed to swell inside his pajamas.  I thought the
canvas might tear.

Across all that scarlet he wore a crisp black belt.  Yellow letters
over his heart identified him as Nelson Brick.

My chest felt numb, and I feared he'd torn open my guts.  I wanted the
.45 so badly that my good hand ached for it.

Maybe he'd back down if I spit blood at him.

Behind him, the fighters scrambled to their feet.

"That's right!"  Brick's student yelled.

"He was going to hit me while I wasn't looking!"

While I gaped for the breath, I discovered that a man in white stood
between me and Brick.  Somehow I hadn't seem him arrive he was just
there.  He had his back to me, but after my heart thudded a couple of
times I figured out that he was Master Song Duk Soon.

"Mr.  Brick," he said in a voice like the head of a hammer, "the
conduct of your team is disgraceful.  He provoked the conflict."

Oh, good.  Now I had two crazy instructors on my hands.

None of the karate-ka and spectators crowding around seemed likely to
back me up.  They wanted more action.  I was on my own.

Unless I used the cell phone.

"Master," the beaten kid quavered.

"He insulted me the whole match.  He insulted you.  He called Tae Kwon
Do 'a toy martial art."

" Some of the spectators laughed which made the kid's flush worse.
Others muttered disapproval.

As soon as I caught my breath, I'd say, Hell, kid, they're all toys.
But I wasn't ready yet.  I still didn't know how seriously I was
hurt.

Master Soon stood with the same explosive ease I'd seen earlier.

"The words of a contemptible opponent are equally contemptible," he
pronounced.  Then he added to Nelson Brick, "Your student is a fool. He
repeats what he was taught."

I thought Brick might attack again.  He didn't look anywhere near as
relaxed as Soon.  But then a familiar voice interrupted us.

"All right, everybody," Parker Neill called out, "break it up, break it
up."  He seemed to disperse the crowd just by flapping his hands.

"It's all over.  Nothing's wrong.  Get ready for your next events."

Ned Gage accompanied him.  While Parker waved away the spectators, the
head referee placed himself between Soon and Brick.

I was off the hook.

The glint in Gage's eyes looked like humor, but it may've been
eagerness.

"Master Soon," he said calmly, "Brick sensei, your teams are
disqualified.  I won't allow fighting outside the rings."

Since no one was looking at me now, I probed the pain in my stomach. It
wasn't as bad as I'd feared.  And I didn't feel any dampness.
Apparently my scars had been stretched, not torn.

"Wait a goddamn minute, Gage," Brick blustered.

"The whole team?  That's not fair.  My guy was just talking.  He didn't
break any rules."

I couldn't tell what Song Duk Soon felt.  Whatever it was, he didn't
show it.

Gage grinned amiably.

"I'm the Director of Referees here.  Shall I disqualify your whole
school instead?"

"We're going to win this event!"  Brick protested.

"If I disqualify the whole school," Gage continued, "you'll lose your
IAMA membership."  He sounded happier by the minute.

"You won't get it back until you take one of our seminars on
sportsmanship."

To my surprise, Brick looked away.

"Where's Sternway?"  he demanded.

"I'm not going to put up with this.

"And I'm not" he jabbed a finger in my direction "going to put up with
assholes from the audience interfering when my guys try to defend
themselves."

I flexed my fists, working the pain out of my right arm.

Ned Gage widened his grin, matching Master Soon's relaxation.

"Mr.  Sternway won't help you, Brick sensei."  Now he made the title
sound like mockery.

"We all saw what happened.  The situation would've been worse if Mr.
Axbrewder hadn't intervened so quickly.  You owe him an apology."

Parker nodded like a man who'd seen it all before.

"Ha!"  Brick snorted.

"That'll be the day."

But he didn't go rushing off to find Sternway.  I guess he believed
Gage in spite of himself.  I sure as hell believed him.  If there
hadn't been so many witnesses, I might've kissed his feet.

Still, I wanted some of my own back.  Before Brick could move away, I
drawled, "Listen, bozo.  Maybe you have your own school.  Maybe you're
a world-class 'martial artist."  But as far as I'm concerned, you're
just a fat thug in uncomfortable pajamas.  Where I come from, we snack
on guys like you.  Hit me again, and I'll break your arms."

I'd broken Estobal's neck just hours after he shot me.

"Try it sometime."  Brick aimed a nasty glare at me, but it turned
hesitant when he saw the look on my face.

"By the way," he added roughly, "these aren't pajamas.  They're called
a gi.  You should remember that."

Then he reached out and grabbed a handful of his student's canvas.

"Come on, boy.  You're going to explain to the rest of your team how
you got them disqualified."

Jerking the young man along, he stomped away toward a cluster of
scarlet gis nearby.

The action in the rings continued as if nothing had happened.  Yells
and padded blows punctuated the tension.  Parker Neill shrugged and
left.  Gage waggled his eyebrows at me like a humorous salute before
turning his attention back to the tournament.

I didn't acknowledge either of them.  Just for a second, the
humiliation facing the young Killer distracted me.  Maybe he'd brought
it on himself.  But he'd been taught by Nelson Brick and Brick
obviously didn't intend to take any responsibility for what his
students learned.

By the time I convinced myself to copy Parker's shrug, Master Song Duk
Soon had shifted to confront his own student.

The flushed kid stood in front of his Master, practically cowering.
Soon said something in a harsher tone than he'd used with Brick.  At
once the kid dropped to his knees, bowed his head.

"You have disgraced me," Soon announced distinctly.

"Remove your belt.  You no longer merit it.  I will consider how honor
may be restored."

He didn't stay to see whether the kid obeyed him.  He simply turned his
back and left.

The kid had gone stark pale, and his mouth quivered.  His hands shook
as he untied his belt, folded it carefully, and set it down in front of
him.  Bowing, he touched his forehead to the belt.  When he looked up,
his eyes were full of tears.

I left him there myself.  I couldn't do anything else for him.  The
last thing he needed right now was an audience.

I wanted to go after Master Song Duk Soon, tell him what I thought of
him.  Fortunately both my arm and my guts were feeling better, which
allowed me to recover some common sense.  That didn't come naturally.
Most days I only had common sense when I could channel it from a
previous life.  But after a couple of deep breaths, I remembered that
nothing Soon or Brick did was any of my business.  If I tried to throw
my weight around with them, I'd just get myself fired.

Parker hadn't gone far.  Instead of following Master Soon, I stopped to
complain to the Tournament Coordinator.

"Help me out, Parker," I growled under my breath.

"Is this normal?  Do the teachers always piss on the students around
here?"  In case he hadn't seen what happened, I explained, "Soon just
stripped that kid's belt."

Parker cocked an eyebrow, glanced at me sidelong.

"Like I said, Brew."  He spread his hands.

"True believers.

"It's traditional," he went on before I could object.

"Everything the student does reflects on the teacher."

"No shit," I muttered.

"His teacher taught him to fight like that.  And act like that."

Neill nodded.

"And put too much pressure on him.  Made winning too important.  I know
what you're saying.

"What can I tell you?"  He scanned the rings while he spoke, keeping an
eye on the events.

"The arts we study are predominantly Asian.  They all downplay
individualism and emphasize respect for authority.  But it takes
different forms in different countries.

"Tae Kwon Do is Korean.  So is Master Soon.  When a Korean challenges
you, he wants to prove his school is better than yours, his style is
better, his country is better.  The Chinese are more personal.  When a
Chinese challenges you, he wants to prove his sifu is better than
yours.  If he's a sifu himself, then he wants to demonstrate the
superiority of what he knows.

"As for the Japanese, they turn everything into spirituality."  Parker
smiled distantly.

"According to Gichin Funakoshi, karate doesn't have anything to do with
winning or losing.  It's about 'perfection of character."  A Japanese
karate-ka isn't judged by success or failure.  He's supposed to display
his best skills with devotion and humility.

"You could say the Koreans care about winning, the Chinese care about
looking good, and the Japanese care about not caring."

Then he shrugged.

"Those are the stereotypes, anyway.  We all know lots of exceptions."

I could think of a few myself.  If the Japanese were so all-fired
spiritual, why had they spent half a century trying to conquer the
world?

Bad leadership, I suppose.

"The real problem here," Parker continued in case I'd missed the point,
"is that Master Soon's student isn't Asian.  He's obedient because he
knows he's supposed to be, and he desperately wants to be accepted. But
he doesn't really understand the way he was just treated.  He thinks
like an individual.

"As for Brick," Neill finished sourly, "he's pure-blood American.  It's
all ego with him.  He isn't as tough as he thinks.  If you ever get a
chance to compare him with Sternway sensei, you'll see the difference
right away."

I wasn't convinced I'd felt Brick's strength and I had no intention of
being impressed by Sternway.  But the Tournament Coordinator didn't
have to spend his time talking to me, and I wasn't about to repay the
courtesy by dissing his sensei, so I just thanked him and let him get
back to work.

I wanted a change of air to clear my head, so I decided to tell Bernie
I needed a break.  Get out of the hall for a few minutes.  Find
someplace where the AC was set on high, maybe lie down on the floor and
practice breathing.

When I looked around for the Security Chief, however, I spotted Deborah
Messenger across the rings.  In fact, she seemed to be staring in my
direction.  She must've returned while I was concentrating on Brick and
Soon.

Suddenly I didn't give a shit about Killer Karate, the Tae Kwon Do
Academy, or their poor abused students.

Since I was supposed to be a dignitary, I didn't rush straight toward
her.  Instead I started to pick my way through the crowds around the
hall.

She turned away as I moved.  Oh, well.  As long as she didn't leave
before I reached her After a minute or so, I saw her talking to
Sternway, Lacone, and Sammy Posten.

OK, she was busy.  No need to hurry.

Partway around the walls, I came on Ned Gage.  He was watching another
round of team kumite, but he didn't seem to be engrossed in it, so I
stopped to thank him for getting Brick off my case.

He was shorter than Neill, and pudgier.  Apparently being a
balls-to-the-wall martial artist didn't mean you had to stay slim.
Brush-cut hair, a wide mouth, and a mustache that only looked straight
when he grinned emphasized the roundness of his face.  Judging by the
lines on his cheeks and around his eyes, he grinned a lot.  If I hadn't
already seen him in action, I wouldn't have believed he had enough
personal authority to button his blazer.  Nevertheless he carried
himself with the same relaxation I'd already noticed in men like
Sternway and Soon, pliant and worrisome as Semtex.

Raising his eyebrows, he asked, "You all right, Mr.  Axbrewder?  I
wouldn't want to let Nelson Brick kick me."

I dismissed the question.

"Call me Brew, Mr.  Gage.  Anyone who gets me out of trouble the way
you did doesn't have to be formal."

"Brew."  He grinned.

"I'm Ned."  Then he added, "I was just doing my job.  You didn't need
rescuing."  He looked me up and down quickly.

"I suspect you don't let the Bricks of the world kick you twice."

Trying not to think about Deborah Messenger, I grinned back.

"Not if I can help it, anyway."

This opportunity was too good to miss, despite my impatience.

"Can you spare a minute?"  I asked.

He spread his hands.

"As many as you want.  Until the next crisis."  The prospect of another
testosterone outbreak obviously didn't trouble him.

"I'm congenitally nosy," I said by way of explanation.

"I always want to know why people do what they do."  Then I got to the
point.

"I hear you're a volunteer?"

Ned faked a scowl as he indicated his IAMA patch.

"We all are."  He sighed heavily.

"Such is life."  With that gleam in his eyes, he might as well have
been laughing.

"Apparently," I drawled.

"But I don't get it."  I nodded toward the registration table.

"From here it looks like you're taking in serious bucks.  And I'm told
you'll have a bigger crowd tomorrow and Sunday.  But you work free. Why
do you bother?"

He shrugged off his scowl like it was too much effort.  With a sidelong
grin, he chuckled, "If I thought you'd believe me, I'd say karate
changed my life which is true, by the way and I'm expressing my
gratitude.  But I'm not that unselfish."  He met my gaze straight on.

"The real reason is, it's fun.  All this intensity and seriousness.

"The thrill of agony, the victory of defeat,"

" he misquoted sententiously.

"It's as good as a circus.  And I'm the ringmaster.

"Besides," he added softly, as if he were revealing a great secret, "I
don't need the money.  I have my own school in LA.  I already make
'serious bucks' teaching stunt men how to fake kung fu and karate for
the cameras."

"Well, gosh," I breathed, wide-eyed.  Playing along.

"What refreshing candor."  Then I lowered my voice.

"But you can't tell me that Parker Neill and Sue Rasmussen are in it
for the fun.  He looks like a spectator at his own life.  She acts like
she's on some kind of Holy Crusade."

I expected him to laugh, but he didn't.  Still softly, he advised,
"Don't underestimate them, Brew.  They're both fine martial artists.

They may not be having fun, but they know what they're doing.  They
volunteer for the obvious reason that Mr.  Sternway is their sensei.
When your sensei wants something done, volunteering isn't optional."

I wanted to ask what gave sense is so much clout, but he must've
assumed that I already knew the answer.

"They'd both do it anyway, of course," he went on.

"For Parker, this is the world he knows best.  Until he gave up
competing, he lived on tournaments and adrenaline.  Part of what you
see in him now is simple letdown.  He misses putting himself on the
line in the ring.

"And then" Gage chuckled easily "well, he's what you might call a 'true
believer."

" The match in front of us ended, allowing us a moment of quiet before
other rings took up the slack.  I could smell sweat and anxiety despite
the laboring AC.

"He used those words himself," I put in.

"But he was talking about other people."

The Director of Referees nodded.

"I know.  He does that.  And sometimes he's right.  But sometimes he's
just projecting.

"He considers himself a better person than he was before he joined Mr.
Sternway's dojo.  For all I know, that's true.  I can't see inside him.
Or possibly he can't tell the difference between competition endorphins
and spiritual growth.  The point is that he believes it.  If he had his
way, everyone would study karate and all the teachers would be
volunteers.  The fact that the IAMA is really a business depresses
him."

I could imagine how he felt.  The mix of dollars and thumping on all
sides bothered me, and I wasn't involved.

I wanted to move on.  But when I scanned the far side of the hall, I
couldn't locate Deborah Messenger.  Sternway and Lacone must've swept
her off somewhere.  In the space of about five seconds, my morale
sagged like Parker's.

The heat was getting worse.  If the AC couldn't cope any better than
this now, conditions on Saturday would become positively sulfurous.

With a grimace, I wrestled my attention back to Gage.

"How about Sue?  What's her excuse?"

"Oh, she'd volunteer even if her sensei didn't run the LAMA," he
answered casually.  If he caught my lapse, he was too polite to comment
on it.

"She's ambitious, our Sue."  His tone suggested affection as well as
amusement.

"She wants to be a Power.  Lawyer, civic leader, karate-ka, you name
it.  Working tournaments helps her connect with every heavy hitter in
this world.  She eats lunch with Bill Wallace, does favors for Fumio
Demura, knows Chuck Norris by his first name.  At the end of the day
she can take all that to the bank."

Leaning toward me, he lowered his voice again.

"Rumor also has it that she sleeps with Anson.  But you didn't hear it
from me.

"She still competes," he added less privately.

"You might get a chance to see her tomorrow, or Sunday.  But watch out.
Sometimes her kata and kumite have so much fire they'll scorch your
clothes if you stand too close."

I snorted to myself.  I'd seen Sue Rasmussen get heated, but I couldn't
picture actual fire.

However, I knew what would happen if I mentioned my doubts.  Ned would
make some reference to her ripping me apart.  Apparently I was expected
to consider every third person here some kind of ambulatory bucksaw. In
any case, he obviously liked her, and I didn't want to alienate him. He
was more forthcoming than anyone else I'd talked to.

"But she and Parker aren't having fun," I remarked as if I wanted
confirmation.

His eyes gleamed.

"That's true.  Neither of them."

"And you are," I prodded.

"Don't I look like it?"  he countered.  Then he admitted, "But it's
easier for me.  Anson Sternway isn't my sensei.  That man is one hell
of a fighter, but he's death on fun."

He gave me the opening I'd been angling for.  I grabbed my chance while
I had it.

"How about Mr.  Sternway?  Why is he involved in all this?"

For the first time, Ned paused to consider what he said.  After a
moment, he pronounced judiciously, "The LAMA is a valuable
organization.  It benefits everyone involved.  And it was his idea.  He
deserves what he gets out of it."

Drawing me with him, he took a couple of steps backward.  Apparently he
didn't want to risk being overheard.  Almost whispering, he told me,
"But down at the bottom, he's in it for the money.  It's a survival
issue.  His wife has been bleeding him dry for years.  They're
separated now, but that hasn't made her any less ereedv.  She'd take
every oennv he made while he starved to death, as long as the money
kept coming after he died."

Aha, I thought.  Here was something I could pass on to Marshal Viviter.
No wonder Sternway focused so hard on the lAMA's balance sheet. There's
nothing like a grasping spouse to make anyone desperate.  If he'd been
reduced to harassing her, at least he had a reason.

"Thanks," I murmured sincerely.

"That helps."

Ned waved my gratitude away.

"Don't mention it."

"Too late," I retorted.

"I already did."  Then I added abruptly, "So how do you know all
this?"

Suddenly Gage looked like he might get hurry.

"He doesn't hide it."  I could feel the edge in his voice.

"Ask him yourself."

I raised my hands to ward him off.

"No offense.  I'm a private investigator.  I ask questions like that on
automatic pilot.  I wasn't implying anything."

Clearly the IAMA Director was a sensitive subject.  And I didn't want
to make Ned suspicious of my interest.  If he mentioned this
conversation to Sternway, I could probably kiss my job goodbye.

Ned relaxed visibly.

"Forget it.  I'm not that easily offended."

Swallowing my relief, I changed the subject.

"Then I hope you won't mind one more question.  You said karate changed
your life."  I made a show of incomprehension.

"How?"

His laugh told me that the question didn't bother him.

"Basically, Brew, I'm just a short round guy in a world full of big
biceps and bigger egos.  That's an intimidating prospect, let me tell
you.  For years I survived by keeping a low profile.  But now I don't
have to get along with any of them.  I can laugh whenever I feel like
it, instead of when it might placate some muscle-bound hothead who
thinks I need an attitude adjustment.

"When an ego like Nelson Brick gets in my face, we both remember that I
won Master's kobudo here three years in a row."  He grinned broadly.

"And I didn't work up a sweat doing it."

I did my best to look suitably impressed.

"That would've been worth seeing."

He dismissed the idea cheerfully.

"Not really.  It was fun at the time.  It's still fun.  I like having
the rep.  But I wouldn't take it too seriously if I were you.  All I
did was swing a long stick around the ring for a while."

In a strange way, he was the only karate-ka I'd met so far that

I did take seriously.  Intuitively I felt sure he'd earned his
self-assurance.

Pretending that I didn't want to impose on his good nature, I thanked
him again and moved away.  The truth was that I preferred to conceal my
accumulating gloom.  The more questions I asked, the more obvious it
became that I didn't understand the martial arts.  Or martial artists.
They all took safe risks, generated the sensation of danger without any
actual hazard, but they acted like it meant something.

I felt stupid with heat and lack of sleep.  Not to mention loneliness.
When Ginny dropped me as her partner, she'd cut off my anchor to the
only reality that made sense.

Black belt team kumite occupied the rings.  Since I didn't have
anything else to do, I paid a certain amount of aimless attention.  If
we had thieves working the room, they were too good for me to spot. And
my nerves didn't catch any other alarms.

Now that I'd watched some of the brown belts, I could see that the
black belts were definitely better if "better" was the right word for
it.  They struck and withdrew faster, with more efficiency and better
balance.  But they didn't seem to hit as hard.  If "better" meant that
they sparred more safely, they'd left the brown belts miles behind.

I was tired of safety.  If karate was good for people if it made you "a
better person" maybe the time had come for me to go out on a limb by
asking Sifu Hong why he gave a shit about Nakahatchi's chops.  Better
yet, I could ask Sternway what made him think it was a good idea to
hassle his wife.

Oh, right.  That'd be smart.

But the IAMA was being smart by keeping the tournament safe.  I'd had
about all the smart I could stand.

I must've been praying, although I didn't know it.  Like an act of
Divine Intervention, the doors near the registration table opened, and
Deborah Messenger reappeared.  She wasn't more than twenty yards
away.

Sternway, Lacone, and Sammy Posten were still with her.  The developer
beamed on all channels while Posten laughed and Sternway lifted the
corners of his mouth like a man who'd forgotten what amusement felt
like.  Deborah Messenger managed a polite distant smile, but her heart
wasn't in it.

As soon as my eyes caught hers, hormones I didn't know I still had hit
me like a cattle prod.  From the rings, yells assaulted the
soundproofing, but I hardly heard them.  Trying not to hyperventilate,
I sifted through the crowd toward her.

Somehow she detached herself from Posten and the others.  By the time I
reached her, she was alone.

"Hello, Brew."  Her voice barely reached me through the din, but I
didn't care.  The noise gave me an excuse to stand close to her.

"I wondered when I would see you again."

"I didn't."  If we hadn't been inundated with blows and heavy
breathing, I probably would've sounded too loud, too eager.

"I wondered how much longer I'd survive without seeing you again."

She laughed warmly.

"And now we'll never know.  I suppose I should feel disappointed."

"Do that," I warned her, "and I'll expire where I stand.  I'm far too
chivalrous to let a lady suffer disappointment in my presence."

She placed a hand like a jolt of electricity on my forearm.

"Oh, don't tempt me.  Why, it's been" she laughed again "weeks since I
watched a man expire for my sake."

"That's hard to believe."  I hoped we were talking about the same
thing.

"I would've thought you had them lined up around the block."

"Well, of course.  But I'm selective."  Archly.

"I hope you don't think I would allow just any man to expire for me?"

I couldn't think of a retort, so I concentrated on breathing.  I didn't
want to turn red right in front of her.

With her touch still on my forearm, she shifted closer and asked
softly, "Do you have plans for dinner?  I need to go back to the office
for a while.  Sammy and I have been talking business with Anson and
Alex, and I'm supposed to write up a report.  But I can be here again
by six-thirty.  Would you like to join me?  In The Luxury's elegant
coffee shop?"

Too quickly, I said, "Sure."  Then I made an attempt to recover some
semblance of poise.

"I might not be able to hold my breath that long, but I'll borrow a
respirator from somewhere."

"Good."  She squeezed my arm, then released it.

"Don't go looking for me.  I'll find you.  Just in case I run late."

She had a lot more self-possession than I did.  She managed to turn
away without staggering once which I couldn't have done.  Hell, I
almost fell over just watching her leave.

Come on, Axbrewder, I advised myself sternly.  Pull yourself together.
Women like that aren't attracted to clowns like you.  She must want
something.  But I couldn't help it.  My knees trembled when I started
to move again, and the hall seemed to revolve around me on an axis I
couldn't identify.

Unsteadily I made my way toward Bernie.  He'd hired me.  Making outside
plans without consulting him wasn't a good idea.

I could've sworn the man was asleep.  He'd closed his eyes, and his
shoulders rested lightly on the door behind him.  Knowing how to nap on
his feet was probably a survival skill in his job.  But when I said his
name, he looked at me without a twitch, and his gaze wasn't any more
blurred than usual.

"No offense, Bernie," I said softly, "but have you considered
delegating?  You're the Chief of Security.  You could assign all this
standing around to someone else."

"You kidding?"  he buzzed.

"And miss the excitement?"  A moment later he added, "You did good,
Axbrewder.  Somebody gets hurt outside the rings, and the hotel shares
liability."

I shrugged.

"Thanks."  His good opinion made me uncomfortable.  Awkwardly I changed
the subject.

"I've been invited to have dinner with Ms.  Messenger."  A triumph of
smooth transition.

"I wanted to check it out with you before I did it."

Bernie stabbed me with a look.

"This isn't a dating service," he snarled not unpleasantly.

"Get laid on your own time."

"Please, Bernie."  Was I that obvious?

"I'm blushing."

He gathered himself for a stinging retort, so I hurried ahead.

"Would it be better if I pretend it's business?  It is.  Sort of.  I
want an in with Watchdog.  Just in case" I waved a hand around the
tournament "you know."

In case I did something Watchdog wanted me to account for.  Or the
tournament led to a better job.

Bernie's jaws worked, chewing nasty sounds to find one that tasted
right.  Finally he muttered, "Hotel policy.  You're allowed to eat.
Damn indulgent, if you ask me.  Your job's too cushy as it is.  But I
don't care who you eat with."

A moment later, he added, "And stop trying to get on my good side."
Loneliness scraped like a raw nerve in his tone.

"I told you I don't want to like you too much."

I sighed.

"I can't help it, Bernie.  It's my nature."

"Fuck your nature," he rasped so that only I could hear him.

"Fuck Messenger.  Just do your job."

Coming from him, that was the undiluted milk of human kindness.

I wanted to do something for him, but I couldn't think what.  He needed
friends, and I was just a temporary employee.  Besides, I'd spent too
many years drunk.  I'd lost the knack for friendship.

Lacking any better ideas, I went back to the dais and concentrated on
well, on concentrating.

By degrees the rhythms of the tournament had become easier to read. The
competition was continuous, but individual rings conducted events at
their own pace.  From my elevated perspective, the mass of karate-ka
and spectators seemed to seethe from place to place as the rings filled
and emptied.  The ranks of trophies shrank slowly, but the great
majority of them, including all the biggest ones, remained where they
stood.  Fresh as flowers in dew, Sue Rasmussen worked her microphone
with relentless enthusiasm.  The chops attracted a certain amount of
desultory activity, but it didn't amount to much.  Masters like
Nakahatchi, Hong, Soon, and Gravel counseled or ignored their students.
Others emulated Nelson Brick's style of exhortation.

Anson Sternway wandered around the hall like a man with nothing to do,
disappearing and reappearing on a schedule all his own, while Parker
and Ned smothered disturbances.  Some of the time, Sammy Posten
shadowed the IAMA Director, but mostly he watched over the chops with
an air of ineffectual vigilance.  Apparently Alex Lacone had left the
hotel.  He must've heard the call of money somewhere else.

Gradually I began to see the tournament as something almost
physiological, a form of life.  I didn't understand it, but I could
feel its pulse and respiration, sense its muscles gather and release.
If trouble developed, I'd know it.

And somehow the AC held its own against the heat.  That helped.

Deborah Messenger had said 6:30, so I didn't start watching the doors
until 5:15.  And I didn't actually hold my breath until a little before
six.  By the time she arrived, I was so focused that I spotted her
immediately.

As soon as she caught sight of me, she waved.  In a fog of enchantment,
as it were, I evaporated from the dais and condensed beside her.

"Mr.  Axbrewder."  She welcomed me with a smile.

"I hope this means we're still on for dinner."

Pretending composure, I replied, "Not unless you stop calling me Mr.
Axbrewder."  Had I said that before?  I couldn't remember.

"Makes me sound like your uncle.  I prefer Brew."

"So do I," she admitted.  Mock-sternly, she added, "And don't let me
catch you calling me Ms.  Messenger.  At least not to my face.  Deb is
much better."

I made a show of trying it out.

"Deb?  Deb?"  Then I shook my head.

"I'm sorry.  I need more syllables.  Deb is too diminutive."  As far as
I was concerned, she didn't have a diminutive bone in her body.

"Might as well be an acronym.  Would you mind Deborah?"

She laughed.

"An acronym?  For what?"

I shrugged with pleasure.

"Who knows?

"Daughter of an Emasculated Bastard'?  I've never met your father.

"Dreary Eternal Boredom'?  No, that doesn't fit.

"Designed by the Eugenics Board'?  Now there's a possibility."

"Enough!"  Laughing harder, she waved her hands to stop me.

"If you keep this up, I'll lose my professional credibility.  Nobody
buys insurance from a woman who laughs too much.

"Come on."  She gestured me toward the door.

"If you insist on charming me off my feet, at least do it in the coffee
shop so I can hear you better."

Charming her?  Me?  I wanted to look around, see who she meant.  But I
wasn't buying insurance from her.  I was buying risk.

"Lead on," I told her gallantly.

"I'll join you as soon as I tell Mr.  Appelwait where I'm going."

She already knew that I worked for The Luxury.

Smiling over her shoulder, she moved to the doors.  I took about two
seconds to catch Bernie's eye and signal my intentions.  Then I
rejoined her so fast you'd have thought I was pouncing.  Unsteadily I
accompanied her to the coffee shop.

The place was still generic, but she made it look tawdry as well.  The
plastic flowers brandished their artificiality over wilted tablecloths,
spotted tumblers, stained flatware, and a ratty carpet bestrewn, as you
might say, with crumbs.  The neat freak inside me squirmed.  I wanted
to leave the hotel, go somewhere nicer, but I couldn't afford to stay
away from my job that long.

Manfully I set my distaste aside.

Her shining eyes and warm smile made it easy.  Under her influence, I
forgot all about cleanliness.

For a while I was so befuddled by hormones and longing that I hardly
noticed what we did.  We must've ordered some food, because eventually
we ate something.  And she must've asked me a lot of questions, because
otherwise why was I talking so much?  But none of it caught my
attention.  Fog filled my head.  What was she doing here?  That's what
I wanted to know an alcoholic's question.  What did she have to gain?

We'd been there for half an hour before I achieved the surprising
realization that my fist was wrapped around a cup of coffee while she
drank red wine.  Alcohol usually shouts at me as soon as it enters the
room.  The fact that I hadn't actually noticed its presence for so long
hit me hard enough to shake my brain out of its trance.

She'd been quizzing me about my background.  How had I become a private
investigator?  Why was I in a temporary job like tournament security?
Did I enjoy it?  What sort of work did I do best?  If her manner hadn't
been so personal, she could've been conducting an interview.

But one of her questions was, "Are you involved with anyone, Brew?"
Apparently this wasn't a job interview.

That sharpened my attention in a hurry.

"I guess it depends on what you mean by 'involved."  I had a partner
for years.  And we were definitely involved.  But that's changed.  We
became" I shrugged awkwardly "less involved a while ago.  And just
recently she stopped calling me her partner.  I still haven't figured
out where I stand with that."

Her lips seemed to moisten themselves.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."  That was honest, anyway.

"I'd much rather find out whether you're involved with anyone."

She gave me a glistening smile.

"Let me think.  I had dinner with Sammy once, about a year ago.  And
Alex you've met Alex

Lacone, haven't you?  he propositions me whenever we have a minute
alone.  Does that count?"

I dismissed Posten and Lacone.

"No one else?  I find that hard to believe.  I wasn't actually kidding
when I mentioned men lined up around the block."  Her pheromones had
practically pole axed me.  Surely they affected other males the same
way.

"Thank you."  Accepting the oblique compliment.

"I'll tell you the truth, Brew.  I think you've been honest with me,
and I want to do the same.

"I'm an ambitious woman.  If I have my way, I'll end up running
Watchdog Insurance.  And " She hesitated.

"Oh, how should I put this?  I don't usually talk about it."  For a
moment she studied the tablecloth.  When she raised her eyes again,
they were full of complex colors.

"Sex works for me," she said carefully.

"I don't mean I'm 'sleeping my way to the top."  But I like sex a
lot.

"Oh, it helps me along.  The men I want to work with pay more attention
because they find me attractive.  I'm comfortable with that.  But I
don't confuse pleasure and ambition.  If I find a man attractive, I
keep it to myself unless who he is and what he does are irrelevant to
my career.  When I'm clear on that point " She hesitated again, but for
a different reason this time.  The smile that spread across her face
radiated enough heat to make me sweat.

"What can I say?  I like men who really are men.

"And I don't meet many."  Chuckling at the expression on my face, she
explained, "I think most of them are afraid of me.

"I don't mean of me personally," she added quickly.

"I mean of women in general.  Or of sex.  In public they act like
walking erections.  But most of them are cowards around women.

"Mr.  Sternway is one example," she mentioned in a private murmur.

"He's a famous martial artist, respected everywhere.  But he lets his
wife treat him like dirt."  Then she laughed again.

"I mean, if you listen to the gossip which of course I never do."

I tried to play along.

"Me neither.  Heaven forfend."  But I couldn't keep it up.  Apparently
she thought that I was different somehow.  If I let that pass, we'd
both regret it.

"But I'm not sure you're right," I countered.

"I can't speak for Sternway, so let's take me as an example.  I'm not
afraid of women.  I'm afraid of myself.  Nothing gets inside me faster
than a woman I want."  I didn't try to pretend that I wasn't talking
about her.

"I don't just drape my coat across the mud for a pretty face.  I toss
in my whole body.  And that scares me.

"Maybe," I suggested, "Sternway has the same problem."

In response, her gaze shone as if I'd just said something wonderful.

"So I was right about you."

She confused me.

"What do you mean?"

"Mr.  Private Investigator," she pronounced softly, just for me, "it
takes real courage to know what you're afraid of, and admit it.  I
don't mind fear.  Everybody is scared.  I'm scared myself."  She smiled
ruefully.

"Or I would be if I were brave enough to tell the truth.  But I'm tired
of men who hold me responsible."

Behind her assertion I heard loneliness, a deep well of it hidden away
where most people never noticed it.

I knew what that felt like.

Mostly in self-defense, I asked, "Since we're being this honest, do you
mind if I change the subject?"  For once my own gracelessness didn't
make me flinch.

"Please do."  She flapped her hands in front of her face.

"I was about to blush."

I wanted to thank her.  Effusively.  But if I did, I'd forget my
question, so I blundered ahead.

"Tell me more about those chops.  I'm no expert on insurance.  I know
just enough to wonder why Watchdog hasn't insisted on an appraisal. How
can you insure them if you don't know what they're worth?"

With no apparent strain, Deborah shifted to a more detached tone.
Nevertheless her eyes continued to glow.

"You're right," she answered, "we can't.  But we haven't had time to
arrange a formal appraisal.  Mr.  Nakahatchi brought the chops back
from Japan only a few days ago.  And he doesn't have enough
documentation on their provenance to authenticate them.

"Purely as a temporary solution, we've all agreed on a compromise.
Until we can have the chops appraised to Watchdog's satisfaction,
they're only covered for the current price of the ivory itself.  No
doubt that undervalues them dramatically.  As both exquisite antiques
and historical documents, they're worth far more.  But at least this
way we can insure them.  Otherwise Mr.  Nakahatchi would have no
coverage at all."

Obviously this involved Lacone.  Nakahatchi's school was in Martial
America, so Lacone couldn't avoid some of the risk.

"Still, I'm worried," Deborah went on.

"We'll have our appraisal in a week or so.  If the chops turn out to be
genuine, Alex's premiums will rise substantially, and Mr.  Nakahatchi's
will go through the roof.  I'm sure Mr.  Nakahatchi won't be able to
afford his.  Even Alex will be in trouble.

"Despite the way he talks about it," she confided, "he's stretched to
the limit with Martial America.  He needs more schools, and much more
media attention, to attract the kind of investors who can keep his
'dream' afloat."

Then she finished, "I don't know how any of us will solve that problem,
but I'm working on it.  In fact, that's the subject of the report I
wrote this afternoon.  I'm trying to design a deal that gives everyone
enough protection to keep them going."

Her answer helped, but I wanted more.  Pushing my luck, I asked, "What
kind of deal?"

There she pulled back.

"I'm sorry, Brew.  I can't tell you that."  Her smile took the edge off
her refusal.

"Our clients have a right to a certain amount of confidentiality."

I grinned back.

"My mistake."  She was right, of course.

"It won't happen again."

Unless the chops disappeared.  Then I wouldn't give a shit about
Watchdog's professional confidentiality.

For a few minutes, we lapsed into ordinary conversation.  What did I
think of the tournament?  Did she enjoy it?  How much did I know about
the martial arts?  Had she ever studied one?  But we were just
postponing the real issue.  I couldn't mistake the undercurrent of
intensity in her voice or my own plain yearning.

Finally she leaned forward and took hold of my hand.  Her fingers felt
cool and enticing on my overheated skin.

"Brew," she breathed quietly, "there's a reason I asked if you're
involved with anyone.  I think you know what it is.  I'd like you to
spend the night with me.  I don't know you very well, but so far I
really like you.  And I'm feeling enough chemistry to set the hotel on
fire."

She didn't lack the courage to say what she wanted, I had to give her
that.  Most of my life I'd been too scared to try it.

With an effort, I shook my head.

"I'd like nothing better.  But I can't."  Just saying the words left me
hoarse.

"Not tonight.  I don't know where I stand with my partner.  My former
partner.  That takes precedence.  We were together for a lot of years."
I squeezed Deborah's fingers, then withdrew my hand.

"I wouldn't feel right with you while things with her aren't clear."

There I forced myself to stop.  If I'd gone on, I might've started to
wail.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt the way I did with
her.  And I wanted it.  I wanted more.  Turning my back on it cut into
me like a bereavement.

She didn't hide her disappointment.  But she didn't turn it against me
either.  And she didn't try to change my mind.  Instead she simply
smiled her regret.

"I understand," she murmured.

"It's always better to keep things clean."

Before I could think of a response, she signaled for the check.  Then
while we waited she proceeded to put on a display of self-possession
that took my breath away.  Instead of the stilted courtesy I expected
from her, she covered my losses with a flow of light conversation and
easy smiles.  In its own way, her air of relaxation was as convincing
as Sternway's and vastly more desirable.  I almost believed that she
hadn't taken my refusal personally.

When she'd paid the check, and we stood up to leave, she touched my
cheek lightly, like a promise that there were no hard feelings.

I still didn't know whether she'd told me the truth about herself.

The idea that maybe she hadn't made me want to weep.

Eight.

Deborah and I parted company in the lobby.  She left the hotel going
home, she said.  I went back to the tournament.  When I checked in with
Bernie, he made a labored reference to speed or maybe it was quickies
but I hardly heard him.  Deprivation of all kinds had caught up with
me, and I couldn't shake the impression that I'd wandered into the
wrong hall.  Or the wrong life.

In my absence, the whole composition of the occasion had changed.  The
floor had been cleared of chairs, spectators, and contestants, of
competition.  Maybe they'd been rolled up like rugs and stashed away.
Nevertheless the gallery held more people than it had all day, and
every foot of space around the walls was crowded, standing room only.
An air of anticipation rode the heat upward, accumulating against the
ceiling.  I felt like I'd blundered into an amphitheater where lions
were scheduled to devour every available Christian.

By coincidence I'd arrived in time for the Bill "Superfoot" Wallace
demonstration.  Judging by the barrage of applause, Sue Rasmussen
must've just finished introducing him.  Below her, a lean, bandy-legged
man took the floor and announced that he and his "opponent" were about
to engage in "a battle to the death."

On cue, the audience roared with laughter.  Everyone but me knew what
to expect.

I suppose I should've been entertained.  Or at least impressed. Wallace
was fast and flexible enough to amaze sheetrock.  He used only one leg
which was probably why they didn't call him "Superfeet" but he fired
kicks with it like rounds from a chain gun.  His hapless opponent
didn't stand a chance.

In my condition, however, I didn't appreciate the show.  Half the time
I couldn't even see it.  I lacked the moral energy.  So I Just stood
there, glazed positively ceramic, until he was done.

Afterward Rasmussen went into a spiel about all the wonderful events in
store over the next two days.  Anticipating confusion while so many
people surged for the exits, I aimed myself at the chops.  But Bernie
stopped me.

"You're done, Axbrewder," he buzzed harmlessly.

"I haven't seen anybody look this wrecked since the last time I used a
mirror.  Get some sleep.  We can handle it from here."  Then he
snapped, "Be on time tomorrow."  Apparently he didn't want me to think
he'd gotten soft.

I think I thanked him.  At the time, I wasn't sure.  He was right, I
didn't have anything left.  Saying no to Deborah had used me up.
Changing directions, I let the crowd carry me out into the lobby toward
Registration, where I picked up the key for a room on Security's
account.

The room itself was more generic everything, but I didn't care.  I only
needed a bed big enough to hold me.  As soon as I turned off the
lights, the whole world shut down, and I slept like a cadaver.

The next morning, the phone jangled me awake in a rush of panic. Phones
do that to me sometimes.  I'd let Ginny down somehow, and she was
trying to get in touch with me.  But it was just my wake-up call.

Nevertheless the jangle left me with a sour lump in the pit of my
stomach.  Pressure throbbed dully in my temples, hinting at disaster.
If something went wrong today, it would probably turn out to be my
fault.

Until I reached the shower I forgot that Ginny didn't even know where I
was.  Unless Marshall told her But that, as they say, didn't bear
contemplation, so I declined to contemplate it.

Fortunately The Luxury offered an amenity I hadn't noticed the night
before an in-room coffee maker.  While it perked, I faced the bathroom
mirror stoically and pointed a sandblaster at the fatigue encrusted on
my features.  My guts hardly hurt at all, and under the bandages my
wound was clean, but I swallowed the last of my antibiotics anyway and
washed them down with coffee.  Then, wishing I owned another suit, a
clean one, I got dressed.

I also wished I had my .45.  My only weapon was Security's cell phone,
and it didn't have enough heft to reassure me.

Oh, well.  When I'd consumed every drop of coffee in sight, I left the
room and caught an elevator for the lobby.

I was early, so Bernie assigned me to help some of his men carry
Nakahatchi's display case from the Manager's safe room, where it'd been
stashed overnight, back out to its designated place in the tournament
hall.  My guts objected, but they didn't give me any real trouble. That
was progress.  A few days ago I wouldn't have been able to lift my
share of the load.

By the time we'd set up the case, Anson Sternway arrived with his
entourage Sue Rasmussen, Ned Gage, and Parker Neill, plus Sammy Posten,
Master Song Duk Soon, Sake Bob Gravel, Hideo Komatori, and the navy
blazers who ran registration.  I didn't know what brought Soon and
Gravel here so early, but Komatori plainly wanted to check on
Nakahatchi's antiques.  Posten concentrated on looking important.

Sternway greeted Security and me with a nod, but didn't say anything.

After that Bernie arranged the rest of his troops.  Once the
registration crew had their paperwork ready, they helped Gage and Neill
reset chairs and sign-poles for the rings.  Rasmussen erected placards
listing the day's events.

My sense of premonition refused to go away.  While I strolled along the
walls waiting for Bernie, I made a discreet attempt to imitate the
poised and easy way the IAMA blazers moved, trying to distract my
attention from possible crises.  I didn't want to develop expectations,
preconceptions, which might get in my way when something actually
happened.  Nothing hampers intuition like deciding in advance what it's
supposed to do.

During the night, the AC had been set on "hard freeze," and now the
hall felt like a meat locker.  I was tempted to hunch my shoulders and
blow on my fingers.  But the place would heat up soon enough, so I
tried to enjoy the chill while it lasted.

When my boss appeared, I quit faking relaxation and crossed the floor
to talk to him.

He scowled at me.

"Axbrewder."  With his men in place, he was temporarily at loose ends
himself.

"You needed the sleep.  Today you look like you might live."

I tried to thank him, just in case I'd forgotten last night, but he
waved it off.

"You won't be that lucky again.  These gooks always run late.  They're
supposed to be out of here at nine P.M."  but by then they'll be hours
behind."

"According to the placards," I observed, just making conversation,
"there's another demo tonight.  Benny 'the Jet' Urquidez.  What're they
going to do, make him sit on his hands until midnight?"

Bernie shook his head.

"Too many paying spectators.  They run the demos on time.
Approximately.  Then they'll set up the rings again, hold more events."
He snorted his version of a laugh.

"The spectators go home after the demo.  Won't be anybody here except
the gooks and the judges.  And us.  They'll compete in a vacuum.

"Good thing they don't expect Security to supply the applause."  The
idea seemed to give him an obscure satisfaction.

I nodded.  I was in no mood to clap for anyone.

A few minutes later, the hall was ready rings set up, blazers at the
registration table, Security standing petrified watch over the antiques
and the doors.  Sternway, Rasmussen, and Neill conferred around the
record-keeper's laptop while Gage discussed something or other with
Soon and Gravel.  No one seemed to need Posten's supervision, so he
just dithered.

"It's those doors I'm worried about," I remarked to Bernie, pointing
across the hall.

"Can you cover the service corridors?"  They presented the most obvious
security risk.

"We spotted you, didn't we?"  Bernie countered.  Then he admitted,
"We're stretched thin.  But Max is conscientious.  If he's ever missed
anything on the monitors, I don't know about it.  He'll get a look at
anybody who doesn't belong."

So much for the obvious.  Nagged by the queasiness in my stomach, I'd
fallen into the trap of trying to anticipate trouble, despite my good
intentions.  Anticipation was Bernie's job.  Discovery was mine.
Discovery and reaction.

I could think of all kinds of questions to ask people, if I got the
chance.

From the dais, Anson Sternway announced his readiness.  On cue, the
IAMA blazers opened the doors, and the rush began.  Like the quick
tumult of a flash flood, or the growing roar when a hydroelectric plant
opens the spillways, the hall went from hollow quiet to thunder in the
space of about thirty seconds.  If I hadn't known it was coming, I
might've lost my nerve.

Soon I saw that Sue Rasmussen was right.  The IAMA World Championships
would be a hell of a lot busier today.  Crowds inundated the
registration table, pounded up onto the bleachers in waves, spilled out
across the rings, piled against the walls men and women in pajamas or
warmup suits, torrents of spectators.  But no kids this time, except in
the gallery.  Today was for grownups, "real" martial artists, and
everyone took it more seriously.  Even the noise had a tearing edge I
hadn't heard yesterday.  Half the people around me looked like they
were going to war.

From the microphone, the master of ceremonies called for judges.  I let
the human current carry me out into the middle of the floor.  Worry
burned on my skin like a low-grade infection.  Jangling premonitions
echoed inside me.  Now more than ever I needed to tune my instincts to
the jagged rhythms of the tournament, let them warn me when something
didn't fit.  But I couldn't do it.  I was paying the wrong kind of
attention.

I missed Ginny.

Distraction, that was the key.  Keep the front of the brain busy, let
the rest work on its own.

I took the first opportunity I could find.  Seeing Parker Neill nearby,
I angled in his direction.  He stood in the crowd with spectators and
contestants frothing past him like water on both sides.  I joined him
in the eddy.

"Got a minute?"  I had to raise my voice against the clamor.

"You're probably busy.  But I wanted to ask you something yesterday,
and I forgot."

"Ask away."  He sounded tired worn down by his longing for competition,
if Ned Gage understood him.

"By now I don't have a lot to do.  Tournament coordination is all
preparation."  He grimaced.

"Today my biggest headache will be deciding how to adjust the schedule
when we fall behind."

By way of preamble, I offered, "Well, if you don't mind my ignorance "
But he didn't react, so I forged ahead.

"I heard a couple of things that didn't seem to fit the I don't know
what to call it the 'seriousness of the occasion."

" The alleged quest for perfection of character.

"One of your competitors was sneering at 'soft styles."  And apparently
Nelson Brick's boy called Tae Kwon Do 'a toy martial art."  But I
thought " I wasn't quite sure how to say what I meant politely.

"You thought," Parker finished for me, "martial artists are supposed to
have more respect.  Is that it?"

Close enough.  I nodded.

"They are," he stated flatly.

"Any teacher who doesn't train his students to honor all the martial
arts doesn't deserve to have students.  But in practice " He
shrugged.

"It's a complicated problem."

He looked around the hall in case anyone needed him.  Then he started
to explain.  I expected to hear boredom in his voice, the weariness of
an expert discussing advanced concepts with a tyro, but I didn't.
Instead he gathered animation as he talked.  Ned Gage was right about
him.  Neill was a true believer who needed a chance to express
himself.

"For one thing," he told me, "schools and styles are often parochial.
Secretive.  Some of them think they'll lose their effectiveness if
other people know what they do.  And some are afraid to admit they can
be beat.  They teach their students to think their school is the only
pure one, or their style is the only one that really works.  They
concentrate on what they already know.  Anything that doesn't come out
of their own traditions, they ignore.  And they sneer at everything
else.

"The result," he pronounced categorically, "is bullshit.  Truck-loads
of it.  On one side, some schools refuse to join the LAMA or compete
because they believe they'll be corrupted by outside influences.  And
on the other "Nelson Brick is a good example.  His students aren't here
to learn.  They're here because he expects them to prove his style is
better than anybody else's."

Conviction gleamed in Parker's eyes.

"But in fact there are no better styles.  Or worse ones, either.  There
are only better and worse martial artists.  The styles simply solve
different problems, or solve the same problem in different ways."

Around us, the in-rush accumulated toward critical mass.  If the
ceiling hadn't been so high, the din would've been deafening.  Already
the temperature had started to climb.  Watching vaguely while I
listened, I saw several of the masters begin to gather their schools.
Nakahatchi sat on one of the bleachers as close as he could get to his
display.  Hideo Komatori and a group of canvas pajamas attended him
like spear-carriers.

Parker lowered his voice confidentially.

"That's what makes

Sternway sensei's accomplishments so amazing.  I never would've
believed that he could get so many schools and martial artists to join
the lAMA.  And I would have bet money that he couldn't talk Nakahatchi
sensei, Master Soon, Sifu Hong, Soke Gravel, and even Brick into
joining Martial America."

Then he resumed his explanation.

"That's one side of the problem.  Nationalism is another we talked
about that yesterday.  And then each style has it own personality and
philosophy.

"As a crude generalization, you could divide the martial arts into
'hard' and 'soft' styles.  Hard styles like Shotokan, Shorin-Ryu, and
Muay Thai are ballistic, linear."  His tone hinted at fervor.

"They're designed to counter your attack with an attack of their own.

"Soft styles Aikido, Wing Chun, Judo are circular.  They don't
counterattack, they redirect.  You jump at a hard stylist, and he
breaks your ribs.  You jump at a soft stylist, and he plants your face
in the dirt.

"Obviously," he added, "the best fighters are the ones who can do
both."

It was obvious if you accepted the basic proposition that any martial
art deserved to be studied at all.  But my perspective on violence
didn't square with his.  I knew from experience that when someone fired
a gun at you, you didn't care about whether he was attacking or
defending.  You cared about how badly you were hit.

Until I saw Hong Fei-Tung settle himself and his phalanx of silk
pajamas near the wall as far as he could get from Essential Shotokan, I
didn't realize that I'd been watching for him.  He was on my list.  If
I couldn't get him to tell me something useful about those chops, I'd
have to look for another line of work.

For now, however, I wanted to keep Neill talking.

"That doesn't explain why a hard stylist would sneer at soft styles. Or
why the IAMA keeps them separate."

Parker nodded.

"That's because the soft styles aren't as popular.  People like to
bang.  And soft stylists don't seem to have the personality for
self-promotion or the philosophy.  They don't recruit as effectively
as, say, Tae Kwon Do does.

"Three quarters of our competitors are hard stylists.  So are at least
ninety percent of the judges.  And most of them aren't qualified to
judge anything else.  We keep the soft styles separate because we want
to give them a fair chance.  Otherwise they'll be overwhelmed by sheer
numbers if they aren't alienated by bad judging."

I considered this for a moment, then admitted, "I'm still confused.
Isn't Tae Kwon Do a hard style?  So why does Brick consider it a
toy?"

Neill smiled without much humor.

"I said it's complicated.  That insult has to do with the difference
between a sport and a martial art."

Now he sounded sour, like a man with a mouthful of alum, trying to
stifle scorn.

"Tae Kwon Do is the Korean national sport.  It's backed by their
government.  And they're" he sighed "well, putting it crudely, they're
imperialistic.  They want worldwide recognition that doesn't confuse
them with karate or kung fu.

"They're after the kind of news coverage they can only get from
competitions.  And they need to attract kids, lots of kids.  Of
course," he explained unnecessarily, "the two go together.  More
competitors means more coverage.  More coverage means more
competitors."

Already the stands were nearly full.  Schools gathered in knots, making
shoals for the spectators to surge around.  Black belts shifted past us
on their way to the staging area.

Parker cleared his throat like he wanted to spit.

"There's just one catch.  To get what they want, they have to
demonstrate that Tae Kwon Do is essentially safe.  That means rules.
Sports require rules.  Parents demand rules for their kids."  He
shrugged.

"We have a fair number of rules here.

"But no martial art does that."  I heard a tent preacher lurking
somewhere in the bushes of his personality.

"One way or another, they're all designed to save your life when
somebody wants to hurt or kill you.  They don't care about rules.  If
you aren't ready and able to repay any harm that conics your way, you
might as well surrender."  He made the word sound like an accusation.

"So if all your training relies on rules " He sighed again, letting
some of his enthusiasm go.

"That's why boxing isn't a true martial art.  Boxers can assume they
won't be kicked in the groin or gouged in the eyes.  They're protected
by rules.  That makes them vulnerable."

A sizable crowd had gathered near the roped-off display area,

waiting to filter in for a look at the chops.  Sammy Posten hovered
nearby as if he wanted to strip-search everyone, but he was wasting his
time.  The crowd defended Nakahatchi's antiques as well as Bernie's
guards did.  Those chops were in more danger in the Manager's safe room
than they were here.

"I hate to agree with Brick," Parker went on in a distant tone, "but
sometimes TKD deserves to be called a toy.  I've even heard Sternway
sensei use that term."  Right away, however, he added, "Of course, he
wasn't talking about Master Soon.  His Tae Kwon Do Academy still
teaches a real martial art."

Up on the dais, Sue Rasmussen stood at her mike sorting papers like she
was about to begin mastering the ceremonies.  I hurried to ask the
question that she and Sternway hadn't answered to my satisfaction.

"But how is that different than what you do?  If this tournament
depends on rules, isn't it just a toy?"

Then I braced myself, just in case Neill's evangelical streak got the
better of him.

He looked around the growing crowd for a moment.  When he was ready to
respond, he drawled indulgently, "I'm sure it looks that way."  I guess
he'd decided to spare my life.

"You haven't seen much of it.  But the difference is real, believe me.
When a martial artist competes, he accepts the rules, he doesn't depend
on them.  He isn't handicapped by them.  If his opponent throws an
illegal technique, he deals with it.  He isn't at its mercy.

"And he doesn't," Parker stated, "stand around waiting for the ref to
call a foul."

Clearly he hadn't taken offense.  In his own way, he seemed as secure
as Ned Gage.  And I understood his point.  The distinction made
sense.

By then Anson Sternway had walked out into the center of the floor. The
tournament was about to start.  I thanked Parker quickly and let him
go.  He gave me a polite smile and moved away.

Half a minute later, Sue called the hall to attention, and everyone
jumped upright.  Almost in unison, they bowed to His Royal Highness
Sternway.  A beat behind them, I did the same.  He repeated yesterday's
response, and a raw ovation answered him like the roar of Romans hungry
for carnage.  At once Rasmussen launched into her opening spiel and the
announcement of events.

Day Two of the LAMA World Championships was underway.

Clenching my fists in my pockets to contain my enthusiasm, I eased out
of the way as judges moved to the rings, competitors headed toward the
staging area, and spectators jockeyed for positions in the stands.

Briefly I considered going to talk to Hong, then decided against it.
There was too much confusion, and I didn't want to shout my questions
at him.  Better to wait until the tournament settled down, and I could
be sure that no one from Essential Sho-tokan might hear me.

Instead I picked my way toward the dais.

Before I got there, I crossed paths with Sammy Posten in mid-dither.
However, he made time to grab hold of my arm when the currents of the
crowd slapped us together.

"Axbrewder!"  I could hardly hear him through the noise, but congested
self-importance filled his face.

"We need to talk."

I didn't want to hear it.  Sadly, being polite was part of the job.
Instead of wrenching Posten's fingers, I used the pressure of movement
around me as an excuse to twitch my arm loose.

"What about?"

Trying not to look as short as he was, he pushed his face up at me.

"I don't like the way you're doing your job."

That didn't surprise me.  I had the impression that he didn't like the
way anyone did their jobs.  But he'd handed me a chance to practice my
snappy repartee, and I didn't want to miss it, so I said, "Huh?"

From the microphone, Sue Rasmussen identified rings for men's brown
belt and women's soft style kata.  On the way to their assignments,
competitors, judges, and spectators jostled Posten and me until we
practically stood on each other's shoes.  I had to scrunch down my chin
in order to meet his glare.  Would've served him right if I'd drooled
in his eyes.

"You're being too obvious," he informed me indignantly.

"You aren't here to stop fights.  You're here to take up the slack
while Security protects Nakahatchi sensei's display.  You can't do that
if you go around calling attention to yourself."

Fortunately I had enough bulk to make the people behind me shift back a
bit.  Minding my manners was tough enough without getting a crick in my
neck at the same time.

"Oh," I said.

"I get it."  Axbrewder receiving enlightenment.

"You don't want claims for petty theft.  You prefer personal-injury
lawsuits."  I smiled sweetly.

Minding my manners wasn't one of my best skills.

"Don't be a smart-ass," he snapped.

"Those chops are worth as much as a personal-injury settlement any
day."

"Mr.  Posten."  I made an effort to control myself.

"This place is packed with people who consider themselves stone
killers.  You'd need a squad of Navy Seals just to get at those chops."
Nakahatchi's antiques simply weren't worth so much trouble.

"What's the danger, exactly?"

"Use your imagination," Posten fired back.  He was on a mission.

"The crowd makes perfect cover.  Five guys do it together.  One picks a
fight like the one you were in.  A distraction.  Two break the glass,
get the chops.  The others mess with the guards.  In the confusion, no
one sees who has the chops.  Then they're out of the hall, and we don't
have a clue who we're hunting for."

He tried to look triumphant, but he lacked the inches to carry it
off.

I peered down at him.  He was a typical bureaucrat, rendered stupid by
paperwork and illusions of authority.  Bernie had Security with radios
on all the doors, Max at the screens, the cops a phone call away.  No
wonder my boss called the Security Adviser "Postal."  But I didn't
waste time explaining the obvious.  Instead I nodded like I saw
Posten's point.

"Fine," I conceded, just to see how far he'd go.

"Then what?  Now the chops are hot.  Who's going to fence them?  Who
handles shit this esoteric?"

Hell, half the people in the country who even knew those chops existed
were probably right here.

"I was right," Posten snorted in disgust.

"You aren't paying attention.  I should never have let Appelwait hire
you.  We need a man who takes this seriously.

"They don't need a fence," he informed me indignantly.

"For the right people, having those chops would be like owning a
Gutenberg Bible.  Just counting Wing Chun schools, there must be fifty
that wouldn't care if the chops are hot, as long as they're authentic.
Those schools would put every dime they could scrape together on the
table, no questions asked.

"All those five guys need," he concluded, "is access to the IAMA
mailing list and a phone."

If I hadn't just spent ten minutes listening to Parker Neill, I
probably would've laughed in Posten's face.  But "secretive,"

"parochial" groups can get pretty bizarre.  Especially when they're
racist as well.  Just ask the victims of any militia bombing.

To that extent, at least, Posten might be right.  Much as I hated to
admit it.

Fewer people thrust around us now.  Events were about to begin, and the
crowd had started to settle.  Rasmussen's announcements didn't produce
any added confusion.  A breath or two from the AC swirled across my
face without cheering me up.

I took the opportunity to steer Posten toward the nearest wall.  When
we were clear of the aisles and the stands, I told him, "I'm paying
more attention than you think, Mr.  Posten.  And I do have some
experience.  That display is safe for now.  It won't be in any real
danger until Nakahatchi takes it home with him."

To Essential Shotokan, I pointedly didn't add.  To Martial America.  A
business complex fully insured by Watchdog Insurance.

Posten dropped his head a beat too late to prevent me from seeing the
crestfallen look in his eyes.

"That's what Deborah says," he muttered.

"I say you're both naive."

But he didn't hassle me anymore.  Ego and worry overwhelmed the poor
little snot.  He actually neglected to lord it over me.  Chewing the
inside of his cheek anxiously, he wandered away like he'd forgotten I
existed.

"Have a nice day," I murmured after him.  He was going to give himself
an ulcer if he didn't taste the joys of infarction first.

I knew how he felt.

Worrying myself, I headed for the dais to watch martial artists of
every description yell and sweat their way around the rings.

By now half the floor was in use.  Brown belts and soft style kata, men
and women.  Thanks to Neill's patience, I found that I could make out
at least some of the differences.  Not between men and women, but
between hard and soft.

In general, the canvas pajamas did whatever they were doing with a kind
of compact efficiency.  Whenever they turned or spun, they did it on
one spot.  Otherwise they moved in straight lines punctuated by direct
attacks and hard yells.  By comparison, the soft stylists were like
their silk, flowing and boastful.  They made wide sweeps with their
arms and legs, jumped and spun in all directions, crouched and sprang
in swirls of bright cloth.

To my eye, the silk katas were useless as actual fighting.  They were
dances.  They showed off grace, speed, and flexibility, but I couldn't
imagine them hurting anyone.  If I were attacked that way, I'd probably
laugh too hard to fight back.

Now I understood the prejudice against soft styles.  If the silk
outfits hadn't pretended that they were demonstrating a martial art, I
would've been more impressed.

Nevertheless I couldn't shake the impression that I was watching the
prelude to a disaster.

I didn't think the hall could hold many more people, but they kept
coming.  A few still trickled past the registration table, but most of
them were spectators.  By yesterday's standards, the chops attracted a
substantial crowd, presumably because the events the audience cared
about hadn't started yet.  But the cluster around the display wasn't
large or unruly enough to tax Security's abilities.  Bernie's blazers
maintained order with no detectable difficulty.

Sammy Posten was definitely out of his mind.

From her position of prominence at the mike, Sue Rasmussen volleyed
glares in my direction at irregular intervals, but she didn't try to
chase me off the dais again.  At the moment, Ned Gage was out on the
floor, sorting refs and competitors for more events.  Parker Neill
appeared to be chatting with Sifu Hong.  Posten had disappeared, at
least temporarily.

So far Deborah Messenger hadn't put in an appearance.  I didn't have
any reason to think she would, but her absence darkened my gloom
anyway.

Since she wasn't here, I scanned the hall for Anson Sternway.

Somehow he managed to check his paperwork at the head table, visit
Nakahatchi over near the display, talk to other heavyweights around the
hall, and supervise registration, all without any apparent movement
from place to place.  For a while, I entertained myself by trying to
keep track of him, but I couldn't do it.  Whenever he changed
positions, he blended into the crowd so smoothly that I lost sight of
him until he stopped somewhere.

It was a hell of a trick.  Vaguely I wondered if he did it on purpose.
By now it was obvious that some of these martial artists had skills I
shouldn't underestimate.

I wanted someone to talk to.  But I'd learned as much about
karate-related subjects as I could stand for the time being.  I

needed other kinds of information.  Maybe I'd do better if I approached
Hong Fei-Tung.

But while I contemplated leaving the dais, I slipped unconsciously into
watching one of the kata events without actually seeing it.  Sort of a
Zen thing.  Concentration without attention.  Or intention.  And I
discovered a curious thing.  If I didn't look for Sternway consciously,
I could tell where he was.  By an unexpected piece of perceptual
conjuring, like narrowing and diffusing my attention simultaneously, I
was able to follow his movements peripherally when I couldn't track
them directly.

I'd spent the better part of the past twenty-four hours trying to tune
my instincts to the pitch and rhythms of the tournament, but I'd gone
about it the wrong way.  I wasn't used to working in this kind of
crowd.  With nothing clearly in view except a performance I didn't see,
I knew that Sternway was over there, and Hong was on this side of his
clustered students.  At the main doors, Master Soon stepped out of the
hall for some reason, while Ned Gage made his way toward the head
table.  And Trouble.

diagonally across from Hong a slim young woman in a nondescript warmup
suit dipped one hand into a gear bag that wasn't hers, then
straightened up and moved away casually, her hand closed at her side.

My heart forgot a couple of beats.  Trying not to be obvious about it,
I jerked into focus on her.

Not really a young woman a girl in her teens.  Stringy hair, bland
features that deflected notice, dull eyes.  Nothing furtive about her,
no flush in her cheeks, no rapid glances, no instinctive twitch as she
fought an impulse to look behind her.

But now both of her hands were open and empty.

Nine.

I should've whipped out my cell phone right then, called Max, warned
Bernie.  But I'd been concentrating on her too hard I hadn't tagged the
drop.  And she'd already gotten rid of the evidence.

Fortunately I had time.  She wasn't done.  Her route took her deeper
into the crowd instead of back toward the doors.

When a pick and a drop meshed that smoothly, they knew what they were
doing.  They had experience.  And experienced teams typically included
three or four picks, all feeding the same drop.  Plus a spot, a guy who
looked like an innocent bystander to watch for problems, signal
warnings, and run interference.

I wanted to do this right, snag the whole team.  Pouncing on the girl
would accomplish exactly nothing.  At the very least, I needed the drop
But while I spent a couple of minutes failing to identify him, I had
time to remember that I wasn't the boss here.  This was Bernie's call,
not mine.

Trying to look like a dignitary on important business, I took out the
phone and dialed Security's preset number.

I wasn't good at the kind of concentration I needed.  As soon as I
focused on the phone, I lost the girl.  While I waited for the
connection to go through, I tried to locate her again.  For a ragged
moment or two, I couldn't find her.  Then I did.

The heavy voice that answered said, "Go ahead," like I was supposed to
know who he was.

I didn't stand on ceremony.

"Axbrewder," I told the phone.

"I need to talk to Bernie."

The voice Max didn't answer.  Instead I heard switches clicking.  As
soon as the line opened, I said my name again.

"What?"  Bernie demanded softly.

The girl had paused like a spectator watching an event.  Obviously her
droo hadn't circulated back into range yet.

I kept my voice low so that I wouldn't be overheard.

"There's a team in the hall.  A drop, at least one pick."

I saw Bernie's head jerk.

"Where?"

"Teenage girl.  Stringy hair.  Dull brown warmup suit.  To your right."
He shifted in that direction.  Before he did anything rash, I added,
"She's the pick.  I haven't made the drop."

He didn't hesitate.

"Then we wait."

I nodded to the phone.

"If you want to do this right."

"I want the whole team."  He was sure.

"Especially the drop.  I'll take my chances."

I pictured the possibilities.  A good team might have three, four, even
five picks roughly spaced around the hall, all working in the same
direction.  The drop would stroll the opposite way, taking wallets,
watches, money, whatever from the picks as they passed.  And the spot
Hell, he could be anywhere.  The bleachers, probably.

"I'll watch her," I murmured to Bernie.  She was my only clue to the
drop unless I managed to identify another pick.

"If I still don't have the drop when she reaches me, I'll tag along." I
thought hard for a second, then asked, "You want this line kept
open?"

"No.  If we do this right, there's no hurry.

"We've got the doors."  He meant his guards.

"You get the drop.  And anybody else you're sure about."

"Right."  I hung up with my thumb and pocketed the phone.

She was on the move again.  Casually, like she lived in karate
tournaments, she wandered past Bernie toward Nakahatchi's display. Then
she turned to cross the hall in front of the dais.

Scrambling inside, I considered my options.  If I tailed her too
closely, I'd make myself conspicuous to the drop.  And I wouldn't be
able to tag any other picks until I knew the drop.  But if I stayed
back, I might miss him.

I did not want to screw this up.

Concentration, that was the key.  The right kind of concentration the
kind I'd used to keep track of Sternway.

I wasn't sure I could do it.  I was too tense.

I needed distraction, some way to diffuse my attention, like watching
an event without really seeing it.

That gave me an idea.

The girl drifted past me, so close that I could've grabbed her by the
hair if I hadn't been faking dignity.  She had a gift for looking
aimless, vacant, like there wasn't a thought in her head.  She'd done
this before, too often to be scared by it.  Or she knew more than I did
about drugs.

I let her go until she began to sift her way among the competitors,
spectators, and gear bags that cluttered the edges of the tournament
space.  Then I retreated to the back of the dais, dropped to the floor,
and went after her.

I did my best to look as aimless and vacant as she did, but I didn't
succeed.  As far as I knew, I didn't have any casual genes.

Karate-ka stretched and warmed up everywhere, spectators applauded over
my head from the stands, contestants yelled their lungs out in the
rings.  Keeping track of her strained my nerves.  If I hadn't been so
tall, I would've lost her.

But she was moving down the hall toward the place where Hong had set up
his encampment.

He sat turned slightly away from me, with his students grouped behind
him a few Chinese, the rest obviously not.  He seemed to regard the
tournament without interest, as if it were too transitory to impinge on
his seamless facade.  His features were so smooth that he could've
posed for a bust of Buddha.  He would've looked ageless if time hadn't
marked his stiff short hair and eyebrows with grey.

I paused briefly to pull myself together.  Hong Fei-Tung might look as
placid as a saint, but I already knew that he had fire hidden inside
him.  I didn't want to get burned.

Ahead of me, the girl disappeared.

As soon as I panicked, she reappeared.  Dammit, she'd probably lifted
something from another gear bag, but I'd missed it.  Too many people
blocked my view I couldn't see her hands.  Then the crowded parted for
an instant, and I saw her strolling away with her hands loose at her
sides.

Damn and damn.  I'd missed the drop as well.

But now he had to be between us.  And moving toward me.  For the next
new seconds, at least.  Trying not to be obvious about it, I scanned
hard.

Three candidates snagged my attention, all acting like they belonged
here, all carrying bags that could've held gear or loot.  Two of them
wore warmup sweats.  The other had on a white gi with an TAMA

I dismissed the karate-kaIn that getup he couldn't escape
unobtrusively.  And the competition interested him so much that he
turned his head to watch every time he heard a yell.

The man right in front of me wasn't a likely candidate either.  He wore
light blue sweats and the toned whippet look of a sprinter.  But he
carried his bag wrong, zipped up tight, with his near hand hooked under
the strap over his shoulder.  He couldn't have accepted a handshake
without making a production out of it.

That left a heavyset guy in dingy sweats the color of used bandages. He
was only a couple of inches shorter than me, and at least forty pounds
heavier, but he carried his bulk like it was made out of polyurethane,
light enough to levitate.  Dull eyes, a broken nose, jowls he could've
used to store food for the winter, brows so full of bone that they gave
him a perpetual scowl.

His black vinyl bag had a loose flap instead of a zipper, perfect for
slipping things inside quickly.  It hung from his right shoulder, with
his hand resting on the flap.

He glanced at me unpleasantly as he shifted past, but if he saw
anything that worried him, he didn't show it.  With any luck I looked
too lost, out of my element, to be a threat.

I let him go, didn't so much as turn my head as he went by.  I wanted
the whole team.  If I could keep an eye on him, he might help me tag
the other picks.

As casually as I could, I followed the girl toward Hong.

He still gazed out at the tournament vacantly, like he'd been
hypnotized into oblivion.  But his upright posture gave the impression
that he'd starched his spine, and his hands rested on his thighs as if
they might clench for blows at any moment.

As a group, his students copied him, but only a few of them looked like
they sat in that position easily, and only a couple matched his air of
being able to do it all day without strain.

I paused a stride away.  Briefly I scanned the hall, practicing
diffused concentration until I got a fix on the girl and the drop. Then
I turned to Hong Fei-Tung.

I'd already met his temper, and I didn't want to set him off, so I
bowed the way I'd seen Sternway bow.  Striving to sound respectful, I
said, "Sifu Hong.  May I speak with you?  I'd like to ask some
questions."

His gaze slid toward me, smooth as oil, and away again.  If he
remembered meeting me yesterday, he kept it to himself.  Instead he
glanced at a man seated beside him.  At once the man rose to his feet
and answered my bow.

Like Hong, he was Asian, but with sharper features.  He was obviously
younger than his Sifu, but his face showed lines Hong's lacked.  His
smile accounted for some of them, but the creases between his eyebrows
made him look like a man who took frowning seriously.  The irises of
his brown eyes held strange fragments of silver like chips of mica,
sharp enough to cut.

"I am T'ang Wen, Mr.?"  He was better at sounding polite than I was.

"Axbrewder," I told him.  For good measure, I bowed again.

"I met Sifu Hong yesterday."  Since Hong clearly hadn't mentioned me, I
added, "I work with Sternway sensei and Mr.  Appelwait."

T'ang Wen went on smiling.

"Mr.  Axbrewder.  Perhaps I may be of use?"

Sensing disasters I couldn't identify, I stifled a sarcastic retort.
Maybe having a student speak for the teacher was an obscure form of
Chinese courtesy although I suspected that the courtesy was for Hong's
benefit rather than mine.  Either way, I didn't think I'd gain anything
by challenging it.

Instead I said gruffly, "I'm sure you can.

"I hope you'll forgive my ignorance.  I've been hired to help make sure
nothing" I glanced deliberately toward Nakahatchi's display "unpleasant
happens here.  But I don't know enough.  If you'll answer a few
questions for me, I may be more effective."

T'ang inclined his head.

"If a mere novice in the study of ch'uan fa may do so, I will assist
you."

In the stands behind their sifu, Hong's students had abandoned watching
the tournament.  Instead they stared at me expectantly, waiting for a
chance to take offense.  Their distrust was as plain as a wall.

I turned my back on them.  I didn't have time for their expectations. I
needed to see what went on around me.

"Ch'uan fa?"  I asked, just to get started.

Anson Sternway now stood on the dais beside the master of ceremonies,
consulting with her about something or other.

"Here in the West," T'ang Wen explained, "the Chinese martial arts have
come to be called 'kung fu."

" He'd positioned himself so that he could see my face as well as
Hong's without standing in front of his teacher.

"The term is acceptable, but it is not precise.  The Chinese arts are
more properly termed ch'uan fa, the Way of the Fist.  Or perhaps wushu,
which encompasses all martial discipline."  He shrugged delicately.

"Like China herself, ch'uan fa is little understood elsewhere."

I heard hints in his voice that I wanted to pursue.  But he was getting
ahead of me.  I kept my questions in order.

"So Wing Chun would be an example of ch'uan fa?"

"Indeed."

Off to my left, the girl rounded the corner of the hall, still
apparently moving with no particular purpose.  I'd lost track of the
heavyset man, but when I blurred my attention I located him again.  He
remained on my side of the hall.  In another minute he'd cross in front
of the dais.

I didn't pause.

"How is it different from, say, Shotokan?"

"Wing Chun" T'ang made it sound like ving tsun "is a separate style
from a different country.  It has its own philosophy and history."  His
tone suggested a desire to correct my ignorance gently.

"However, ch'uan fa and karate are distinguished primarily by time. The
Chinese martial arts are far older.  They have been developed over
centuries rather than decades.

"For example, Wing Chun traces its immediate origins to the
mid-seventeen hundreds.  The tradition from which it springs may be a
millennium older.  Shotokan, I believe, was founded less than a century
ago.  The Japanese master Funakoshi derived it from several Okinawan
styles, among them Shorin-Ryu, which in turn grew from China.  Tae Kwon
Do was also developed from Shorin-Ryu, but more recently.

"Historically speaking, Mr.  Axbrewder, karate is the young son of a
much older father."

Directly below the dais, the man I tracked passed a younger guy, so
close that they brushed shoulders.  I was too far away to make out
details, but the younger man had lank blond hair hanging onto his
forehead and wore an open gi top over a black T-shirt with large white
letters that said, "NO FEAR."  I didn't see him give anything to the
heavyset man.  But my target's right hand slipped quickly under the
flap of his bag and out again.

Now I was sure.  He was the drop.  The younger man was another pick.

I had to admire the sheer effronterv of a hand-off rieht under the
noses of everyone at the head table Sue Rasmussen, Stern-way, the
record-keeper.  But the dignitaries were too busy to notice.

"So why was Wing Chun developed?"  I asked T'ang Wen.  Obliquely I
worked my way toward the subject of the chops.

"What was wrong with the tradition?"

He treated me to a smile that revealed nothing.

"That is an important question, Mr.  Axbrewder.  I will answer
briefly.

"Because of their richness and complexity," he explained, "the older
forms of ch'uan fa often required decades of dedicated study.  As an
example, forty years is not considered an unusual span for the mastery
of Tai Chi ch'uan.  In the early seventeen hundreds, however, the
Manchurian Qing dynasty challenged the Shaolin temples, which supported
the Ming family.  This demonstrated the need for a combined style which
could be mastered more easily, and therefore be disseminated more
widely.  Wing Chun was developed at the Northern Shaolin Temple from
five older systems for that purpose.

"You may be interested to know that it was devised by a woman, Ng Mui,
a Buddhist nun who escaped the Qing destruction of the Temple.  This is
relevant for obvious reasons.  A style intended to be taught easily and
widely could not rely on strength or weight for its effectiveness.
Rather it required quickness, flexibility, and timing rather than
force.  With Wing Chun, a small woman might well defeat a large man."

While T'ang spoke, my target passed the display and ambled through the
crowd across from me.  Reflexively I concentrated on him too hard to
see anything else.  But when I remembered to widen and blur my
awareness, I noticed a matronly woman in a blowzy flower print
housedress headed for him.  Despite the blur or because of it I saw her
dip toward a gear bag as if she'd stumbled.  Then she righted herself
with a bulge in her fist.  Two steps later, she nearly collided with
the drop.  He adjusted the flap of his bag.  When she went on by, her
hands were empty.

I hardly heard the yelling of the contestants, or Rasmussen's
announcements.  The events in front of me might as well have been
invisible.  Tension and worry throbbed in my temples.  I had a hard
time following T'ang Wen's answers.

I abandoned subtlety.  My next question sounded disjointed, but I
didn't care.

"Where do the chops fit in all this history?"

Some of the students behind me shifted uncomfortably.  T'ang's tone
sharpened, giving his voice an undercurrent of anger.

"Our traditions hold that Ng Mui first taught her new system to a young
girl named Yim Wing Chun, who had need of its advantages.  Subsequently
she taught Ng Mui's system to her husband, Leung Bok Chow.  When he was
convinced of its effectiveness, he began to disseminate the new style,
calling it "Wing Chun' in honor of his wife.

"One of Leung Bok Chow's first students was Leung Len Kwai, a gifted
artist.  Our traditions say that he carved the essential stances and
techniques of Wing Chun into a set of ivory chops in order to preserve
the system from later misunderstanding.

"We are Chinese," T'ang Wen finished with a hint of vehemence.

"We revere our traditions.  For that reason, the chops are priceless to
us."  Then he added scornfully, "If they are genuine."

Hong Fei-Tung gazed impassively at everything and nothing, as if he'd
been sculpted in terra cotta.

My target had stopped moving.  A quick check told me that his three
picks had done the same.  Apparently they'd all decided to watch the
tournament.  Or they were waiting for a signal A signal from their
spot.  Keep working, or cut and run.

Uncertainty whetted my sense of disaster to a cutting edge.  The phone
seemed to burn in my pocket.

"

"Priceless,"

" I echoed because I had to say something.

"And Nakahatchi has them."

Tangible disapproval poured down from Hong's students.

"They do not belong to him," T'ang Wen stated coldly.

"He cannot appreciate them.  They are Chinese.  I do not question the
value of Shotokan.  But Nakahatchi sensei is Japanese.  He lacks the
centuries of tradition and study from which true appreciation grows."

Out on the floor, Ned Gage adjudicated a dispute between a couple of
contestants and the refs.  Neill watched nearby, but didn't intervene.
Down at the end of the hall, a group of karate-ka swung long staffs in
elaborate patterns, presumably warming up for a weapons event.  Sammy
Posten hovered uselessly near the displayed chops.  Sternway remained
at the head table, master of all he surveyed.  He held his right arm
crossed over his chest, his right hand on his left shoulder as if to
rub a sore muscle.

I gripped the phone in my pocket.  During the past half hour, the heat
had climbed ahead of the AC.  Now it felt stultifying.  My arm ached
where I'd been kicked yesterday.

Forgetting transitions, I asked roughly, "How do you account for all
this misunderstanding of the Chinese and their traditions?"

Alarm made me sound less than sympathetic.  Several of the students
behind me murmured angrily.  T'ang Wen lost his smile.  Nevertheless he
kept his poise.

"Like the West," he informed me coldly, "Japan has an imperialistic
culture.  You have more in common with them than with the Chinese.  In
addition, you have no heritage yourself, and therefore see no value in
it.  Western practitioners are drawn to that which seems natural to
them.  You have only to look about you to see the truth of this."

Under other circumstances, I would've asked, And you don't think your
contempt for people like us has anything to do with it?  Scratch a man
who thinks he's being sneered at, and you'll uncover someone who enjoys
sneering himself.  But I couldn't concentrate on T'ang Wen any longer.
I'd run out of time.

Applause spattered the hall as one of the hard style events ended. From
the gallery, spectators waved their arms or fists.  Rasmussen pointed
toward the registration table or the main doors.  Sternway lowered his
arm.  Neill turned away from Gage and the dispute, throwing up his
hands in apparent disgust.  Pos-ten beckoned like he wanted Bernie's
attention, but Bernie ignored him.

Casual as ever, my target moved again.  So did his picks.  The girl
continued the way she'd been going, but both the young man in the NO
FEAR T-shirt and the matronly woman changed directions.

They'd seen a signal.  They were heading for the doors.

"Excuse me," I murmured to T'ang brusquely.

"Something's come up."  As I strode away, I snatched out the phone.

Signal, hell.  I'd seen a dozen of them.  Somehow I wasn't doing my
job.

The phone rang interminably before Max answered.  The line clicked
interminably as Max connected me to Bernie's radio.  I'd nearly rounded
the corner of the hall by the time Bernie's head jerked toward me.

"Yeah?"  he rasoed.

"They're leaving," I told him urgently.

"The drop and three picks.  Someone warned them off, I don't know
who."

As fast as I could, I described them.  My target had almost reached the
main doors when I finished.

Bernie didn't hesitate.

"I'll take the drop.  You get the rest."

Across from me, the heavyset man paused at the main doors as if he
could feel Bernie's stare gouge into his back.  Then he nodded to the
nearest guard, pulled open the door, and left the hall.

I wanted to argue.  This guy was too big, too light on his feet. Bernie
needed backup.  But before I could object, I heard more clicks, and the
tone of the connection changed.  He must've switched to Security's
general channel.  I saw tension flash from guard to guard as soon as he
spoke again.

"There's a team here.  I'm following a suspect outside.  Axbrewder's
after the others.  Hold the doors.  Don't let anybody in or out until
he says so."

My phone went dead.

Bernie left the hall.  I couldn't stop him.

Damn and damn.  He was the boss, it was his call.  But he was making a
mistake, I was sure of it.  I'd known it the minute I woke up this
morning.

Swearing viciously, I shoved the phone into my pocket and forced my
legs to slow down.  I had to be unobtrusive again.  When they couldn't
leave by the usual doors, the picks would look for other exits.  They
might even panic.  And the service corridors weren't guarded I needed
help.  Quickly I searched the hall.

For one frightened moment, I couldn't find what I wanted.  Master Soon
was already gone.  Sternway had vanished from the head table while I
wasn't looking.  Rasmussen stood at the record-keeper's shoulder,
consulting about something.  Ned Gage and Parker Neill moved toward
opposite ends of the hall.  Posten had already started to argue with a
guard who wouldn't let him outside.  Hong appeared to be watching me
dispassionately.  But I couldn't locate the picks.

Then my head kicked into gear, and I found them.

I had to gamble, so I did.

The kid in the NO FEAR T-shirt could probably run faster than the
others.  And Ned Gage was closer to me than anyone else I might've
trusted.

I angled across the tournament floor to intercept him.

As I approached, he started a smile that fell away when he saw my
face.

I didn't give him time to say anything.  Hunching, I whispered,
"There's a kid, stringy hair, NO FEAR black T-shirt.  Over near the
display.  He's a thief.  Don't let him out of here."

Before Gage could react, I wheeled away.

Now I only had to worry about the dull bland girl and the woman who
looked like a chaperone for a junior high field trip.  On one of my
good days, I would've said that I had them outnumbered.  But it wasn't,
and I was scared.  My impulse to hurry had so much force that I could
hardly contain it.

Bernie needed me and didn't know it.

Already people had begun to clump at the main doors, wanting out for
one reason or another.  The girl joined them without any detectable
concern.  Some of the spectators muttered complaints at the guard, but
she didn't join them.  As far as I could tell, she was asleep on her
feet.

The guard managed to look flustered and determined simultaneously.
Trying to be polite about it, he held his ground.

I plowed my way into the crowd until I reached the girl.  Smiling, I
wrapped my arm around her waist and knotted my fist in the fabric of
her warmup suit.  If you hadn't seen her quick flinch, you might've
thought we were old friends.

"You're coming with me," I told her softly.

She didn't resist.  Why should she?  She'd gotten rid of the evidence.
After one fast glance, she didn't so much as look at me.

Bulk had its advantages.  Despite the crowd, I pulled her forward
easily until I reached the doors.  A few people wanted to know what the
hell I thought I was doing, but I ignored them.

The guard nodded to me nervously, peered at the girl, then flicked a
question up at my face.  Maybe he thought she didn't look like a
pick.

I shoved her at him.  Reflexively he caught her arms.

"Hang on to her," I ordered over the top of her head.

"She's one of them.  I'll get the others."

"Hey," the girl protested eloquently.

"Hey."  She may've tried to struggle.

I didn't pay any attention.

Some of the spectators sounded like they were about to get rude. Facing
them, I raised my voice a bit.

"Security problem, folks.  Nothing to worry about.  We'll open the
doors in a couple of minutes."

Then I shouldered my way past them and headed for the next set of
doors, hunting for a flower print housedress.

She wasn't hard to find.  The doors she wanted to use weren't busy, and
she stood right in front of them.  The guard there was a grandfatherly
type with a bad comb-over and pleasant teeth, maybe a few years younger
than Bernie, and she was talking to him.  Not hassling him.  Just the
opposite.  His attentive smile suggested cronies sharing gossip.  When
I got close enough, I heard her chuckle comfortably.

I felt a pang of doubt, even though I'd seen her work.  She wouldn't
have looked less furtive never mind guilty if she'd just been anointed
by a Bishop.  Involuntarily I hesitated.

But the next second at the edge of my vision I saw the NO FEAR kid
sprint across the floor toward the service doors and almost fall on his
back when Gage grabbed his arm.  At once Gage slipped the kid into a
wrist-lock, then walked him in my direction, extracting cooperation
with no apparent effort.

That jolted me past my uncertainty.  If I was wrong, there was nothing
I could do about it now.  Bernie needed me.

By my count, he'd already been gone too long.

At the doors, I interrupted the blowzy woman's seduction of the guard
by dropping one hand on her shoulder and the other on his.  Holding
them together, I asked him quietly, "What's standard procedure for
dealing with a suspect?"

He gaped at me like I'd asked him to perform a radical mastectomy on
her.  Apparently he didn't believe Bernie's warning.  A nice lady like
her, a thief?  No way.  Hell, in another minute he might've let her
go.

Urgency gathered in my chest.  I was about to snarl at him, but he
managed to jerk his attention back to his job.  Swallowing hard, he
answered, "Detain them until the cops get here.  There's a room we can
lock in the Security offices."

The woman put on a perplexed smile and made a show of hoping someone
would tell her what was going on.

"Good enough," I snapped.

"This woman is a suspect."  I tightened my grip on her shoulder, just
in case.

"Do not lose her."

Like magic, the junior high chaperone transformed herself into a
yowling harridan.

"A suspect?"  She sounded fierce enough to intimidate the dead.

"Of what?  Get your fucking hand off me, asshole!  I know my rights!"
In another second we'd have an audience.

"You're hurting me!  Get your ."" I shut her up by digging in with my
fingers until she remembered what hurting actually meant.

"Mr.  Gage has another one," I informed the guard.

"There's a third at the main doors.  Get as much help as you need. Lock
them up.  Don't open the doors until you have all three of them under
control.  I'm going after Bernie."

I was about to add, Are you listening?  but he cut me off by wrenching
himself out of his confusion.  Quickly he snatched the walkie-talkie
off his belt, thumbed the toggle, and demanded backup.  At the same
time, he took hold of the woman's wrist like he didn't ever intend to
let go.

A look over my shoulder told me that Gage was close.  By now I knew
that he could help out if the woman gave too much trouble.

Shifting past the guard as fast as I could, I hauled open the door and
left the hall.

Colder air slapped my face, but it didn't help.

Bernie wasn't in the wide hallway between the convention facilities and
the main hotel.  So where the hell was he?  He should've been back by
now.  He'd had enough time to corral the drop and cook him breakfast,
for God's sake.

The lobby-But two steps later, another panic hit me.  Damn Posten.  If
he was right, if this was a diversion I rebounded for the doors like
I'd slammed into a wall.

Shoving my head inside, I barked at the guard, "Don't leave the chops
alone!  No matter what else happens!"

I wasn't sure he heard me.  The woman fought him furiously, and he had
trouble keeping his grip on her.  But Gage caught my eyes and nodded.
His wrist-lock supplied just enough pain to make the kid cooperative.

Good enough.  I shut the door and headed for the lobby as fast as I
could go without running.

Master Soon had left the hall earlier for some reason.

The lobby was practically empty.  A few guests lined the
reg-ist-rfltion counter, oresumablv checking out.  Near the doors, a
small group of karate-ka watched the parking lot, waiting for someone.
In the middle of the open floor, Anson Sternway stood with Alex Lacone
and Deborah Messenger, his back to me.  La-cone's fixed grin, and her
artificial animation, made me think that she was explaining the finer
points of commercial coverage.  As far as I could tell, neither of the
men noticed me.  But she managed to fling me a bright smile without
interrupting herself.

I ignored it.  My pulse had kicked into overdrive the instant I saw
that Bernie wasn't in the lobby.

Then where ?

If he'd chased the drop out into the parking lot, I could stop
worrying.  He couldn't have run down a four-year-old, never mind a
determined man less than half his age.

Had he already caught his target, taken him to the Security offices?
He'd be safe enough there.  He'd have backup.

Back into the service corridors?  I'd never find him without Max's
help.  And if his monitors showed any trouble, Max would've called for
help by now.

If I were a smart drop, and I wanted to ditch Bernie without an
audience of security cameras, hotel staff, and passersby In panic I ran
for the nearest men's room.  Fumbling instinctively at the .45 I didn't
have, I smacked open the door and charged inside.

White tile echoed the clash as the door hit the wall and bounced shut
behind me.  Stressed metal clanged like the clash of ruin, so loud that
I thought the mirrors would shatter.  The space was big for a men's
room, and as generic as the rest of the hotel six urinals, eight toilet
stalls with open privacy doors, at least ten sinks below the mirrors,
enough paper towels to mop up Armageddon.  The Luxury wanted its guests
and visitors to relieve themselves conveniently, if not comfortably.

The room was empty.  Except for the echoes.  And my thudding heart.

And the legs sticking out under one privacy door.

Thin legs, all bone too thin for the heavy shoes propped against the
tile.

Almost gently, I swung the door all the way open.

He lay sprawled in the stall like he'd been overcome by loneliness, his
head on the floor near the commode, one arm draped awkwardly over the
toilet paper holder.  Dumbly I knelt at his side.  I didn't need the
lost glaze of his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the trickle of blood
drooling past his lips, or the stillness of his abandoned chest to tell
me that he was dead.

But there was so little blood.  It had all drained out of him long ago.
Or he'd lost it to the labor of a vexed and failing heart.  I wasn't
sure how he'd died until I lifted his head and saw the narrow diagonal
welt, as bright as a shriek, driven furiously and impossibly deep into
his Adam's apple.

He'd been killed.  By a blow that crushed his larynx.

Oh, Bernie.

He hadn't even had time to reach for his walkie-talkie.  It was still
clipped to his belt.

One part of me knelt stunned beside him, nearly unable to breathe,
entirely unable to think.  He'd been chasing a drop, for God's sake, a
mere thief a man with no reason to worry even if he'd been caught
red-handed, what with lawyers and bail and good time, and courts
overcrowded with far more frightening crimes.  No ordinary thug with
even a hint of experience, never mind common sense, would commit murder
over a bag full of petty theft.

But this one had.

There was nothing ordinary about him.  He was a butcher.

While I knelt, however, another part of me the part that knew its job,
and understood how to be angry had already moved on.

The beige paint on the metal sides of the stall got me started.  It
showed scratches No, they were more than scratches, they were like
welts themselves, slashes cut so deep that silver shone through them.
And thin, no more than an inch at the widest.  One was as long as my
forearm, the rest shorter.

Another marked the inside of the privacy door.  And when I finally
climbed to my feet, I found another outside, on the support between
stalls.  Something had taken a chip out of the rim of the sink opposite
the stall.

I'd seen marks like that before.

Ten.

I took a few seconds to make sure.  Then I reached for the phone.  My
fingers felt numb, and my hands shook.  I was stunned and livid at the
same time.  If the number I needed hadn't been programmed for me, I
might not have been able to dial it.

When Max answered, the shocked part of me stared dumbly at my image in
the mirrors a rumpled suit on a too-big frame, topped by a face like a
ghoul's.  The other part told him where I was.  Then it said, "Bernie's
been killed."

Max gasped like an asthma attack.

"Shit.  Oh, God.  Shit."

The part of me that knew its job didn't care.

"Get the cops," I snapped at him.

"Then I want one guard, I don't care who.  I need him right away. Don't
let anyone else in here."  Vicious with memory, I added, "And keep an
eye on those fucking chops."

I had no authority to give him orders.  But he knew I was right.  Still
gasping, he muttered, "Shit.  I'm on it."  Then the line clicked
dead.

Echoes seemed to hang in the air the clash of the men's room door, the
screech of welts gouged across metal, the fatal rasp of Bernie's
crushed throat.  I couldn't clear them out of my head.  The numb part
of me wanted to kneel at Bernie's side again, stay there until help
arrived.  But I didn't.

Instead I moved woodenly to the men's room door to keep guests and
spectators out.

I needed one of Bernie's men.  I needed him now.  Before the cops got
here.

How long would Max take to cover everything?

A tremor spread from the pit of my stomach into my chest and shoulders.
I'd caused Bernie's death.  Indirectly, innocently, I'd brought him to
this.  On some level, I knew I wasn't responsible for it.  But I took
it personally anyway.

The door shifted hard as someone in a hurry put his shoulder to it.  I
only let it open a crack until I recognized a Hotel Security blazer and
badge.  Then I stood aside.

The man was relatively young, at least by the standard of hotel
security guards, and he'd been running.  But he looked tight with
muscle, in good shape.  Exertion flushed his cheeks, although he didn't
pant.  Below a crop of blond hair, his pale eyes hinted at frenzy
against a background of bravado.

His nametag said, "Wisman."

"Axbrewder?"  he demanded urgently.

"What the hell ?  Where's Bernie?"

He shoved past me when he spotted Bernie's feet.  I didn't try to stop
him.  Still guarding the door, I watched him reach the stall, then go
rigid with shock and stumble backward until he hit the sinks.

"Christ," he groaned.  For a couple of seconds, I thought he was going
to puke.  His bravado didn't cover this.  As hotel security, his
experience and training probably didn't extend past rousting drunks.
Violence like this wasn't in his job description.

I didn't give him a chance to think.  I needed answers.

"Wisman."  I made my voice hard to get his attention.

"Did Bernie carry a weapon?"

He turned eyes full of distress and confusion toward me.  His mouth
hung open.

"A weapon ?"

Poor kid.  If I'd had time, I might've allowed him a few minutes to
pull himself together.  But the cops were on their way, and I had no
patience for him.

"A weapon," I insisted.

"Protection.  Something to fight with."

He gaped at me stupidly.

"Axbrewder, what're you ?  Hotel regulations " If Security carried
unauthorized weapons, and Watchdog didn't know about them, The Luxury
might lose its coverage.  The hotel would probably fire every guard in
the place.

I heard a siren.  It sounded distant, the wail of someone else's crime.
But too many walls muffled it.  For all I knew, the cops had already
reached the portico.

Without transition, the tremors took over.  My knees and arms shook.  I
didn't have a stunned nerve left in my whole body.

"Listen to me."  Striding straight for Wisman, I grabbed him by his
lapels and hauled his face up to mine.

"I don't give a shit about hotel regulations.  I'm not going to cause
any trouble."

Abruptly I released his blazer and groped his back until I found what I
was looking for a hard shape like a short stick with a handle at right
angles near one end.

"You've got a tonfa, for God's sake."  In case he needed it.  In case a
drunk turned ugly on him.  Almost shouting, I demanded, "Did Bernie
carry a weapon?"

He still didn't answer.  Maybe he couldn't.  I knew his secret now I
could get him in serious trouble.

I took his arm and wrenched him forward until he stood over Bernie's
body.  I wanted to force him to his knees, make him face Bernie's
murder nose-to-nose, but I didn't.

"That wasn't a knife."  Even the back of a blade couldn't have smashed
Bernie's throat that way, or scarred the walls.

"He was killed with some other weapon.  Did he carry ?"

Wisman heaved against my grasp.

"A flik," he answered suddenly.

"It's a " "I know what a flik is."

Roughly I let him go.

A flik was a short steel rod like a baton, usually about eighteen
inches long and an inch thick.  Inside it held a tightly coiled steel
spring.  Very tightly coiled.  With a small lump of steel on the end
for weight.  A release on the handle let the spring out.  You swung it
the way you would a flail.  The flex of the spring and the added weight
gave it the force of a cudgel.

Bernie should've been able to handle almost anyone with it.  Even that
heavyset goon.

Wisman retreated to the sink again.  For a minute longer, his brain
refused to function.  Then he turned, ran some water, and splashed it
on his face.  When he'd toweled himself dry, some of the frenzy had
left his eyes.

"As far as I know," he said hoarsely, "he never used it.  The flik. The
hotel doesn't need to know about it.  The cops can figure it out for
themselves."

Absently I muttered, "Let them think the killer brought it with him." I
wasn't really listening.

"Why not?"

My tone must've warned him that I was thinking about things which
hadn't occurred to him.

"Why does it matter?"  he asked.

"Because," I told him, "it isn't here."

He didn't understand and I didn't explain.

Why did the killer take the flik?  It wasn't his.  He had good reason
to leave it behind.  If the cops caught him, he could tell them Bernie
attacked him with it.  He got his hands on it and hit back,
accidentally killed Bernie in self-defense.  Then panicked and ran.
Involuntary manslaughter, not murder.

Either he was too stupid to think that clearly.  Or he didn't care what
he was charged with.

Or he wanted the cops to know that Bernie had been murdered.

Before I could go any further, a couple of uniforms came through the
door, and the men's room turned into an official crime scene.

The results looked and sounded like chaos.  The cops inspected Bernie's
body, talked to their radios, and questioned Wisman and me, all at
once.  The hotel manager tried to force his way inside, but one of the
uniforms blocked the door until Homicide could arrive.  I focused on
controlling my shakes while I gave simple answers to basic questions.
Who was I. Why was I there.  What happened.  In what order.

Back in my drinking days, I could've done this without trembling at
all.  Then I'd been afflicted with unsteadiness of another kind.  Now I
couldn't remember what that felt like.

The bleeding from Bernie's mouth slowed as his body settled, but that
didn't make me feel better.

I heard more sirens.  Presumably now Garner's finest would keep anyone
from leaving the lobby.  They might even take a stab at sealing the
hotel.  Too late, of course.  Unless the heavyset guy was stone crazy,
he was already gone.

Vaguely I wondered if Sternway had seen anything useful.  No doubt he
was several times more observant than Lacone.

I didn't let myself think about Deborah Messenger.

And I absolutely did not let myself think about Ginny.  Somewhere
inside me, her former partner believed that he needed her.  But I
didn't want to hear it.

Eventually Homicide arrived in the form of a plainclothes sergeant and
a staff photographer.  When the detective finished his inspection, the
photog fired his flash at everything in sight.  Each burst wiped color
and life out of the room.  Soon the blare of light off the mirrors and
tile made my head feel like I'd been hit with a flik.  Bernie already
resembled a specimen pinned down on a pathologist's slide.

Apparently it didn't bother the detective.  His name was Edgar Moy, and
as far as I could tell his nerves no longer reacted to sensation.  Even
when he moved, he seemed catatonic.  He was a short black man in of all
things a crumpled trench coat.  Untidy stains of grey marked his hair,
and his mustache was so thin it might've been drawn on with an eyebrow
pencil.  He looked at everything sourly, but he didn't give off the
kind of compensatory belligerence you usually see in small cops.  I
guess he'd been short long enough to get used to it.

"Interesting wound," he remarked when he'd finished his inspection.

"Any sign of the weapon?"  He was asking all of us, the two cops,
Wisman, and me.

We shook our heads dutifully.  Thanks to the flash, mine felt like it
was full of broken glass.  He didn't seem to care.

"Who found the body?"

"I did."  I wanted to shut my eyes until the photog finished his
assault.  But even flash and phosphenes couldn't erase the imprinted
image of Bernie's corpse.  He died again every time the light cut into
him.

"And you are?"

I told him, and we started to dance.

It was all routine.  I could've choreographed it in my sleep.  But he
took me through it carefully anyway, just in case I didn't know the
steps.  When he was done, he knew everything I did about the
situation.

Except what I thought about the missing weapon.

"And you're sure," he asked, "you could pick this drop out of a
lineup?"

I grinned coldly.

"With both hands tied behind my back."

Fortunately the photog was done.

Sergeant Moy considered my forehead for a moment.

"You know, Axbrewder," he remarked in a musing tone, "you're swinging
without a net here."

I knew what came next, but I didn't help him out.

"How so?"

"You don't have a license.  And you aren't working for a licensed
investigator.  You aren't covered."

He wasn't hassling me.  I knew that.  License or no license, my
dealings with The Luxury, the IAMA, and Watchdog were clean.

No, he was warning me not to go after Bernie's killer myself.  Without
a license, I had no legal standing.  Anything I did might be construed
as interference.

In his version of the dance, my response should've indicated
acquiescence.  But instead I asked, "Don't you get too hot in that
coat?  This town's a sauna."

He didn't smile or take offense, either.  Maybe he didn't know how.

"I like the coat.  But I don't like to sweat.  So I don't put on
underwear."

After ordering me to go downtown and look at mug shots tomorrow at the
latest he turned away, leaving me worried that he already knew me
better than I wanted him to.  At the door, he spoke to a uniform,
issued orders about gathering statements and witnesses.  After that he
did his waltz with Wisman.

By that time I was practically hopping from foot to foot, I had so many
things to worry about.  I wanted out of the men's room, but Moy hadn't
given me permission to leave.  Apparently he intended to question his
possible witnesses in front of me.

Which may've been a courtesy.  He'd warned me off, but he made no
effort to shut me out.  He hadn't even told me not to call anyone.

As soon as I was sure that no one cared what I did, I withdrew to the
back of the men's room.  While Moy grilled Wisman, followed by
Sternway, Deborah Messenger, and Bernie's second-in-command, I got as
much done as I could.

Under the circumstances, Max answered pretty promptly.  He told me the
chops were safe.  The picks had been locked away until the cops were
ready for them.  Meanwhile the tournament continued as usual.
Apparently nothing as minor as a dead security guard interrupted
martial artists in their relentless pursuit of trophies.  I thanked
him, hung up, and called Marshal Viviter.

About the time Sergeant Moy finished with Wisman and started on Anson
Sternway, the Professional Investigations receptionist, Beatrix Amity,
put me through to her lord and master.

"Good timing, Brew," Viviter said cheerfully.

"You caught me between appointments.  How's the exciting life of a
field operative?"

I was too pissed off for pleasantries, so I told him roughly, "Bernie
Appelwait's been killed."

Without transition he turned off the good humor.

"At a karate tournament?  What the hell's going on there?"

I gave him the concise version.  He paused to mutter softly, "Poor old
guy.  He was an irascible sonofabitch, but I always liked him." Marshal
and I had that much in common, anyway.  Then he got back to business.

"You're in an awkward position there, Brew.  What do you need from
me?"

Sternway hardly glanced at me while he answered Moy's questions in an
unrelieved monotone.  He rubbed his left forearm once, then ignored
it.

I kept my voice down.

"First, do you know a Homicide sergeant named Moy, Edgar Moy?"

"The somnambulist in the trench coat?  He's straight, for a cop.  And
smarter than he looks.  Some people think he's lazy because he doesn't
close cases quickly.  But I'd say he takes his time because he doesn't
jump to conclusions."

I'd already heard Moy ask Wisman whether Bernie had any enemies.  Until
then I hadn't known that the detective was interested enough to
consider alternative explanations.

Moy didn't keep Sternway long.  When the IAMA director left, Deborah
Messenger took his place.  She gave me a worried look as she came into
the men's room.  After that she concentrated on Moy.

To Marshal I said, "He reminded me that this isn't my problem.  But I'm
not going to drop it.  The pieces don't fit."

"You mean," Marshal put in, "why did a guy facing a minor rap like
petty theft raise the stakes on himself by committing murder?"

"That," I admitted.

"And there's something else."

I didn't risk saying what it was, and Viviter was too clever to ask.
Damn him anyway.  I wanted to loathe him, but he made it bloody
difficult.  After a pause, he repeated his earlier question.

"How can I help?"

"I don't know if it's possible," I told the phone quietly, "but I want
to see the ME's report.  And I want to know if Bernie ever had any
dealings with Sternway, the IAMA, Alex Lacone, the schools in Martial
America, or Watchdog Insurance.  I mean, outside his job here."

Again Marshal refrained from questions.

"Might be possible," he mused instead.

"Or not.  I'll let you know.

"Anything else?"

Moy had finished questioning Deborah.  Like Wisman and

Sternway, she'd reported that she hadn't seen Bernie go into the men's
room.  She hadn't seen anyone like the heavyset man.  When the
detective let her go, she threw me another anxious look, but didn't
hesitate on her way out.

Next the uniforms in the lobby admitted Bernie's designated
second-in-command, an untidy man named Slade who managed to make his
blazer look slept in.  I wanted to concentrate on what he said, but I
needed one more thing from Marshal.

"Can you give me a direct phone number?  In case I have to get in touch
with you fast?"

"Sure."  He recited a number.

"That's my cell phone.  It's always on."

Brusquely I thanked him and hung up.

Slade was telling Moy, "You want to talk to Max Harp.  He's on monitor
duty.  If one of our cameras saw it, so did he.  But the odds aren't
good."  Then he added, "Of course, we keep everything on tape, at least
for a couple of weeks."

His tone gave off hints of truculence or defensiveness.

Prodded for more, he explained that the Security cameras in the lobby
only swept this men's room door at intervals.  On top of that, images
at the edges were blurred.  Even if one of the cameras happened to
swing in the right direction at the right time, it focused on more
vulnerable locations, like registration and the cashier's desk.

Moy made Slade go over it a couple of times, but I stopped listening.
So much for catching the drop on tape.

The detective received the news with his usual enthusiasm.  He said,
"We'll talk to Mr.  Harp," the way he might've said, It's raining off
the coast of Bangladesh.

"But while you're here, you can help with something else.

"Did Mr.  Appelwait have any enemies?  Do you know of anyone who
might've wanted him out of the way?"

Slade scowled.

"Why would he?  We're hotel security.  It's not the kind of job that
makes enemies."  Now he sounded bitter, like a man who hadn't forgiven
life for wounding his self-importance.  But the detective stared at him
nervelessly, and he finally conceded, "Some of the men don't like him
very much."  He may've meant, I don't like him very much.

"But we all think he's OK."  After a moment, he added, "He's fair with
us.  And he backs us up when the brass get a twist in their shorts."

"Interesting," Moy observed.  He didn't sounded interested.  With a
shrug, he dismissed the senior guard.

As Slade left, a uniform came in and whispered something to Moy, then
withdrew when Moy nodded.  Casually the detective turned toward me.

"Axbrewder," he inquired numbly, "what's your connection to Ms.
Messenger?"

He startled me.  I almost retorted, What fucking business is it of
yours?  But I caught myself in time.  Instead I kept my mouth shut,
looked confused, and waited for an explanation.

"I've just been told," he said slowly, "that when she heard we wanted
to question her, she asked, "Has anything happened to Brew?"  I assume
that's you?"

I did my best to shrug, but it felt like a flinch on my shoulders.  I
didn't know what to make of Deborah's concern.

"There's no connection," I replied as smoothly as I could which
probably meant that I sounded like I wanted to hit him.

"I met her for the first time yesterday.  We had dinner together.  It
didn't go anywhere.  End of story."

That last assertion was a lie.  But the truth had nothing to do with
Bernie, or the heavyset man, or my job here.  Besides, I didn't trust
her reaction.  Or mine.

"She didn't find you attractive?"  Moy considered the notion.

"I can't imagine why."  Despite his general catatonia, I thought I saw
a spark of humor in his eyes.

Finally the stretcher boys arrived.  After Moy signed a couple of forms
for the ME, and Bernie was carted out, I was released.

The urgency of my desire to get away had eased a bit.  The chops hadn't
been touched.  Instead of rushing back to the tournament, I wanted to
follow Bernie's cart all the way to the ambulance.  He deserved at
least that much attention.  At the same time, I had an impulse to join
Moy when he went to question Max.

But I didn't do either one.  I'd been sequestered for the better part
of an hour plenty of time for reality to shift on its axis, assume an
entirely new bearing.

As I left the men's room, I saw Ginny.

There were dozens of people in the lobby now cops and hotel staff,
curious guests, martial artists, plus Deborah and Ned Gage, who'd
presumably helped Security lock up the picks but I hardly noticed them.
The lobby itself was the size of an aircraft hangar, and lit like a
playing field, but suddenly it seemed to contract around me,
concentrating like the focus of a searchlight.  Voices and feet
scattered echoes off the tile floor, the glass of the high windows, but
they meant nothing to me.  I had time to wonder just for a second how
my life had come to this.  Then I went for her like a gale-force
wind.

She was here because she cared about me, had to know whether I was all
right.

Or because she thought I couldn't cope without her.

Or because she felt guilty Her eyes held the hawk I loved, the raptor
avid to strike.  Her jaw lifted at a combative angle, tightening to
knots at the corners.  Glints of light as cutting as serrations caught
on the edges of her claw.  Her purse hung over her shoulder, in easy
reach.  She could pull her .357 and fire faster than I could spit.

She terrified me.  Always had.  But none of that mattered now.

With a lifetime's abandonment in my voice, I demanded softly, "What the
fuck do you think you're doing here?"

She gave me a grin like the arc of a circular saw.

"Hello, Brew.  It's nice to see you, too."

I was supposed to respond in kind detached sarcasm, a sardonic
bantering tone to blunt the loss.  We'd treated each other that way for
years, when we didn't know what else to do.  But I no longer had it in
me.

She'd left me for Marshal Clamping a grip onto her left arm above the
elbow, I drew her toward the nearest wall.  I couldn't afford to make a
public spectacle of myself.  I wanted to keep my job.

For some reason, she didn't resist, even though she hated being
manhandled.

When we reached the wall, I let her go.

"I'm not playing here, Fistoulari."  She was tall, but I had the weight
and inches to loom over her.

"If I have to, I'll shout until they can hear me back home.  What the
?"

"Calm down."  She kept her grin.

"You don't have to yell.  Marshal told me what happened.  The outlines,
anyway.  I wasn't far away, so I came to see if you need help."

Oh, sure.  Like that made sense.  She wasn't far away.  So she came to
see if I need help.  I wouldn't have believed her if she'd crossed her
heart and hoped to die.

In the back of my head, I knew I wasn't this angry at her.  Not for
jerking me around, anyway.  Her presence simply gave me an outlet for
fury and grief that couldn't do Bernie any good.  But I'd spent too
many years holding back, and all at once I'd had enough of it.

Clenching my teeth, I rasped softly, "You don't have the right.  You
don't have the right to ask me anything, or offer me anything, or
fucking tempt me with anything.  I'm not your partner anymore,
remember?  You ditched me."  Somehow I managed not to add, So you could
go screw goddamn Marshal Viviter.

"You gave up all your rights with me."

That reached her somewhere.  Her grin fell away.  Gradually the smolder
in her grey eyes faded to the softness of ash.  She caught her lower
lip between her teeth, then released it.  For a moment I could see the
marks on her skin.

Quietly she said, "This isn't easy for me, either."

I jumped in before she could go on, "I don't want to hear it.  You
didn't ask me whether I wanted to be ditched.  You just did it.  I
don't care whether it's easy for you or not."

Instead of flaring back, she nodded.

"You're right."

Which surprised me so much that I took an internal step backward.

"I'm not being consistent," she went on.

"I know that.  It must be making you crazy.  But I feel like I've
abandoned you, and I don't like it.  That's why I called Marshal.  I
wanted to know how things were going for you.  I guess I was looking
for reassurance."  She scowled at the idea.

"When he told me you had a killing on your hands " Discomfort lifted
her shoulders.

"I didn't think.  I just came here."

I flinched.  Why was it suddenly so impossible to be furious at her?
Somehow she'd raised the stakes on me.  Again.  Now I had to be
careful.  No matter how I felt.

"All right," I said.

"All right."  I didn't try to sound calm, but I measured every word.

"I can deal with that.  I probably would've done the same."

She seemed to appreciate the concession, but I didn't dwell on it.

"It's still wrong," I told her flatly.

Her eyes narrowed.  Tension in her forearms flexed the hooks of her
claw.  "

"Wrong'?"

I retreated again.  Looking for the truth.  Attacking her was a luxury
I could no longer afford.

"I mean it's the wrong way to go about it," I said more carefully.

"You ditched me for a reason.  Maybe it was a good reason."  With an
effort that twisted my guts, I admitted, "I'm so angry about it because
I don't want to admit that you might be right."  I hated honesty. Being
flayed alive would've been more fun.  Nevertheless I didn't stop.

"But the fact that I happen to be in the middle of a mess doesn't
cancel what you did.  You can't have it both ways.  You're either in or
you're out.

"We both are."

Recognition darkened her gaze.  She looked away to hide her distress.

"Maybe I need help here," I went on.

"Maybe I don't.  But you can't decide that for me."  Abruptly a new
rush of anger surged through me.  Too furious to shout, I finished like
the slice of a blade, "You have to wait until I fucking ask."

Which I was not going to do.  I'd kiss Marshal's feet before I'd let
her have everything her own way again.

Ginny bit her lower lip so hard that I feared she'd draw blood.  Her
hand made small broken gestures that didn't go anywhere.

Sighing, she murmured, "I understand."

Deborah had said that last night.  I was getting good at rejecting
women.

But Ginny wasn't done.  In the same tone, she added, "When I want help,
I'll ask for it."

Oh, sure.  If she'd given me a chance, I might've said something bitter
and hurtful and completely beside the point.  She was Ginny by-God
Fistoulari, and she loathed herself when she needed help.  But she
turned her back on me and walked away before I fell victim to my usual
charm.  Her stride as she crossed the lobby had the harsh precision of
a machine press, forcing a new shape on metal too hot to resist.  When
The Luxury's automatic doors slid shut after her, I felt more alone
than I'd ever been in my life.

Sam Drayton had told me that I was stronger than I realized.  At the
moment I thought he was crazy.

I didn't regret anything I'd said.  But I hated it.  I hated being the
kind of man and having the kind of life that made so much anger
necessary.

Eleven.

Eventually I started to register my surroundings again.  That was a
plus.  Bernie was still dead.  Life didn't stop just because I'd chased
Ginny away, amputated the only part of myself I really understood.
Presumably Moy would finish asking his questions and leave.  He didn't
need me for that.  But someone ought to help Slade reorganize
Security's duty rotation, at least until the night-shift chief arrived
to take over.  The chops still needed protection.  And Sammy Posten
would be in a sweat, whether or not Bernie's death caused any insurance
problems.

First things first, I told myself.  Posten could dither without me.
However, Slade might appreciate a show of support.

I scanned the lobby, but didn't find him.  No doubt he'd accompanied
Moy to question Max.  Sternway and Deborah Messenger were gone.  I
still hadn't spotted Song Duk Soon.  Of the people I knew, only Gage
remained.

He might've been waiting for me.  When I finally noticed him, he ambled
in my direction.

"Well, that was exciting."  He adjusted his mustache with a grin.

"I've been to a lot of tournaments.  A few of them were ripped off
while I was there.  But I've never helped catch a thief before.  In
fact," he admitted cheerfully, "I didn't know they ever got caught."
Behind his good humor, he studied me like I'd taken him by surprise.

"How did you do it, spot them like that?"

I didn't want to hang around the lobby.  If I did, Posten was sure to
corner me.  Then I'd probably have to stand there while he explained
that it'd be my fault if some hypothetical dependent or relative of
Bernie's sued Watchdog for "wrongful death."  Gesturing for Ned to join
me, I headed toward the convention facilities.

"When you judge events here," I countered, "how do you decide who wins?
As far as I can tell, all the competitors ever do is yell and wave."

"I can see differences."  He chuckled.

"I've watched these events a lot.  And of course," he added
nonchalantly, "I've had a certain amount of training."

I nodded.

"One way or another, I've caught a lot of people."  That was the best
answer I could offer him.

Ned accepted it.

"Fair enough."

The corridor outside the tournament hall was no more crowded than
usual.  I felt a small touch of relief when I saw guards still covering
the doors.  Security hadn't come unglued without Bernie.  His men knew
their jobs.

I was about to go inside, but Ned stopped me.

"I fly home Monday morning," he said in a confidential tone.

"It's likely I won't be out here again until next year.  But if you're
ever in LA, look me up.  Especially if you want work.  I've always got
room for a man who knows how to catch people."

I might've assumed that he was making fun of me from my perspective, LA
wasn't much closer than Mars but the business card he pushed into my
hand was serious enough to short-circuit my defensiveness.  Once I
decided to believe him, I said thanks like a good boy.

As I pulled the door open and reentered the tournament, I took an
obscure comfort from the fact that Security still functioned.  In my
bereft state, it gave me an odd sense of kinship.

Once inside, however, I froze for a minute, stunned by the egregious
unreality of everything around me.  Bernie's murder hadn't changed a
thing.  Hell, I hadn't changed anything myself.  Ranks of spectators
still watched or applauded whenever they felt like it.  From the rings,
karate-ka bayed and thrashed at the air while their teammates,
teachers, relatives, and antagonists milled around the walls.  The
dignitaries of this hermetic world sat or talked, taught or passed
judgment or negotiated, according to their perceived duties, focused on
violence and oblivious to it.  I wanted to scream.

First things first, I reminded myself.  Keep doing the job.  If
Security could go on with no one in charge, so could I. When I got my
legs moving again, I shouldered through the crowd toward Nakahatchi's
artifacts, forcing myself to ignore everything else until I'd confirmed
that the chops hadn't been disturbed.

Which naturally they hadn't.  Posten's paranoia notwithstanding, no one
really cared about them.

So why was Bernie dead?

The guard on the display wanted to know more about what had happened. I
told him as much as I could without yelling.  Then I asked him to pass
along a message for me, let Slade know I wanted to talk to him. When he
nodded, I faced the tournament again.

Parker Neill and another IAMA blazer awarded trophies in a nearby ring.
Kata events occupied most of the others.  From the head table, Sue
Rasmussen blared the names of the winners as Parker presented their
trophies.  Obviously she didn't care what effect she might have on the
concentration of other competitors.  Sternway and Alex Lacone stood
near her, pretending to bestow benisons on all and sundry.  Sternway
rubbed absently at his left forearm while he talked.

A glance around the hall didn't locate Deborah for me.  Instead I
caught sight of Posten.  He was heading in my direction with a look of
determined hysteria on his unfortunate face.

Hoping to avoid him, I climbed the steps to the dais.

I wasn't much interested in Lacone at the moment, but he spotted me
right away and bustled over to shake my hand.

"Congratulations, Mr.  Axbrewder."  While he pumped my arm, he
broadcast 50,000 watts of bonhomie in my face enough radiant energy to
slag sheet metal.

"By all reports, you were pretty impressive.  Mr.  Gage painted a
glowing picture.  Theft has been a problem at these events for years.
Maybe now crooks will steer clear of us."

Trying not to sound bitter, I retorted, "I guess Bernie made the right
choice when he hired me."  Or it would've been, if he'd wanted to end
up dead.

"Too bad I can't ask him for a reference."

Lacone ignored my tone.  His grin left no room on his face for anything
else.

"Don't worry about that," he advised me in an avuncular way.

"We're all aware of your contribution.  Why, I wouldn't be surprised if
Detective Moy put in a good word for you himself."

"That's gratifying."  If I'd felt any more gratified, I would've puked
on Lacone's shoes.

Sternway decided to add his congratulations.

"Mr.  Lacone is right, Brew.  You've done well."

"Just my job," I told him through my teeth.

Lacone responded with a few more fulsome remarks, but I decided not to
encourage him by paying attention.  As soon as he paused, I asked
Sternway, "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

His expression didn't shift.

"Certainly."  He turned to Lacone.

"Will you excuse us?"

Lacone smiled us on our way, and Sternway gestured me to the back of
the dais.

While I followed, Sue Rasmussen looked in our direction.  When I met
her gaze, she treated me to a glare of cold fury.

It shocked me like a douse of cold water.  Without transition the
inside of my head seemed to shift.  Suddenly I didn't have any trouble
restraining my bitterness.  I didn't need it.

From the rear of the dais, we weren't really out of earshot.  However,
the tournament had enough volume to cover us if we kept our voices
down.

Sternway faced me with his usual lack of expression.  Riding a wave of
pure intuition, I plunged right in.

"Mr.  Sternway, you were in the lobby when I went by, but you told
Detective Moy that you didn't see anyone head for the men's room.  Are
you sure?"  Playing at helplessness, I added, "I don't know who else to
ask."

The IAMA director kept his face closed.

"I was talking with Mr.  Lacone and Ms.  Messenger.  It never occurred
to me to watch who went to the men's room."

Which was essentially what he'd said to Moy.

"But are you sure?"  I asked, still playing.

"I would've said that the guy who killed Bernie was pretty easy to
spot."

A hint of exasperation tightened Sternway's brows, but I hurried on
before he could interrupt.

"Heavyset, a bit shorter than me.  Dingy sweats the kind of dingy you
get when you don't do much laundry.  Light on his feet, hard forehead,
fat jowls.  Eyes the color of his sweats," and almost that clean.

He was getting tired of me.

"As I told Moy " I cut in, "I heard you."  I wasn't playing now.

"But this guy's obviously a fighter.  I thought all you martial artists
knew each other."

He assessed me for a moment, then stated flatly, "You don't believe
me."

"I didn't say that.  I just don't have anything else to go on.

You're the king of this little world.  I would've thought that being
observant was a requirement of the job."

He didn't hesitate.

"Axbrewder, this tournament, any tournament, is filled with people I
know and people I don't.  I can't be expected to recognize them all."

I didn't hesitate either.

"OK, forget the sweats.  How about people you know that aren't here?
Have you met anyone who matches that description?"

Sternway opened his mouth, then caught himself.  His gaze wandered
briefly, looking for something.  Inspiration?  A memory?

"Perhaps " he murmured.

"I'm not sure."  He massaged his left forearm.

"I'll have to think about it."

When he faced me again, he'd recovered his exasperation.

"I hope you aren't wasting my time with this.  Your question doesn't
make sense.  None of the people I know here fit your description.  If I
know a man who does, he isn't here.  So he " I had no more idea than
Sternway did what my question meant, but I didn't worry about it.
Intuition is like that.  Making sense was someone else's job usually
Ginny's.  Before he could finish, I countered like I knew what I was
doing, "Or you didn't notice him."

That stopped him.  After a moment's consideration, he nodded.

"I'll think about it.  That's the best I can offer."

If I hadn't disliked his manner so much, I might've said thanks.  But I
didn't.  Instead I changed the subject.

"So how did you hurt your arm?"

I wanted to catch him off balance, but I must've been dreaming.  He was
HRH Anson Sternway, Mr.  Shorin-Ryu 8th-dan on his own turf, and he
didn't so much as blink.

"A stupid accident."  He glanced at his forearm.

"I was walking behind the dais" he indicated the floor below us "and
tripped on one of the wires."  A tangle of leads and power cords for
the microphones and laptops sprawled in plain sight.

"When I fell, I hit my arm on the edge where we're standing."

I didn't have any reason to doubt him, so I replied piously, "I hope
you didn't tear your blazer."

He showed me the fabric.

"Apparently not."

I might've responded with some empty remark about expensive blazers
being worth what they cost, but he distracted me by staring abruptly
into my eyes.

"Why do you care?"

I smiled insincerely.

"I don't.  I was just curious."  Since I couldn't threaten his balance,
I tried to keep him on his toes instead.

"Part of my job.  I get paid to notice things."

His gaze didn't waver.

"You seem to be good at it."

Well, shit.  If that constituted keeping him on his toes, I needed to
find some other line of work.  Nevertheless I still felt strangely
lucid, defended by a sense of intuition that I didn't try to explain.

"Some days," I admitted.  In a more confidential tone, I added, "I sure
noticed that look Sue gave me."

A chink in his armor at last.  He actually frowned, and a suggestion of
darkness gathered in his eyes.

"What look?"

Mentally I thanked Ned Gage for the hint.  Grinning all over my face, I
shrugged.

"I think she likes me."

For a second I thought HRH might go so far as to insult me.  Put the
commoner in his place.  He stopped himself, however, before he revealed
anything as human as indignation.

"I didn't see it," he told me coldly.  Then he turned back toward
Lacone.

Still grinning, I headed in the opposite direction and nearly collided
with Sammy Posten.  So much for being paid to notice things.  He
must've been hovering there for several minutes, waiting to pounce, but
I hadn't registered his presence.

"Mr.  Posten."  Instead of groaning, I gave him a look of malicious
good humor.

"It's your turn to congratulate me.  Looks like I just saved you a few
bucks."

I didn't expect him to care about that, and for once I was right.

"Chump change," he snorted.

"I have bigger concerns."

"Such as?"

"Such as Nakahatchi sensei's chops.  They're vulnerable.  Even you have
to admit that now."

I frowned.

"Excuse me?  I must've missed something."  Actually I agreed with him,
but I didn't want to show it.

"I just caught a small team of petty thieves.  And I've seen dozens of
clowns just like them.  You can take it to the bank that none of them
gives a shit about that display."

Watchdog's Senior Security Adviser bristled like a porcupine.

"You aren't paying attention, Axbrewder."  His problem was, he didn't
have a quill to his name.

"You're doing your job, I'll give you that.  But you don't see the
implications.

"Everyone I talk to seems to think no one is stupid enough to try to
steal from 'martial artists."  The chops are safe because they're
surrounded by fighters who can cut down trees with their bare hands."

He was surrounded by them himself, but he didn't seem aware of the
fact.

"That's bullshit," he informed me hotly.

"You've just demonstrated it.  These 'martial artists' couldn't spot a
thief with a telescope.  What's wrong with them?  If you can do it, why
can't they?"

Before I could attempt a reply, he finished, "How safe do you think
those chops will be when Nakahatchi sensei takes them home?"

The poor deluded man looked positively triumphant, like he'd just
scored in my face.  Apparently he didn't remember that I'd made the
same point myself earlier.

This was getting out of hand.  Even I couldn't imagine what he gained
by insulting every karate-ka within earshot.  No wonder Bernie had
liked him so much.

"Mr.  Posten" I meant Postal "let me explain something.  How shall I
put this?"  I wrapped one hand around his biceps and dug in a bit to
emphasize my advantages.

"I don't care.  It's not my job.

"I was hired by The Luxury and the LAMA for this tournament.  If those
chops are endangered while they're here," I said sententiously, "I'll
die defending them."  Like that was going to happen.

"But if you're worried about after the tournament, tell someone else."
I had Lacone in mind, but I wasn't about to say so.

"It's not my problem."

Just for a second, I tightened my grip giving him something to remember
me by.  Then I turned away.  I didn't particularly want to watch his
reaction.

But he surprised me.  Instead of swearing abuse at me, he demanded,
"What would it take to make it your problem?"

I took another step or two while I fought down an impulse to wheel on
him and shout, Tell me why Bernie was killed!  Tell me what it has to
do with those damn chops!  Don't let that poor old man be dead just
because he made the mistake of cornering a moron.

When I had myself under control, I looked at Posten over my shoulder
and grinned again.

"A paycheck," I answered succinctly.

Three more strides took me to the edge of the dais.  From there I went
down the steps and back into the crowd.

My hands were trembling again.

Why was Bernie dead?  I couldn't get my mind around the idea of an
experienced drop so brain-dead that he killed a security guard to
escape a petty larceny rap and then took the flik so that no sane cop
would suspect him of killing in self-defense.

I knew the answer.  I just didn't know it.  On some intuitive level, I
already had a picture of what must've happened.  Unfortunately that
level didn't deign to communicate with the rest of my brain.

Bernie must've been killed by a man with something more to hide than a
gear-bag full of evidence.

He'd been killed because I couldn't get it.  It remained out of sight,
teasing me like the first phosphene hints of a migraine.

Well, damn.  I wanted to club my forehead with my fists, but I knew
from long experience that you can't make intuition work by pounding on
it.  I had to leave it alone, relax if I could, and just wait for it.

The tremors in my hands made the bare idea laughable.

Since I wasn't likely to relax, I did the next thing.  I went looking
for Deborah Messenger.

I didn't find her, of course.  She must've left after the cops
questioned her.  I had to make do without her.

And Ginny.

It wasn't easy, but eventually I found a little calm.  My hands still
shook, but I stopped sweating despite the steadily rising heat.  The
yelling and effort in the rings seemed to pass over my head.  Karate-ka
celebrated victory or trudged away in defeat without requiring my
attention.  My sense of impending disaster had already come to
fruition, and I didn't expect more.  Not immediately.  Meanwhile I was
just marking time, waiting for intuition or events to give me what I
needed.

The sound of my phone almost surprised me.

I put my back to the wall to block out at least some of the background
noise.

"Yes?"

Slade's voice asked, "Axbrewder?  You wanted to talk to me?"

The connection's lousy acoustics made him sound wrung out, squeezed dry
by self-pity.

I snapped back into focus.  First things first.

"What's been going on?"  I countered.

"Did Max tell Moy anything?  Is there anything on the tapes?"

"Shit," Slade muttered.

"I told him it wouldn't do any good, but of course he didn't listen to
me.  We had to go over those tapes frame by frame.  That damn detective
thinks he's being careful, but I say he just didn't want to go do any
real work."

Apparently Slade didn't care why I wanted to know.

"But you didn't find anything?"

He snorted, "No.  The camera sweeps only cover that part of the lobby
every forty-five seconds.  And when they do, they don't show anybody
who looks like your description."

"I understand," I said, mostly because I thought it might give him a
sense of accomplishment.  Then I asked, "Did Moy take the tapes?"  He
could get Garner Police Department's lab to bring up better resolution
than Max's monitors.  If he wanted to go to that much trouble.

"Yeah."  Slade didn't try to hide his scorn.

"For all the good it's going to do him."

I didn't pursue it.  Instead I put on my best Uncle Axbrewder tone.

"Thanks, Slade.  You have a lot to deal with.  Is there any way I can
help?"

He swore.

"I wish you could keep fucking Postal from chewing on my ass.  But I
don't think you can."  Then he sighed.

"Just watch those chops.  We're shorthanded.  On top of everything
else, they expect me to do Bernie's paperwork."

"Count on it."  I gave him a sour grin he couldn't see.

"If some asshole tries to get at the display, I'll make him eat it."

"You do that."

Before he hung up, I explained that I had to go look at mug shots
tomorrow.  Sourly he gave his consent.

I put the phone away.

The tournament sounded louder than I remembered.  Sue Ras-muss en
must've made an exciting announcement.

I couldn't call Marshall again.  I hadn't given him enough time.  And I
didn't want him to think I was hysterical.

Grimly I went back to marking time.

By degrees the ranks of trophies dwindled.  I still hadn't seen any of
the hard and soft stylists go head-to-head.  Presumably that would
happen on Sunday, when the "grand championships" would be decided in
each category of age and rank regardless of style.  In the vaguest
possible way, I looked forward to it.  After what T'ang Wen had told
me, I wanted to see whether the soft styles were really as useless as
they appeared.

Ginny was gone.  I had no leverage with Moy.  I'd already refused
Deborah Messenger.  And I was stuck here.  I needed this job.

Fortunately by midafternoon the ebb and flow of the tournament gave me
another shot at Parker Neill.  I found him near the display, apparently
watching events while he waited for something that might require his
attention.  By way of greeting, he took a turn bronzing my laurels, so
I decided to risk a question that might interest Marshal.

"Got a minute?"  All this courtesy made me sound positively unctuous.

Against the weight of his habitual sag, he lifted his vague nose to
smile at me.

"Sure.  For all I know, I've got twenty."

I smiled back to disguise what I had in mind.

"Maybe you can satisfy my curiosity.  There's a rumor going around" I
flapped a hand at the hall to indicate no particular source "that Anson
Sternway and Sue Rasmussen are in bed together."

Suddenly I couldn't remember where I'd gotten the impression that
Parker was plump.  His flesh seemed to lift and tighten until it fit
him like Spandex.  Unexpected lightness almost raised him off the
ground.

"Listen to me, Axbrewder."  A curdling glare filled his face with
threats.

With the index finger of his right hand, he reached out and touched me
lightly over my heart.

Or it should've been lightly.  He didn't put any force into it that I
could see.  But when he tapped me I felt a jab of pain as if he'd
hammered an awl between my ribs.  For an instant I couldn't breathe.

No one touches me.  Not like that.

Reacting on instinct, I flung a punch at his head.

I'd always thought I was fast, but my fist didn't get anywhere near
him.  He slapped it aside effortlessly.

And he didn't give me a second chance.  All at once he stood right in
front of me, too close for blows.  If I wanted a fight, I'd have to
grapple with him.

What was left of my lucidity yelled at me to stop.  Somehow I did.

Spectators and contestants sifted past us, but they seemed
insubstantial, beyond notice.  No one looked at the chops.

While I hunted for breath, Neill said coldly, "Anson Sternway is my
sensei.  Do you have any idea what that means?  I respect him.
Absolutely.  Unconditionally.  He taught me he made me who I am.  I
don't listen to rumors about him."

I sneaked a little air into my lungs.

"Doesn't it bother you," I wheezed, "that he's only in it for the
money?"

Then I froze, too furious to restrain myself in any other way if he
decided to poke me again.

But he surprised me by dropping his gaze.  The way he sagged back into
himself told me that I'd hurt him.

"You don't understand," he said in a low mumble.

"He and his wife are separated.  He wants a divorce, but she's fighting
him.  He needs money."

Before I could come up with a flashy retort, he wandered away like he'd
forgotten what he was doing.  For a moment he looked like he'd never
moved lightly in his life.  Then a swirl of the crowd came between us,
and I couldn't watch him anymore.

Glowering, I rubbed my chest.  How had he done that?  With just one
finger?  I felt like I'd been impaled on a piece of re bar

Sternway was Sue Rasmussen's sensei as well.  Maybe that explained the
look of hate she'd given me.  Maybe in karate the students were
supposed to be so loyal that they went crazy.

"You all right?"  Ned inquired.  Somehow he'd arrived beside me without
attracting my attention.

I cleared my lungs.

"I think so."

He laughed quietly.

"That's good.  If you'd taken another swing at him, we'd have to scrape
you up with a shovel."

I was mad enough to argue the point.  Parker had caught me by surprise.
That wouldn't happen again.  But I'd lived with myself long enough to
recognize my own chagrin when it masqueraded as anger.  Swallowing a
lump of bile, I asked ruefully, "Was it that obvious?"

Ned dismissed my ego with a grin.

"Don't worry about it.  I'm sure I'm not the only one who noticed.  But
being as how this is a karate tournament and all, everybody else
probably thinks you were playing."

Then he added, "You want to tell me about it?"

I was still too angry to let it go.

"You're wrong about him," I pronounced distinctly.

Ned raised his eyebrows.

"Who?  Parker?"

I nodded.

"He doesn't sag like that because he isn't competing.  His
disappointment runs a whole lot deeper."

In an obscure way, I knew how Neill felt.  My own disappointment had
been downright abysmal for years.

Gage considered the idea for a moment.

"You may be right.  But I'm not even going to ask.  I've said it
before, he's a true believer.  True believers have that problem.  They
get disappointed.

"Don't lose my card," he ordered as he moved away.  He may've said it
to reassure me.

It didn't help.  Everyone here seemed to know too much about me.  From
Sam Drayton I expected it.  From relative strangers like Ned and Parker
and maybe even Sue Rasmussen, it made me squirm.

Sourly I wondered how far a true believer would go for a sensei who
needed money.

I also wondered how much money Sternway actually needed.

While my back was turned, the tournament had continued piling on
volume.  And the heat had grown worse.  I felt it leaning down on me
from the high ceiling despite the AC, spreading a sheen of sweat across
my ribs until my shirt stuck to my skin under my jacket.  Still the
people in my vicinity seemed like shadows, denatured of substance by
their detachment from Bernie's death.  The yelling in the rings and the
applause from the stands sounded like the feverish hunger of ghosts.

Haunted by unreality, I tried to recover my lost lucidity.  But it was
gone now.  The lingering ache in my chest seemed to block it somehow.
Between my stomach and my heart, I had too many vulnerable spots.

I couldn't imagine how Security endured this kind of work.  The
Luxury's guards must've spent most of their lives asleep.

Which explained why Bernie had insisted on chasing down the drop
himself.  He'd simply wanted to inject a little meaning into his job.
It wasn't my fault that he was dead.  He'd taken the risk because he'd
needed it more than he needed backup.

Somehow that notion failed to improve my morale.

Around me the tournament trudged along with no end in sight,
mechanically grinding losers away and leaving winners behind.  As far
as I could tell, the whole process was nothing more than an exercise in
self-congratulation.  Every trophy that Sternway and his retinue handed
out increased the lAMA's importance.  The size and number of the
trophies conferred validation, and publicity was all that separated
martial artists from ordinary thugs.

The only flaw in this caustic view was that Neill had nearly broken a
rib for me with one light touch, thereby forcing me to recognize that I
tended to underestimate the people here.

At the rate I was going, I'd make a great candidate for the Council on
Depression's annual poster child.

When someone laid a hand on my shoulder, I wheeled around as if that
were the last straw, and if I didn't start savaging people who touched
me I'd never be myself again.  Full of ire and self-disgust, I came
this close to splashing napalm all over Deborah Messenger.

She flinched, her eyes wide with fright.

"I startled you," she said quickly.

"I'm sorry."

Suddenly being myself again didn't seem like such a plus.

She must've gone home to change after her discussion with Sternway and
Lacone.  Now she wore a casual white cotton shirt, tight beige shorts
that showed off her long legs, and a pair of cute sneakers.  She looked
like a dream the kind I used to have before alcohol and loathing soaked
them out of me.

Stumbling over my consternation, I tried to apologize.

"No, please," I assured her, "it's my fault."  I held up my hands like
I thought that might placate her.

"I shouldn't have turned on you like that.  You just caught me in a
particularly rotten mood."

She smiled tentatively.

"Are you all right?  It must've been terrible, finding Mr.  Appelwait's
body like that.  You looked so upset."  Residual fright made her talk
in a rush.

"I wanted to ask how you were, but you seemed like you didn't want to
talk to me.  Then you had a fight with that woman " Her voice trailed
off.

"Ginny Fistoulari," I told her more abruptly than I intended.

"My former partner."

She nodded like I'd confirmed a guess.

"I had to go back to the office to finish some business," she went
on.

"I wasn't sure I should come here again.  But I finally asked myself"
her smile grew stronger "what's the worst that could happen?  You could
tell me to get lost.  I wouldn't enjoy that, but I've survived worse."
Then she frowned.

"I liked Mr.  Appelwait.  And I hated that detective, Sergeant Moy.  I
don't think he cares."

While she talked, I guided her through the crowd until we reached the
comparative privacy of the wall.  As her nervousness wound down, I took
a chance by saying, "I'm glad you came.  I'm sorry I gave you the
impression I might not want to see you.  I had a lot on my mind."

"I'm sure you did," she put in quickly.

"Please don't " With an effort, she caught herself.

"I'll tell you what, Brew."  This time her smile was so clear that you
could've used it to land aircraft.

"I'll stop apologizing if you'll talk to me."

I ached to put my arms around her, and the strain of swallowing the
impulse made me sound hoarse.

"You don't have anything to apologize for.  Of course I'll talk to
you."

A brick wall probably could've said the same with better grace.

Still smiling, she said, "OK, then.  If you don't mind " By degrees she
turned serious.

"I still don't really know what happened to Mr.  Appelwait.  Can you
tell me?"

I cleared my throat.  No question about it, I wanted to tell someone.
But I wasn't sure how much I could afford to say.

"There isn't a lot," I admitted.

"We had a team working the hall, three picks and a drop."  Being
cautious, I didn't mention the spot.

"They're " "I know what they are," she assured me.

"I've talked to a lot of cops since I starting working for Watchdog."

That made the explanation easier.

"They began to leave," I went on.

"I think they caught me watching them.  Bernie told me to corral the
spots.  He went after the drop.  The evidence."  I couldn't keep a
grimace off my face.

"Once Security had the picks, I tried to catch up with him.  But I was
too late.

"He must've cornered the drop in the men's room.  That's what it looked
like, anyway."  As soon as I said the words, an intuitive alarm went
off in the back of my head, but I didn't know what it meant.

"Apparently the drop decided to fight his way out."

A definite alarm.  Something I'd just said wasn't right.

Deborah shuddered delicately, then looked at me hard.

"Do you think the cops will find him?"

"No."  Suddenly I knew I was right.

"Why not?"

"Because," I said like reading it off the inside of my skull, "they're
looking for the wrong man.

"There was someone else in the men's room.  Someone Bernie knew."
Someone working with the drop.  The spot?

"He killed" murdered "Bernie to shut him up."

She stared at me in surprise and shock.

"Who?"

I shrugged bitterly.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't feel so useless."

Who could possibly have considered Bernie worth killing?  What in God's
name was going on?

Song Duk Soon had left the hall ahead of Bernie and the drop.

There wasn't anything to kill for here.  Even the chops weren't that
precious.

I didn't understand it.  Nevertheless my instincts had told me the
truth.  About that I felt no doubt whatsoever.

Luckily Deborah didn't ask if I'd said any of this to Moy.  Instead she
inquired, "So what are you going to do?"

That was easier.

"Turn it over to Marshal Viviter.  I'm stuck here for the duration. And
he has resources I don't.  I'll tackle it myself when this" I indicated
the tournament "is over."

She opened her mouth to say something.  Whatever it was, however, she
thought better of it.  She chewed her lower lip for a moment, looking
embarrassed.  Then she surprised me by asking awkwardly, "Mr.  Viviter?
Not Ms.  Fistoulari?  You used to be partners."  Her gaze fell away
from mine.

"She wouldn't have come here if she didn't want to help."

I damn near fell over.  Without thinking, I said, "She wasn't here to
help.  She came because she thought I needed rescue " Abruptly I bit
myself off.  Last night I'd refused Deborah.  Now she sounded like she
might be giving me a second chance.  If I wanted to take advantage of
it, I couldn't very well hold Ginny responsible.

"Deborah " My voice shook like my hands.  I had to whisper to control
it.

"Last night I said I needed things with her to be clear.  Now they are.
That makes it my turn."

My turn to risk "I don't know you very well.  But I really like you." I
couldn't help quoting her.  I didn't know what else to do.

"I'd like you to spend the night with me."  Then I added, "If you still
want to."

After that I held my breath.

When Deborah raised her eyes again, they were full of caution.

"Don't jerk me around, Brew," she murmured softly.

"I can take care of myself, but I still feel things.  I didn't enjoy
being turned down."

I knew how she felt.  And I was in no position to make promises.

"I don't have a crystal ball."  I stopped trying to steady my voice.

"I don't know whether you'll get jerked around or not.  But my
situation is different now.  That's what Ginny and I were fighting
about.  We agreed to go our separate ways.

"And I'm glad."  Which was true, as far as it went.

"All those grey areas were driving me crazy.

"I don't want to jerk you around," I finished.

"I want you to say yes."

Deborah didn't hesitate.  Or speak.  Instead she gave me a smile that
made the whole inside of my chest ring like a gong.

Twelve

The tournament ran until nearly midnight, but I hardly noticed what
happened.  Winners and losers, trophies, grievances, triumphs, even
Benny "the Jet" Urquidez's sparring demonstration none of it made the
remotest impression on me.  I didn't forget Bernie, not for a second.
But the rest of my attention was fixed elsewhere.

Deborah and I may've slept that night, I wasn't sure.  I couldn't
pretend that I understood her.  Her presence mystified me entirely. But
she'd told me the truth about one thing, at least.  She definitely
enjoyed sex.  That night we did things I'd never imagined.  She found
responses in me that I didn't know I had.

Yet when my wake-up call came I positively bounced out of bed.  While
we made ready to face the day, I wore a loony grin I couldn't get rid
of.  I would've felt like a complete idiot if she hadn't looked as
pleased and satisfied as I was.

Faking discretion, we said a businesslike goodbye after breakfast.  I
promised I'd call her on Monday, and finally tore myself away to head
for the tournament hall.  But she ran after me, caught my arm, and put
her mouth to my ear.

In a quick whisper, she told me, "I think you're going to get good news
today."

Then she left like she knew exactly what effect she had on me.

I ached to go after her, but I had a job to do.  Somehow I made myself
return to it.

In the back of my head, a tune repeated itself like a litany of
pleasure, although I couldn't remember the name of the song or any of
the words.

The routine of the tournament hadn't changed.  When we'd retrieved the
display from the manager's safe room, IAMA blazers opened the doors for
registration and spectators.  Today, however, the audience
significantly outnumbered the competitors.  Originally only
"championships" or "grand chamoionshiDs" had been scheduled which
obviously drew the biggest crowds but a revised listing indicated a
backlog of unfinished events from the previous day.  I'd probably be
stuck here until midnight.  Again.

Sighing, I proceeded to ignore the problem.  All I had to do was keep
an eye on the chops, watch for more picks, and wait out the day.  By
tomorrow I'd be able to collect my paycheck.  Then I could get serious
about hunting for Bernie's killer.

Marshal would've been proud of me.  With that tune on its endless loop
in my head, I was actively polite to everyone I encountered.  I even
watched some of the events like I enjoyed them.  And today the
gradually building heat didn't bother me.  I was uncharacteristically
immune to petty vexations.

Ginny wouldn't have recognized me.

Sometime around noon, the "Masters' Kata" got underway.  Since Sue
Rasmussen had advised me not to miss it, I observed it from the vantage
of the dais.

Along the edge of a ring nearby, seven so-called masters knelt while an
eighth bowed to the judges.  At this level, apparently, the IAMA no
longer distinguished between hard and soft styles.  Two men and a woman
wore silk pajamas, the rest canvas.  The man going first was Song Duk
Soon.  Among the others I recognized Hong Fei-Tung, Soke Bob Gravel,
whom I'd met briefly on Friday, Nelson Brick, and to my surprise Parker
Neill.

Brick I thought I understood.  He'd suffered a blow to his ego earlier,
so he wanted to recoup.  But why was Parker there?  I'd assumed that
the dignitaries didn't compete, if only to avoid any appearance of
favoritism.  Certainly there were no official blazers among the judges.
In fact, I only recognized one of them.

Nakahatchi.

I wondered why he chose to judge instead of competing.

Glancing around for someone to ask, I spotted Ned Gage.  He saw me
beckon and joined me on the dais as Master Soon sprang into motion.

Soon knew how to put on a show, I had to give him that.  From a cold
start, he practically exploded into dramatic blows, leaping spins, and
kicks so high they might've been aimed at the ceiling.  The fury of his
yells tugged at my guts.  Some of his kicks seemed to leave streaks of
flame across my vision, as if they'd ignited the air for an instant.

At the end, he passed without transition from violent exertion to
stillness.  He wasn't sweating as far as I could tell, he wasn't even
breathing hard.  Smoothly he bowed to the judges, then retreated from
the ring, bowed to his fellow masters, and knelt alone opposite them.

I applauded dutifully.  Like the rest of the audience, Ned showed more
enthusiasm.  For a second there, he looked like he might cheer.

The woman in silk was already on her way into the ring, so I asked Ned
quickly, "Why is Parker competing?"

Ned grinned.

"I think you upset him yesterday," he whispered.

"He wants to prove something.  Maybe he needs to remind himself he's
still alive.

"Of course" humor gleamed in Ned's eyes "he won't win.  None of the
judges want to look like they're sucking up to the IAMA."

"Surely he knows that," I objected.

"What's he going to prove?"

Ned chuckled.

"You'll see when it's his turn."

The woman in silk began before I could ask another question.

In sharp contrast to Soon's kata, hers seemed to be formed entirely of
silk.  It was a graceful flowing dance, full of sweeping arms and legs,
deep crouches and whirling leaps, but I didn't see one honest blow.
Maybe she planned to frustrate her imaginary opponent by smothering him
in her clothes.  Her approach sure as hell wouldn't do him any other
harm.

The applause this time was more spotty.  Stylists in silk cheered
uproariously as she knelt beside Soon.  Other reactions were distinctly
tepid.

"Someday," I murmured to Ned, "I'll have to ask you what that was
for."

"I'll need at least an hour."  He chuckled again.

"And even then I probably won't convince myself I understand it."

"Who is she?"

"Sai Ma.  She calls her style "Flying Crane."  Other than that, I don't
know a thing about it."

Flying Crane, forsooth.  No wonder I was so impressed.

Brick went next.  If appearances counted, he immediately began killing
people left and right.  I heard every exhalation, hard as a punch.
Hell, I practically heard his gi tear with each attack.  He didn't move
with anything like Soon's speed, or the woman's, but his knuckles
strained into his blows, his kicks went off like gunshots, and his eyes
glared white whenever he yelled.  If he put any more effort into it,
he'd rupture himself.

When he finally bowed to the judges, he splashed sweat onto the
carpet.

The audience loved it, but Ned was less polite.

"That and two bucks," he told me confidentially, "will get him a cup of
coffee.  He couldn't handle a real fight.  He'd wear himself out
posturing."

I wasn't sure I agreed.  If Brick ever decided to kick me again, I
didn't intend to stand still for it.  But Gage was the expert here.  I
kept my opinions to myself.

After those three rounds, the judges showed their score cards to the
record-keeper.  Nakahatchi, I noticed, had given Sai Ma his highest
marks.

During the pause, I asked Ned why Nakahatchi wasn't competing.

Ned shrugged.

"You'll have to ask him.  But I can tell you why Sifu Hong is."

"OK," I said, just being helpful.

"Why?"

"Because Nakahatchi sensei offered to be one of the judges.  Sifu Hong
wants to intimidate him, at least metaphorically.  Nakahatchi sensei's
ownership of those chops costs every Wing Chun stylist here face."  Ned
gave me a laughing glance.

"In case you hadn't figured that part out for yourself."

I had, actually.  After T'ang Wen's explanations, even I couldn't miss
it.  But I didn't waste time saying so.

"What about the scoring?  Why do you think Nakahatchi rated Sai Ma so
highly?"

Ned shrugged.

"I'm guessing here, but I'd say it was face again.  Nakahatchi sensei
is sensitive about the chops.  He wants to compliment the soft
stylists.  He'll probably rate Sifu Hong even higher."  He frowned his
disapproval.

"On the other side, Tae Kwon Do and Shotokan have a lot in common. They
both grew out of Okinawan styles, primarily Shorin-Ryu and Sheri-Ryu. 
Nakahatchi sensei may have downgraded Master Soon because he doesn't
approve of the direction the Koreans have taken.

"Personally.  I would've done the opposite.  I wouldn't challenge
Master Soon on a bet."  Then he grinned fiercely.

"But I'd love to find out what Sai Ma is made of."

He could have her.  I preferred Deborah.

From then on, the scoring took place at the end of each kata.  Another
hard stylist went next.  Then came Parker's turn.

Surprisingly, he no longer sagged.  Even his skin looked taut, as if
he'd condensed himself to pure force.  Instead of competing with Soon's
speed, Sai Ma's flow, or Brick's exertion, he shifted through the steps
of his kata slowly, with the effortless solidity of a boulder and the
precision of a javelin.  Each of his strikes etched itself against the
air, marked in place by the acid snap of his gi.  Wherever he set his
feet, they seemed to put down roots.  From start to finish, he conveyed
the impression that he'd transformed himself by turns into both an
irresistible force and an immovable object.

"Wow," Ned breathed through the applause.

"See what I mean?"

I nodded in spite of myself.  If I moved that slowly, I couldn't hit a
blind four-year-old.  And yet Parker had definitely proved something. I
just didn't know what to call it.

Whatever it was, the judges liked it.

Another ch'uan fa kata followed.  This one made marginally more sense
than Sai Ma's, but neither the spectators nor the judges were
impressed.

Next Sake Bob Gravel took the ring.  He was a slight man with greying
hair and a flare of keenness in his pale eyes.  A patch on his gi said
Malaysian Fighting Arts.  Before he began, I asked Ned what soke
meant.

"Founder," he told me.  Apparently Gravel taught a style which he'd
designed himself, based on a number of Malaysian arts with names I
didn't know Amis, Silat, Kali, Muay Thai.

Certainly his kata looked like nothing I'd seen before.  All of his
stances were either deep cross-legged crouches or upright assaults.
Occasionally he waved his arms like Sai Ma, but more often he did nasty
things with his elbows.  He pumped his knees a lot, pawed several
kicks, and swung his legs in long sweeps that torqued his hips into
impossible positions.

By the end of his performance, I knew I could take him if you gave me a
loaded shotgun and a good head start.  More than anyone I'd seen so
far, he convinced me that he was daneerous.

By degrees I was being forced to revise my opinion of the martial arts.
Despite my prejudices, I had to acknowledge that some of these people
knew a thing or two about real violence.

When Sifu Hong took the ring, I almost stopped breathing.

On one level, his kata resembled what I'd seen from the other soft
stylists.  As soon as he began, however, I found that I couldn't watch
him in those terms.  He made me believe that he performed a fight
against actual opponents.  Somehow every movement every punch, kick,
grab, jump, block created antagonists in the air around him. Everything
he did instantly demonstrated its purpose by forcing me to visualize
the attack it countered, the body it struck, the blow it avoided. 
While his kata lasted, I understood everything about it.  No part of it
was flamboyant or wasted.  Even his smallest gestures and shifts were
charged with intent.  They all had use.

I hardly heard the ovation he received.  Astonishment left me
practically deaf.  I felt like I'd just witnessed the birth of a
religion the moment when violence was transfigured by skill and
devotion into something ineffable, almost sublime.

Minutes seemed to pass before I noticed Ned gazing at me with a
question in his eyes.

Involuntarily I reached out and braced myself on his shoulder.

"I think," I mumbled while I turned my back on the ring, "I need to sit
down."

"Don't you want to see who wins?"

I shook my head.  Still leaning on him, I retreated to the back of the
dais.  There I seated myself heavily and dropped my legs over the
edge.

"Brew?"  Ned asked.

"You all right?"

"Yes."  I sighed.

"No."  Then I made an effort to pull myself together.

"I just realized something."

Ned sat down companionably beside me.

"I know what you mean.  Sifu Hong is amazing."

I shook my head again.

"Something else."  Of course Hong was amazing.  But I'd been gripped by
a perception that resembled ecstasy, a moment of intuition so acute
that it might as well have been metaphysical.

"Like what?"

I took a deep breath and held it until the pressure grew strong enouah
to steady me.  Then I let it out.  When it was all gone, and my lungs
were clear, I told him, "I haven't been taking those chops seriously
enough.  They're worth killing for."

They were the Body of Christ, priceless to true believers everywhere.
Entire crusades had been fought for less.

If they were genuine.

Ned frowned.

"And you got that from watching Sifu Hong?"

I tried to explain.

"I thought they were just antiques.  Worth only what collectors decide
to pay.  But that kata " Words couldn't convey what I'd seen.

"They aren't antiques.  They're religious icons.  The kind of thing
people venerate."

And kill for.  Bernie was dead because of them.

Someone else would be next.  The killer wouldn't stop until he got what
he wanted.

Ned laughed.

"Then there's nothing to worry about.  We'll be done here by midnight.
After that the chops aren't your problem."

Sure, I thought.  Not my problem.

The killing had already begun.  That made it my problem.

Grimacing, I replied dishonestly, "And I say, thank God.  Otherwise I'd
feel morally bound to give myself an ulcer."

I wanted to deflect him from the truth.  If I didn't, he might get in
the killer's way somehow.  I didn't want his blood on my conscience.

A minute later, Sue Rasmussen announced the Masters' Kata Champion.
Soon won, with Gravel second and Hong third.  Apparently prejudice
against the soft styles was alive and well at the IAMA World
Championships.

"Judges."  Ned dismissed the results with the back of his hand.

"Go figure."  Then he told me privately, "But I was right about one
thing.  I saw the scores before you turned away.  Nakahatchi sensei
gave his best marks to Sifu Hong."

Somehow I wasn't surprised.  Nakahatchi may've been trying to keep
himself alive.

Ned went back to his duties, but I stayed put for a while, feeling
dazed and essentially stupid.  Eventually, however, I summoned the will
to resume my own responsibilities.  I didn't think the chops were in
any immediate danger, so I went looking for an opportunity to talk to
someone from Essential Shotokan.

Trying not to be obvious about it, I made an oblique approach to the
spot where Nakahatchi had set up his enclave.  He sat a bit above me,
surrounded by students.  The dullness in his eyes made him appear to
slump even though his actual posture was erect.  Once again his thin
hair and the lines beside his mouth gave me the impression that his
face was war torn in some way, strewn with the casualties of an old
conflict.  Despite my need for information, I felt suddenly reluctant
to approach him.

I was still reeling from the effects of the Masters' katas.

Fortunately I recognized one of his people, Hideo Komatori.  We'd been
introduced Friday morning.  That gave me an opening.

"Mr.  Komatori."  Unsure of the real thing, I produced an ersatz bow.

"Axbrewder.  We met briefly on Friday."

Like his sensei, he wore white canvas, but his black belt showed less
wear.  As he stood to return my bow, I saw that he was considerably
taller than Nakahatchi which still left him a hand shorter than I was.
I couldn't tell his age.  Mid-thirties?  To my eye, Asian faces
disguised their years.  He carried himself with the lightness I'd
learned to expect from serious martial artists, back straight, hands
ready.  But he smiled like he was sincerely willing to talk to me.

Stepping down from the risers, he shook my hand.

"Mr.  Axbrewder.  You're well?  You enjoy the tournament?"

Until he stood right in front of me, I didn't notice the scar that ran
from his forehead down through his left eyebrow into his cheek.  It was
so old and pale that I could only make it out when the light caught
it.

"It's a job," I answered.

"That changes how I look at it."  Then I asked, "Would you mind
answering a few questions?"

He opened his hands as if to show that they held nothing.

"You've spoken to others far more advanced than I. What remains that I
might answer?"

Observant fellow.  Like Nakahatchi, he knew why I was here.

"Part of my job," I replied, "is to protect your display.  I'd like to
understand what makes it so important."  I had no idea what
Nakahatchi's agenda might be.

"As you say, I've talked to several people.  But they all have their
own perspectives.  How do you see the situation?"

From his seat Nakahatchi watched me as if he were too Zen to shoo off a
cockroach, never mind squash the pest.

Komatori looked politely quizzical.

"You want to understand the significance of the chops to Nakahatchi
sensei?"

"That, too," I admitted.

"But I'd also like to know how he got them in the first place.  And I'm
curious how he plans to guard them after the tournament."

Which wasn't any of my business, but I didn't care.

"Axbrewder-san" apparently san came more naturally to him than mister
"you'll understand that the chops were put in my master's care quite
recently.  Indeed, we're concerned about their safety.  Perhaps you'll
consent to advise us?"

Involuntarily I smiled.  He couldn't have told me to keep my nose out
of Essential Shotokan's affairs more courteously if he'd asked Miss
Manners to translate for him.

I didn't try to match him.  Cheerfully rude, I countered, "Not without
getting paid for it."  Then I conceded, still smiling, "I mean, I
couldn't say anything useful unless I analyzed your security, saw where
you're planning to keep the display, and knew how much you can afford
to spend on improvements."

By tomorrow I'd be off the payroll.  And I had other things to do.

Komatori withdrew the question with exquisite grace.

"As you say."

I wasn't accustomed to dealing with manners like his.

"Still," I observed, trying not to lose my way, "you've been thinking
about your security.  You must anticipate trouble."

He treated me to a sample of Asian inscrutability.

"It's always wise to consider trouble."

"Sure.  But you must be worried about something specific.  Break-ins?
General burglary?"  If so, it was Lacone's problem and Watchdog's not
Nakahatchi's.  As long as the chops had been adequately insured.

"Or don't you trust your neighbors?"

Lacone had told me that Soon's Tae Kwon Do Academy, Gravel's Malaysian
Fighting Arts, and Hong's Traditional Wing Chun occupied Martial
America alongside Essential Shotokan.  He'd mentioned two or three
other schools, but they hadn't moved in yet.

"Axbrewder-san," Komatori replied, "is this your first experience among
martial artists?"  He indicated the tournament with a discreet
gesture.

I nodded.

"Yet you must be aware," he went on, "that Western cultures differ from
Eastern in many ways.  For example, they understand honor
differently.

"You're an honorable man."  Giving me the benefit of the doubt.

"Nakahatchi sensei is honorable as well.  Would you prefer death to
dishonesty?  There West and East may be similar.  But would you prefer
death to disrespect?"

He let his question hang delicately in the air.

That was too subtle.

"Humor me, Mr.  Komatori.  I'm Western.  Assume I don't understand."

His tone hinted at a sigh.

"To a man like my master, your question is disrespectful.  To answer it
would be dishonorable."

In other words, he wouldn't say anything that might sound critical of
another school.

"Thanks," I growled.

"Now I get it.  I think."

"As you say," he responded, "your duties don't require you to consider
these matters."

The infernally courteous sonofabitch may've been making excuses for
me.

If I didn't get something concrete from him soon, I'd have to tear my
hair.  Groping for a crack in his demeanor, I tried a different
approach.

"Maybe this will help me understand.  Why didn't your sensei compete in
the Masters' Kata?  Was that about honor too?"

Or was it just public relations?  Maybe Nakahatchi thought that sitting
in judgment on the event would do more to promote his school than
trying to win it.

But if Komatori's demeanor had any cracks, that sure as hell wasn't one
of them.

"Indeed so," he answered smoothly.

"Competitions test individual excellence.  My master wanted to express
his respect for those who chose to test themselves.

"Yet competition holds no true place in the study of the martial arts.
Funakoshi sensei, the founder of Shotokan, once wrote, "The ultimate
aim of the art of karate lies not in victory or defeat, but in the
perfection of the character of its participants."

" As if that settled the matter, Komatori concluded.

"My master has no need to test his excellence."

Nakahatchi gazed down on us with the detached and benevolent sorrow of
a santo.  Apparently he was too busy becoming perfect to take the risks
Hong and Soon did.

So much martial piety got on my nerves.  Maybe I was just too Western
or grubby to understand all these refinements.  I considered my options
for a moment.  But I found that I couldn't just walk away, so I girded
up my loins, as a guy I knew used to say, and made one more attempt.

"There's something else I'd like to ask you, if you don't consider it
disrespectful.  How does your sensei happen to own those chops?"

How did a Japanese karate-kain the US gain possession of what might
well be a Chinese national treasure?

I hoped that Komatori might squirm a bit, but he didn't.

"A common misconception, Axbrewder-sczn," he assured me.

"My master doesn't own the chops.  He holds them in trust.

"Less than a month ago, he visited his own sensei, Mato Hak-atani, in
Japan.  When he returned, he brought the chops here.  They were placed
in his care by Hakatani sensei, who purchased them many years ago from
a perhaps disreputable dealer in Chinese antiquities."  Komatori's
manner conveyed refined distaste.

"Since he purchased them, Hakatani sensei has been troubled in his
mind.  They were sold as genuine, but at a price much below their
apparent worth.  What's to be done with them?  What's the course of
honor?

"If genuine, they're of inestimable value to the Wing Chun schools of
China.  To make a gift of them would be fitting.  But there are many
Wing Chun schools, many traditions.  Which should Hakatani sensei
choose?  He doesn't wish to slight any style or tradition.

"Also there's the problem of governments.  They're inclined to claim
such gifts as national treasures.  The intended recipients might never
see them."

Komatori paused briefly, then added, "And if they aren't genuine Making
a gift of them might be considered as an insult."

I thought he was chewing more than he could bite off.  But he didn't
ask my opinion, and I didn't offer it.  Instead I suggested, "Surely
you can authenticate them somehow?  That would solve at least one of
your problems."

He nodded.

"That's why Hakatani sensei wanted the chops brought here.  Of course,
the necessary expertise is available in both China and Japan.  But
Hakatani sensei feared that any Chinese" for an instant Komatori's tone
suggested discomfort "or Japanese authority might be tainted by
self-interest.  Personal or national gain might inspire a false
judgment.  In this country, my master may find an authority whose
assessment supports confidence."

It was my turn to nod, so I did.  Antiques appraisers weren't thick on
the ground, but they weren't exactly scarce either.  In Garner, the
Land of Recreational Income, there had to be a few who could date the
chops accurately and wouldn't give a shit about their status as
icons.

But Komatori hadn't finished.

"In addition," he said, "Haka-tani sensei is elderly.  He no longer
feels able to guard the chops effectively.  As a mark of esteem, he
gave them to Nakahatchi sensei.

"Finally, Hakatani sensei believes that if the chops are genuine,
they're too precious to be held privately.  Such a treasure must be
shared.  In Garner, karate-ka from coast to coast will be able to see
the display."

I understood the sentiment, but I wasn't persuaded.

"Maybe so.  But the more people you let in, the greater the risks.

"Which means," I added sharply, "your teacher is in deep shit if
anything happens."

Again Komatori didn't hesitate.  Instead he replied with another
display of inscrutability, "If the chops were lost, and my master could
not recover them, he would end his life."

That sounded like craziness to me, honor exaggerated to the point of
fanaticism.  Nevertheless it fit the intuitive picture I'd picked up
from Sifu Hong's kata.  Under the right circumstances, there was no
limit to the amount of blood those chops might cost.

If I heard much more of this, I'd go crazy myself.

"Well, thanks, Mr.  Komatori," I muttered.

"I'll let you go now.  I've taken too much of your time."

He made a deprecating gesture.

"Please, Axbrewder-san.  Your interest honors us."

Nakahatchi nodded as if in assent.  Giving us his blessing.

That did it.  I positively could not stomach so much courtesy.  Leaning
toward Hideo confidentially, I asked, "Then tell me one more thing. How
did you come by that scar?"

Like it was any of my business.

But he still refused to take anything I said amiss.

"A training accident," he answered.  His smile hinted at
self-mockery.

"When I was vounaer."

I raised my eyebrows.

"You train with live blades?"

I'd spent my life surrounded by people who took things amiss.

He shrugged gently.

"Only when the student suffers from arrogance."

In other words, his benign and insufferable teacher had taught him a
lesson that nearly cost him an eye.

Charming.  I was so impressed I wanted to retch.

As I walked away, I itched to wash my hands of this tournament, the
IAMA, and all martial artists.  I was wasting my time here.  I wanted
to go after Bernie's killer.  That crime, at least, I could hope to
understand.  Intuitively, irrationally, I believed that it was linked
to the chops.  But I also believed that it had nothing to do with
Nakahatchi's and Komatori's refined notions of honor and politeness.

Regardless of what I wanted, however, I still had a job to do.  The
tournament continued to trudge along, doling out trophies like
communion wafers, and I was being paid to act diligent until all of the
lAMA's elect had received their validation.

Too fed up to watch any more events, I spent my time chewing on the
question of how I proposed to track down the heavy-set man.

My only connection to Bernie's killer.

Unfortunately I was in Garner, not Puerta del Sol entirely out of my
element.  I didn't know the city, hadn't spent years among the lost men
and women who frequented Garner's shadows and angles and alleys.  Those
benighted souls almost certainly knew what was really going on.  At
home I could've found the drop just by asking around.  Here I had no
idea who to approach.

Much as I hated the prospect, I'd need Marshal's help.  Or Detective
Moy's.

To pacify my chagrin, I left the tournament to go look at Moy's mug
shot.  With no success.  An hour and a half later, I was back.
Apparently no one had missed me.

Time passed.  Events ended.  Trophies were awarded.  New events began.
And eventually Sue Rasmussen announced a supper break, during which the
IAMA functionaries would clear the floor for Fumio Demura's
demonstration.  The Grand Championships would follow when the rings had
been reset.

I considered taking the opportunity to call Marshal, but I decided
against it.  He might not appreciate hearing from me on a

Sunday evening, when I couldn't help thinking this he was probably
alone with Ginny.  And he might not be able to answer my questions
until Monday anyway.  So I ate a quick meal in the coffee shop, braced
myself to endure five or six more wasted hours, and went back to the
tournament hall.

By then the night-shift Security team was on duty.  I spent a few
minutes talking with The Luxury's Deputy Chief of Security, pretending
to find out what he wanted me to do, but really just determining where
and when I could pick up my paycheck.  Then I moved up onto the dais to
watch Demura and his students on the off chance that I might see
something I understood.

As usual, the demonstration started late.

And it started without me.  While Rasmussen proclaimed the presence of
the famous teacher, much-published author, and noted Hollywood fight
choreographer and stunt double Fumio Demura sensei, Alex Lacone
arrived, trailing Sammy Posten like a dinghy in his wake.  Broadcasting
enthusiasm on all band-widths, he practically bounded up to the dais,
consulted briefly with Anson Sternway, then beckoned for me.

"Mr.  Axbrewder," he boomed.

"Just the man I want to see."

Rasmussen covered her mike and asked him to lower his voice.  Somehow
she contrived to sound pleasant about it, despite her disaffection for
me.

Lacone replied with an unrepentant grin and drew me to the back of the
dais.  From there he dropped like a sack of cement to the floor. Posten
followed by sitting on the edge of the platform, reaching his legs
downward, and scooting his butt awkwardly off the dais.  Sternway
sprang down lightly.  I managed to join them without falling over.

The knot in my stomach told me that I knew what they wanted.

If Lacone were actually glad to see me, he was the only one.  Sternway
greeted me with a flat gaze and an unrevealing nod.  Posten muttered my
name ungraciously, but didn't say anything else.

On the other side of the dais, the spectators erupted with laughter and
applause.  The four of us ignored them.

"Mr.  Axbrewder," the developer began, "we're all impressed with the
way you handled things yesterday.  I said so at the time.  You know
what you're doing, and that's a fact.  I wouldn't have spotted those
crooks if they were the only people in the room."

That wasn't what I would've called high praise, but I kept my mouth
shut.

"As you know," he went on, "we have a problem.  That is to say, Sammy
and I do.  It's the same problem you were hired for this weekend.
Nakahatchi sensefs antiques."

Damn it anyway.  The sonofabitch was about to offer me a job.

The spectators cheered.  Demura must've had them eating out of his
hand.

"When the tournament ends," Lacone explained unnecessarily, "the
display goes back to Essential Shotokan.  Until then, it's covered by
The Luxury's insurance, and the lAMA's.  But after that it's my
problem.  I'll have to provide adequate insurance."

Two days ago I would've been glad to hear it.  Now I wasn't sure how I
felt.

"Watchdog and I had a deal worked out," Lacone continued.

"It was exorbitant" he winked at Posten to show that he was kidding
"but my bean counters told me I could afford it.  Unfortunately," he
sighed, smiling on a rueful wavelength, "Watchdog now thinks they
underestimated the risks involved.

"I guess we all assumed that surrounding the display with martial
artists would protect it pretty well.  But we learned yesterday" he put
on a show of being tactful "how should I put this?  Martial artists
don't have the right kind of expertise.  They didn't spot those crooks.
You did."

His grin radiated enough heat to raise blisters as he forged ahead.

"After you demonstrated the realities of the situation, Watchdog
decided and I have to agree we need to reconsider our position. Meaning
no disrespect to Nakahatchi sensei, or any other school in Martial
America, that display needs better protection."

By which he meant that Watchdog, in the person of Paranoid Posten, had
reneged on the earlier agreement.  Posten had panicked yesterday, and
now Watchdog intended to raise Lacone's rates.

The developer beamed radioactive sincerity at me.

"After tonight, Mr.  Axbrewder, I want you to take on the same job
you've had this weekend.  Keeping an eye on those antiques."  He winked
conspicuously.

"I think I can guarantee I pay better."

He ought to.  By my standards, I was already getting paid pretty well.
But Lacone wouldn't do this unless hiring security got him a
substantial break from Watchdog.  Knowing insurance companies not to
mention developers I was sure that he'd save a hell of a lot more than
he offered me.

Posten's expression suggested reluctant agreement.  Yesterday I'd made
the mistake of telling him that the chops would be in more danger once
they reached Essential Shotokan.

Now was my chance.  All I had to say was, Thanks, but no thanks, I have
other commitments.  But I couldn't focus on it.  I was too busy
wondering why Sternway had tagged along.  Posten's presence I
understood, but what did the IAMA have to do with Lacone's problems?
Hell, hadn't Sternway repeatedly declined to join Martial America?

If I was right, the drop wasn't my only link to Bernie's killer.  The
chops were involved somehow.

Trying to think, I stalled for time.

"Mr.  Lacone, I'm a private investigator, not a security guard.
Frankly, I took this job because I need the work.  But I'm not bragging
when I say I'm wasted here.  The money The Luxury and the IAMA saved by
hiring me is trivial compared to what I cost."

Posten nodded in the background.

Firmly, I concluded, "If you're looking for someone to walk through the
building every night punching a time-clock, you could spend less and
get better service."

The audience applauded on cue.  Sternway appeared to watch the rest of
us without paying any attention.

But Lacone acted like I'd said just what he wanted to hear.  With a
happy grin, he replied, "That exactly why I think you're the man for
the job.  We already hire a security service, but all they do is patrol
the parking lot and check the doors.  A determined crook could get past
them easily.

"And " There he stopped.  Instead of continuing, he deferred
unexpectedly to Sternway.

HRH knew what Lacone wanted him to say.

"The situation is delicate, Brew," he explained.

"As you know, Traditional Wing Chun is also located in Martial America,
and Sifu Hong believes strongly that the chops should belong to him.
And there are other rivalries.  Master Soon's Tae Kwon Do Academy is
jealous as well.  The chops are irrelevant to Tae Kwon Do itself.  But
men like

Master Soon resent the status those chops confer.  They consider it
undeserved."

"In other words " Lacone put in.

"In other words," I interrupted, "you're more worried about problems
inside Martial America than outside.  That's why you think you need
someone like me."

Someone with no martial loyalties.

Master Soon had left the hall ahead of the drop.

"I recommended you," Sternway remarked for reasons that weren't clear
to me.  Why the fuck did he care?

And just like that, without warning, I was hooked.  Instead of
rejecting Lacone's offer, I put my head into the trap.

"All right," I said, even though the very idea scared me.

"How about this?  You can hire me for a week, as a consultant.  I'll
analyze your security, suggest ways to improve it.  At the same time,
I'll poke around where people don't want me.  Look into their
backgrounds, their connections, see what I can turn up.

"You'll pay me twice what I'm making now.  Give me the keys to the
building, let me do the job my way.  And after a week we'll both decide
whether we want to keep it up."

Then, because I didn't like Posten and didn't know how far I could
trust Deborah, I added, "If that's acceptable to Watchdog, of
course."

Posten acquiesced, scowling like a man with indigestion.

Lacone didn't hesitate.

"When can you start?"

"After lunch tomorrow.  Say around one-thirty?"  That would give me
time to take care of at least some of my own affairs.

The developer stuck out his hand.

"It's a deal."

We shook on it.

Sternway consulted the air as if the rest of us weren't present.

I wanted to get this over with.

"In that case, let's meet here at one-thirty.  If Nakahatchi leaves the
display in the manager's safe room until then, we can escort it back to
Martial America.  When it's in place, you can show me around, make sure
I understand what's involved."

"Fine, fine."  Lacone beamed in all directions.

"Whatever you say.  One-thirty it is."

Wrapping an arm around Sammy's shoulders, he drew the Senior Security
Adviser with him toward the end of the platform.

Before HRH could join them, I said in the same tone I'd used on Lacone,
"Mr.  Sternway, I've got a couple of questions."

Apparently he wanted to seem affable.

"I thought we were on a first-name basis, Brew.  Call me Anson."

He kept changing the rules.  One minute I was Axbrewder-with-disdain,
the next I was colleague-Brew.  I couldn't keep up with his vagaries,
so I avoided the issue.

Bluntly I told him, "I don't understand why you're involved in all
this.  I thought you wanted no part of Martial America."

I'd just been hired to poke around where people might not want me.

He frowned without much conviction.

"I must have given you the wrong impression.  I'd like nothing better
than to see Martial America succeed.  If it does, it will benefit the
martial arts generally, as well as promoting its member schools.  In
fact, I persuaded three schools to relocate there.  I'll join them as
soon as the complex makes enough money to support lower rents."

I raised my eyebrows skeptically.

"I've been involved with Martial America from the beginning," he went
on.

"I helped design the building.  Mr.  Lacone needed the advice of a
martial artist.  I served as his consultant."

Just to be sure I'd read him right, I asked, "Did you volunteer?"

"Of course not."  His tone said, You must be joking.

"Mr.  La-cone hired me."

So that was about money too, not some hypothetical benefit to the
martial arts.

"Did you also get paid for persuading those three schools?"

I half expected him to take offense, but he was too sure of himself for
that.

"Certainly," he said as if the answer were self-evident.

"Time and effort cost money, Brew.  You know that as well as I do.
Considering what Mr.  Lacone hopes to accomplish with Martial America,
my involvement is a perfectly normal expense.  And I would say it's
necessary.  He won't succeed without me."

Thus spake HRH, Director of the IAMA.  Probably I should've responded
by bowing my head to the floor.  But I didn't.  Instead I grabbed my
opportunity to ask a different kind of question.

"I've heard that you call Tae Kwon Do 'a toy martial art'.  What's that
all about?"

In an instant his manner changed.  He seemed to condense in front of
me, gather for an explosion.  At the same time his stance lifted as if
he'd grown suddenly lighter.  Without transition he became a shout of
danger.

"Perhaps I should have been more discreet," he pronounced, frowning.

"I assume you'll respect my confidence."

I nodded like he could trust me implicitly.  I wasn't eager to get hit
by Parker Neill's teacher.

He studied me for a moment.  Then he risked answering my question.

"Master Soon is a fine martial artist, but he can't deny or alter the
fact that TKD deserves to be called a toy.  It has become the Korean
national sport.  When a martial art becomes a sport, it loses its
seriousness, its credibility."

"Because sports are controlled by rules," I put it just to make
Sternway think I understood, "and real martial artists know there
aren't any."

"Exactly."  The sense of threat he radiated began to ease.

"But if Soon is such a fine martial artist," I continued, "he must feel
tarnished by what's being done to his art.  He must want to regain
face."

"Exactly," Sternway repeated.  But abruptly he seemed to lose interest.
Or maybe I'd touched a nerve.  He cocked his head like he was listening
to Demura's audience, then informed me brusquely, "I have to go, Brew. 
We'll be starting more events in a minute."

I didn't try to keep him.

"Thanks for your time."

He pretended to make a polite departure, but his heart obviously wasn't
in it.  In seconds he left me alone with the leads and cables that
connected the LAMA to its fans and adherents.

I'd missed Fumio Demura's demonstration completely.

Thirteen.

Shortly before midnight, we put the chops away.  When the night-shift
Security chief had reclaimed the cell phone and confirmed arrangements
to pay me, I left The Luxury and slogged across the asphalt to my
waiting car.

I half-expected to find the Subaru melted on its wheels.  If it felt as
drained as I did But apparently it was made of sterner stuff.  The
engine caught without much coaxing.  The headlights fixed the parking
lot with a walleyed glare.  Even the AC almost worked.

For a minute or two, I leaned my forehead on the steering wheel, just
trying to remember who I was.  Then I retrieved the .45 and tucked it
into my belt, shoulder holster and all.  Anchored by its ambiguous
familiarity, I drove back to the apartment.

Like a coward, I hoped Ginny wouldn't be there.  I didn't feel real
enough to face her.  In the past twenty-four hours, I'd lost track of
myself.  Deborah Messenger, Alex Lacone.  Parker Neill and Anson
Sternway.  Bernie.  As far as I could tell, I'd become a figment of
someone else's imagination.

While I drove, however, I decided that accepting Lacone's offer made my
kind of sense.  I wasn't the right man for the job I lacked the mindset
and experience of a good "security consultant."  But it would keep me
in contact with the chops.  And that in turn might lead me to Bernie's
killer.

He hadn't been murdered to protect a gear-bag full of pilfered loot.
That I was sure of.  The real stakes were a whole lot higher.

Deborah, on the other hand Wouldn't Ginny consider that a betrayal?  I
sure as hell felt betrayed every time she turned to another man.  I
still wanted to eviscerate Marshal Viviter, even though he treated me
like we were friends.

I'd told Deborah that things were finally clear between Ginny and me,
but obviously they weren't clear enough to relieve my umbilical fear of
Ginny's reactions.  When I saw through the window that someone had left
a light on in the apartment living room, my heart nearly collapsed.

I parked the Subaru anyway, but for a while I couldn't get out of the
car.  Damn it, I'd made things as clear as I could.  Hadn't I?  We
weren't partners anymore.  In any way.  I'd practically etched it on
the floor of the hotel lobby.

Things were clear enough, but I wasn't.

I didn't understand Deborah Messenger.  I didn't trust her, or how I
felt about her, or what we did together.

I might've sat there for hours, but eventually self-disgust made me
move.  Taking the reins of my life between my teeth, I locked the
Subaru for the night and let myself into the apartment.

Ginny sat in an armchair near the phone, pretending to read a magazine.
Fully dressed, like she was about to go out or had just come in. Purse
beside her on the floor.  Eyes so sharp you'd think she'd used a
whetstone on them.  I knew she was only pretending to read because she
had the pages of the magazine clamped in her claw hard enough to tear
them.

"Brew."  She sounded unnaturally casual, but her gaze went straight
through me.

"It's good to see you."

Usually when I felt this bad around her I said something nasty.
Fighting the impulse, I turned away to relock the door.  Next I
shrugged off my jacket, pulled the .45 in its holster out of my belt,
and slumped almost prostrate on the couch.

That was as close as I could come to letting down my defenses.

She didn't say anything else until I finally faced her.  Then, with the
same eerie lack of intensity, she asked, "Are you all right?"

"Ginny " I covered my face with my hands, rubbed at the stubble on my
cheeks.  For several heartbeats I held my breath.  As I let it out, I
dragged down my hands.

"You're scaring me.  You sound too calm.  What's going on here?"

She smiled thinly, as if she'd recognized something about herself that
she didn't like.

"It seems to me," she answered from a distance, "we've already spent
enough time yelling at each other.  I don't want to do that anymore."

I tried again.

"Ginny " But she went on without me.

"We aren't partners.  And you're right," she conceded, "I decided that
without consulting you.  I told myself I didn't care how you felt about
it.  But I was wrong.  On both counts.  We have a lot of history.  That
doesn't change just because we've forgotten how to get along."  Her
gaze searched me like a scalpel.

"You're still important to me.  And I" she spread her good hand "owe
you something better than an apology."

She was going to break my heart.  As recently as yesterday, I would've
snarled, As important as Marshal?  But not tonight.

Tonight I faced her and waited.

"Brew " Abruptly she looked down.  Her hair swung forward to veil her
expression.

"I can't be your partner.  Not now.  I can't stand what that does to
us.  But I'm not going to move out.  And I don't want you to.  I'd
rather" she shrugged helplessly "muddle through this together
somehow."

I didn't think I could bear it.  I wanted to sneer or yell, hit her
with the most hurtful thing I could think of.  Nevertheless the sheer
difficulty of what she offered restrained me.

I was at least equally responsible for ruining our relationship.  I
owed it to her to risk as much as she did.  Hell, I owed it to
myself.

Instead of lashing out, I said bleakly, "Don't go that far until I've
been honest with you.  You have a right to know where you stand with
me."

Even if the truth drove her away.  I had to take the chance The time
I'd caught her in bed with another man, I'd hit her.  Actually hit her.
And that had cost me something I couldn't retrieve.  I'd been letting
people put their hands on me ever since.  If I had to hurt her now, I
wanted to do it openly, instead of leaving her at the mercy of an
accidental discovery.

Sam Drayton had told me, You're stronger than you realize.

"I met a woman at the tournament," I told her.

"She seems to like me."  The words made me want to weep.

"We spent the night together last night."

The magazine fell from Ginny's grip.  She'd torn through all the pages.
Her eyes avoided me behind her hair.

For the second time, I held my breath.  I could feel myself start to
die, as if I'd amputated the thing that made my heart beat.

Cruelly far away, she murmured, "I'm glad."

That shocked me.  "

"Glad'?"  The word came out like a croak.

"Are you sure?"

Slowly she raised her head to show me another slight smile that
resembled recognition.

"Well " Then her mouth twisted.

"Glad enough for government work, anyway."

That was more consideration than I'd ever given her.

A moment later she asked like a sigh, "And you're all right now?"
Ruefully she admitted, "Tonight I can't tell."

I shrugged against the back of the couch, trying to adjust my heart so
it would fit in my chest.

"I've got a new job, if that's what you mean."  Obviously it wasn't.
But I didn't know how else to tell her what she needed to hear.

"I should be able to pay my share of the bills."

I meant to stay, if she did.

She nodded.  Apparently she could accept whatever I had the strength to
offer.

She sat where she was for a minute or two, her eyes shrouded.  Then she
pushed herself to her feet.

"I'm going to bed," she informed me quietly.

"I need to get an early start tomorrow."

As did I. But I let her go without saying so.

Someday, I promised myself, someday I was going to ask about her job
with Marshal.  I was going to let her see that I wanted to know.  But
not now.  For the time being it was enough that we'd survived.

Maybe tomorrow I didn't get the chance then, however.  When she said
early, she meant early.  By the time I'd lugged my carcass out of bed,
she was already gone.  Which may've been just as well, under the
circumstances.  I had plenty of other things to think about.

So I thought about them without making much progress while I showered,
shaved, put on clean clothes, ate breakfast, started a load of laundry,
tidied the apartment, and finally wedged myself back into the Subaru.
By nine o'clock I was back at The Luxury, heading for the Security
office.  Despite Garner's unrelieved heat, I wore my rather limp suit
jacket to conceal the .45 under my arm.

Slade was on duty, holding down Bernie's desk until The Luxury named a
successor.  His manner didn't inspire confidence, but eventually he
managed to steer me through some final paperwork and hand me a check.

It was the biggest check I'd seen with my name on it in years.

Nevertheless I didn't pause to congratulate myself.  First things
first.  From The Luxury I went to a bank and exchanged the check for
cash.  Then I used my map to locate a cellular phone store.

With a phone I could get to work.

Sitting in the Subaru with the engine running and the AC on high, I
called Professional Investigations and asked for Marshal.

Beatrix Amity greeted me like I'd never been rude to her in my life.

"Just a moment, Mr.  Axbrewder.  Mr.  Viviter asked me to put you
through.  I'll just make sure he's available."

Which reminded me that I still didn't know what the hell he got out of
being so nice to me.  My rather bitter theory that he was just doing
Ginny a favor had started to look pretty tattered.

He kept me waiting for five minutes or so.  Then he came on the line.

"Brew?"  The connection made him sound less sincere than usual.

"Sorry to keep you waiting.  I thought I'd hear from you, but I was in
the middle of something when you called."

I also didn't know why he bothered to apologize.  I was just riding his
coattails I didn't actually work for him.  He owed me nothing.

"I've got time," I told him brusquely.  That was as close as I could
come to courtesy on short notice at least with him.

"Did you get anything?"

"Tut tut."  Despite my phone's inadequacies, I heard a grin in his
tone.

"I've already talked to you about your manners."  Then he went on more
seriously, "And if you don't have any legal standing in this case, I
certainly don't.  Why do you assume I can get anything?"

"Because you like Bernie," I retorted.

"And because you know there's something wrong about his death."

Deliberately I didn't add, And because I asked you.  That means
something to you.  For the same reason you got me a job.

"Like why he's dead," Marshal observed.

"But there's more," I continued.

"Whoever did it took the weapon."  Briefly I told him about Bernie's
flik and my decision not to inform Moy.

He considered that for a long moment.

"You're saying," he pronounced softly, "he didn't accidentally end up
dead.  You're saying he was murdered."

"I'm not sure about premeditation," I added.

"Unless Bernie had skeletons in his closet " I let the idea hang.

"But the goon who did it isn't even trying to pretend self-defense.  As
far as I'm concerned, that spells 'intention."

" And a desire to make the intention known.

Marshal got the point.  His manner turned businesslike.

"You asked several questions about Bernie," he said more briskly.

"Past dealings with Watchdog or Lacone, and so on.  I can't begin to
answer them unless I assign someone to dig into it and I still wouldn't
have any standing.

"But " He paused for effect, then admitted, "Luckily Moy owes me a
couple of favors.  I have a copy of the ME's report."

Sweat ran down my ribs despite the AC.

"And ?"

Now Moy knew I wasn't going to leave Bernie's death alone.

"Death consistent with being hacked in the throat with a thin blunt
object.  Crushed larynx, asphyxiation.  No surprise there.

"Flecks of enamel paint in the wound.  Again, no surprise."

The marks I'd seen on the walls of the stall must've been made while
Bernie fought for his life.  While he still had a grip on the flik. Its
coils would've picked up a lot of paint.

"Also," Marshal went on, "fibers of dark blue cloth.  From a navy
blazer, apparently.  Which by coincidence," he remarked sourly, "is
what Bernie was wearing at the time."

I practically held my breath.

"Did the ME match those fibers to Bernie's blazer?"

I heard pages flip.

"Doesn't say so here."

"Damn it."  In frustration I rapped the steering wheel with the
knuckles of one fist.

"That's sloppy."

"You're in a charitable mood this morning."  Marshal wasn't amused.

"Have you forgotten who didn't tell Moy about the flik?"

I swore again to myself this time.  Moy didn't know Bernie had been
killed with his own weapon.  The detective had no reason to think those
fibers might've come from someone else's blazer.

Every guard at The Luxury, as well as everyone who worked the
tournament for the IAMA, wore a navy blazer.  Not to mention the
inevitable dozen or so spectators.  For three days those blazers had
been as common as gear-bags.

Groping, I asked, "What about bruises?  Other marks on the body?
Anything that suggests where the fibers came from?"

I meant, Anything other than my own bad judgment?

"Let me see," Marshal murmured.  More pages flipped.  Then he reported,
"Contusions on the knuckles of the right hand.  More flecks of paint."
Bernie must've struck his hand while defending himself.

"Bruises around the right wrist."  Made when his assailant grabbed him
to take away the flik.

"And a deep one on the left cheek."  A blow to stun him.

"The ME says the bruises occurred immediately before death.  None match
the death wound.  They weren't made by the same weapon.

"In other words, still no surprises.  At least for us."  After a
moment, Marshal added with less sarcasm, "If I were Moy, I'd want to
know which hand the assailant used.  The ME doesn't say."

Oh, perfect.  That was genuinely sloppy.  It made a difference.  Left
hand to right wrist, right hand free to strike.  A punch to the cheek,
snatch the flik, and swing.  Bernie could've been killed in one motion.
Continued action possible accident or miscalculation.  But right hand
to right wrist, left hand out of range.  Especially in a restroom
stall.  In that case, Bernie must've been killed by a separate motion.
His assailant had to switch hands in order to strike.  Which implied a
greater degree of intention.

Before I could complain, however, Marshal said, "In fact, I think I'll
mention that to Moy.  Professional curiosity, and so on.  I was going
to call him anyway" a grin sparkled in his voice "thank him for his
generosity.  Who knows?  A question like that may make him look at the
case harder."

Damn Marshal Viviter, anyway.  He got harder to dislike every day.  If
I actually had to stop hating him, I'd probably go crackers.  Crushed
Saltines all the way.

Ginny'd left me for a better man.  Just as I'd always feared.

Chagrin made me crabby chagrin and ego.  Instead of thanking him, I
demanded abruptly, "Are you going to research Bernie?"  I may've
sounded just a touch ungracious.

Another man a lesser man would've snapped back, but Marshal didn't give
me that satisfaction.

"You still haven't told me why," he countered reasonably.

Of course I hadn't.  I wasn't exactly proud of relying on him like
this.  Nevertheless I owed him.  He'd already given me more help than I
had any right to.  And I had nowhere else to turn.

Swallowing my pride or at least my defensiveness I answered him as well
as I could.

"Bernie wasn't killed by the drop.  Over a few watches and

wallets?  I don't think so.  There was someone else in the rest-room.
Someone with a hell of a lot more to lose."  Or to gain.

"Don't ask me what.  Or why he and the drop were together.  All I'm
sure of is that Bernie recognized him, and he didn't want Bernie to
identify him."

I sighed, thinking of the Security Chief's fragile corpse, the sheer
pointlessness of his death.

"The only thing worth killing for at the tournament," I explained,
"were those antiques.  But maybe there's something in Bernie's past.
Something that connects him to someone at the tournament indirectly."

Marshal didn't say anything for a moment.  Then he reached a
decision.

"All right," he announced firmly.

"I'll look into it.  But there's only so much I can do without legal
standing.

"In the meantime, what have you got for me?"

I couldn't help noticing that he agreed to what I wanted before he
asked for anything back.  No quid pro quo.

Ashamed of myself, I made an effort to tone down my sarcasm.

"Not much.  But I've picked up a couple of things that seem to be
common knowledge in karate circles.

"One is that Sternway is hard up for money.  He's obsessive about it.
The IAMA people I talked to blame his wife.  They think she's taking
him to the cleaners."

"That sounds like her, frankly," Marshal remarked.

I didn't stop there.

"Also he may be having an affair with a lawyer named Sue Rasmussen. I'm
told she's one of his students."  I hesitated, then added, "I don't
think she likes me."

Marshal replied with a humorless chuckle.

"Really?"  Then he said more seriously, "Now there's a nice ethical
question for you.

"Mai Sternway has hired us for protection because she thinks her
husband is stalking her.  She wants us to prove it's him, which will
improve her bargaining position.  But does that mean we're obliged to
give her other kinds of information she could use against him?"

I was in no mood for his scruples.  I was still kicking myself because
I hadn't told Moy about the flik.  And Marshal had a gift for making me
feel inadequate.  With more than my usual charm, I countered, "Surely
you aren't asking me?"

He groaned.

"No, Brew.  It was rhetorical.  I'm just thinking aloud."

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to say, "I may be able to help you
more later.  I've got another job.  Lacone wants me to baby-sit those
chops for a while, earn him a break on his insurance rates.  I start
this afternoon.

"Since I'll be working for him instead of the IAMA or Anson Sternway,
I'll have fewer constraints."  Fewer scruples of my own.

"And he acts like he's ready to elope with Sternway.  He may let
something interesting slip."

"Well, good for you."  Despite my rudeness, Marshal sounded sincere.

"You must've made my referral look pretty good.  Even if Alex has
already married Anson, he's still a businessman.  He wouldn't hire you
simply because I recommended you."

I could taste Saltines.  They were in my future somewhere, waiting for
my resistance to crumble.

But he wasn't done.

"For some odd reason, Brew," he commented, "you inspire confidence. God
knows how.  If you were any more irritable, you'd be arrested as a
public nuisance.  But after just three days of relative drudgery, you
get offered a job that could be real work.  And you convince me to
spend money and manpower on a case that doesn't belong to either of
us.

"Just one word of advice."  Like flipping a switch, he re-assumed his
professional detachment.

"Don't treat Alex the way you do me.  He doesn't really need you and
he's accustomed to a bit more sucking up."

Viviter hung up without asking for my phone number.  No doubt Beatrix
had it on her caller ID.

The Subaru had started to overheat.  The squirrels caged under the hood
needed more rpms to stand the strain of the AC.

I knew exactly how they felt.  I had so much sweat on my face that I
couldn't keep my sunglasses up.  And I detested Saltines.  Instead of
pausing to brush the crumbs out of my head, I pulled out of my parking
space while I dialed Deborah's private number at Watchdog.

Marshal had that effect on me, made me feel like I needed to prove
something.

In the wrong frame of mind, my brain full of inappropriate clutter, I
pretended that I knew how to navigate in Garner while my call went
through to Deborah.

When the phone jammed against my ear said, "This is Deborah

Messenger," I nearly drove off the road.  She sounded just as brisk and
professional as Marshal Viviter, but her voice was still the same one
I'd heard laughing and crooning and gasping less than thirty-six hours
ago.

I had to haul the Subaru away from a collision before I could answer,
"Deborah.  It's Brew."

"Brew!  Are you all right?  You sound " She may've heard the near miss
in my tone.

I struggled to relax.

"Don't ask.  It's too embarrassing to explain.  I'm fine."  As fine as
sweat, adrenaline, and crushed crackers allowed.  Since I didn't want
to discuss my driving, I lunged at the first topic I could think of.

"I guess you knew Lacone was going to offer me a job."

She accepted the shift smoothly.

"I wasn't sure.  Sometimes men like Alex won't take advice from a
woman."  She laughed deep in her throat.

"On the other hand, he doesn't like Sammy much and Sammy doesn't like
you.  That may have influenced him a bit."

Apparently she'd urged Lacone to hire me.  I wasn't sure how I felt
about that, so I stayed away from it.

"Anyway," I went on, "I start this afternoon.  Right now I'm lost
somewhere in Garner.  Don't take it personally if I sound distracted. I
don't know this place yet."

She chuckled into my ear.

"You didn't get lost Saturday night."

For a moment I actively blushed.

"It's amazing what comes back to you when you're inspired," I muttered
awkwardly.

"

"Inspired."

" I heard her glowing through the connection.

"I like that."

I gripped the steering wheel hard enough to leave impressions of my
fingerprints.

"Maybe you'll still like it the next time.  When can I see you
again?"

I had to ask.  My hormones didn't leave me much choice.

What could she possibly gain from me?

"Let me check my schedule."  The clicking of a keyboard carried to my
phone.  She must've used a computer to keep track of her duties.

"Damn.  Not tonight.  I'll be at a seminar all evening."  More
clicking.

"How about dinner tomorrow?"

"Just tell me where and when."

She did.  Not having a hand free, I didn't write any of it down.  I
didn't need to I was in no dancer of foreettine.

"Good," I said when she'd given me directions.

"That's a long wait, but I can probably keep my legs crossed until
then."

She chuckled again.

"See that you do."

If this kept up, I'd drive into the side of a building.  Somehow I
forced myself to change the subject.

"In the meantime" I cleared my throat "how do you plan to get
Nakahatchi's chops appraised?  If you don't mind my asking."

After yesterday, I was sure that Posten would insist on speeding up the
process.

Deborah took my abruptness in stride.

"No, I don't mind.  You're on our side.

"We're in touch with an appraiser from New York.  Rather well-known.
He's agreed to fly out next week for a substantial fee, of course."

I veered for a freeway ramp with my usual liquid grace.

"You mean there's no one local?"  In sports-rich Garner?

"Well, there is," she admitted.

"A man named Carliss Swilley.  He sells Oriental antiques.  And he
offers an appraisal service.  He's an odious little pedant, but he has
good credentials.

"However" she sighed mock-seriously "Watchdog's home offices are in New
York.  Naturally they don't think an authority from mere Garner has
enough credibility to suit them."

Naturally.  Even in Puerta del Sol, New Yorkers were famous for their
cosmopolitan outlook on the rest of the country.  But around here
people probably resented it more.

"I get the picture.  But I think it's a bad idea to wait that long. Bad
for you, bad for Lacone."  Not to mention bad for Nakahatchi.

"You need some kind of appraisal on paper right away.  Even if the home
offices insist on redoing it next week."

Deborah was silent for a long moment.  When she spoke again, I could
barely hear her through the freeway noise.

"You think something might happen to the chops."

She didn't point out the obvious fact that I hadn't even seen Martial
America yet.  Or that she and Posten together probably had ten times my
experience with this kind of security.  For some reason she seemed to
trust me.

"I do," I answered.

"But I can't explain it.  I mean, there's nothing to explain.  It's
just a hunch.  All I'm sure of is that Bernie wasn't killed by a petty
thief.  So why is he dead?

"As far as I know, he wasn't protecting anything valuable enough to
kill for except those chops."

"I don't see the connection."  I heard a frown in her voice.

"I don't either," I conceded.

She thought a bit longer, then said, "All right.  I'm sure Sammy will
back me on this.  He's had the twitches ever since Saturday.  I'll get
back to you when I have something concrete."

"Thanks," I said sincerely.  She hadn't lost her power to make me
twang.

"You can reach me on my cell phone."  I recited the number.  When she
said she had it, I shifted back to Bernie.

"But of course it might not have anything to do with the chops.  Bernie
may've been killed for something he knew, or was involved in.  Can you
tell me if he ever had any dealings with La-cone, or Martial America,
or Nakahatchi?  Watchdog?  Anson Sternway?  The IAMA?  Outside his job,
I mean."

I wasn't asking her to violate professional confidentiality.  As she'd
said, we were on the same side.  Basically.

"Funny you should ask," she replied like it wasn't funny at all.

"I was thinking about that earlier.  I guess," she explained, "Bernie's
death upset me more than I realized."

I started to say that I knew what she meant, but she went on, "There's
nothing in our computer about him other than the reports he filed for
The Luxury on security issues and claims.  Our records go back fifteen
years, which is as long as we've been in business.  In that time, he
never had a policy with us, he wasn't used as a reference, his name
doesn't show up on any other reports.  And that includes our work with
Martial America and the IAMA.

"So the short answer is no, he didn't have any dealings with
Watchdog."

For some reason I wasn't surprised.  Those chops had begun to haunt
me.

"How about Lacone?"  I asked without much hope.

"Sternway?  Nakahatchi?"

Deborah sighed.

"I wouldn't know.  I could always ask Alex, of course."  She didn't try
to hide her distaste.

"He'd like it if I wanted something from him.  But we don't usually
talk to Mr.  Sternway.  Sue Rasmussen handles insurance for the LAMA.
And we're in roughly the same position with Mr.  Nakahatchi.  We
provide his liability coverage, but Mr.  Komatori takes care of it for
him."

Damn.  I missed Puerta del Sol.  At home I would've known exactly who
to approach for information.  Spend a couple of hours trolling dark
bars and wasted shelters, buy cautious drinks for grizzled and weary
Chicanos, Mestizos, Indians, ruined former Anglos dealers in seamy
knowledge and I would've learned everything I needed about Bernie's
private life.  If he'd had one.

But not here.  Here I'd have to do it the hard way.

Which wasn't Deborah's problem.

"Oh, well," I responded regretfully.

"So much for that idea.  Don't worry about it.  I should get plenty of
chances to talk to Lacone and everyone else in the next few days."

She changed gears so fast that I nearly dropped the phone.

"I don't mind," she drawled.

"Alex probably won't tell me anything useful unless I let him fondle
me.  But that might be fun.  I'll just imagine your reaction.  I can
see you now, gnashing your teeth while he slides his hands into my
blouse " "Stop it!"  I croaked.

"You'll cause a pile-up.  I'm driving badly enough as it is."

She gave me the throaty laugh that made me want to tear her clothes
off.  Somehow I kept the Subaru on the road.

For a couple of minutes we chatted about other things.  I had about a
dozen questions I wanted to pursue, most of which could be summed up in
one.  Why me?  But I was already lost in a tangle of freeways, and
every mile I drove threatened to make the problem worse.  I needed to
get out my map, regain my bearings.

Manfully I said goodbye and hung up the phone.

My ear burned for twenty minutes afterward.

Fourteen.

Once I'd figured out where I was, I decided I had time for one more
chore, so I tacked and hauled my way back to Acme Cars Cheap, where I
exchanged the Subaru for a battered Plymouth van with no back seats, an
industrial-strength air conditioner, and almost enough leg room.  When
the air in the Plymouth had finally cooled enough to dry my skin, I
located the nearest fast-food joint a Burger Boutique, forsooth ate a
quick meal, and returned to The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center.

I arrived twenty minutes early, but Anson Sternway appeared less than
five minutes later, wearing his usual lack of expression.

He'd traded in his dignitary clothes, including the blazer, for casual
grey slacks and a white cotton shirt with long sleeves, but he still
moved like an ambulatory vial of nitroglycerin.  Neither of us offered
to shake hands.  We'd already done that.

Just being polite, I asked, "What brings you here?"  Since nothing I
said ever made an impression on him anyway, I tried a leaden joke.

"Returning to the scene of the crime?"

He didn't react.  Maybe he didn't get it.

"Mr.  Lacone can't be here," he told me flatly.

"He has other commitments, so he asked me to show you around Martial
America."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Do you run this kind of errand for him often?"  I would've assumed
that the Director of the LAMA had better things to do.

He shrugged slightly.

"I'm on retainer with Martial America.  Mr.  Lacone pays for my time."
Then he added, "He'd like a call from you this afternoon." Effortlessly
he produced a business card and handed it to me.

"You can use his private line.  He wants your assessment of Martial
America's security."

Marshal had already warned me twice, so I didn't ask, Is there anything
you won't do for a few bucks?  Instead I said, "Thanks," and pocketed
the card.

We waited together in silence for a while.  HRH seemed too superior for
small talk.  I had plenty of new questions for him, but I wasn't sure
that I could get through them before Essential Shotokan's people
arrived.

Sure enough, a few minutes later Hideo Komatori and three other men
parked their run-down Dodge station wagon under the portico.  If I
hadn't talked to him yesterday, I might not've recognized him.  He
seemed like an entirely different person in a lightweight seersucker
suit, sky blue shirt, and bolo tie.  Through the glass of the main
doors, he only reminded me of himself by his upright posture and easy
carriage.

Once he entered the lobby, of course, I could see his scar.

His companions also wore suits that looked too warm not to mention
formal for earner's climate.  Two of them were young, hardly more than
teenagers.  The third was considerably older, maybe forty-five.  They
all walked self-consciously erect, too aware of being emissaries for
Essential Shotokan to match Ko-ma tori air of comfort.

He was the only Asian among them and the only one who wasn't sweating.
Apparently the Dodge sported Subaru-quality AC.

From a distance of ten feet, they paused to bow carefully to Sternway.
His bow in return probably should've looked casual, but by comparison
it seemed negligent.  However, it didn't bother Komatori.  Amiably he
moved closer to shake Sternway's hand.  His companions stayed where
they were.

"Komatori-sem."  Sternway's greeting sounded marginally warmer than the
one he'd given me.

"Sternway sensei," Komatori answered respectfully.

"You honor us."

Sternway spread his hands.

"The honor is mine.  I'm pleased to help Mr.  Axbrewder protect
Nakahatchi sensei's treasure."

On cue Komatori turned to me, bowed, and offered his hand.

"Axbrewder-semI'm relieved by your involvement.  Now the chops will be
safe.  Please tell us how we may assist you."

I shook his hand easily enough.

"Call me Brew.

"Axbrewder-san' takes too long."  But after that I had to scramble to
get up to speed.  All this politeness left me behind.

Fortunately Komatori gave me a moment to think by introducing the men
with him all students of Nakahatchi's.  They bowed fulsomely to
Sternway, took turns shaking my hand.  By then I was ready.

"There won't be any trouble," I said to Komatori, projecting confidence
with all my might, "but we've got three cars, so we can take an extra
precaution.  We'll load the display into your wagon.  Mr.  Sternway can
lead us to Martial America.  You'll follow him, I'll follow you.

"That's overkill, I know."  I wasn't even a little bit worried about an
attempt on the chops in broad daylight.

"But we might as well get in the habit of being careful."

I couldn't read Sternway's expression, but he agreed with a nod.
Komatori acted duly respectful, and the students seemed gratified that
their responsibility for these priceless artifacts was being taken so
seriously.  Together we swung into action, in a manner of speaking.

After I'd signed out the display from the hotel manager's safe room,
transferring liability from The Luxury to Martial America and
Nakahatchi, Komatori and his men loaded it reverently into the Dodge.
Sternway brought his car, a middle-aged Camaro with more muscle than
brains, around to the portico and took the lead.  When I had the
Plymouth in position, we headed out.

Sternway led us in a stately procession.  If we'd had our headlights
on, you would've thought we'd missed the turnoff for a funeral.  What
we were doing seemed at once grave and ludicrous, packed with
significance to the people involved, and more than a bit overwrought
from any other perspective.  Rather like the tournament in that
respect.  Or the martial arts themselves.

For forty-five minutes or so we wandered through an indistinguishable
assortment of Garner's schools, stadiums, athletic supply warehouses,
shopping centers, playing fields, and suburbs, all of which looked like
they'd been cloned from various sections of Indianapolis.  I felt
profoundly lost, despite my map.  I needed shadows, darkness, buildings
undermined by age, streets pocked with use like smallpox a city
inhabited by loneliness, secrets, and disrepair.  A city where Bernie's
death made sense.  Even sunglasses couldn't protect me from so much
newness and light.

Unfortunately I had to cope anyway.

Alex Lacone's "dream" sat on a lot big enough to hold a couple of
Puerta del Sol's high schools.  From a distance it resembled a suite of
professional buildings designed for doctors and dentists.  I wouldn't
have recognized our destination if a mall-style marquee lettered in
hubris hadn't proclaimed:

Martial America National Center for the Martial Arts You couldn't miss
the exaggeration.  Despite the size of the lot, there were only two
buildings.  The rest of the area stood empty, unfinished.  Half of it
hadn't even been paved.

Nevertheless Lacone had put up a good front.  Strips of lawn punctuated
by young sycamore trees and glistening with recent water edged the lot
on all sides.  When the trees grew a bit bigger, they'd help disguise
the limitations of the development.  In the meantime, the marquee
positively shone with self-confidence, and light poles like spires
marked the boundaries of the pavement.

The square buildings themselves didn't exactly dominate the horizon
they were only three stories high but they made a striking impression.
For one thing, their concrete walls were so white they must've been
polished like teeth twice a week.  And in so much eye-straining white
the tinted glass of the long double display windows on the ground level
and the smaller windows above looked deep and dark, almost black as
inviting as shadows, or as forbidding.  In addition, the levels of the
buildings were offset from each other so that the second story extended
in one direction and the third in another.  And they didn't sit
squarely on their side of the lot.  Instead they'd been placed at
angles so that they met and mated at one corner of each ground floor
but not at the upper levels.

One advantage of their orientation, I saw as I followed Stern-way and
the Dodge into the parking lot, was that it diminished the prominence
of any particular side.  A square setting would've favored the sides
that happened to face the street and the parking lot.  But as they
were, Lacone could at least pretend to touchy martial arts egos that
all his locations were equally desirable.

This mattered because each side housed a different school.  A sign over
the display windows on the left wall of the nearer building announced
Essential Shotokan, with Master Soon's Tae Kwon Do Academy on the
right.  An identical sign identified Malaysian Fiehtine Arts in the
next building.

Twenty or thirty other cars occupied the lot, but the sheer size of the
space made them look like they'd been abandoned.  I wasn't convinced
that even Carner could supply enough schools and students to make
Lacone's "dream" come alive.

Bracing myself, I climbed out into the heat to join Sternway and
Komatori.

"Here it is," Sternway told me unnecessarily.  Despite his un-revealing
demeanor, I thought I detected a note of complacency in his voice.

Encouraging him to talk, I asked, "Whose idea was it to angle the
buildings like this?"  I wanted him in a forthcoming mood.

"Mine," he admitted.

"But most of my suggestions involved the dojos themselves."

Then he directed my attention to the unfinished lot.

"Mr.  La-cone's plans include at least four more buildings like these,
two or more on each side, with a tournament facility, museum, and
stores in the center."

Lacone had described a hall-of-fame-style museum and a complete
education center, repository, and promotional outfit.  Plus a variety
of martial arts suppliers.

And all of it white enough to blind a solar astronomer.

"As you can see," Sternway continued, "he has a long way to go.  But he
has the space and the enthusiasm, and I believe he can raise the money.
If he attracts enough prominent schools, that will call attention to
the development.

"In turn, Martial America's success will benefit the martial arts all
across the country."  HRH sounded like he was reading this speech off a
particularly dull brochure.

"Carner will become a Mecca for masters and students everywhere."

Just for something to say, I remarked, "He's ambitious."

Sternway regarded me through a pair of mirrored sunglasses that hid his
eyes.

"Every man worth knowing is."

That was debatable, as they say, but I didn't bother.  I was sweating
again I wanted to get out of the sun.

Fortunately the students had already opened the back of the station
wagon to off-load the display.  Hideo Komatori joined them, and they
raised the case between them as if it were sacred or full of gelignite.
Sternway and I followed them almost respectfully as they approached
Essential Shotokan.

Its only entrance stood under an aw nine between the lone dark windows.
The heavy oak door had been carved with symbols and kanji which
probably conveyed meaning to martial artists, but which told me
nothing.  Komatori produced a key, and I held the door open while we
went in.

I found myself facing a stairway to the second floor in a hallway which
ran back toward the center of the building.  Both the stairs and the
hall sported beige indoor outdoor carpeting that absorbed sound.  On
either side, wide entry ways like portals supplied access to large
rooms.

Immediately Sternway started to act like a tour guide.

"On this level all the buildings have the same layout.  To the right is
the main dojo."  That room went all the way to the far wall of
building, and was roughly half as deep as it was long.

"Notice the raised hardwood floor and the mirrors."

I could hardly help noticing.  Even under fluorescent lights the floor
seemed to glow, polished by hours of bare feet and care.  Reflecting in
the floor-length mirrors, which covered every foot of wall not already
taken up by windows or doors, that glow appeared to fill the entire
room.

"Hardwood is the best training surface," Sternway explained, "because
it flexes slightly, gives a bit of cushioning.  Of course," he remarked
by the way, "when Grade Brothers Jujitsu moves in, their floor will be
covered with wrestling mats."  Then he resumed his lecture.

"The mirrors help students watch and correct their own techniques.

"No one is here now because Essential Shotokan doesn't hold classes
during the early afternoon."  He seemed sure of his facts without
consulting Komatori.

"Nakahatchi sensei teaches advanced seminars in the morning.  But from
4:00 until 10:00 the dojo will be in use almost continuously."

When I'd seen enough which took me about four seconds HRH beckoned me
to consider the room on the left.

"This dojo," he told me like I couldn't have guessed on my own, "is
primarily for equipment training."

It also had a hardwood floor, but instead of mirrors its walls were
lined with heavy bags, speed bags, uppercut bags, stretching and weight
machines, thick vertical wooden boards with padding at their ends
makiwara, Sternway called them and rows of shelves for focus mitts and
a bewildering variety of other pads.

"Bathrooms and changing rooms are at the end of this hallway.  The door
at the back of each dojo leads there."

Komatori and his students waited patiently through all this.  Which
wasn't easy that display was heavy.  As soon as Sternway paused, I
asked Hideo where the chops would be kept.

A nod of his head indicated the stairs.

"You will see, Brew-son."  Apparently that was as close as he could
come to calling me Brew.

Starting upward, Sternway continued his practiced spiel.  While he
talked, he rubbed absently at his left forearm.

"The second floor has a large room that can be used for lectures or
meetings, or for screening videos.  There are also two apartments for
masters or students who wish to live here.  Na-kahatchi sensei and
Komatori-sem both do."

"What about the other masters?"  I meant Gravel, Hong, and Soon.

"Master Soon and Sifu Hong live in their dojos.  Soke Gravel has his
own home, so two of his senior students use his apartments."

We reached the top of the stairs and turned right to move in the
opposite direction.  On the left, another stairway continued upward.
Ahead was another door, a smaller version of the one that faced the
outside world.  It wasn't locked.  Sternway swung it open without
knocking and led the rest of us through.

This was obviously the conference room.  Instead of windows, it had the
kind of indirect lights that put people at ease, blond veneer paneling
designed to look expensive, and a warmer rendition of the ground floor
carpet.  But it didn't contain any tables, lecterns, or video screens.
Wooden folding chairs lined along the walls were the only furniture. In
the center of each side wall, another carved door interrupted those
lines.

Komatori and his helpers carted the case into the center of the room,
folded out its legs, and set it carefully upright.  The older student
straightened his back with a muffled groan, but his younger companions
did their best to pretend that they could've carried the display all
day.

"You're going to keep the chops here?"  I asked Komatori.  The idea
didn't exactly lift my heart.

He must've heard the doubt in my voice.

"Yes, Brew-san.  Is this not a proper place?"

"It's the best spot available," Sternway put in promptly.  I guess he
wasn't interested in my qualms.

"It's easily accessible.  The chops are an important historical
resource, and Nakahatchi sensei doesn't want to conceal them.  But it's
only open when the school holds classes.  Everyone in the dojos can
keep watch."

I'd already seen how karate-ka kept watch, but I didn't object. Instead
I pointed at the ceiling.

"What's up there?"

Sternway shook his head.

"That isn't a useful option.  Mr.  La-cone customizes the third floors
to suit the needs of individual schools.  Some want storage space or
more apartments.  Others like to add a private dojo, or a martial arts
library.  Nakahatchi sensei has both, as well as guest quarters for
visiting masters.  He likes a measure of seclusion.  Setting up the
display would disrupt the school."

Hideo Komatori nodded polite agreement.

That sounded plausible enough, but I wanted to object anyway.  Security
would definitely be a problem here.  However, I kept it to myself.  I
worked for Lacone.  The inadequacy of Na-kahatchi's arrangements were
none of Sternway's business.

When I didn't argue, he finished his disquisition.

"As I've said, each school determines its own use for the third floors.
Master Soon and Sifu Hong have included small equipment and supply
stores.  Sake Gravel maintains a collection of Malaysian weapons for
training.  The possibilities are as diverse as the martial arts
themselves."

I wondered how long he'd been giving this particular pep talk.  He
delivered it like Holy Writ.

"And all of this was your idea?"

"In essence, yes.  As I've said, Mr.  Lacone has no background in the
martial arts."

I still didn't understand why Sternway hadn't moved into Martial
America himself.  He sure seemed proud of it, despite his flat
demeanor.  And he certainly could've cut a favorable deal with
Lacone.

But I didn't think that HRH would tell me the truth in front of
witnesses, so I changed directions.

"What about keys?"  I asked Komatori.

"How many are there?  Who has them?"

Compared to Sternway, Komatori sounded like a model of openness.

"When we entered our lease, Brew-san, Mr.  Lacone provided two keys.
Two more have been made.  Nakahatchi sensei retains two for himself and
his wife.  I've been entrusted with one.  And Aronson-san" he indicated
the older man behind him "also has a key.  He's our senior student."

I raised my eyebrows involuntarily.  Nakahatchi had a wife?  He hadn't
struck me as a married man.  Too ascetic, maybe.  Or too full of
sorrow.

"I assume you're talking about keys to the front door.  What about
others?  These apartments?  The conference room?"

Komatori frowned as if the question surprised him.

"There are none.  We haven't needed them."

I stared at him.

"You mean to tell me one key opens every door here?"

He offered another of his delicate shrugs.

"And the doors above us as well.  In addition, there are the fire
exits."

They needed a key to use the fire exits?  I swallowed a sour laugh.
Garner's building inspectors couldn't, could not, have approved that.
Hell, Watchdog couldn't have approved it.

Was this another of Sternway's bright ideas?

I didn't ask that.  Instead I demanded, "Which are where?"

"I'll show you," Komatori offered mildly.

"In a minute."  I definitely wanted to see the fire exits.  But I was
reluctant to make a production out of it in front of HRH.  Still none
of his business.  And I had a different question for my tour guide.

"Anson, Mr.  Komatori says there are only four keys.  But you unlocked
the front door.  Where did you get yours?"

He gave me a look that might've been veiled contempt.

"My apologies.  I forgot.  This is for you."  He took a heavy Schlage
key from his pocket and handed it to me.

"It's a master key for both buildings.  Mr.  Lacone keeps it for
obvious reasons.  The terms of the lease allow tenants to re-key any
locks they wish, with the exception of the fire exits.  In an emergency
he must be able to let the fire department or the police inside."

Unfortunately that part made sense.  Of course Lacone had a master key.
Later I'd ask him how many there were.  And who had them.

"Shall we look at the fire exits now?"  Sternway went on.

"Or would you prefer to see the top floor first?"

Itching to get rid of him, I responded, "I'll go upstairs later."

His condescension gave me hives.

"And I'm sure Mr.  Komatori can show me the fire exits.  You must be a
busy man, Anson.  There's no need for you to hang around."

This time I saw contempt clearly in his eyes.

"Mr.  Lacone pays for my time.  When you're finished here, I'll take
you around to the other schools."  He tried to sound helpful, but he
couldn't carry it off.

"You aren't known here.  An introduction from me may make your job
easier."

He meant that it might lend me a bit of credibility which I was
prepared to do without.  On the other hand, his company would enable me
to ask other questions.

"Thanks," I murmured with no appreciable sincerity.

"That'll be fine."

So Komatori showed us the fire exits.  He dismissed his carters, then
took Sternway and me back to the head of the stairs from the first
floor.  There he opened a door in the wall under the upward staircase.
I'd taken it for the door of a utility closet when we'd passed it
earlier it had no lock but it let us into a short corridor running
toward the center of the building.

The corridor ended at an iron fire door with a big red EXIT sign over
it and a bar-latch instead of a knob.  As soon as I saw it, I
understood the keys.  It was a self-locking door.  Push the bar on this
side and it opened.  From the other side you needed a key to get in.

"The latch is wired to an alarm," Sternway explained, "as well as to
the fire department.  But it isn't active while the dojos are in use.
At night each school sets its own alarm once the students have left."

Well, they were supposed to, anyway.  Whether they actually did it or
not was another matter.

Komatori opened the door and bowed us through.

Beyond the door I found myself on a railed metal catwalk bolted to the
unpainted cinderblock wall of a large utility well.  The well was a
square hole roughly twenty feet on a side that reached from the ground
floor of the building to its roof.  Conduits and ducts of various sizes
growing out of a cluster of boilers, furnaces, air-conditioning units,
emergency generators, water mains, and circuit-breaker boxes below me
stretched to the ceiling, where the vents continued through a grillwork
sky-lieht coverine the shaft.  At the moment most of the illumination
came from the skylight, but permanent flood lamps in all four walls
kept the catwalks constantly lit.

After the relative comfort inside, the utility well felt like a sauna.
All that machinery put out enough heat to incubate virus strains, and
through the skylight the sun baked the cinder-block walls.  Without
transition my skin started to ooze sweat.  If I had to stay in here
long I'd have fungi growing under my arms.

The catwalk made a circuit of the entire shaft, connecting fire doors
in each of the walls.  An identical catwalk and doors hung overhead,
accessed from the third floor.  Diagonally across from me on both
sides, ladders surrounded by safety cages provided a way upward as well
as down to ground level.

Komatori let the fire door swing shut behind him.  It hit its frame
with a solid thunk like the sound of a marble slab dropping into place
over a tomb.  The catwalk shook slightly, complaining at its bolts.

Stubbornly officious, Sternway called my attention to the keyhole in
the door.

"Each school can use its fire exits at will, but they can't be opened
from this side without the appropriate key.  This provides security as
well as privacy."

Well, duh, I thought.  Hit me over the head with it, why don't you.

"I take it," I drawled, "you don't trust the schools to respect each
other's privacy."

Komatori looked faintly shocked, but I wasn't talking to him.

Sternway considered me expressionlessly for a moment.  Then, instead of
answering, he said, "Komatori-sem, thank you for your assistance.  I'll
show Mr.  Axbrewder the rest of the fire escape route.  Then we'll
visit the other schools.

"Please tell Nakahatchi sensei that I honor his willingness to share
the chops.  I'll give him any assistance he may need.  Also I'm sure
Mr.  Axbrewder will have some useful suggestions for the display's
safety."

HRH didn't want anyone else to hear what he was about to say.

Plainly dismissed, Komatori gave a respectful bow.  Sternway replied in
kind, and Komatori fished out his key to let himself back into
Essential Shotokan.  The thud as the door closed raised an empty echo
from the walls.  The noise gave me the odd impression that I'd gotten
myself into more trouble than I could handle.

With my palm, I wiped a sheet of sweat off my forehead.

"That was subtle," I remarked.

Sternway snorted.

"As subtle as your question, Axbrewder."

I'd succeeded in exasperating him at last.

I replied with a grin like a grimace.

"But in my case it's part of my job.  I'm supposed to ask tactless
questions, insult people, piss them off.  Kick over the anthill and
watch what squirms out."  Feeling malicious he had that effect on me I
added, "You'd be amazed at what I've already learned."

He studied me from under lowered eyelids.  Suddenly I felt that I was
in danger.  His usual ominous relaxation seemed to concentrate strain
for release like compressed napalm, hungry to erupt in fire.  His
tension only lasted for a moment, however.  He'd changed his mind about
something.  Or simply lost interest.

"I doubt it."  His disdain was unmistakable.

I didn't realize that I'd been holding my breath until I tried to tell
him he hadn't answered my question.  Under my jacket, my shirt stuck to
my back.

Fortunately he repeated it for me.

"Do I trust these schools to respect each other's privacy?  Of course.
But I don't trust them to respect each other."

Trying to be unobtrusive about it, I let the air out of my lungs and
took another deep breath.

"Historically," he explained, "martial arts schools attract students
and grow by demonstrating their superiority over other schools.  In
China particularly, that tradition goes back centuries.  Often masters
would travel great distances to test their skills against other masters
with stronger reputations.  Battles between schools were not
uncommon."

Which went a long way toward explaining tournaments.

"My concern for Martial America is that proximity will make the schools
jealous of each other.  It will bring out their competitiveness, as
well as threatening their secrets.  If they try to resolve their
differences by fighting, people might be hurt or possibly killed."

I finally started breathing normally again.  Sternway seemed to become
less and less dangerous as he spoke.

"And the more schools Martial America draws," he added, "the worse the
danger will become.  Especially if they're as aggressive as.  say.
Killer Karate.

"Then, of course" he allowed himself a sigh "the problem is exacerbated
by the fact that Nakahatchi sensei owns a set of possibly genuine
antique Wing Chun chops.

"This distresses Sifu Hong and his entire school, for obvious reasons.
But it also disturbs Master Soon.  It draws attention away from his Tae
Kwon Do Academy."  Sternway attempted a humorless smile.

"You might say that Nakahatchi sensei has up-staged him.  He's
indignant about it."

He paused briefly, then said, "That presents a problem for me as well
as for Martial America.  The IAMA exists, among other reasons, to
promote a sense of mutual cooperation, understanding, and support among
all the martial arts.  And Martial America in particular has the
potential to foster a sense of community which can only benefit the
martial arts."

I got the point.

"Unless it degenerates into a war zone first," I muttered sourly.

He nodded.

"Sounds like quite a dream," I commented.  To my surprise, I found him
more sympathetic when he wasn't acting like a hereditary monarch or
talking about money.

"I'm surprised you got this far with it.  How did you manage to
convince even four schools to share a location like this?"

He offered me another unconvincing smile.

"It helped that Essential Shotokan and Malaysian Fighting Arts aren't
especially competitive.  If I could find a few more schools like them,
a few more masters like Nakahatchi sensei and Soke Gravel, Martial
America would be further along."

That was an excuse, not an answer.  I stared at him and waited for
more.

He glanced around the well.

"I suppose I could say that I can be eloquent when the occasion
warrants.  But you might not believe me."  Then he faced me squarely.

"On the other hand, you may not believe the truth either."

"Try me."  Whatever the "truth" was, I wanted to hear it.

He considered the question for a few more seconds before he conceded.

"Very well.

"The truth, Brew, is that I have credibility as well as authority in
the martial arts.  Legitimate eighth-dans aren't as common as you might
think.  I've been known and honored nationally and internationally for
a number of years.  And the excellence of my students supports my
reputation.  Men like Sifu Hong and Master Soon listen to me because
I've earned their respect.  They wish to show that they deserve to
stand with me."

Now I didn't find him sympathetic at all.  He sounded like an advocate
for the Divine Right of Kings.  He was HRH Anson Sternway, descended
from the mind of God.  Therefore less exalted mortals had no choice but
to worship at his feet.

My skepticism must've showed on my face.  Abruptly Stern-way's manner
changed.  He leaned toward me almost confidentially.

"Tell you what, Brew.  Let me take you out to a place I know tonight.
Say around ten.  I'll show you how I earned respect."

My eyebrows jumped.  What was he trying to do, educate me or intimidate
me?  Either way, I wasn't sure I wanted to be on the receiving end.

But Deborah couldn't see me until tomorrow night, and I didn't have any
other plans Suddenly I missed Ginny.  Or missed the way I felt when we
worked together.  She'd always been the boss, which somehow relieved my
inclination to second-guess myself.  If I could rely on her for
strategy, I could choose my own tactics.

Stalling for time, I tried to change directions, put the pressure back
on Sternway.

"Tell me something else first," I countered.

"How well did you know Bernie Appelwait?"

He glared surprise at the question.

"I hardly knew him at all."  Hints of irritation leaked past the
general flatness of his tone.

"We've held our World Championships at The Luxury for six years now.
We've had the same dealings with hotel Security every year.  Aside from
that, he's a stranger to me."

Inspired, as you might say, by his displeasure, I pursued the issue.

"But the IAMA must have security issues occasionally.  You didn't hire
Bernie for anything?  Ask him to do a job in his spare time?  Consult
with him?"

HRH shook his head sharply.

"Well, did you ever teach him?  He probably studied self-defense
somewhere."  His flik conveyed that impression.  It wasn't a weapon
most people knew about.

"How about with you?  Or maybe he's related to one of your students?"

Fuming, Sternway tried to interrupt, but I kept going.

"Or maybe it had to do with money?"  I was having fun now.

"You talk about how hard it is to make a living in the martial arts.
Security people sometimes have connections they don't talk about on the
job."  I was stretching, but I didn't care.  Only the congestion
gathering in Sternway's face mattered to me.

"Did you ever need a loan shark?  Or protection from a loan shark?  You
might've asked Bernie " He cut me off like a splash of acid.

"What do you think, Ax-brewder?  Say it.  Do you think I had something
to do with his death?"  At his sides, his fingers twitched, eager to
form fists.  His voice struck echoes off the hard surfaces of the
shaft, resonance complicated by concrete and iron.

"Do you think I profit from the death of a tired old security guard at
a second-rate convention hotel?

"If you consider me insane, say so.  I'll stop wasting time with
you."

When he burned like that, as expectant as a blasting cap, his students
probably wet themselves.  For some reason, however, he didn't scare me
now.  Instead I experienced a moment of unadulterated bliss.  The
sonofabitch was human after all.  I could piss him off.

Happily I grinned at him.

"I'll take that as a no."

"I hope so."  He measured me like he was gauging how hard I'd go
down.

"You're being absurd.  And insulting."

I shrugged, still grinning.

"Just doing my job."

He aimed his ire at me for a moment longer.  Then he seemed to think
better of it.  He turned away, gazed out over the utility well.  He
still looked like an explosion poised to happen, but gradually the
imminence eased out of him.

Sounding flat again, he pronounced, "Kicking over anthills is a job for
children."

And just like that my little bliss popped like a soggy firecracker,
doused in sweat.  Suddenly making him angry stopped being fun.  I
hadn't realized that I was so transparent.

Maybe I owed him a little less intransigence.

Sighing to myself, I asked, "Where do you want to meet?"

"Meet?"  His frown said, What the hell are you talking about? Obviously
he'd forgotten his invitation.

"You offered to show me how you earned respect."  I tried to sound
deferential, but I wasn't much good at it.

He nodded.

"You'll come with me."  Apparently he considered that good news.  All
at once he resumed his usual expressionless-ness.

"We can meet in the parking lot here."  Almost smiling, he added, "This
may help you understand martial artists."

Before I could say anything, he asked, "Shall we finish the tour?"

Since there weren't any other anthills in sight, I shrugged.

"Sure."  Then I let him lead me along the catwalk toward the nearest
ladder.

By then my feet were so damp that I squished when I walked.

The catwalk complained again as we moved, hinting at the screech of
tortured metal.  But it didn't pull loose from the wall or collapse
under us.  I wasn't that lucky.

Fifteen.

All in all, it reminded me how dependent I'd become on Ginny.  She and
I'd balanced each other.  When I kicked over anthills, she put the
pieces together that made it worthwhile.  And when she went to tear out
someone's throat, I kept her in check.

Without her I felt just about as childish as Sternway thought I was.

But I had nothing else to work with, so I paid attention while my guide
showed me the rest of the fire escape route.  When I'd followed him
down the ladder to the ground level, I discovered four more fire doors
there, one for each school, and an open corridor in a corner of the
well that presumably led out of the building.

With my master key, I unlocked Essential Shotokan's door and found that
it opened into a room lined with lockers, obviously one of the changing
rooms Sternway had mentioned earlier.  Like locker rooms everywhere, it
smelled damply of sweat, anxiety, Tiger Balm, and rotting jockstraps.
Men's or women's, I couldn't tell.  According to Ginny, they both
smelled the same.

Satisfied, I let the door swing shut, and Sternway took me to the exit
along a corridor lit by a couple more flood lamps  Fortunately the air
here was a bit cooler.  If I'd stayed in the utility well much longer,
I might've started to drip skin.

Right angles to accommodate the design of the dojos on either side
blocked the view ahead, but the corridor tended generally toward one of
the corners of the building, and in a moment we reached the exit, which
turned out to be a small room built into the intersection of this
building and the next one.  Heavy glass doors with bar-latches gave us
an exit on either side.  Sternway chose the door away from the parking
lot, and we stepped out into the glare of Garner's afternoon.

I felt a wash of relief, like I'd escaped being boiled for dinner by
cannibals.  Despite the pressure of the sun, some of my sweat started
to evaporate, cooling my overheated emotions.  I practically staggered
with a kind of giddiness as I confirmed that my key worked on the glass
door.

Sternway watched until I was finished.  Moisture darkened his shirt
under his arms, but other than that he hardly looked damp at all. Maybe
he'd reached 8th dan in Shorin-ryu by being so tough that he almost
didn't need to sweat.

"What do you think?"  he asked when I'd put the key away.

I was still off balance.

"About what?"

He studied me without blinking.

"Are the chops safe?"

I wiped my face dry with both hands.

"Not unless you confiscate every set of lock picks in the city."  Maybe
I hadn't escaped after all.  Maybe I was just being cooled off to
garnish a salad.

"And not if there's a fire."

An entire team of rock climbers couldn't get the display case down that
ladder.  Not without rope.

Sternway didn't glance away.

"What will you tell Mr.  Lacone?"

Apparently he always called the developer "Mr.  Lacone."  Maybe he
worshipped Lacone's money.

I treated my tour guide to a false grin.

"I'll have to think about it."  I wasn't about to tell him what I
really had in mind, so I mentioned something that was too obvious to
miss.

"At the very least, I'll want him to install a heavy bolt on the inside
of that conference room door.  Or I'll advise Nakahatchi to do it."

Sternway gave an almost subliminal shrug.  Without comment he moved off
along the side of the building we'd just left.

I dug out my sunglasses and followed dutifully.

Almost immediately we reached the entrance to Traditional Wing Chun.
Under the shelter of its awning, I found that it'd been customized to
resemble the portal of a Chinese temple.  It had a heavy red door and
frame, with a gracefully curved red lintel and brass door handles in
the shape of a circle.  Stamped or molded into the brass was an image
that reminded me vaguely of one of the chops a stylized figure holding
a long staff over its head, apparently levitating.

Sternway pulled the door open and went inside.

I joined him, grateful to get back into the air-conditioning.

The main dojo to my right was in use.  T'ang Wen, the man who'd talked
to me about ch'uan fa the other day, stood in the middle of the floor,
leading half a dozen barefoot men and women in silk pajamas through a
sequence of movements as rigidly stylized and implausible as kabuki
theater.  Nevertheless T'ang and his class focused on the pattern as if
it were a matter of life and death.  None of them seemed aware of our
arrival.

"We'll wait until they're done."  Sternway kept his voice low,
apparently out of respect for training-in-progress.

That was fine with me.  I needed to cool down anyway.

The pattern took another minute or two to complete.  Then T'ang bowed
to his students, his left hand cupped over his right fist in front of
him a different bow than the one Sternway used.  At once he beckoned a
student to take his place, and left them to practice while he came to
greet us.

In the doorway he and Sternway bowed at each other.

"Sternway sensei," he said quietly.

"You honor us.  How may I serve you?"

Despite the lines on his face and the sharpness of his features, I
couldn't read his expression.  He was a man who smiled easily, however,
and he wasn't smiling now.  The silver chips in his eyes seemed to
concentrate on Sternway like hints of distrust.

"Mr.  T'ang," Sternway replied.

"I believe you've met Mr.  Ax-brewder?"

He must've noticed us together on Saturday, before Bernie was killed.

"Indeed."  T'ang turned to me and offered his hand.

"Mr.  Ax-brewder."  While we shook, he smiled.

"Have you come to learn more of Wing Chun?  New students are welcome at
any time, although I suggest one of our beginning classes.  Training
such as this" he indicated the group behind him "is difficult without
an introduction to the movements and their meaning."

This seemed like a particularly good time to practice my manners, so I
said, "Not right away, thanks.  Maybe later.  Mr.  Stern-way is just
showing me around Martial America."

T'ang Wen's face revealed nothing.

"That's right," Sternway put in.

"Mr.  Axbrewder has been hired to improve security for the building.
I'd like to present him to Sifu Hong."

Something in T'ang's eyes withdrew, dulling their silver edge, but his
tone remained bland.

"Sifu Hong is upstairs," he answered.

"If you will excuse me, I will see if he may be disturbed."

"Certainly," Anson replied with his usual lack of warmth.

"Thank you."

T'ang bowed again, stepped past us into the hallway, and moved smoothly
up the stairs out of sight.

Sternway had already explained some of the undercurrents here. Probably
no one at Traditional Wing Chun would welcome what I was doing for
Watchdog and Martial America and for Nakahatchi.

While we waited, HRH glanced around briefly, making sure he wouldn't be
overheard.  Then he remarked, "The Chinese are too flamboyant."  He
seemed to think that he was answering a question I hadn't known how to
ask.

"Half of what you see in kung fu is just for show.  Wing Chun isn't a
bad style, but even here" he indicated the dojo "there's too much
posturing."

He also considered Tae Kwon Do a toy martial art.  Apparently he was
just full of respect for his fellow martial artists.

"They've had a lot of time to work on it," I objected mildly.
Centuries, in fact, if what I'd been told was accurate.

"They must think it's good for something."

I wanted to see how far he'd go.

"It's intended to distract and intimidate," Sternway replied.

"To defeat an opponent mentally as well as physically.  Rather like a
gorilla beating its chest."  He gave me a cold smile.

"But chest-beating only works against another gorilla."  Then he added
pedantically just in case I'd missed the point "The most common
criticism of Wing Chun is that it isn't effective against other, more
direct styles."

Apparently he was willing to go pretty far.

T'ang Wen spent more time upstairs than I expected.  If all he had to
do was tell Hong we were here, he'd have gotten a response faster from
the Oracle at Delphi.  Nevertheless Sternway didn't show any
impatience, so I kept mine to myself.

Finally T'ang came down the stairs.  Alone.  A frown he didn't try to
disguise gripped his features and he was definitely a man who took
frowning seriously.

Nevertheless I had to admire his relaxation.  The silver in his irises
gave his stare a flaying edge, but his shoulders and arms staved loose,
oerfectlv at ease.

"Mr.  Sternway," he announced softly, "my master is disturbed that you
would insult us in this way."

My eyebrows jumped involuntarily.  Insult ?  But Sternway's poise
didn't flicker.  Like commenting on the weather, he replied, "This
saddens me, Mr.  T'ang.  Sifu Hong holds my deepest respect, and I
meant no offense.  How may I make amends?"

"Insult?"  I asked aloud.

"What insult?"

They both ignored me.  Still softly, T'ang told Sternway, "Take this
man from here."  He flicked a hand toward me.

"While he remains, the offense grows."

I opened my mouth to object I wanted to know how I'd suddenly become
the enemy but Sternway spoke first.

"I would prefer," he stated, "to account for my actions to Sifu Hong in
person."

"My master does not wish to hear any justification."  T'ang's frown
turned the lines of his face to bone.

"For myself, I ask you to comply before the insult becomes
unpardonable."

"Oh, come off it," I put in.

"I haven't even begun to insult you.  Don't treat me like I'm not here.
If I've done something to offend your 'master," tell me what it is.
I'll account for " So quickly that I didn't even see him move, T'ang
flung a blow at my face.  His fist stopped a quarter of an inch from my
nose and hung there, motionless, as if the air had frozen solid around
it.  I could've counted the hairs on the backs of his fingers Before I
could blink, the fist disappeared, slapped down by Sternway's palm.

He and T'ang faced each other as if neither of them had twitched a
muscle.

"We'll comply," Sternway said quietly.

"I'll return later to speak of this with Sifu Hong."

Forcing myself to breathe, I took a step back, out of range.

"Like hell we will."  If T'ang swung at me again, I wanted to see it
coming.

"I'm here to do a job.  I've been hired by the owner of the building,
which he has the right to do.  I'm being paid good money to help
protect those chops, and I'm not going to back down because of some
'insult' I don't understand."

At last T'ang faced me.  The silver in his eyes seemed to cut right
into me.  Softly, venomously, he said, "You were hired to protect the
chops from us."

Wearing his indignation like a frieht mask, he wheeler!  away and
reentered the dojo.  While I stared after him, he resumed teaching his
class.  When his students yelled with him, they sounded livid, enraged
by his ire.

I turned on Sternway.

"Did you expect that?"  Hong's reaction and T'ang's hadn't surprised
him.  And he hadn't asked for an explanation.

"Outside, Axbrewder."  He took hold of my arm, tugged at me to move.

I ripped out of his grip.

"I said " He interrupted me.

"What do you think you gain by making the situation worse?  Is this
another anthill?  Will it help you do your job?"

Without giving me a chance to answer, he strode out of the building.
Dissociating himself from me Damn right I gained something.  Protect
the chops from us.  I hadn't known Hong thought that way.  But I needed
more.

I caught up with Sternway on the sidewalk.  I couldn't see his eyes
he'd already put on his sunglasses but his manner revealed nothing.  He
might've been waiting for me to use the bathroom.

"All right."  I couldn't keep the tension out of my voice.

"I'm outside."  Garner's hard glare attacked my vision.  Heat seemed to
drum inside my skull.

"Answer the question.  Did you expect that?"

Did you set me up?

"No."  His tone might as well have been a mask.  He hid everything
behind it.

"I was trying to prevent it.

"I knew it could happen," he went on.

"And I was sure it would if I left you to handle Sifu Hong on your own.
Your way of talking to people " He shrugged.

"I'd hoped that I might be able to defuse his distrust before it
gathered strength."

"Well, you were wrong," I snorted.

"So what do you think I should do now?"  Did he imagine that I could do
my job without being accepted by the people who used the building?

"I'd like to hear any other good ideas you've got."

"It's simple."  HRH sounded entirely unperturbed.

"We'll finish visiting the other schools.  Then you can go do whatever
it is you do, and I'll return here to pour oil on the waters.  I'm sure
I can persuade Sifu Hong to be more reasonable."

I paused for a moment, considering my options.  Then I said, "No."  and
headed back into Traditional Wins Chun.

He barked my name after me, but I ignored it.  Security for Martial
America was my job, not his.  And I was tired of trailing along behind
him like an overgrown puppy.

Inside the big red door, I didn't hang around for T'ang Wen to notice
me.  Instead I went straight for the stairs and strode up them two at a
time.  By the time I'd climbed halfway, I heard my name again, this
time from T'ang, but I didn't stop.

So far Traditional Wing Chun was laid out exactly like Essential
Shotokan.  At the top of the stairs I doubled back toward the door of
the conference room.  It was shut, but not locked.

In the conference room, unfortunately, I had to guess which of the
apartments Hong occupied.  Nameplates on the doors would've come in
handy, but there weren't any.  And since the lights were off, the only
illumination came from the open door behind me.  What I could see of
the carpet looked equally worn in front of both apartments.

T'ang Wen solved the problem by catching up with me before I risked
flipping a coin.  I feared that he'd hit me, so I spun around before he
got close enough, pointing one finger straight at his face as if I
thought I could stop him with it.

"Keep your distance."  I suppressed as much of my tension as I could.

"I'm sure you can tear me apart with one arm in a sling."  Actually I
would've liked to see him try, but right then didn't seem like a good
time for a testosterone contest.

"But I'm not here to cause trouble."

With the light behind him, shadows hid his expression.  I couldn't tell
anything from his face.  Nevertheless he took me seriously enough to
stop moving.

"Mr.  Axbrewder," he informed me heavily, "you are trouble."

I couldn't argue with that.  Instead I said, "There's been a
misunderstanding.  I want to clear it up."  I groped quickly for the
right phrase, then finished, "I'm here to give Sifu Hong face."

"You?"  T'ang's voice was poised like his body, ready to attack, but
waiting.

"You are Western, culture less and uncouth.  What do you know of
face?"

Good question.  I wondered if he realized just how good.  Maybe he
could see Ginny and Bernie and my dead brother in my eyes.  Maybe he
could smell old booze in my sweat "I know enough," I told him.

"Enough to understand that I need to talk to Sifu Hong in person."

"Then speak to me, gwailo," he countered.

"Give me face.  I will convey your thoughts to my master."

I shook my head.

"It doesn't work that way.  I can't correct the problem with you.  You
aren't the one who's been insulted."

Maybe I was.  I didn't know what gwailo meant.

"We will hear him, Wen," Hong Fei-Tung said at my back.  He'd opened
his door and entered the conference room so quietly that I hadn't heard
him.  Hell, I hadn't even felt his presence in the air.

"Then I will determine whether his words have merit."

I couldn't be sure, but I thought I heard a touch of reprimand in the
sifu's tone.

Without hesitation or protest, T'ang Wen bowed to his master, left hand
over right fist, and withdrew a step.

I turned toward Hong.

Dim light from the doorway fell on his face, making it look like terra
cotta worn smooth and flat by time.  He couldn't have gazed at me more
impassively without being dead, but his eyes granted me a warning
glimpse of the intensity I'd seen in him outside The Luxury, when he'd
taken his first look at the chops.

I didn't need Sternway or even T'ang to tell me that I had to be
careful now.  Very careful.  I'd already struck a spark from T'ang.
From Hong I might get the full conflagration.

"Sifu Hong."  My breath caught high up in my chest.  My nerves
remembered how they'd felt when Parker Neill had poked me.  I mimed one
of Sternway's bows while I tried to make my diaphragm work.

He didn't bow back.  Within his silk robe his body remained unnaturally
still.  Not even respiration stirred the fabric.

With as much ease as I could muster, I began, "You'll have to forgive
me.  As Mr.  T'ang just remarked, I'm Western.  I don't know all the
appropriate forms and courtesies.  No matter what I do or say now, I'm
going to seem crude."

Deliberately I refrained from pointing out that he should be used to it
by now.  He'd been living here long enough.  He must know how to get
along with us uncultured, couth less Occidentals.

"I don't have any personal experience with this," I continued abruptly,
"but I'm told that as a school Traditional Wing Chun is widely
respected.  As the school's sifu, you're held in high esteem.  Everyone
I've talked to says so," even Anson Sternway in his un giving fashion,
"and I have no reason to doubt them.  You're regarded as a man of
honor."

At my shoulder, T'ang breathed harshly, "To say so is to suggest that
the opposite is possible."

I ignored him to concentrate on Hong.

"Mr.  Lacone and Stern-way sensei haven't insulted you by hiring me to
protect the chops.  They hired me to give you face."

"You speak," T'ang put in, "but you say nothing.  Sternway and others
believe my master will attempt to reclaim the chops.  They will call it
theft, although the chops are rightfully Chinese.  You are the hand of
their distrust.  You oppose my master for an action he has not
committed and does not contemplate."

This time I answered T'ang.

"Now you're insulting me."  But I kept my eyes fixed on Hong.

"Do you think I have no honor?

"Your master is an honorable man.  Of course he won't do anything
dishonorable.  But the police don't understand honor.  They understand
greed.  And national pride."  Never mind bigotry.

"Not honor."

Then I appealed directly to Hong.

"Sifu, if anything happens to the chops, whose voice will defend your
honor to the police?  Whose but mine?  They'll assume you had something
to do with it.  They'll have to.  Distrust is their job.

"But I'm responsible for security here now.  The safety of the chops is
my problem.  And if I fail to protect them, then I'm responsible for
discovering the truth about what happened to them.

"That's called honor where I come from.

"You don't have any reason to resent me," I finished.

"The simple fact that I'm here protects you.  My presence gives you
face."

Which, as I was acutely aware, was only one way to look at it.
Naturally T'ang had a different perspective.

Bitter as bile, he demanded, "Do you wish my master to believe that
those gwailo Sternway and Lacone hired you as a sign of their respect?
He is not such a fool.  He " "Enough, Wen," Sifu Hong interrupted
softly.  His gaze never left mine.  No expression touched his flat
features.

"This country is not China.  Here men may perform work without sharing
the purposes of their masters."

On my own behalf, I explained, "I don't work for Sternway sensei.  I
work for Mr.  Lacone.  He's in the profit business.  He wouldn't do
anything to insult you.  He doesn't want to lose a respected school" a
paying lessee "like Traditional Wing Chun.  And he certainly doesn't
want anything to happen to the chops.  That would damage his plans for
Martial America."

After that I couldn't think of any way to make myself clearer, so I
shut up.

T'ang shifted restively behind my shoulder, but didn't say any more.

His master studied me for a moment longer.  Then he nodded crisply,
like an acknowledgment.

"Mr.  Axbrewder," he announced, "I have heard you.  We will not speak
of this again.  Events will reveal their meaning as they unfold."

In other words, I was dismissed.  He was willing to suspend judgment,
at least temporarily.  Maybe he expected me to count my blessings and
just go away.

Fortunately he didn't stop there.

"While you remain in the service of Mr.  Lacone," he continued, "you
are welcome here.  If you wish our assistance, if you desire to learn
more of Wing Chun, or if you require any knowledge that is ours to
share, please name your need to T'ang Wen."

Before I could open my mouth to thank him, he turned away.  The weak
light from the doorway made his short grey hair look like an iron
skullcap, ascetic and impregnable.  He might've been walking off a
battlefield as he stepped into his apartment and closed the door,
leaving me with T'ang.

Apparently he'd just given me face.

At any rate, he'd accepted my protestations.  But I didn't grasp why
they'd been necessary in the first place.

T'ang cleared his throat.  He sounded uncomfortable doing it, but when
I turned to look at him his face was shrouded in shadow, his reactions
hidden.

"Are you content, Mr.  Axbrewder?  I will do what I can to satisfy
you."

The words suggested more than one meaning.  What kind of satisfaction
did he have in mind?

"I'll think of something," I muttered.  Then I winced at my own
gracelessness.  Trying to make amends, I admitted, "This is all new to
me.  I'm a little baffled at the moment."

T'ang stood in silence, apparently waiting for me to frame a question.
But I didn't speak.

Even taking into account my ignorance of China, and of Chinese
psychology, I couldn't get my head around the idea that my presence was
an insult.  As far as I could tell, he and Hong had reached that
conclusion from another dimension, bypassing ordinary reality
altogether.

It must've come from somewhere.

I wanted an explanation.  But I didn't know how to ask for it politely.
Stalling, I indicated the lighted hall beyond the conference room and
started in that direction.  T'ang joined me smoothly.

I didn't say anything until I could see better.  When he'd closed the
conference room door, I studied his face for a moment, looking for
remnants of hostility, but I didn't find any.

Maybe now I could stop worrying that he might hit me.

"I do have a couple of questions," I told him while my muscles
loosened.

"Is Traditional Wing Chun a new school?  Have you always been located
here?"

"No, Mr.  Axbrewder."  Now T'ang sounded like the man I'd talked to at
the tournament, accessible and at ease.  He'd already taken Hong's
attitude to heart.

"My master came to this country from Hong Kong twenty years ago.  For a
time he visited other Wing Chun masters in various cities, considering
possibilities.  When he had determined that Garner was suitable, he
opened his doors to students."

Which must've been long before Lacone started dreaming about Martial
America.

"As he prospered," T'ang went on, "he invited more and more of his
family to join him from Hong Kong and China.  My paternal grandfather
was my master's uncle by marriage.  My parents were among the first to
accept my master's invitation, and I began study with him fifteen years
ago."

Presumably Sternway was still fuming on the sidewalk, so I started
toward the stairs.  I wouldn't exactly grieve over it if he got fed up
and left.  On the other hand, he might have an answer for questions I
didn't know how to ask T'ang.  What he'd told me outside no longer
seemed adequate.

As T'ang accompanied me, I observed, "After that many years, Sifu Hong
must've been pretty well established.  What made him decide to move
into this buildine?"

That was as close as I could get to what I really wanted to know.

The subject didn't produce any discomfort.

"Sternway sensei is widely known," T'ang answered calmly.

"Association with him is beneficial.  In addition, my master considers
that the goals of the IAMA, and of Martial America, are worthy.  He
believes the time for exclusiveness in the martial arts has passed, and
he favors open cooperation among the many styles for the benefit of
all.

"Also" from the head of the stairs T'ang gestured toward the dojos
below us "the facilities are excellent.

"When Sternway sensei asked the martial artists of Garner to consider
this location, my master was the first to agree."  Pride showed in his
voice.

"I was given the honor of signing the first lease in his name."

Which sure didn't make it sound like T'ang or Hong distrusted Lacone.
Something must've changed relatively recently.

T'ang and I descended the stairs.  To keep him talking while I tried to
think of a different approach, I asked, "How long was Traditional Wing
Chun alone here?"

An innocent question, I would've said.  But apparently I'd plucked an
unexpected nerve.  T'ang stopped so abruptly that my momentum carried
me a couple of steps past him before I could turn to find out what was
wrong.

His eyes were almost level with mine.  Their silver hinted at
incandescence.

"We were not," he pronounced distinctly.

"When Nakahatchi sensei learned that my master had agreed, he signed a
lease with an earlier date of occupation."

I blinked.

"Nakahatchi was already here when you moved in?"

"Yes," T'ang stated.

"He had been uncertain of his own decision.  But when he learned of my
master's, he made arrangements to place himself first."

"Why bother?  What's the point?"

T'ang shrugged disdainfully.

"He is Japanese.  The Japanese seek precedence over the Chinese in all
things."

Oh, good.  More racial stereotyping.  Just what we needed.

I wanted to retort, Gosh, are you sure?  Maybe it didn't have anything
to do with Hong.  Maybe Nakahatchi's previous lease just expired before
yours and he had to move earlier.

Maybe you're just a narrow-minded little bigot, and everything you say
is horse shit.

But I knew myself too well.  Once I got started, I probably wouldn't
stop until everyone in the damn building knew how I felt.  I was
supposed to be polite here.  Martial America needed less hostility, not
more.

Practically biting my tongue, I moved on down the stairs and headed for
the front door.  T'ang followed a few paces behind me.

Nevertheless I had no intention of letting good manners interfere with
my other priorities.  When we reached the door, I put my back to it and
confronted T'ang.  Without transition, I asked, "Did you know the man
who was killed at the tournament?  Bernie Appelwait?"

That touched no nerves at all.  T'ang looked mildly surprised, but I
didn't pick up the slightest vibration of unease as he replied, "His
death is disturbing and shameful, Mr.  Axbrewder.  My master hopes that
his killer will be apprehended quickly.  We both knew him by name, and
we saw him in the course of his duties during Sternway sensei's
tournaments.  But I have never spoken with him, and my master has made
no mention of such a conversation."

"You don't have any students related to him?  You didn't consult him
about security at your former dojo?"

Perplexity tightened on T'ang's brows.

"Indeed no."

"Is it possible," I went on, "that Sifu Hong might've had dealings with
him you wouldn't know about?"  Trying to be polite, I didn't mention
things like loan sharks.

T'ang shook his head.

"Mr.  Axbrewder, Hong Fei-Tung is my sifu.  I do not ask such
questions.  But I do not believe it is possible.  My duties include all
business transactions for Traditional Wing Chun.  About my master's
personal concerns I know nothing.

"However" he smiled delicately "we are Chinese.  We need no assistance
in matters of money."

Oh, well.  I hadn't actually expected anything as far-fetched and
simple as a direct connection between Bernie and this school or the
chops.  But I had to check.

That left Lacone.  And Nakahatchi.

With visions of Sternway's indignation dancing like sugar plums in my
head, I thanked T'ang Wen, told him that I'd get in touch if I needed
anvthine else, and let mvs elf out.

I found HRH waiting right where I'd left him.  His white shirt caught
so much sunlight that it seemed to blur around him, enclosing him like
flame.  Expecting trouble, I braced myself for another flare of his
exasperated condescension.

But he almost knocked me off stride with a lukewarm smile.

"How did it go?"  he asked in a tone of polite disinterest.  He didn't
sound impatient and certainly not angry.  I couldn't see his eyes
behind his sunglasses.

What the hell ?  I stared at him.

"Fine."

He nodded like he hadn't expected anything else.

"That's good."  Then he added, "While you were inside, I talked to
Master Soon and Soke Gravel, so you're covered there.  You can
introduce yourself whenever you have time, but they know why you're
here now.  I'm sure they'll cooperate with you."

I had the vague impression that I'd left my mouth open.  For a moment I
couldn't think of a thing to say.

"As far as I'm concerned," Sternway said evenly, "we're done for today.
Unless you have more questions?"

In self-defense I put on my own sunglasses and tried to kick my brain
back into motion.  With an effort, I admitted, "There's still a lot I
don't understand about martial artists.  And martial arts schools."
Grabbing the first detail that occurred to me, I asked, "Do T'ang and
Komatori really handle all the business for their schools?"

Sternway nodded.

"I believe so, yes.  It's a traditional arrangement.  The highest
ranking student takes care of the practical side of running a school,
freeing the master to concentrate on higher matters.  I may have
mentioned that Sue Rasmussen fills the same role for me."

"That's it?"  I insisted.

"Tradition?"

He smiled coldly.

"As I say, it's a traditional arrangement.  But naturally common sense
prevails.  If the senior student isn't capable " He shrugged.

"As it happens, both Mr.  T'ang and Mr.  Komatori are more fully
acclimated to this country than their masters.  Wen's family moved here
from Hong Kong when he was quite young.  And Hideo was born in the US,
although I think his parents are still Japanese citizens."

I considered that briefly.

"Then I guess I need to talk to either Komatori or Rasmussen."

"Why?"  Sternway may've been genuinely curious.

"Apparently," I explained, "Hong feels insulted by the fact that
Nakahatchi moved into Martial America ahead of him.  I'd like to know
why Nakahatchi did that."

Just how deep did the friction between Essential Shotokan and
Traditional Wing Chun run?

"I can't help you."  Sternway's interest seemed to dissipate.

"Sue handles the leases.  That's one of the services the IAMA offers
its members.  I wasn't involved."

Which was another detail that didn't seem to fit.  He wasn't mad at me
for going back into Traditional Wing Chun without him.  And he didn't
know about Hong's history with Nakahatchi.  Considering all the things
he did know For a heartbeat or two I tried to look like I accepted his
answer.  Then I changed the subject.

"You mentioned T'ang's family.  He told me that Sifu Hong has been
inviting his relatives to join him here for years.  Do you happen to
know how many of them he has in Garner?"

All at once Sternway resumed his majesty.  A muscle in his cheek gave
his mouth a condescending twist.

"Sifu Hong isn't a gossip, Brew," he replied, unnecessarily patient.

"He doesn't chat with me about such things.  But the last rumor I heard
put the number around fifty."

I gaped behind my sunglasses.  Fifty That would make one hell of a
support system for a man who wanted to steal and hide a set of antique
Wing Chun chops.  Stories about triads flared through my head, Hong
Kong gangs as bloody-minded as the Russian Mafia, with just as much
reach.

If Hong didn't actually have all the honor I'd given him credit for Ah,
shit.  This damn job was getting messier by the hour.

Sternway gazed at me, blank as a sphinx.

"Are we done here?"

I jerked back into focus on him.

"Just one more question."  My voice was harsher than I intended.

"You expected trouble from Hong.  Earlier you said you wanted to
introduce me so that you 'could defuse his distrust."  But why would he
distrust any of us?  It can't have anything to do with me personally.
He doesn't know me.  He must have a problem of some kind with you.  Or
Mr.  Lacone.

"If you actually want me to do my job, you'd better tell me what's
really going on here."

For a moment HRH seemed to study me behind his sunglasses.  Then he
barked a humorless laugh.

"No, Brew.  This isn't another anthill.  This time you're scuffing your
shoes on bare dirt.

"Haven't you learned anything about the tensions that inevitably exist
between martial arts styles?  Are you completely ignorant of Japanese
and Chinese history?  In one form or another, they've been at war with
each other for centuries.  Despite vastly superior numbers, China has
usually lost.  What do you think it means to Sifu Hong that a
traditional enemy, a traditionally victorious enemy, holds a precious
piece of his own heritage?

"You disappoint me, do you know that?  You should be able to understand
that Sifu Hong doesn't distrust me or Mr.  Lacone or the IAMA.  He
distrusts and resents Nakahatchi sensei."

That, apparently, was his final word on the subject.  He turned away
without saying goodbye and headed for the parking lot.  The way he
moved, fluid and fatal, made me think of nitroglycerin flowing
downhill.

I probably should've believed him.  Hell, I was just as ignorant as he
accused me of being.

But I didn't.  Instead I felt like he'd granted me a small epiphany, an
intuitive glimpse into the heart of a city I didn't understand.
Suddenly I saw how Garner's night dwellers flourished in a place so
full of light.  Sunglasses.  They carried pieces of darkness with them
everywhere.

I didn't believe Anson Sternway for a variety of reasons.  He wasn't
pissed off after I'd kept him waiting so long.  He was sure that Hong
resented Nakahatchi, but he claimed he didn't know anything about their
personal history.

And he kept so much of himself hidden.

Sixteen.

For a while I stood where I was, asking myself, What would Ginny do?
What would any smart person do?  But nothing dramatic occurred to me,
so I just did what came naturally.

Leaving Malaysian Fighting Arts and Tae Kwon Do Academy for tomorrow
despite Master Soon's curious absence during Bernie's murder I went
back to my rented Plymouth, fired it up, and cranked the AC as high as
it would go.  While the air cooled, I used my cell phone to call
information and get Bernie's home number and address.

The address turned out to be an apartment building of some kind.  When
I tried the number, no one answered.  Which wasn't a surprise he'd
given me the distinct impression that he lived alone.  And the cops had
had plenty of time to finish with the place.  After five rings a phone
machine delivered an announcement in Bernie's querulous voice, but I
didn't leave a message.

Instead I dug out my map.

I found his address maybe five miles diagonally across Garner from
Martial America, in a small neighborhood where all the streets had
kitsch-cowboy names like Quirt, Rowel, Stirrup, and Lariat.  It sounded
like the kind of blue-collar neighborhood people chose when they
couldn't afford anything better.  I planned a route, then kicked the
Plymouth into gear.

Once I was out of the parking lot, I dialed the number I'd been given
for Alex Lacone.

It must've been his private line he answered it himself.  I could hear
him beaming as he said, "Lacone here.  I don't recognize your caller

ID."

"Axbrewder, Mr.  Lacone.  I picked up a cell phone this morning so we
could keep in touch."

"Brew."  His tone shifted to a warmer channel.

"How's it going?  Did Anson take care of everything for you?  Are those
chops safely tucked away?"

I leaned into the blast from the AC, still trying to cool down.

"Everything's fine so far."  I hadn't asked him to call me Brew.  He
must've picked it up from Sternway.  Or Deborah.

"Mr.  Stern-way gave me this number and your skeleton key.  The chops
have been delivered to Essential Shotokan.  I've had a tour of the
building, and paid a visit to Sifu Hong.  Tomorrow I'll drop in on
Master Soon and Sake Gravel."

"Good, good."  He'd tuned his enthusiasm to an all-approval station.

"Sounds like you've made a real start."

Before I could express an opinion about that, he went on, "How does it
look so far, Brew?  We agreed on a week for a full report, but
naturally I'm curious about your preliminary reactions.  How much
worrying should I do right now?"

I could've told him, but I wanted to deflect him a bit, maybe disturb
his balance some.

"One question first, Mr.  Lacone," I countered.

"This skeleton key how many other copies are there?"

"Two, I believe," he replied without hesitation.

"We keep one handy in case we need to send out someone for emergency
repairs.  And of course it's available for the police, the fire
department, the paramedics, that sort of thing.  The other is in our
office strongbox.  Just as a precaution."

"And you're sure you have your copies?  They haven't been misplaced or
borrowed?"  I meant stolen.

"I'll check."

The phone picked up a clicking sound like an intercom switch.  Then I
heard Lacone ask, "Cassie, do you have the keys for Martial America?"

A woman's voice somewhere in the background answered.  It seemed to
quaver a little.

"I have one of them here, Mr.  Lacone.  The other is in the
strongbox."

"Good, good."  I guess he liked saying that.  Without prompting, he
continued, "Has anyone used them recently?"

"Not since we made the copy you gave to Mr.  Sternway."

"Thank you, Cassie."  The clicking sound came again.

"Cassandra Hightower," Lacone explained to me.

"My personal assistant.  She hasn't made a mistake since the Roosevelt
administration."  He chuckled.

"That's Teddy Roosevelt."  Then he added, "She'll give you any help you
need if I'm not available."

I nodded at the windshield, trying not to get lost.

"Glad to hear it."  Maybe I could stop worrying about skeleton keys.

Lord knows I had plenty of other worries.

"You asked for a preliminary opinion, Mr.  Lacone," I went on.

"The way I see it, right now the chops would be safer if you just left
them in the parking lot.  That way no one would think they're worth
anything."

For a moment, he offered me a shocked silence.  Then he murmured, "Oh,
my."  Which was a big improvement on good, good.

"That seems harsh."

"I don't think so."  I didn't want to drag the conversation out.
Garner's convulsive rush hour had begun to gather around me, and I
needed to concentrate on my driving.

"I'm sure you remember how the locks are keyed.  Each dojo just has
one.  The same key fits the front door, the fire exits, the apartments,
the conference room."  Plus whatever was on the third floor.

"Anyone with a copy of Essential Shotokan's key can get at the chops at
any time, day or night."

I could feel him getting ready to object, but I forestalled him by
saying, "I assume that Nakahatchi sensei has been sensible about
copies.  I'm told there are only four.  But those aren't complicated
locks, Mr.  Lacone.  Anyone with a set of picks can open them.  And you
can buy picks almost anywhere."  Including mail order.

"Along with instructions.  In effect, anyone at all can get at the
chops.

"As matters stand, you'd better pray that Nakahatchi sensei and Mr.
Komatori are light sleepers, because that's all the protection you've
got."

Sammy Posten could've told Lacone exactly the same thing.  He didn't
need me.  But I kept that to myself.

Lacone breathed, "Oh, my," again.  This time I didn't hear any imminent
objections.

"It's a simple problem, really, Mr.  Lacone," I explained.

"That building was designed for public use, not to secure valuable
antiques.  Any place like it would have the same problems."

After a long moment's consideration, he asked, "What do you suggest?"
For once he didn't sound like he was smiling.

"Two things to start with," I replied promptly.

"First, install a couple of heavy bolts on the inside of the conference
room door.  And I don't mean deadbolts you can open with a key.  I'm
talking about old-fashioned sliding bolts set top-and-bottom so that
they anchor the door to both the lintel and th

"Then hire an electronic security firm to put motion sensors in the
hall outside the conference room.  And set pressure plates under the
carpet in front of the door.  Have them all wired to an arming switch
in Nakahatchi's apartment or Komatori's.

"It'll be an inconvenience," I admitted.

"They'll have to remember to shoot the bolts and arm the sensors when
they lock up for the night.  But that's trivial compared to the cost of
insuring those chops.  And I'm sure Watchdog will approve.

"I'll have more for you when I've studied the building" I meant the
schools "and done some research.  But bolts and some electronic
security will cover you for now."

Unless a thief tried to get in through one of the apartment windows
which seemed implausible to me.  In Garner's heat, no one left windows
open.  And both apartments were occupied.

The developer's silence gave me the impression that he wasn't happy;
"What kind of research?"  he asked reluctantly.

"I want to talk to someone who handles security for a museum.  He'll
know more than I do about protecting valuables in a public building."

He may've been worried about what my suggestions would cost.

Apparently I was right.

"I believe," he pronounced after another pause, "my present insurance
covers me until the chops are appraised."  In other words, this was
Watchdog's problem, not his at least for now.

"I'm sure I can get those bolts installed in a day or two.  But motion
sensors and pressure plates sound expensive.  I don't want to spend
that kind of money if I don't have to."

For instance, if the chops turned out to be counterfeit "That's your
call, Mr.  Lacone," I put in unsympathetically.

"You're paying me to give you advice, not to stand guard on the display
personally.  I'll protect them as well as I can.  But I can't be there
twenty-four hours a day."

"I understand, Brew, I understand."  His bonhomie sounded a trifle
forced.

"Of course I want your advice."  A beat later, he asked, "How much
would those sensors and plates run me?"

I shrugged at the windshield.

"You'll have to get an estimate from an electronic security
professional.  I don't have the expertise to install them, so I don't
buy them myself."

I refrained from adding that it was silly to wait a couple of days
before putting in bolts.  I'd made my suggestions.  If he chose not to
take them seriously, that was his business.

And I also didn't mention that I'd already urged Deborah Messenger to
arrange a preliminary appraisal.  She could deal with him when she was
ready.  The bad news didn't have to come from me.

"Well, I'll give it some thought," Lacone announced as if that
constituted reaching a decision.  By degrees he recovered his smiling
tone.

"In the meantime, Cassie will fill out a work order.  We'll talk again
soon."

Before he could finish dismissing me, I put in, "Just one or two more
questions, Mr.  Lacone."

"Of course," he sighed.  He seemed to be losing his enthusiasm for
me.

"Go ahead."

I offered the traffic and the street signs a hard grin.

"I had a small problem at Traditional Wing Chun this afternoon. Nothing
serious just a misunderstanding.  But it took me by surprise.

"Sifu Hong seemed to think that you hired me to protect the chops from
him."

"He did?"  Lacone asked.

"I'm astonished, Brew."  He sounded astonished.

"Where would he get such an idea?  It's preposterous.  I have nothing
but the greatest respect for him.  Men like him and Nakahatchi sensei
and Anson Sternway they give me faith in my dreams for Martial
America."

Sincerity wasn't his strong point, that was plain.  But he came close
enough to satisfy me, at least for the time being.  He had good reason
to keep his schools happy, if he could.

"I'll tell him you said so.  That should relieve his mind."

Then, deliberately abrupt hoping to catch him off-guard I asked, "How
well did you know Bernie Appelwait?"

"Bernie ?"  For a moment he seemed unable to place the name.  Then he
said, "Oh, that security guard.  The one who got killed.

"I didn't know him at all.  Just his name.  He worked at the
tournament.  Didn't he hire you to help guard the chops?  I think I may
have shaken his hand once.

"Why do you ask?"

Instead of answering, I countered, "What about your assistant?  Maybe
she remembers him."

"I can't imagine why she would," he said dubiously.  But he clicked his
intercom anyway.

"Cassie, does the name "Bernie Ap-pelwait' mean anything to you?"

"Of course, Mr.  Lacone.  He was the Chief of Security at The Luxury
Hotel and Convention Center."  Maybe she really hadn't made a mistake
in decades.

"At one time you considered hiring him to provide security for Martial
America.  But you didn't want to pay as much as he earned at The
Luxury.  Eventually you concluded that the buildings didn't require
full-time security."

"Ah, yes," he conceded.

"Now I remember.  Thank you, Cassie."  Another distinct click silenced
the intercom.

"Invaluable woman," he muttered.

"I don't know how she does it."  He didn't sound pleased.

"But she's right, of course.  We talked about hiring full-time security
this was months ago.  But security firms cost an arm and a leg. Someone
suggested a hotel security guard might be less expensive.  I may have
mentioned Mr.  Appelwait myself, poor man.  But when I learned what The
Luxury pays an employee with his seniority " The phone connection
conveyed a shrug.

"Eventually we discarded the idea."

"Who is 'we," Mr.  Lacone?"

"Let me think.  Sammy Posten, naturally.  Anson."  He paused briefly.

"Oh, and Mike Piangi.  He's the Vice President for Commercial Loans
over at Garner National Bank and Trust."

In fact, they were exactly the people with whom he might've been
expected to discuss security for Martial America.  As my employer he
was certainly forthcoming, I had to give him that.

I'd baffled him, however, and he wanted an explanation.

"What's this all about, Brew?"

"I have no idea, Mr.  Lacone," I admitted honestly enough.

"All I know is that Bernie was killed while he was responsible for the
chops.  That's a pretty remote connection, obviously.  But if I want to
earn what you're paying me, I have to look into every conceivable hint
of trouble, no matter how implausible it seems."

Which was why I needed to know where Hong's knee-jerk distrust came
from.

"Fair enough."  He had his smile tuned to a stronger signal now.  Maybe
he thought that every potential threat I identified and blocked reduced
the eventual cost of long-term security.

"You're doing a fine job, Brew.  Keep up the good work."

That made it easy to get off the phone.  When we'd said good-bye, I
hung up.

By then I was nearly lost again.  The accumulating traffic demanded my
attention, which made me feel that I'd wandered off my route.  And on
top of that, I was not in a good mood.

The chops had been in Bernie's care when he was killed.  La-cone had
mentioned Bernie's name to his business associates.  As connections
went, those weren't just remote, they were bloody intangible.  Which
left me pretty much right where I'd started clueless.  If I didn't find
something useful at Bernie's apartment, I'd have a hell of a time
tracing his killer.

Unless the killer cut his way through more innocent bystanders to reach
the chops A man who didn't mind hacking down a frail old security guard
wouldn't stop until he got what he really wanted.

Involuntarily I shuddered, and my guts squirmed.  For a moment or two,
sweat blurred my vision, despite the Plymouth's AC.  If this kept up,
I'd find myself in the kind of black funk that positively begged for
booze.

Luckily I hadn't missed any turns.  By now rush hour had clogged itself
down to a thin trickle, but that made spotting street signs easy.
Stoplights and hostile drivers clotted my route, but eventually I
reached Bernie's neighborhood.

His apartment turned out to be upstairs in a brick four-plex on a block
full of identical buildings with narrow strips of lawn like dog runs
between them and exactly one unconvincing sycamore in each front yard.
Some of the flower beds against the walls showed more care than others,
but they all seemed to hold the identical gardenias and peonies.  On
the inside, Bernie's building sported carpeting like Astroturf,
designed to hide dirt and stains, and planters occupied by forlorn
plastic palm fronds.  It was well lit, however, like the rest of
Garner, with uncompromising fluorescent bulbs partially humanized by
frosted shades.

A staircase took me up to a landing with a numbered steel door on each
side.  I knocked on Bernie's just in case the cops, a relative, or some
fiduciary friend happened to be there but there was no answer.  When I
hadn't heard anything for a minute or so, I jimmied the door and let
myself in.

Someone had left a light on in the living room.  With my back to the
door, I glanced around.  The living room ran half the length of the
building, but that didn't make it large.  And it was crowded with
furnishings a couple of spavined bookcases, an old pre remote TV, a
cracked Naugahyde recliner, a couch with defeated springs, a sturdy
little workbench littered with tools and glue, and four assorted end
tables, all set around an ersatz Oriental rug.  The whole space
including the rug looked neglected, abandoned to depression and dust
with the exception of the framed photographs on the walls, and the wine
bottles and jugs of various sizes carefully positioned on their sides
in delicate stands on every available surface.

Bottles and jugs with wooden sailing ships inside them.  I counted
eighteen.

The photographs were all of the same woman, middle-aged, tending to
fat, with nondescript hair, a wide forehead, small brown eyes too far
apart and a smile so utterly and entirely seraphic that it wrung my
heart.  It beamed like a blessing out of every frame, warming
everything she saw.

I knew intuitively who she was, without a scrap of actual
identification.  Bernie's wife.  Dead for a number of years now, if the
condition of the rug were any indication.

Every day he'd worked his twelve-hour shift at The Luxury.  And every
night he'd taken refuge here under her loving gaze, meticulously
building ships in bottles because she was gone and he was alone.

I found more in the kitchen, some jaunty, others trudging against
forgotten winds.  And more in the bedroom.  Even in the bathroom. Ships
in bottles and pictures of his wife were the only decorations he'd
cared to have around him.

I had a lump in my throat I couldn't swallow as I started searching his
apartment.

If the cops had been here ahead of me, they were neat as hell about it.
I didn't find any disturbed dust to indicate that something had been
moved, any of the usual scrap of police investigations in the
wastebaskets.  Which meant that whoever had the job of putting Bernie's
"affairs" in order and disposing of his "effects" hadn't been here yet.
Maybe he'd died intestate, so un cared-for that the residue of his life
would just sit here until his landlord evicted it.

In the end, I didn't have to do much searching.  I found everything
that interested me, including his address book, neatly organized in a
filing cabinet in one of the bedroom closets.

Everything except a will.  But that didn't mean much.  The cops
might've taken it to deliver to some lawyer or agency.

Assuming the cops had been here, they must've copied what they wanted
out of his address book.  That made my job easier, but I still didn't
like it.  It suggested that Edgar Moy wasn't taking this investigation
very seriously.

A quick scan of Bernie's financial records didn't supply any surprises.
I was no CPA, but the numbers looked about right for a man who'd worked
steadily and spent very little no unexplained infusions of cash, no
unidentified expenditures.  Rent aside, his biggest monthly expense was
a payment to a nursing home.

The address book made my eyes ache when I looked at it.  It was
relatively empty compared to others I'd seen, and every blank space
seemed to describe a life of emotional poverty.  It gave me the phone
number for the nursing home, however, along with a collection of other
numbers, some self-explanatory, others just labeled with the names of
people I didn't know.

My stomach complained to remind me that I hadn't eaten for a while, but
I figured its objections were mostly an excuse to stop what I was
doing, so I ignored it.  Feeling like an intruder, I helped myself to a
tall glass from one of the kitchen cabinets and filled it with water.
Then I sat down on the couch the recliner was so obviously his that I
didn't want to violate it and started to make phone calls.

Talking to the nursing home turned out to be the worst of the lot.
Bernie's sister, Maureen Appelwait, lived there, alone in the world
except for her link with her brother, supported by him while she
drifted in and out of Alzheimer's, and no one had told her that he was
dead.  I caught her between lucidity and confusion, apparently trying
to go in both directions at once, and my news didn't help.  She cried
some, forgot what I'd told her a few times, demanded details I loathed
giving her.  But in the gaps she revealed a little bit about his
life.

He was her only brother.  They had a sister, Florence, who'd passed
away five years ago or was it three?  Eight?  One night while she slept
her heart had simply stopped.  His wife, Alyse Maureen spelled and
pronounced it for me, "ah-LEASE" died fifteen years ago, killed by a
misdiagnosed kidney cancer.  He was devastated, just devastated.  The
three women had been such friends, Florence and Maureen never married,
Alyse couldn't have children, they and poor Bernie had given each other
the only family they had, and what was the name of that nice doctor who
told her she was doing fine, just fine?  Was it yesterday?  Or maybe
when she moved into the nursing home?

I listened to her for half an hour.  Not once did she ask what would
happen to her without Bernie to pay the bills.  If she had, I couldn't
have answered.

After I hung up, I gulped down the glass of water.  Then I got off the
couch, located Bernie's vacuum cleaner a wheezy upright nearly as old
as I was and cleaned the hell out of the rug.  I didn't stop until I
could push a damp finger down into the nap and not pick up anything.

By then evening had become full dark outside.  Night stained the
windows black, and shadows leaked in past the shades, or under the
front door, until they filled the apartment, crowding it with
questions.  Trying to keep Bernie's loneliness at bay, I switched on
more lights and went back to work.

Fortunately the rest of my calls were easier.  There were a few that I
wanted to postpone because I had no legal standing a law office, a
bank, an insurance agency, The Luxury's day-shift manager.  For a
wonder, I managed to catch most of the others at home.  The majority
worked for The Luxury, primarily on Bernie's shift.  Two were
neighbors.  The ones left over turned out to be either acquaintances of
Bernie's the kind of acquaintances you share a beer with occasionally
and don't tell anything personal or friends of Alyse's.

One way or another, they all told the same story.  Bernie Ap-pelwait
was exactly what he looked like, an aging security guard grown isolated
and short-tempered since the death of his dear wife.  He could've
retired a while back, rested on his pension, but he wanted to keep
busy.  Since he did good work, The Luxury let him stay.

Alyse's friends made tsk-ing sounds, emitted little gusts of sympathy
and sadness, but they didn't have anything new to add.  And what you
might loosely call Bernie's drinking buddies contributed even less.
Mostly they were just surprised to hear that it was possible for a
hotel security guard to get killed on the job.

After a couple of hours continuously on the phone, I'd learned nothing
that helped me do anything except fume.  The picture emerging under
Alyse's poignant gaze was pretty much the one I'd expected and
dreaded.

Bernie hadn't been killed because he was Bernie Appelwait.  Or even
because he was The Luxury's Chief of Security.  He'd been killed
because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

To that extent, it was a senseless crime.  And senseless crimes were
always the hardest to solve.  Always.  They lacked the motivation that
linked killer and victim in simpler murders.  Like a drive-by shooting,
they revealed a great deal about the killer, and very little about the
victim.

Typically killers like that escaped clean unless they left an
eyewitness or some definitive circumstantial evidence behind.

Nevertheless I was sure that Bernie's death could be explained.  My
nerves insisted on it, and I believed them.

He'd died because he could identify his killer.  And, somehow, because
of the chops.

On that happy note, I probably should've relocked the apartment and
driven away.  Found myself something to eat on the off chance that
raising my blood sugar would lift my mood.  But the sheer effort which
Bernie had put into his ship building seemed to require more of me. And
from her pictures Alyse smiled glowingly, like a woman sure in her
heart that I wouldn't let her down.

I checked the time.  In a little more than an hour, I was supposed to
meet Anson Sternway back at Martial America.

Groaning at the offense to my bedraggled pride, I dialed Marshal
Viviter's cell phone number.

I didn't know what he did with his off hours or rather I thought I knew
way too much about what he did with them so I feared that he wouldn't
answer.  But he picked up after the second ring.

"Viviter."

He didn't sound like I'd interrupted him in the middle of anything
really compulsory.

"Marshal."  A complex relief blunted the edge that usually came into my
voice when I talked to him.

"It's Brew."

"Brew," he acknowledged.

"You never quit, do you."

"You forget I don't know anyone in Garner."  I tried to keep it
light.

"Who else am I going to talk to?"

"So talk."  He hesitated fractionally, then asked, "Are you all right?
You sound " He didn't specify how I sounded.

Instead of answering his question, I said, "I'm in Bernie's
apartment."

"Really?  That's called 'breaking and entering," Brew."

"Tell me about it some other time," I retorted.

"I don't work for you, so it's not your worry."

Abruptly I stopped.  With the phone clamped hard to my head, I paused
to kick myself for being snide to a man who hadn't actually done
anything except help me.

Through my teeth, I muttered, "Sorry about that.  The strain must be
getting to me."

He didn't respond.  I took a deep breath and started again.

"I know I asked you to research Bernie's past.  But I didn't know how
much you could accomplish without a client to represent, and I had some
time, so I came here.

"I've been through his papers."  Compounding the misdemeanor.

"And I've called a bunch of his friends and relatives.  Here's the
short version.  He was involved in absolutely nothing that might
explain why he was killed.  If he hadn't walked into that restroom
right when he did, he'd still be alive."

Pure fucking bad luck.

"For a man who just met him three days ago," Marshal observed, "you're
taking this pretty hard."

I wanted to pull the phone away from my ear and beat myself on the head
with it.

"You haven't seen this apartment," I countered.

"It's so damn lonely " My throat closed.

"And you aren't?"  he asked quietly.

"Come on, Brew.  You knew from the start that it probably didn't have
anything to do with him.  If he hadn't been pugnacious and independent
enough to go into that restroom alone, he'd still be alive.  You're
grasping at straws.  If Bernie was involved in something that got him
killed, you might not have to feel so sorry for him.

"Or " Again he didn't specify.

And again I didn't ask.  I didn't want to risk hearing him say that he
thought I was just feeling sorry for myself.

Changing the subject hard, I asked, "Have you heard anything new from
Moy?  Has the ME figured out which hand left that bruise on Bernie's
wrist?"

Marshal had no trouble keeping up with me.

"You're going to love this," he said in a completely different tone.

"He was so taken with the question that he called back to tell me the
answer."  Cops never called private investigators back.  That was a
law.

"The ME says the bruise was made with the assailant's right hand.  The
bruise on the left cheek looks like it was made backhand, with the left
fist.  It's about the right size and shape for that.  He now speculates
that the assailant grabbed the right wrist with his right hand and
swung his left fist across the left cheek."

For some reason, Marshal didn't remind me that the ME and Moy didn't
know about the flik because I hadn't mentioned it.

Staring at ships in bottles, I asked, "What about those fibers?"  The
ones pounded into Bernie's throat.

"Does the ME know yet if they came from Bernie's blazer?"

"That's not his department."  Somehow Marshal managed to sound like he
wasn't making an effort to be patient.

"The blazer and the fibers are at the lab now.  But I'm sure Moy only
went that far because he liked my question about the wrist bruise.  He
thinks this one's too obvious.  He won't ask the lab to hurry on it."

That, too, was my fault.  No doubt the detective assumed that the
killer used his own weapon.  Moy had no reason to think the fibers
could've come from some other blazer.

"He ought to take a closer look," I growled in my own defense.

"I didn't see any spots on Bernie's blazer that looked like fibers were
torn off."

"Brew " Marshal began.

I heard the warning in his tone.

"Don't say it," I snapped.

"I'll tell him.  I'll call him in the morning."

Then I sighed.  Marshal probably deserved an explanation.  Wearily I
said, "I only kept my mouth shut because Wisman asked me to."

"Wisman?"

"One of The Luxury's security guards.  They aren't supposed to carry
weapons.  Hotel policy.  He thought he'd get in trouble if anyone found
out about Bernie's fh'k.  The dumb kid had a tonfa hidden under his
jacket.  I guess I wanted him to trust me.  At the time, anyway.  We
were supposed to be working together."

Viviter considered this for a moment.  Finally he pronounced, "I
understand.  No harm, no foul, as they say.  Even if you'd betrayed
Wisman's little secret right away, the lab wouldn't have started on
those fibers until the ME was done.  We wouldn't be much closer to an
answer than we are now."

Damn it, the sonofabitch had no business treating me so gently.  But I
knew perfectly well why I hated his attitude with such vehemence, and
it had nothing to do with him.  His only real fault was that he
reminded me too much of the man I wished I were.

Still grasping at straws, I changed directions again.

"While you had him on the phone, did Moy happen to mention whether
Bernie left a will?"

Marshal chuckled at that.

"He shouldn't have, but he did.  Just trying to get me off his back.

"It seems Bernie left a respectable estate.  Nothing excessive for a
senior security guard who knew how to save, but respectable.  He left
it all to his sister Maureen.  No other bequests."

I thought about Maureen Appelwait in her nursing home, and wondered if
she'd forgotten again that her brother was dead.

"Damn it," I groaned.

"I don't like this."

"It doesn't have to be fair," Marshal said in my ear.

"If you wanted fair, you should've gone into accounting."

I took the phone away from my head and stared at it for a while.  In a
funny way, I thought I had gone into accounting.  Wasn't that what
private investigators did?  Account for things?

Who would account for Bernie, if I didn't?  Alyse didn't seem to have
any other volunteers handy.  But I was too tired to explain myself to
Marshal.

When I lifted the phone to my ear again, I heard him saying, "Brew?
Brew?"

"Sorry," I muttered.

"I had to think for a minute."

"You worry me," he retorted a bit stiffly, "you know that?  Nobody
recovers from a gut wound in only a month, and yet here you are,
wearing yourself out over a man you hardly knew.  I admit his death
doesn't make sense.  But most crimes don't.  And this one isn't your
problem.  It's Moy's.  He can handle it better than you can.  He has
the resources to track it down.  You don't.

"Take my advice, Brew.  Go home.  Get some rest.  Concentrate on
keeping Alex Lacone happy."

Actually I disagreed with him.  Most crimes did make sense.  Maybe they
all did.  They might look random or gratuitous from the outside, but on
the inside they all had their own logic.  People did what they did for
reasons.  Crazy reasons, sometimes, stupid or malicious reasons,
careless reasons, misguided but reasons.  The man who'd killed Bernie
and taken the flik had reasons.  They just didn't involve Bernie
personally.

Before I hung up, I said, "I appreciate what you're doing for me,
Marshal.  I know I don't sound like it.  I suppose that's because I
don't understand you."  Or because I thought I did and I hated it.

"But you've already done more than I had a right to ask for, and I want
to say thanks."

He replied with a snorting noise.

"In other words, no, you won't take my advice.  OK.  You're a big boy
now.  You can probably make your own decisions.  What are you going to
do?"

I shrugged at the nearest sailing ship.

"I have a date with Sternway.  He wants to show me where he gets his
credibility in the martial arts.

"One way or another," I added aimlessly, "all Lacone's plans for
Martial America seem to depend on Sternway's credibility."

"Brew " Marshal stopped himself, then started again.

"Have you still got that cannon you showed me the other day?"

"Sure."  I carried it like a weight on my heart.  I'd killed my brother
with it.  Without it I felt incomplete.

"Why?"

"Just a precaution."  He sounded a bit too casual for my taste.

"I've heard rumors about Sternway's nights out."

Apprehension crawled like a line of ants across my belly.

"Such as?"

"Such as rumors, that's all," Marshal replied tartly.

"I couldn't guess whether they're true or not."  His tone lightened for
a moment.

"Tomorrow you'll be able to tell me."  Then he seemed to bear down.

"Just don't let him talk you into anything that strikes you as odd."

Odd?  I muttered to myself.  Anson Sternway?  No shit.

Aloud I said, "I'm safe then.  The way I feel tonight, he couldn't talk
me into buying him a drink."

With evident relief, Marshal replied, "Good."

After that he reminded me to call him when I'd talked to Moy.  Finally
we managed to hang up.

Staring vacantly at the ceiling, I thought, Rumors?  Oh, joy.

So far I hadn't liked anything that working for Lacone had gotten me
into.

Seventeen.

I might've just sat there for an hour or two, drinking the occasional
glass of water and hating Bernie's death, but it was obvious that I
couldn't.  While I'd been on the phone, Alyse's smile had taken on an
expectant tinge.  Didn't I have places to go?  she appeared to ask
kindly.  Questions to ask?  Ideas to pursue?  Or maybe behind her
angelic beam she just looked worried.

And I was running out of time.

I felt too tired to eat anything.  Just climbing to my feet and leaving
Bernie's apartment without cleaning it some more seemed to exhaust my
reserves of willpower and tough-mindedness.  By the time I reached the
Plymouth, I ached to sprawl on the floor behind the seats and take a
nap.

So I decided to act like a grown-up for a change.  If nothing else, I
needed to shore up my nerves for one of Sternway's "nights out."
Ignoring the steady nag of my watch, I pulled out of Bernie's
neighborhood and went cruising for another fast-food joint.  I didn't
start to pick my way across Garner toward Martial America until I'd
visited the drive-through of a generic chicken place and taken plenty
of napkins to absorb the grease.

Luckily the drive was comparatively easy.  Blazing streetlamps,
incandescent car dealerships, and halogen-scorched malls
notwithstanding, this part of Garner was almost deserted now.  Unless
they attended some sporting event, the city's regular denizens must've
retreated to their homes.  No doubt they all yearned for some space
where they could actually turn off the lights.  As a result, the
streets were almost empty, and I hauled into Martial America's parking
lot only ten minutes late.

By then I had enough heartburn to power a nuclear submarine, and the
effects of Bernie's loneliness had sunk into the marrow of my bones.  I
was in no danger of letting Sternway talk me into anything.

Lights showed in the upper windows of Essential Shotokan, but the dojo
below, like the rest of that building, was dark.  Malaysian Fighting
Arts' training spaces were apparently still in use, although I didn't
hear any yells.

The IAMA director waited for me beside his Camaro, standing with his
arms crossed in a pose that would've looked rigid on anyone else.  He'd
changed his white shirt and slacks for a light grey sweatshirt and
warmup pants.  On his feet he wore boat moccasins with no socks.
Shadows cast from the nearest light pole concealed his expression.

I parked the Plymouth in line with Sternway's car and got out.  Just
for a second, the night air felt inexplicably cold.  Then stored heat
from the concrete pushed the sensation away.  Familiar sweat gathered
at my temples as I walked toward him.

He nodded a greeting.

"Glad you could make it."  His tone might've meant anything.

I peered at him, but even close up I couldn't read his face.  He looked
as unapproachable as a stone idol.

"Am I overdressed?"  I asked.

"You didn't tell me you were going to change."

"It doesn't matter," he replied distantly.

"No one cares."  He gestured me toward the Camaro.

"Shall we go?"

I shook my head.

"I'll follow you.  That way I can drive myself home afterward."  I
didn't want to be stuck with him if he decided to do something odd.

"Suit yourself."  With an indifferent shrug, he reached for the door of
his car.

Suit myself.  Fine.

"Just one thing," I put in.

"A question I forgot to ask earlier."

He dropped his hand.

"Yes?"

"I've been wondering.  What's the real reason you haven't moved into
Martial America?  Wouldn't you be in a better position to keep the
peace if you were there when trouble started?"

He tilted his head, and a flash from the light pole gleamed in his
eyes.

"Possibly."  The subject didn't interest him.

"Or I might be caught in the middle.  I could lose my leverage with
both sides."

"But it might be worth the risk," I insisted.

"Lacone sounds like he's willing to cut quite a deal for you."

Sternway made a small sound like a sigh.

"He's in the business of making money, Brew.  Generosity would reduce
his income."

Then he appeared to rally his attention.

"In fact," he went on more strongly, "Mr.  Lacone has offered me very
favorable terms.  But there are strings attached.  If I stake the
future of my school on the success of Martial America, I'll be damaged
if his dream fails.  In order to protect myself, I'll have to continue
working on his behalf whether he pays me for my efforts or not.  You
could say that I'll be trapped into serving as his consultant and
promoter for free.

"I'm better off independent of Martial America."

As he spoke, I felt the kind of satisfaction you get when you find a
jigsaw piece that fits.  One section of the puzzle he presented came
into focus.

Earlier he'd made a sympathetic speech about how the IAMA existed to
promote a sense of mutual cooperation, understanding, and support among
all the martial arts.  And how Martial America had the potential to
foster a sense of community which can only benefit the martial arts. At
the time, I hadn't known what to make of his professed idealism. Now I
did.

It was bullshit.  Huckster talk.  What he really cared about was
getting his hands on Lacone's money.

Without warning I began looking forward to whatever he planned to show
me tonight.  I wanted to know now he earned respect in the martial arts
world.  His credibility obviously didn't derive from innate moral
authority.

"Fair enough."  I grinned at him with my teeth.

"That answers my question.

"I'm ready when you are."

He considered me for a moment longer.  His gaze reflected sharp slivers
of light like surgical probes.  Then in silence he turned back to the
Camaro, opened the door, and got in.

I followed his example.  A minute later we were on our way, leaving
behind the sections of Garner that I'd started to know.

The night sky, rendered featureless by Garner's ubiquitous artificial
illumination, didn't help my general disorientation.  Before long,
however, I developed the vague impression that we were heading
approximately downtown.

Marshal's warnings squirmed at the back of my mind.  I felt an
unexpected impulse to call Ginny, let her know what I was doing.  As if
we were still partners I needed to get over that somehow.

Sternway led me onto one of the freeways, then off again before I could
identify it.  We spent a mile or two on Vista Boulevard, a divided
street arched over with louring elms.  When we left it, we seemed to
pass almost immediately into a zone where the city fathers begrudged
spending money.  Their commitment to excessive lighting remained, but
the quality of the illumination shifted, grew colder and more
fluorescent, less habitable.  Unnatural white lay on the walls of the
buildings and the cracked pavement of the sidewalks, turning them the
color of desiccated bone.  At the corners, shadows deepened and spread,
forming swatches and pools of real darkness.  Defying Garner's
expenditure of electricity, night found its way into the city's
unprotected alleys and doorways and gutters.  Grit and dispossessed
scraps of paper fluttered occasionally in broken gusts of wind.

The streets narrowed as Sternway led me between squat bars, pawn shops,
and porn joints that looked like the fallen sections of some larger
hulk.  Neon signs and advertisements in crass colors flickered over the
sidewalks, but most of them had letters or pieces missing, and dirt and
neglect dulled the rest.

Without signaling, the Camaro turned left into an alley crowded with
shadows that seemed to swallow the Plymouth's beams.  Barely able to
see, I crept along behind Sternway's tail-lights like a sailor who'd
wandered into a Sargasso, walls of storm looming on either side.  We
passed a series of unlit doors, some broken and gaping, others slumped
on their hinges like homeless souls.  Then his brake lights flared, and
the alley opened into a small parking lot like an abandoned scrap
yard.

A dozen or so cars nearly filled the space, but Sternway wedged his
Camaro into a gap against one wall.  I eased the van in behind him
close enough to tap his bumper.  This way, I thought grimly, he
couldn't abandon me here no matter what happened.

When I stepped out, I smelled refuse, rotted kitchen scraps, piss, and
the lingering reek of vomit.  But behind those odors hung an unexpected
athletic scent, the distinctive scent of sweat, Tiger Balm, and pain.

Despite my disorientation, I felt suddenly that I'd arrived in a world
I understood.  I couldn't so much as guess what this grubby place had
to do with Sternway's famous martial credibility, but I knew beyond
doubt that the language spoken here would be furtive and hostile, as
familiar as the midnight patois of Puerta del Sol.

Sternway locked the Camaro and joined me.  A stretch of lamplight from
the street lay across the middle of the yard, revealing him clearly as
he passed through it.  The disinterest he'd conveyed outside Martial
America was gone.  Now he reminded me of a lit fuse, primed with secret
excitement sparking toward detonation.

"Where are we?"  I asked.

"It doesn't have a name.  That's why we couldn't meet here."  He drew
me into motion behind him.

"You might not have been able to find it.  And they wouldn't let you in
without me."

I wasn't at all surprised.

Almost hurrying now, he approached a door in one of the side walls.
This door was metal, heavy as a lid, with a closed shutter at the level
of his face.  He knocked crisply three times, raising a muted echo from
the frame.  After a heartbeat or two, the shutter clattered open.  From
the small window, light and cigarette smoke spilled outward.

Framed in the opening, a blunt face with what appeared to be dragon's
claws tattooed around the eyes glared at us.  The eyes focused on
Sternway and dropped slightly in recognition.  Then they shifted to
me.

"Friend of mine," Sternway volunteered insincerely.

A voice like a gravel sifter issued from the door.

"He carrying?"

Sternway glanced at me and nodded.

"Looks like it."

"Tell him to leave it."

The shutter crashed shut.

My friend considered me as if he expected me to comply automatically.
Until then I hadn't realized that he knew I had a weapon.  When I
frowned, he said in a casual tone, "Put your gun in the van, Brew. They
won't let you in with it."  He looked almost happy.

"You don't want to argue with the bouncers here."

The hell I didn't.  From inside the door I heard muffled sounds like
screams.  He might as well have asked me to walk into a fire fight
unarmed.

I wasn't sure I knew how to face trouble without the .45.

Unfortunately I couldn't imagine an alternative that didn't involve
turning my back and driving away.  After a moment's hesitation, I
shrugged, returned to the Plymouth, and stashed my gun in its holster
under the seat.  There I hesitated again.  In some other life, I
would've called Ginny for backup, but that wasn't an option now.
Instead I took the phone out of my jacket and slipped it into a pants
pocket.  Leaving my jacket on the seat, I relocked the van and strode
back toward Sternway.

Even then the night air felt too warm to be natural.  The surrounding
walls seemed to retain something more than the sun's heat.

Sternway nodded his approval and immediately repeated his knock.  This
time the shutter stayed closed.  But the door scraped outward, pushed
by a hand the size of a Christmas fruitcake.

At once the shrouded din inside resolved itself into shouts of
encouragement, scorn, and exertion, combined with the flat thud of
blows.  Behind the stink of cigarettes and cheap cigars, the athletic
odor sharpened.

In the doorway a man with a recidivist's skull, bulging forearms, and
at least fifty pounds he didn't need acknowledged Sternway, but didn't
step out of our way.  Instead he studied me.  He wore a black muscle
shirt and torn jeans held up by a length of heavy chain.  From the
neckline of his shirt protruded the tattooed head of a Chinese-style
dragon with scaled forelegs that reached up along his neck and face
until the claws circled his eyes.  Chewing tobacco stained his lips a
sickly red.

Deliberately he scowled at my pants.

Swallowing stomach acid, I suggested politely, "Make up your mind,
asshole.  I can get sneered at anywhere.  I don't need to stand here
for your benefit."

He ignored me.  To Sternway he said, "Left pocket."

There was a distinct bulge in the left pocket of my pants.

"Cell phone," Sternway answered cheerfully.

The bouncer shifted his wad.

"You know the rules.  He calls the cops, you're both history."

Heavily he retreated from the doorway to let us in.

Sternway practically bounded over the threshold.  I followed with less
enthusiasm.

As I passed him, the bouncer said, gravel-on-metal, "Watch your back,
motherfucker."

I smiled.

"Don't worry about me.  I'm already impressed.  I

didn't know it was possible to say 'motherfucker' without moving your
lips."

Apparently he didn't care whether I was impressed or not.  Dismissing
me with a contemptuous snort, he turned away to slam the door.  It
clanged shut like the door of a cell.

When I was sure he didn't mean to watch my back for me, I went after
Sternway.

He paused to let me catch up.  Then he warned me softly, "I hope you're
as tough as you talk, Brew.  If you keep that up, you'll have to prove
it."

I wanted to laugh in his face.  Less than twenty-four hours after Muy
Estobal shot me, I'd killed him with nothing but my arms and my weight.
Thugs like that bouncer didn't scare me.  I'd been defending myself in
Puerta del Sol's rat hole bars, derelict parks, and littered alleys for
years.  Under pressure I've been known to throw filing cabinets around
like paperweights.

On the other hand, my chest still felt tender where Parker Neill had
poked me.  And I couldn't pretend, even to myself, that I'd regained
all my strength.  Hell, my torn guts hadn't really stopped bothering me
until a few days ago.

And I knew what beatings felt like.  I'd taken my share.

Instead of laughing, I told Sternway, "I'll try to keep my mouth
shut."

He nodded and turned away.

A doorway to the left let us into a corridor with lockers lining one
wall.  Roughly half of them were locked.  The rest may've been empty.
The force of a falling body somewhere ahead made their doors rattle.

Sternway stopped at a combination lock halfway down the row, dialed the
locker open, and took out sparring gear foam hand- and foot-pads, a
mouthpiece, a protective cup.  I'd seen similar equipment everywhere at
the tournament.

Shit, I thought.  It's a fight club.  What fun.

He meant to show me that he deserved respect by pounding the
by-products out of a roomful of drunken brawlers.

No wonder the damn place didn't have a name.  It had to be illegal.
Especially if people put money on the bouts and I was sure they did,
knowing Sternway.  Even more so if it served booze.

He gave me a sharp glance to gauge my reaction, then stowed his wallet
and keys in the locker.  When he'd kicked his moccasins in as well, he
replaced the lock and spun the dial.

Lithe and quick, he continued along the corridor.  Past the row of
lockers, he pushed open the door to what must've been a changing room,
judging by the concentrations of Tiger Balm and battered weariness in
the air.

"Restrooms here if you need them," he informed me as he went in.

I shook my head.  Instead of following, I moved forward to take a look
at what I was getting into.

After half a dozen paces, the corridor reached a room with decor like a
black hole, large enough to house a popular dance club and bar.  At
once the noise seemed to swell like a mushroom cloud, enhanced by the
hard linoleum floor and cinderblock walls.  Through a haze of smoke
that obscured the ceiling, I saw maybe as many as fifty tables crowded
around all four sides of a raised boxing ring, complete with ropes and
corner poles.  Streaks and splotches that looked like old blood
decorated the canvas.

At the moment the ring was empty.

Small groups of men occasionally accompanied by women occupied folding
chairs at most of the tables.  Some of the women looked like they were
trolling for muscular companionship.  The rest had apparently come to
cheer on their husbands, boyfriends, or pimps.

Ashtrays and drinks, mostly beer, littered the table tops but the room
didn't sport a bar, and at first I didn't see where the booze came
from.  Then off to my right an unmarked door with no knob or handle
swung open, and a couple of waitresses came in wearing what looked like
the cast-off remains of can-can costumes.  They carried trays packed to
the rims with bottles, glasses, and cans.  For a second I wondered how
they re-opened the door from this side, but then I noticed a hasp on
the inside of the door hinged to extend past the frame.  That prevented
the door from closing completely.

Clever, I muttered to myself.  A bar pretending it was separate from
the fight club supplied the booze.  Shut the door, snap on a padlock,
and tell the cops you don't have anything to do with what's on the
other side.  And of course the patrons of the fight club would claim
that they brought all their drinks with them.

Nothing illegal there.  The cops couldn't prove otherwise unless they
staged an undercover raid.  Which might get a little risky without
guns, considering the fight club's clientele.

I scanned the room for a couple of minutes, forming an impression of
the men at the tables.  Some of them had the bulging stocky look of
ex-pugs and prizefighter wannabes.  Others carried leaner frames and
sleeker muscles that reminded me of the black belts I'd seen spar at
the tournament.  A certain number had obviously come just to watch and
bet.  They were too full of beer, or otherwise larded with dissipation,
to be mistaken for fighters themselves.  And a small handful, almost
dapper compared to the rest of the crowd, had the characteristic air,
at once avid and detached, of bookies and punters, here to set odds,
back favorites, meet bets, and generally stir money around the room so
that plenty of it ended up in their pockets.

Four bouncers circulated between the tables, usually in the general
vicinity of the waitresses just making sure the patrons didn't stiff
anyone.  Like the thug at the front door, a couple of them wore thick
chains somewhere handy.  The others apparently relied on bulk,
threatening faces, and a manly indifference to pain to make them
effective.

In the far corner, a steel door sealed the room, imitating a fire exit.
After a moment, I decided that it had to be a second, maybe more
private, entrance.  There weren't enough cars in the parking lot to
account for all the people here.

From where I stood, I didn't see anyone who looked familiar, from the
tournament or anywhere else.  Maybe Sternway was an exception maybe
most karate-ka didn't play this game.  Or maybe they were just more
choosy about where they played it.

For a moment or two, I felt positively cheerful.  Inside these walls if
nowhere else in Garner I knew exactly what was going on.

Before long Sternway arrived at my shoulder.  He wore his footpads,
carried his gloves and mouthpiece.  From there he moved into the crowd
and took a chair at an empty table close to the ring.  As soon as I
joined him, he leaned forward.

"Works like this," he told me in a primed whisper.

"Challenger gets into the ring.  Anybody who wants to.  Guy who won the
last bout gets first chance to accept.  If he refuses, somebody else
can accept.  Again, anybody.

"No rules, no time limit.  Gear optional.  Bout's over when one of them
surrenders.  Or can't get up."

"No rules?"  I stared at him.

"You mean biting is OK?"

He grinned sharply.

"If you can get away with it."

I'd never seen him grin before.  It made him look feral.  Predatory as
a polecat.

In one smooth motion, he left the table.  After a quick pause with one
of the punters, he headed for the ring, flowing easily between the
ropes.  At once a halfhearted shout of recognition went up from the
room, a mixture of leaden cheers and groans.  Obviously most of the
crowd knew him.  And, just as obviously, some of them weren't glad to
see him.

I watched with a sort of bemused dismay as he pulled on and secured his
hand-pads, waiting for an opponent.  The sonofabitch was serious.  He
wanted me to shiver in my little booties whenever I looked at him,
purportedly so that I'd understand why men like Nakahatchi, Hong, and
Soon let him tell them what to do, and he didn't care who he beat up to
achieve his desired effect.

His eagerness suggested that he was in no danger of getting beat up
himself.

Apparently the former "victor" refused Sternway's challenge.  For a
minute or two he gazed around the room, looking for candidates.  Then a
chair behind me scraped the floor, and a man headed for the ring.  He
was naked to the waist, and in the clouded light he looked like he'd
been spit out by a rock crusher and glued back together again.  He
moved with the lumbering inevitability of a landslide, but as far as I
could tell his only real qualifications seemed to be arms the size of
axletrees and enough scar tissue to deaden the impact of a piled
river.

He didn't have gloves, foot-gear, or a mouthpiece.  Maybe he didn't
even wear a cup.

A couple of dozen people shouted approval when he climbed into the
ring.  While he faced the crowd and turned in a circle to let everyone
get a look at him, activity flurried briefly around the bookies and
punters.  The little I could overhear suggested that the impromptu book
was against him,

Sternway would have to earn his money the hard way.

A waitress with a wasted syphilitic face arrived to ask me what I
wanted.  Instead of telling the truth, I ordered a club soda.  She took
my money disdainfully, didn't offer me any change.

When the betting subsided, Sternway and his opponent squared off.

In spite of myself, I was impressed not for the first time with
Sternway's dangerous ease.  He couldn't have looked more relaxed
without falling asleep, but instead of slumping he seemed to lift, grow
lighter, until his feet hardly touched the canvas.  In contrast, the
other man looked solid enough, dense enough, to leave dents with every
step.

Hoarse cheers spattered around the room as scar-tissue-and-rocks
started forward.

He didn't get far.  In the middle of his second stride, Sternway lunged
into a punch so fast that I hardly saw it hit.  Then somehow the same
motion carried Sternway into the air for a flying kick that rocked his
opponent's head.  A second later he was out of range again, floating as
if he hadn't moved at all.

His feral grin seemed to fill his whole face.

But the scarred man wasn't discouraged.  Maybe Sternway's pads softened
the blows.  Shaking his head to clear it, he charged headlong at the
IAMA director.

That much force would've driven a Volkswagen into the ropes, but
Sternway stepped aside.  As his opponent went by, he flicked an elbow
casually at the bigger man's shoulder.  The blow looked as light as a
kiss, but it snatched a roar of pain or frustration from the big man.

He started to turn like he wanted to charge again.  Sternway stopped
him with a kick on the top of his calf that collapsed him to his knees.
Before he could try to stand, or even get his hands up, Sternway hit
him three times in the face, blows as loud as shots.  Then Sternway
drifted happily back out of range.

To my chagrin, I realized that I'd been holding my breath.  Almost
involuntarily I identified with the scarred man.  He fought the way I
did.  I wanted him to shrug off his hurts and keep going.

If he landed one punch, he'd knock the damn joy off Stern-way's face.

Obediently he regained his feet and went back to work.

This time, however, he didn't charge.  Instead he advanced more
cautiously, looking for a chance to grab or strike.  For a while he and
Sternway circled each other like dogs in the preliminary stages of a
dominance contest.

Then a look of calculation came into Sternway's eyes, hinting at a
pre-planned attack.  In the process he offered his opponent an opening
I could've hit from where I sat.

Thinking, Don't do it, that's what he wants, I watched the bigger man
go for the opening with a roundhouse hard enough to powder
cinderblocks.

Again Sternway shifted out of the way.  All according to plan.  While
the punch extended the bigger man's arm, Sternway flicked another elbow
at the exposed shoulder.

The same shoulder he'd hit before.  In the same spot.

When the bigger man recovered from his swing, he couldn't lift that arm
anymore.  Couldn't even hold it out in front of him.  His fingers
seemed to writhe with a life of their own, autonomi-cally, no longer
under his control.

His supporters groaned and swore disgustedly.  Money changed hands as a
few spectators paid off.

Ignoring everything else, Sternway drifted around the ring like he was
gamboling inside.

His opponent bared his teeth and moved to attack again, but I didn't
want to watch.  While Sternway systematically reduced the bigger man to
rubble, I made a show of looking for the waitress.  Actually I was
trying to think of an excuse to leave.

Eventually Sternway's opponent lay on the canvas, still conscious, not
obviously bleeding, but as slack as a man with a broken neck.

As the bouncers removed him, a movement behind them caught my eye.  The
alleged fire exit opened and closed.  The ring blocked my view, but I
thought I spotted the top of a head enter the room.  Then it dropped
out of sight as the new arrival took a seat.

I felt a sudden tingling in my guts the first cold touch of
premonition, intuitive alarm.

Acting detached, Sternway left the ring and headed for the punter who
held his bet.  Then he returned to my table.  For the moment, at least,
he'd hidden away his eagerness.  Only a smolder of it showed in his
eyes as he sat down.

He wasn't sweating.  Hell, he wasn't even breathing hard.  Apparently
he found no-rules fighting about as aerobic not to mention stressful as
a walk in the park.

He leaned toward me to say something, but the waitress interrupted him
with my drink.  He ordered a diet Coke, paid her out of his winnings.
Judging by his wad of bills, I guessed he'd just made a couple of
hundred bucks.

"Feel like trying it?"  he asked.  The noise in the room covered his
tone, but it sounded like a taunt nevertheless.

I gave him a grin as sharp as I could make it.

"This is your idea of fun, not mine.  When I'm in the mood for
excitement" I pretended to laugh "I lie down until I feel better."

His upper lip hinted at a sneer, but he didn't argue.

By then another challenger approached the ring.  The pang in my stomach
tightened as I recognized the bouncer who'd let us in.

I looked a question at Sternway.  The fight club could lose control of
its patrons if it let the bouncers get pounded.

He shrugged.  The issue didn't interest him.

Deliberately I asked, "You going to take him on?"

He didn't answer.

The tattooed bouncer climbed between the ropes like a man with a
mission and planted himself in the ring.  His eyes in their claws
glared right at Sternway and me.  I assumed or hoped that he wanted to
know if Sternway accepted his challenge.  But before Sternway could
react, the man's gravel-sifter voice grated out, "Not you.  Him."  He
pointed straight at me.

"I want you, motherfucker."

I might as well have had a spotlight on me.  Suddenly every head in the
room turned in my direction.  Tension or anticipation spattered through
the smoke like overheated oil.

Sternway made a sound like the bark of a raptor.

"Up to you," he told me.

"You have the stones for it?"

On some other occasion, I might've said, Fuck you, and gone home.  But
not this time.  The premonition clutching at my insides didn't let
me.

The room held dangers I couldn't identify.

"I said I want you!"  the bouncer announced.  Just in case I hadn't
understood him.

I still had no clue what I was looking for, but I got to my feet
anyway.

A few men shouted approval when they noticed my size.  Sounds of
interest scattered through the room.  Bookies and punters went to work.
But I ignored everything around me.

For the first time since I'd sat down, I could see past the ring to the
people at the far tables.

"I'm new at this," I said, pitching my voice to carry.

"Let me see if I've got it straight."  I spoke to the bouncer, but I
hardly glanced at him.  Past his bulk I scrutinized every face that
wasn't turned away or hidden.

"No rules.  Is that right?  And we go at it until one of us
surrenders?"

"That's right, motherfucker," my challenger snarled.  Maybe he thought
his tattoo made him an actual dragon.

Casually Sternway offered, "Or until one of you can't continue."

At first I saw nothing beyond the ring except more people, none of them
distinguishable from the rest of the club's patrons.  They regarded me
with a kind of conflicted hunger, a desire composed of
bloodthirstiness, greed, and scorn.  Some of them didn't care who won,
as long as fighters got hurt.  Others scurried around inside
themselves, trying to calculate odds for and against.

But then the man I didn't know I was looking for raised his head, and
suddenly everyone else seemed to recede, leaving him alone across the
canvas from me, isolated by lights and smoke and butchery.

A big man, dull eyes floating above a heavyset frame.  Jowls like fanny
packs strapped to his jaws.  A forehead suited for battering down
doors.  A pile of debris instead of a nose.

I answered the bouncer without paying any attention to him.

"Fine.  I surrender.  You win."

I wasn't sure that the heavyset man had actually focused on me yet.
Hell, I wasn't sure that he'd gotten a good enough look at me the other
day to recognize me now.  But I turned away quickly, just in case.

While the tattoo roared obscenities, and his disgusted audience
volleyed contempt at my head, I ducked down to tell Stern-way, "I think
I'll go puke."  Throwing as much chaff in his eyes as I could.

"If I'm not back in a couple minutes, order me a stomach pump.  And
some Valium."

Then I headed for the restroom.

It was a tactical decision, and I hated it already.  Bernie's death
burned holes in my gut.  I wanted to go after that thieving goon now,
right now, drop him where he sat before he could so much as think about
trying to get away.  In an earlier life as recently as two months ago I
wouldn't have hesitated.

But I didn't have all my strength back.  When the cops found out that
I'd been withholding information, I'd be in trouble.  And I wasn't
after the heavyset man himself.  I only cared about him because he
could lead me to my real target.

Also I didn't have the .45.

In other words, I was afraid.  Which I hated to admit, even to myself.
But at the tournament he'd moved with Sternway's plastique lightness
and I'd just watched Sternway demonstrate what that ease meant.

Hounded by expletives and raspberries, I pushed into the changing room
and let the door swing shut behind me.  At once the smells of effort
and aching muscles replaced the club's cigarette stink.  Gripping the
cell phone, I checked the stalls, urinals, and showers to be sure I was
alone.  Then I dialed 911 and chewed the inside of my cheek while I
waited for the dispatcher.

The phone hadn't stopped ringing when it was snatched out of my hand
with enough force to jolt my head.

Instinctively I turned and pitched a fist that would've caught Sternway
dead in the face if he hadn't been light years too fast for me.  He
flicked my punch away with his fingers like he'd seen it coming for the
past week.

At the same time, he canceled my call.

"What the hell's the matter with you?"  he demanded almost
cheerfully.

"Don't you listen to anybody"?  If you call the cops, we're both
history."  He must've heard me dial only three digits.

"And I do not mean barred from the club.  We'll be left in so many
pieces nobody will ever identify them."

A shiver of cold fury gathered in my stomach.  As if I hadn't just
tried to clobber him and failed, I held out my hand.

"My phone."  Deliberately I snapped my fingers.

"Give it back.  Or explain to Detective Moy why you're obstructing his
investigation."

Sternway returned my gaze with an air of vague amusement.  No doubt he
could've killed me with one hand.  And I believed him about the danger.
If a bouncer caught me calling the cops, I'd be in serious shit.  But
at the moment I didn't give a damn.

I stared him down anyway.

"The goon Bernie followed into the men's room is here."  I put all the
acid I had into it, every scalding drop of heartburn and grief.

"Moy wants him for murder.

"He didn't do it.  That's obvious.  But he knows who did."

I hoped that was a punch Sternway hadn't seen coming.

A muscle at the corner of his jaw twitched.  He didn't betray any other
reaction.

"Moy is a cop," I flung at him.

"He's going to think you and that asshole are in this together, so give
me the damn phone."

Just for a second, I thought he would drive his hand right through me
and pull out my heart.  But then his head made a small movement like a
nod.  Half smiling to himself, he looked away so that he wouldn't have
to watch while he dropped the phone into my hand.

"It's your funeral, Axbrewder," he said softly.

"Don't expect me to back you up.  Not here."

With a gentle shrug, he left the room.

Abruptly its smell seemed to shift.  Now the odor of Tiger Balm and
bruises felt more threatening than the rank hunger of the fight club.
Hurrying because I was scared and because I didn't want the goon to get
away I went to the door and braced my back against it while I
re-dialed.  Then I held my breath.

When the dispatcher answered a woman's voice I didn't give her time to
ask questions.

"Just listen," I told her.

"My name is Axbrewder.  Get a message to Sergeant Edgar Moy.  He's
investigating a murder at The Luxury, and I've spotted his suspect.  He
better get here fast.  I don't think I can handle him myself."

Quickly I gave her the best directions I could.  Five seconds later,
the phone back in my pocket, I headed for the ring to find out whether
the heavyset man was still there.

Now no one noticed me.  For all I knew, the whole club had forgotten I
existed.  A new fight transfixed the room.  The tattooed bouncer had
found an opponent, one of the lean fast men who looked like he'd styled
his body after a greyhound.  At the moment the lean fool was getting
killed.  He could scarcely stand, and as soon as the bouncer found a
handhold that dragon would start to crush bones.

The heavyset man remained in his seat, observing the fighters with a
look that resembled clinical detachment.

For a heartbeat or two, relief left me woozy, and the smoke almost
smelled good to me.  Finally, I thought.  A break.  Now I can get
somewhere.

Trying to stay calm, I found my way back to Sternway's table and sat
down.

He hardly glanced at me.

"Satisfied?"  Maybe the fight interested him somehow.

I waited for a pause in the grunt-and-slap of the struggle, the
halfhearted encouragement and disgust from the spectators, then said,
"Ask me later.  Moy isn't here yet."

A moment later I heard the unmistakable sound of bones breaking, the
sharp anguish of the bone itself muffled and moistened by battered
flesh.  I looked up just in time to see the bouncer fold his opponent's
elbow in several different directions at the same time.  The lean man
squealed once, like a horse with a shattered leg.  Then the bouncer
punched him to the canvas, and he stopped complaining.  For a few
seconds I wasn't sure that he was still alive.  But eventually he
coughed, splashing blood across his cheek, and then I saw his chest
shudder with pain as he breathed.

I didn't realize that I was on my feet until the bouncer faced me and
pointed at his opponent, "That's you, motherfucker!"  he snarled over
the crowd.

"He took your place!"

After a few ragged heartbeats, I managed to sit back down.

"Dickless bastard!"  the tattoo offered viciously.

"Left your cock in your momma and never got it back.  You like watching
what you can't have?"

I didn't take him up on it.  Under other circumstances, I might've
thought I had something to prove.  But at the moment I did not need to
get my back broken while the heavyset man disappeared into the night.

I'd given him a good look at me.  If he recognized me from the
tournament Sternway leered contemptuously, but I ignored him the same
way I ignored the jibes and catcalls around me.  I had too many other
things to worry about.

While the dragon tattoo stomped around the ring, waving his arms and
demanding a new challenger, another bouncer and a stricken woman, a
wife or girlfriend, got the lean man off the canvas.

"What happens now?"  I asked Sternway.

He shrugged dismissively.

"He gets left outside.  If she doesn't have a phone, the bar next door
calls an ambulance."  A cold smile stretched his mouth.

"It's reported as 'gang-related violence."  If either of them mentions
this place, he doesn't make it out of the hospital.  Maybe she doesn't
either."

He paused for a moment, then added as if I'd asked for a justification,
"He knew what could happen.  He's got nothing to bitch about.  If he
didn't tell her the rules, that's his problem."

Oh, sure, I thought.  Fine.  All clean and tidy.  If you made it sound
any prettier, you could set it to music.

Grinning over my teeth, I muttered back, "I can see why you like it
here.  All this honest brutality probably makes you feel right at
home."

Briefly his mouth twisted, but he didn't say anything.

The next instant I forgot all about Anson Sternway as the heavyset man
rose from his seat.

Carrying his gear, my target climbed into the ring so easily that he
practically wafted.

I wasn't sure, but I thought I caught a glimpse of consternation in the
bouncer's eyes.

At once the room about went crazy as everyone with a spare buck
scrambled to place bets.  By the time the action around the bookies and
punters subsided, the odds were 3-2 against the dragon tattoo.  Which
would've suprised me if I hadn't see that look in his eyes.  Everything
else about him proclaimed that he could stand up to a howitzer shell at
point-blank range.

In a kind of nauseated suspense, I watched the goon pull on his hand-
and foot-pads and turn to face the bouncer.  On all sides of the ring,
men hollered and whistled, brandished their fists and pounded the
tables, as if they expected a blood bath.  Two or three women raised
their breasts like they were offering themselves as trophies.

I hated it, but I wasn't much better myself.  My own lust squirmed in
my stomach, throbbed in my bones.  The heavyset man had something to do
with Bernie's death, he could lead me to the killer, and I wanted him
hurt damaged enough to make him docile.

The bouncer and my target didn't waste time posturing.  Without warning
they flung themselves at each other with a shock that made my guts
lurch.

Right away the tattoo tried to grapple, secure a hold so that he could
put his bulk to work.  But the goon ducked under his arms and drove
uppercuts into his ribs, rapid and staccato, a sound like pounding
beef.  Then the heavyset man danced clear.

If the bouncer were hurt, he didn't show it.  Instead those uppercuts
had shaken the consternation from his eyes.  Now they bulged in the
dragon's claws, porcine with rage, and a beast's predatory roar
stretched his jaws.

His opponent's dull gaze suggested boredom.  The goon carried his
knuckled forehead and loose jowls with an air of weightless negligence,
as if he already knew exactly how the fight would end.

The fighters jumped at each other again.  The tattoo swung a wide punch
that would've stunned a gorilla, but the goon surged inside the blow.
Before the bouncer could react, the goon delivered an elbow strike that
rocked the bigger man's head, staggered him.

The crowd responded with a howl that made no distinction between
approval and outrage.

Again the heavyset man eluded a grab and drifted away.

Snarling deep in his throat, the bouncer slapped himself hard a couple
of times to clear his head.  Then he went back to the attack.  But this
time he didn't charge.  Instead he shifted a step or two from side to
side as he advanced.  He wanted to back his opponent toward the corner
pole, trap him there long enough to get a grip on him.

An urge to cough rose in my throat tension, cigarette smoke, and
heartburn working together.  I fought it down.

My target let the bouncer herd him backward a few feet at a time until
he was deep in the corner, hemmed in by the ropes.  Blind intuition
warned me that he was luring his opponent after him.  If I'd been the
bouncer's trainer, I would've screamed at him to retreat, keep to the
center of the ring where he could maneuver.  But his supporters didn't
see what I saw or didn't care.  The entire room squalled at him to
press his apparent advantage.

Then the heavyset man struck his audience silent with an attack so
sudden that it hardly registered on me until it ended.  In the space
between one heartbeat and the next, he seemed to lift into the air,
drawn upward by the rising force of his left knee.

And when he reached the apex of his jump, his right leg lashed out like
the snap of a whip, catching the bouncer under his jaw and cracking his
head back hard enough to splinter his spine.

Or someone's spine, anyway.  Mine, for instance.  The dragon tattoo
rocked with the blow, staggered backward a step.  But he simply had too
much muscle to go down that easily.

Which the dull-eyed goon must've known.  Without so much as a flicker
of hesitation, he landed in a long crouch right knee compressed under
him, left leg extended behind that dropped him below the bouncer's
reach.  In virtually the same motion, he drove forward again, heaving
off the spring of his right leg to ram his left knee into his
opponent's belly with the force of a sawed-off shotgun.

The bouncer doubled over with a gasp that seemed to expel every atom of
oxygen from his lungs.

Now the heavyset man paused for a fraction of a second just long enough
to adjust his position.  Then he swung his thick right leg up in an arc
around the bouncer until it stretched almost straight for the ceiling.
From there his heel slashed downward, hammering with all his weight and
muscle behind it onto the base of the bouncer's neck.

The bouncer collapsed flat on the canvas as if every hard thing in his
body had been smashed to jelly.

A spasm of coughing I couldn't control ripped through my throat hard
enough to make my eyes tear.  For a moment while I coughed I thought I
saw the bouncer try to rise, jerked upward by the autonomic misfiring
of his nerves.  When I was able to blink my sight clear, however, I saw
that he hadn't moved.  Shallow respiration stirred him slightly.  A
couple of his fingers twitched the involuntary sign language of pain.
But he was out cold.

Around the room, people yelled hoarse triumph or disgust, but I ignored
them.  I already had enough disgust of my own and way too much alarm.
If Moy didn't get here soon, with enough men not to mention guns I
might have to tackle the goon myself.  Or let him walk away.  And I was
no match for him.  Coughing tugged at my guts like Muy Estobal's
bullet.  If I went up against that thug alone, I wouldn't stand a
chance.

I hadn't given the 911 dispatcher very good directions.

My target stood untouched by the noise like a man who didn't care what
had just happened.  After a minute or so while bettors counted their
winnings or cursed their luck, another bouncer got into the ring to
check on the dragon tattoo.  With a little rough persuasion, the tattoo
finally lifted his head, tried to lever his arms under him.  The other
bouncer offered to support him, but he shook off help and gradually
worked his way upright one joint and muscle at a time.  Staggering, he
struggled between the ropes and down to the floor on his own.

From the tray of the nearest waitress, he grabbed a beer and chugged
it.  Then he shambled toward the back of the room as if he considered
himself fit for duty.

He didn't once look at his opponent.

The heavyset man remained in the ring, but no one accepted his
challenge.  Still coughing, I watched him scan the room for a
volunteer, but when he turned toward my table I ducked my head.  If he
hadn't recognized me yet, I didn't want him to do so now.

My heart lurched painfully when he said, "You.  Big guy."  Despite his
battered face, he had a voice like slow silk, liquid and threatening.

"I don't like the way you look at me.  Get up here."

I glanced aside at Sternway, but he concentrated on the goon.  His face
held no expression of any kind.

I nudged his arm.

"Moy isn't here yet," I breathed between muffled coughs.

"It's your turn.  Challenge him.  Keep him busy."

Sternway shifted toward me slowly, regarded me as if for a moment he'd
forgotten I existed.  Swallowing unnamed emotions, he asked, "That's
who you spotted at the tournament?  I didn't realize " Abruptly he
leaned closer.

"Shit, Brew," he whispered, "that's Turf Hardshorn.  This is the only
place I've ever seen him.

"I don't know his real name.  They call him "Turf because he always
'plants' his opponents."

The man in the ring said something I didn't hear.  Probably a mortal
insult.

"So challenge him already," I told Sternway tensely.

Earn the right to sneer at me.

"Are you crazy?"  he retorted, still whispering.

"Didn't you watch ?"  He pulled back a few inches.

"He's the only fighter I know who scares me.  I'd rather take on that
bouncer blindfolded."

I couldn't read the look in his eyes.  He may've been challenging me
himself.  Daring me to call him a coward I certainly hadn't earned that
right.

The heavyset man raised his voice.

"You with the cough.  I'm talking to you.  Don't you have any guts?  Or
maybe you're an undercover cop."  He waved his hands in front of his
face.

"You stink like a cop.  I can smell it from here."

Shit.  Oh, shit.  With just a few words, he'd shifted the whole club
against me.  If I didn't do something about it fast I'd be lucky to get
out of here with only a few crushed bones.  A couple of men were
already on their way out of their chairs, spitting hostility as they
rose.  The bouncers moved to block the exits.  Everyone else glared all
kinds of murder in my direction.

"Back me up," I hissed under my breath at Sternway.  Although he'd
already said that he wouldn't.

"Unless you want Bernie's killer to get away."

Then I raised my face to the ring.

Baring my teeth like the grin of a fright mask, I leaned back in my
chair and spread my arms.

"Well, if those are my only choices," I drawled so that the whole room
could hear me, "I guess I'm just gutless."

"I don't think so," the goon replied smoothly.

"I think you're a cop.  You want to bust us all and make yourself a
hero."

Half the fighters in my vicinity looked like they were about to jump
me.  I heaved a dramatic sigh and climbed heavily to my feet.

"In that case " Deliberately I faked insolence to disguise the fact
that I knew I was about to get killed.  Unless Sternway actually did
back me up.

"Since we're doing all this thinking anyway, I think we should take it
outside.  That way" I rolled my eyes "if I'm a cop I can't bust anyone
else.  And if I am a cop, you won't have to worry about witnesses."

I had the small satisfaction of hearing Sternway groan quietly, seeing
the goon tilt back his head in surprise.  But it didn't last long.  A
heartbeat later my challenger smiled.

"I like it," he answered, slick as silk.

"Let's go."

Slowly, taunting me, he stripped the pads from his hands and feet. Then
he vaulted lightly over the ropes, dropped to the floor, and headed for
the exit in the far corner of the room.

I didn't have any choice.  I had to follow him.  Denying myself so much
as a glance at Sternway, I started to pick my way between the tables in
the same direction.

I wanted the .45.  More than that, I wanted Ginny.  I'd walked into
worse trouble than this when I knew she had my back.  Or when she
needed me to cover her.  Without her I felt truncated in some profound
way, almost unmanned Unfortunately my target didn't give a shit how I
felt.  Sternway probably didn't.  Bernie and Alyse were past caring,
and Ginny had walked out on our partnership.  Moy wasn't here.  No one
gave a flying fuck at the moon about any of this, except me.

I wasn't sure that the crowd would let me go, but they did.  Men and
women fired obscenities as I passed, and one clown actually tried to
spit at me without much success but none of them got in my way.

Like Jesus lugging his cross up Golgotha, too doomed for any kind of
rescue, I crossed the room toward the far exit.

My target pulled the metal door open and let it swing shut after him.
The dark outside seemed to swallow him before the door closed.

Before I could try to catch up with him, the bouncer with the dragon
tattoo planted himself in front of me.

"Not that way, motherfucker," he grated.

"You use the fucking front door."

The fury in his eyes suggested that he blamed me for the beating he'd
just taken.  He wouldn't have been in the ring at all if he hadn't
wanted to repay my sarcasm.  I'd created this whole mess myself when
I'd first entered the club.

If the heavyset man escaped now, I might never find him again.  A goon
with a name like "Turf Hardshorn" wasn't likely to have a published
phone number, or even a steady address.

I moved straight at the bouncer like he wasn't there.

Eagerly he spread his arms, stepped forward to meet me.

Hurrying too much to think or hesitate, I aimed both my arms under his
right and heaved them up and around, sweeping his arm past me.  Then I
braced my left hand behind his shoulder and shoved as hard as I
could.

I got lucky.  He'd pushed forward to counter my sweep, and his own
momentum helped me send him headlong into a cluster of seated
spectators.

Before he could disentangle himself from fallen chairs and sprawling
patrons, I reached the door.

Then I was out in a service alley.  Light from the street limned the
edges of the buildings, but their shadows obscured the alley, filling
it with darkness.  A stink as thick as syrup told me that I stood near
an untended Dumpster before my eyes adjusted enough to discern the
outlines of its bulk between me and the street.  Dimly I made out
darker shapes that resembled litter and trash cans.  Rectangles of
midnight in the opposite building suggested sealed doorways, boarded
windows.  Other than that I couldn't see a thing.

My target might've been right behind me, waiting for the perfect moment
to break my back, and I wouldn't have known he was there.  Until the
door to the club opened again, letting out a wash of illumination, and
Sternway stepped into the alley, I was blind in every way that
mattered.

Fuck.  Fuck and damn.

In the brief moment before the door closed again, I saw what I feared
most.  Sternway and I were alone.  The heavyset man had already fled.
Or hidden somewhere.

Which told me that he'd definitely recognized me.  Whether he'd killed
Bernie or not, he had no intention of getting caught.

The information did me no good whatsoever.

"Shit."  The rank air aggravated my throat, triggered another coughing
spasm.  I had to wheeze for several seconds before I could tell
Sternway, "He got away."

"You sure?"  Sternway answered out of the gloom.  He sounded
unnaturally casual.

"I've seen him fight before.  I don't think you scare him that much."

Shit again.  Apart from the distant reflections from the street, I
might as well have had my eyes shut.  Sternway was right.  That goon
didn't fear me at all.  And I was the only witness who could connect
him to Bernie and The Luxury Darkness this thick might conceal him
anywhere in the alley.

Sternway had come this far with me.  I guess that meant I could trust
him.

I wanted to be near a wall, protect myself from attack on at least one
side.  Involuntarily curling my fingers around the butt of a gun I
didn't have, I moved softly toward the Dumpster.

"What is this, a game?"  I rasped loudly.  I couldn't sound as casual
as Sternway, and didn't try.  Instead I covered my pounding heart and
ragged breath with harshness.

"You can't just step up and fight?  We have to play hide-and-seek
first?"

"Great idea, Brew," Sternway snorted, scorn as thick as the reek of
garbage.

"Piss him off even more.  Who knows?  He may forget he can tear out
your liver with both hands tied behind him.

"This isn't a goddamn anthill."

I'd never heard him swear before.  He was trying hard to warn me, but I
didn't know how to heed him.

"Maybe," I muttered, mostly to myself.

"Maybe not."  I reached the Dumpster, felt the rough iron with one
palm, then set my back against it.  It felt impossibly cold.  I didn't
think anything in Garner ever cooled down that much.

"Depends on what crawls out."

Without warning the darkness seemed to swirl and solidify, concentrate
into a swift shape.  I barely got my forearms up in time to prevent a
blow from clanging my head off the side of the Dumpster.

I'd been hit that hard before.  Bullets carried about the same punch.
And once Muy Estobal had given me a beating that damn near crippled me.
But still When it happened, it wasn't something you could brace
yourself for, or hope to absorb.  My arms would've been equally
effective against a wrecking ball.

A series of hits so quick that I couldn't distinguish them from each
other drove between my forearms, dug into my floating ribs, slammed at
my scarcely healed guts.  By the third or fourth impact their force was
all that kept me upright, nailed to the Dumpster when every clenched or
rigid thing inside me had already been shocked into pudding.  As soon
as the hitting stopped, I folded helplessly to the pavement.

The fall didn't hurt.  I had the sensation that I'd simply floated to
the ground, drifting and curling from side to side like a sheet of
paper in a slight breeze.

Some detached part of my brain imagined fancifully that as soon as I
struck the cement I'd roll sideways, hauling up my knees and arms to
ward off more blows.  Surely there were more blows coming, I didn't
doubt that for an instant.  My assailant had no reason to stop.  Why
should he?  I wasn't dead yet.  Hell, I hadn't even been damaged as
much as humanly possible.

He didn't stop.  I heard more punches, heavy as sandbags.

emphasized by grunts of effort and the skittering slap of fast bare
feet.  For some reason, however, none of them seemed to touch me,
despite the fact that I lay sprawled on my face, still pretending that
soon I would start to roll, prepare to defend myself.

I wasn't being hit at all.

Somehow I wedged my arms under me and managed to heave my head off the
pavement.

The darkness of the alley seemed deeper than it had a few seconds or
minutes go.  Or maybe I'd just forgotten how to see.  A strange dance
of gloom obscurity wrapping and blowing around itself may've been
taking place a short distance in front of me.  Or not.  Maybe the dance
was inside my head.

Nevertheless the sounds of battle continued.  Expelled breath. Punished
flesh.  Still nothing struck me.

By degrees I understood that Sternway had come to my rescue.

Anson Sternway, who usually made my nerves squall with dislike.  Who
had told me, He's the only fighter here who scares me.  Who had no
detectable reason to care what happened to me.

HRH Anson fucking Sternway was about to get himself killed because I'd
asked him to back me up.  Because I'd made myself a target by taunting
the bouncer at the front door.

That I felt.

Wobbling like a drunk, I got my legs under me and stumbled upright.

The effort hurt as if parts of my body had been violently removed, but
it cleared my vision a bit.  Swirl after swirl, the dark dance resolved
itself into two shapes hurling everything they had at each other.  I
couldn't tell which was which.  Gasps and sodden thuds seemed to arise
from everywhere in the alley at once.

Sternway was fighting my fight.  Gritting my teeth, I leaned what was
left of me into motion.

I intended to put a stop to it.  By falling on both of them, if I had
to.

Out of the confused struggle, an unidentifiable voice gasped words
between the blows.  I heard them one at a time, registered them as
discrete events.  When I finally put them together, they said, "What
the fuck are you doing?"

The next instant, one of the fighters let out a raw howl like the kia
is I'd heard at the tournament.  At the same time, he swung a fist like
a sledgehammer into the other man's throat.

The sharp wet crack of a crushed larynx stopped me like I'd been
punched in the chest.  When one of the obscured shapes went down, I
nearly fell with him.

From somewhere nearby, a location I couldn't identify, it might've been
anywhere in the alley, Sternway's voice panted, "I shouldn't have been
able to do that."  Despite his exertions, he sounded entirely calm.

"My night vision must be better than his.  I've seen him counter
attacks like that a dozen times."

He may've been justifying himself Crumbling to my knees beside the
downed fighter, I groped at him until I reached his slack jowls and the
liquid pulp of his larynx.  Blood still oozed from the tears in his
throat, but I couldn't find a pulse at his carotid artery, or in his
wrist.  As soon as I touched his chest, I knew he was gone.  I'd
handled enough corpses in my life to recognize the limp defeated feel
of lifeless skin and muscles.

What the fuck are you doing?

When he left, he'd taken my only link to Bernie's killer with him.

Eighteen.

Baffled and beaten, I bowed my head over Turf Hardshorn's body.  For a
while I couldn't think.  Hell, I could hardly feel.  I hurt too badly.
A persistent ringing troubled my ears.  Parts of my chest felt like
they'd died a while ago.

"He's dead," I muttered hoarsely.  I had to acknowledge the loss
somehow.

"I know," Sternway said in the background.

"I felt his windpipe go."  A moment later he added unnecessarily, "He
would've done the same to you if I hadn't stopped him."

What the fuck are you doing?

I couldn't imagine what to do next.

But I couldn't just kneel there until the end of time.  My duties
didn't end with this death.  The fact that I'd failed Bernie tonight
and Alyse didn't give me the right to surrender.  It just meant that
I'd have to try harder.

Which was a conclusion I'd grown accustomed to over the years.

Fumbling through the pain in my ribs and stomach and head, I got one
hand on the cell phone and called 911.

Sternway said my name, but I had no energy to spare for him.

I'd go mad if Moy had ignored my summons.

When I told the dispatcher who I was, she instructed me to hold on.  In
fifteen seconds she connected me to Detective Moy.

"Axbrewder, where the hell are you?"  He sounded bored despite the
high-pitched whine in my ears.

"Those were some shitty directions you left for me."

Apparently I wasn't the only one who'd been left.  Since any
information I produced now was bound to be worse, I forced myself to my
feet and handed the phone to Sternway.

"Tell him where we are."

Some of the dead patches along my ribs contracted.  Others spread out
like oil spills.

Through the obscurity, Sternway's shape gave off the charged impression
of a man with something important to say, but he didn't hesitate.  He
identified himself to the phone, said a few things that must've made
sense to Moy.  By the time he hung up, I could see red and blue lights
strobing on the sides of the buildings.

The detective had been that close If I hadn't given him shitty
directions, he might've been able to rescue me.

That was usually Ginny's job.

The ringing took on a vague resemblance to music.  I thought I
recognized the animal husbandry section from Handel's Messiah.  All we
like sheep.

Sternway poked the phone at me.

"Axbrewder," he said again.

"We need to talk."

Vaguely I accepted the phone, put it away.

"About?"

"I backed you up."  He pitched his voice so that it wouldn't carry.

"Now it's your turn.  Don't say anything about the club."

I stared at him past a shroud of darkness.  For a moment I couldn't
think of a response.  He wanted to protect his peculiar taste in
recreation I understood that but the distortion of his priorities
confused me anyway.

Boy, do we like sheep.

Finally I murmured, "Ask me something I can do.  Moy needs to know.
Now, tonight.  He has to trace Hardshorn.  Get his real name, find out
where he lives, where he works, who his friends are, anything."
Otherwise the link to Bernie's killer would vanish forever.

"That means he needs to question people right away."

Behind us, car doors slammed.  Guided by flashlights, three men headed
into the alley.  They didn't appear to be hurrying.

"I saved your life," Sternway insisted.

What the fuck are you doing?

I nodded at the gloom.

"And I owe you.  But I need Moy.  I can't handle all this alone."

Despite the groaning protests of my ribs and arms, I braced myself to
interfere if he tried to leave.  I knew I couldn't stop him, but I
intended to make an issue out of it nonetheless.

Fortunately he didn't move.

A minute later, the flashlights came around the end of the Dumpster.
Edgar Moy and a couple of CPD uniforms incarnated themselves out of the
shadows.  The street cops weren't familiar to me, but Moy seemed
unchanged, trench coat and all.  Languidly he held his flashlight so
that we could see his face, with its pencil-stroke mustache, nerveless
cheeks, and sour eyes.  The grey in his hair made him look like he'd
just emerged from a dustbin.

"Axbrewder."  He sounded too far away to do me any good.

"Mr.  Sternway."  Then he aimed his flashlight at the pavement.

"Who's the corpse?"

I told him.  Gradually the ringing in my ears lost its weird
resemblance to music.  Now it sounded more like a drill bit running too
hot.

I missed the sheep.

"Isn't that a coincidence," he observed rhetorically.

"Two days ago he kills a security guard at The Luxury, and already
you've tracked him down."  His skepticism had all the subtlety of an
interrogation with a rubber hose.

"Even though it's none of your business.

"Which one of you heroes whacked him?"

Sternway donned his regalia, in a manner of speaking HRH complete with
pomp and circumstance.

"It wasn't like that, Sergeant," he answered stiffly.

"Axbrewder recognized him inside."  He indicated the door to the
club.

"We didn't want to lose him, so we followed him when he left.  He
attacked Axbrewder suddenly.  Axbrewder fell, and I joined the
struggle.  While we fought, I struck him in the throat.  His larynx was
crushed.

"I didn't expect that.  I've seen him fight before.  I had no idea of
beating him.  I simply hoped to stay alive until help arrived."

With imperial ease, he made his explanation sound like a complaint
against the cops, as if Hardshorn might somehow still be alive if Moy
had done his job properly.

The uniforms put on a show of inspecting the body probably just staying
out of Moy's way.  Then one of them wandered back to the cruiser to
call in the lab boys and photogs.  The other studied the nooks and
corners of the alley for no apparent reason.

Moy turned his head toward me at a quizzical angle.

"That right, Axbrewder?"

I nodded.

"Justifiable manslaughter."  I tried not to sound bitter.

"I couldn't handle him.  I'd be dead now if Mr.  Sternway hadn't jumped
in."

"Fascinating."  He didn't sounded fascinated.

"Where's your weapon?  I thought all you private investigators carried
guns.  You looked half-naked without one on Saturday."

"I left it in my car."  He'd started to piss me off.  And the whine at
the edge of my hearing didn't help.  I wanted to straighten my back so
that I could tower over him, but my ribs rejected the idea.  The dead
parts of my chest refused to flex.

"So by pure chance," Moy went on, "you and Mr.  Sternway were out
together when you spotted the alleged killer of a hotel security guard.
Compounding the coincidence, he's a man Mr.  Sternway has seen fight
before, a man he knows well enough to identify by name, but didn't see
at the tournament.  And now he's dead.

"Do I have it right so far?"

He didn't expect an answer.  Without conviction, he added, "Give me one
more providential fluke, and I'm a happy man.  I can hardly wait to
find out what law-abiding citizens like yourselves do when you're out
together.  If I hear you were trolling for suspects, I'll expire with
bliss."

His sarcasm laid too many of my nerves bare.

"So far," I put in harshly.

"Almost.  The 'alleged' part is right, anyway."

Then I waited for him to pay some actual attention.

"Go on," he prompted in curiously

"That" I pointed a rigid finger at Hardshorn's body "is the drop I
spotted working the tournament.  I don't make that kind of mistake,"
although God knows I'd already made a shitload of others.

"But he didn't kill Bernie."

"

"Bernie'?"  Moy seemed momentarily amused.

"Are you referring to Bernard Appelwait, The Luxury security guard?  I
didn't get the impression you knew him that well."

I couldn't match his tone, but I managed to let some of the drill bit
into my voice.

"I like to be on a first-name basis with people who end up dead because
I didn't do my job well enough.  I knew Hardshorn was dangerous as soon
as I saw him.  And Bernie was an old man.  He shouldn't have gone after
Hardshorn alone and he sure as hell should not have gone into that
restroom alone.  If I'd been faster," or clearer, or maybe just
smarter, "he wouldn't have."

Moy shrugged.

"And now you're taking it personally."  My appetite for chagrin didn't
pique him.

"You've already made that obvious."  A reference to Marshal's phone
calls.

"But you haven't quite mentioned what you and Mr.  Sternway were doing
here in the first place.  And you still haven't told me why you think
this limp sucker didn't kill Mr.  Appelwait," His tone smiled.

"Unless I've missed something."

Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself a bit more upright.  The deadness
in my chest resisted every movement, and at least half a dozen ribs
squalled objections.  Maybe some of them were broken I couldn't tell
yet.

"I left something out on Saturday."  The drill bit whined hotter.

"The murder weapon.  The missing flik."  If Moy hadn't recognized the
marks on the stall, or the slash across Bernie's throat, he deserved a
demotion.

"It was Bernie's."

At least now I had Moy's attention.

"Wisman asked me not to tell you.  The Luxury doesn't allow weapons,
but Bernie wasn't the only guard carrying one anyway.  Wisman thought
there would be trouble with the hotel.

"At the time, I didn't see any harm in it.  Now " I lifted my shoulders
painfully.

"Now I've had a chance to think."

"Fascinating," Moy remarked again.  He sounded like he wanted to add,
All this and Heaven, too.  Take me now, O Lord.  But I didn't give him
a chance.

"I asked myself what kind of petty thief kills a security guard with
his own weapon and then takes it.  I couldn't come up with an answer.

"And there was someone missing.  The spot.  Any good team has a spot.
Someone to watch for trouble.  Someone who warned Hardshorn to get out
of the hall.

"So I asked myself, what if Hardshorn wasn't alone in the rest-room?
What if his spot was there, too, when Bernie came in?"  Maybe they'd
met to hand off the evidence, make it harder to track.

"Then it almost makes sense.  The spot knew I'd identified Hardshorn,
but the only threat he faced himself was Bernie.

"Which wasn't necessarily a big deal," a danger worth killing to
avoid.

"They didn't have to slaughter him.  As long as they got away, it
didn't much matter if they left him alive.  You weren't likely to catch
them."

If the cops any cops were good at catching that kind of crook, the
whole world would be a different place.

I couldn't see Sternway's face, but his shape in the shadows conveyed
concentration, intensity, as if he took all this more seriously than
Moy did.

"Unless ?"  Moy offered helpfully.

I tried to pull a deep breath past my ribs.  They didn't approve.

"Unless," I sighed thinly, "the spot was someone Bernie knew.  Someone
who wouldn't have a prayer if Bernie identified him.  Someone who
couldn't hide from it, or bluff it out, or confuse the issue.  Then it
makes sense.  Even taking the flik makes sense" well, almost "because
it confuses what happened."

Moy waited for me to go on, but I was finished.  Probably I wouldn't be
able to stay on my feet much longer.  The whine in my ears had finally
started to recede, but some of the dead patches on my chest continued
oozing larger.  If they spread much farther, I wouldn't be able to
breathe.

After a moment the detective nodded.

"All right, Axbrewder.  That's withholding information and obstructing
a police investigation.  Do you have any other secrets you'd like to
come clean about before I go into my Outraged Officer of the Law
dog-and-pony show?"

Judging by his tone, he wasn't pissed off.  I would've taken that as
good news, if I'd had the energy.

Briefly I considered telling him that I'd been to Bernie's apartment.
But then I decided it was none of his damn business.  It was between me
and Alyse.

What the fuck are you doing?

For some reason, Hardshorn's last words ran on and on in my head,
repeating themselves like a mantra.  They could've meant anything.

I shook my head.

"Don't you have enough on me already?"

By then the second uniform had returned from the cruiser.  He and his
partner had finished an inspection of the alley, and were waiting for
Moy at the door to the club.

"Warner," he told them, "Hanson, I'm officially furious at this
low-rent private fuckup.  I've just nailed his ears to the side of that
Dumpster.  You both heard me.  We wouldn't want the lieutenant to think
I'm getting soft."

They chuckled dutifully, but their hearts weren't in it.

The detective turned back to me.

"Did you understand me, Axbrewder?  You've just been napalmed.  If you
don't keep your nose clean, I'll come back and scatter the ashes."

If his black skin hadn't hidden his face in the dark, I might've seen
humor glint from his eyes.

There was nothing I could say, but he clearly didn't expect a response.
Pointing at the door, he asked Sternway, "Is that the only way in?"

Apparently Sternway had reconciled himself to the possibility that he
might lose his hobby.  Maybe his victory over Hardshorn consoled him.

"That's the back," he answered expressionlessly.

"I'll show you around to the front."

Moy paused him with one hand.

"Backup?"  he asked Warner or Hanson.

One of them replied, "They're sending a couple of units.  Should be
here any time."

"Good.

"You've got this door," Moy instructed them.

"No one leaves until we're done.  I'll wait at the front."

Then he beckoned for Sternway to lead the way.

As the IAMA director started past the Dumpster, Moy took hold of my
arm, tugged me into a slow walk.  I didn't have the heart to shrug him
off.

"Are you all right?"  he inquired privately.

That wasn't a question I could answer simply, so I avoided it.

"I've had worse beatings," I told him.

"I'll heal."

I could tell by his grip on my arm that he wanted to pry.  Just what I
needed right then, a cop with good instincts.  Marshal had warned me
that Moy's boredom, his air of indifference, was just camouflage. After
a moment, however, he seemed to let his curiosity about me go. His hand
slid off my arm.

Still keeping his voice low, he shifted his ground.

"What am I going to find in there?"

Beyond the Dumpster, the light improved.  Now I could see the street at
the end of the alley.  Sternway strode on ahead, leading us out of
darkness like a prophet.

I opened my hands instead of trying another shrug.

"It's a fight club.  Sternway seems to like no-rules sparring.

"Those chops," I explained, "the antiques at the tournament.  They've
been moved to Martial America.  The developer, Alex La-cone, hired me
to keep them safe.  Sternway is a consultant to Martial America.  He
gave me the tour this afternoon.  While we were talking, he invited me
here.  He wanted me to see for myself why martial artists treat him
like the Second Coming of Bruce Lee."

As far as I was concerned, my encounter with Turf Hardshorn was
coincidental entirely.

Moy considered this while we rounded the front of the building and
headed for the alley where Sternway and I had parked.  Or maybe he just
wondered how much sleep he'd get tonight.  In the distance ahead, I saw
a couple of cruisers come briskly down the street, no lights or sirens.
They may've thought they were incognito.  As Moy and I followed our
guide toward the cul-de-sac parking lot, he changed the subject
again.

"You're done here, Axbrewder.  Go to an emergency room.  Get Sternway
to drive you.  I owe your buddy Viviter more than a couple of favors.
If you collapse from internal bleeding, I'll feel like I've let him
down."  A moment later he added sardonically, "I love your theory about
Appelwait's killer.  But it's just a theory.  You're supposed to be an
investigator.  Show me some evidence."

For a mercy, the parts of my chest that felt slain had stopped
spreading.  Unfortunately this seemed to aggravate my bruises.  Or were
they torn muscles?  Cracked ribs?  They sent out small licking tendrils
of pain like flame on splashed gasoline.

On the plus side, I could hear almost normally.

If the lab ever tested those fibers from Bernie's throat, Moy would get
all the evidence he needed.

Despite my chest, I would've preferred crawling home to a ride with

HRH.

"You might need Sternway," I said speciously.  He'd saved my life,
hadn't he?

"When I get to my car, I can sit down.  That'll help.  And I have a
phone.  I can call someone."

Moy grunted noncommittally.  As if the question related to needing
Sternway, he asked, "What should we look for in there?"

Navy blazers?  Not likely.

"You figure it out," I sighed between tongues of fire.  He knew the
drill as well as I did.

"I'm too tired."

By then we'd reached the hidden parking lot.  I leaned against the
Plymouth for a minute, mustering my strength.  Sternway waited for us a
few yards closer to the club's front door.

Before he left me there, Moy suggested, "Be a good boy, Axbrewder."  He
may've smiled.

"Keep your nose clean.  If you're lucky, some day you'll make a nice
pet for an older woman who doesn't know any better."

Sure thing, Sergeant, I muttered in silence as he moved off.  That's
sounds great.  I can hardly wait.

I put off getting into the van because I didn't actually want to go.  I
couldn't stay on my feet well enough to help interrogate the club's
patrons, that was obvious.  Nevertheless I wanted to be there.  I
wanted to hear everything Moy dug up.  Otherwise I might never know
what it was.  I'd already drawn on Marshal's favors pretty hard.  They
wouldn't stretch to cover releasing the results of an official
interrogation.  Presumably-innocent bystanders had rights that mere
cadavers like Bernie lacked.

But Moy had already granted me more leeway than the law allowed.  And I
was in no shape to push my luck.  If sitting down didn't clear my head,
I might not be able to drive.  I sure as hell didn't have what it would
take to pay attention while the detective and his uniforms did their
jobs.

Bowing to the inevitable, as they say, I groped out my keys and
contrived to climb into the van.  Once I'd turned the ignition, and the
Plymouth sputtered to life, I let myself sag onto the steering wheel
and rest for a while.  Then I hit the lights, mostly to let Moy know
that I was being a good boy, and considered the puzzle of getting a
vehicle this size back out to the street.

Behind me, four more uniforms followed their flashlights into the
alley.  I let them catch up with Moy and Sternway before I began to
inch the Plymouth tortuously around so that I wouldn't have to escape
the cul-de-sac in reverse.

By the time I'd completed that inelegant maneuver, Moy had flashed his
badge at the shutter in the metal door, and he and his men had taken
Sternway inside.

Oh, well.  So much for Indomitable Mick Axbrewder, the Private
Investigator Who Never Says Die.  I actually murmured "die" to myself
for a couple of minutes, "die die die," like a chant, while I swayed
along the alley to the street.  Obviously losing my mind.  But after
that I tried to concentrate on the road.  I didn't want to drive like a
drunk as I strove to triangulate on my apartment.

The thought of an emergency room didn't hold much appeal.  As I left
the vicinity of the fight club, some disgruntled pugilist was probably
saying, Turf Hardshorn?  Shit, yes, I know him.  But

I wasn't there to hear it.  An emergency room would immobilize my chest
and even give me drugs, but that wouldn't make me feel any better.

What the fuck are you doing?

Anson Sternway had saved my life.

If there'd been a nice warm womb handy, I would've squeezed into it
somehow.

Naturally I wanted a drink.  But I knew better.  Booze didn't soften
the slings and arrows of outrageous and so on.  It just validated
self-pity.

More by Divine Intervention than Inspiration, I eventually found my way
into a part of Garner I recognized, where the streets and buildings
were so brightly lit that they looked like bleached neoprene, and
all-night "sports emporiums" offered their wares on every third corner.
After that, it was only a matter of time until I located the
apartment.

A glow in the window announced that Ginny had left a light on for me.
Or she was still up.

I couldn't imagine how I felt about that.

By stages, I parked the van, locked it, and carried myself to the door
of our apartment.

It wasn't locked.  She hadn't gone to bed yet.

For all I knew, she wasn't alone.

To my own surprise, I found that I didn't actually care.  Bracing one
arm on the frame, I opened the door and let myself in.

She sat in the armchair by the phone, with a magazine she hadn't opened
on the end table beside her.  Her gunmetal gaze, as direct and
uncomplicated as pistol fire, caught me before I'd crossed the
threshold.  Without appearing to move at all, she gained her feet and
came forward.  But when she reached me, she didn't say anything, or
offer to help.  Instead she simply closed the door after me while I
moved to the couch and tried to sit down without wincing.  Then she
went back to her chair.  Her eyes never left my face.

I closed my own for a minute, rested my head on the back of the couch.
By now I could tell that my ribs weren't broken.  Un-convincingly I
muttered, "I didn't expect to find you up.  Is anytning wrong?"

"Brew, you look terrible."  She sounded like she'd gone into another
room.  Or maybe my hearing had turned fuzzy.  Before I

could think of a snappy retort, she added, "But in a good way."

I lifted my head to stare at her.  If she were poking fun at me She
looked serious, however.  She even said, "I'm serious," as if I'd
accused her of insulting me.

"I've seen you look terrible before.  This is different."

I blinked, gaping like she'd lapsed into glossolalia.  But the straight
focus of her gaze didn't waver, and after a while I leaned back again.
She could see something that eluded me, so I decided to ignore it.

"I took a beating tonight," I told her.

"My own damn fault.  I made about three too many bad decisions in a
row."

"And?"  she inquired carefully.

"And nothing.  I got what I deserved."

Maybe she'd discovered intuition in my absence.  Instead of demanding
an explanation, she dropped the subject.  With no change in her tone,
she remarked, "I was hoping we could talk tonight."

"Why?"  She had Marshal, didn't she?  Why did she want to talk to me?

"I'm used to working with you," she said as if I'd responded
reasonably.

"You help me think.  Marshal gave me a case, and I can't make sense out
of it."

This time I didn't gape at her.  Tentatively I lowered my head to the
arm of the couch, then gritted my confusion long enough to drag my feet
off the floor and stretch out my legs.  But even in that position I
didn't have enough support to sustain me.

Marshal had given her a case and she wanted me to help her think?

While various hurts quarreled in my chest, I tried to understand
myself.  Somewhere deep inside so deep that ordinarily I could pretend
that it didn't exist I ached to talk to her myself.  Did I help her
think?  I knew exactly what that was like.

If she wanted to bridge the rift between us, the least I could do was
let her try.

"I'm not really all here," I admitted.

"I hurt too much.  But I'll give it a shot.  Maybe I'll come up with
something."

"Good."

I received the distinct impression that she leaned forward sharply in
her chair that she was eager or anxious in ways that didn't have much
to do with her case but I didn't turn my head toward her.  In fact, I
kept my eyes shut so that I wouldn't catch even a glimpse of her.  If I
let the look on her face distract me, I might not hear what she said.

"Professional Investigations," she began, "has a client named Mai
Sternway," and my heart sank so fast that I hardly heard what came
next.

"She hired us to protect her from her husband, Anson."

That unconscionable bastard, I thought meaning Marshal.  He hadn't sent
me to Bernie by chance.  Or out of undifferentiated goodwill.  And it
was no accident that he'd been so helpful since.  He'd set me up
because he wanted me to feed him dirt about Sternway he'd admitted
that.  But not for his own sake.  He'd done it for Ginny.

Without being obvious about it, he intended to maneuver us into working
together.

"They're separated," she was saying, "and she wants a divorce.  But
she's been getting threatening phone calls.  And that's not all.  Rocks
have been thrown through her windows.  Once her tires were slashed
while she was out shopping.  Buckets of shit have been smeared on her
doors, front and back."

Damn it to hell.  What kind of man assigned cases so that he could
force his girlfriend to deal with her former partner?

"Mai says her husband's doing it," she continued.

"She claims he wants to scare her so she won't demand what's rightfully
hers.

"I'm supposed to protect her, but so far I haven't been very
effective."

A man who considered their partnership too valuable to lose.

A man who didn't think of her as his girlfriend.

I wanted to howl, but my insides hurt too much.

Unfortunately it was my turn to say something.  For a moment I put my
hands over my face to keep my eyes shut.  Then I pulled them down
again.  I hardly knew what we were talking about.

"The calls," I ventured.

"She recognizes his voice?"

"No."  Ginny spoke as if we sat in the dark together carefully,
distinctly, unsure of the distance between us.

"He's muffled his voice somehow.  But she's sure it's him."

"And you believe her?"

"I answer her phone when I'm with her.  Those are definitely
threatening calls.  Sometimes they're obscene.  The voice is muffled,
but it's male.  She played me a tape he left behind.  One of those
pocket recorders, just reminders to himself.  I can't tell if it's the
same voice."

That wasn't what I'd asked, but I let it pass temporarily.

"I assume you've covered all the obvious stuff."  I could go that far
without understanding the conversation.

"Caller ID.  Traces.  ID blockers."

She may've nodded.  I didn't open my eyes to check.

"He moves around.  Most of the numbers have turned out to be pay
phones.  The rest are in bars and nightclubs.  None of them belong to
Sternway.  Or his karate school.  Or that organization he runs, the
IAMA.  An ID blocker shows up every once in a while.  I don't have the
equipment to crack it."  She was referring to a piece of electronics
that could hold a connection open long enough to trace even after the
ID-blocked number hung up.

"So far Marshal's source at the phone company hasn't reported any
results."

Striving to focus past a chest full of old grievances, I asked
unnecessarily, "Sternway doesn't have a blocker on his home phone?"

"If he does," she stated, "he only turns it on when he's harassing
Mai."

Vaguely I wondered where he found the time.  I'd have thought he was
too busy to hassle anyone who wasn't standing right in front of him.

"How's she taking it?"

Ginny let some of her studious neutrality drop.

"Mad as hell.  That woman is a refined, cultivated harridan.  She looks
like one of those frail creatures who gets the vapors.  She even
dresses that way.  A china doll too delicate to trim her own
fingernails.  But she doesn't act like it.

"She wants his blood, as much of it as she can get.  And she has a
scream that can bleed you dry at thirty yards.  Of course, I don't know
what he's like.  But he must've had a death wish when he married her.

"And by the way," Ginny added, "Mai lives pretty high.  I didn't know
karate honchos made the kind of money she spends.  Unless one of them
inherited bucks, they've both been in trouble for years."

By degrees I found myself starting to relax.  As long as I kept my eyes
shut and concentrated on Ginny's voice, I could let Marshal Viviter and
Turf Hardshorn drift away into the background.  If I didn't distract
myself by sitting up or arguing with her I might be of some use after
all.

"If it means anything," I offered through the phosphene dance inside my
eyelids, "the people I've met around Sternway think that Mai wants to
castrate him financially.  Presumably that's the story he tells.

"But he's" I searched the dark for an adequate description
"complicated.  I've seen quite a bit of him, especially today, but I
can't tell you if he's the kind of asshole who bullies his wife.  In
the martial arts world, he's Mr.  Hell-on-Wheels.  Impressive
sonofabitch.  The beating I got tonight " I tried a shrug, but it hurt
too much to complete.

"It would've been worse," a lot worse, "but he rescued me.  Jumped in
there and killed the clown who was trying to kill me."

Ginny might've reacted to that information, but I kept going.

"On the other hand, you couldn't call him a nice guy and feel
comfortable.  The way he talks, you'd think he sees everything in terms
of money.  Money and fighting.  If he actually believes in anything or
cares about anybody he keeps it to himself."

She considered that for a moment.

"None of which makes him an abusive husband," she concluded.

I nodded, just a slight shift of the muscles to show myself that I was
still alive.

What the fuck are you doing?

If she'd been there in the alley, I would've asked her if I'd heard
Hardshorn right.  In my condition, I may've missed something.  The
clangor in my ears had confused the details.

"You didn't answer my question a minute ago," I observed casually.

"I get the impression you don't believe Mai's story."

Ginny snorted.

"Most men would have a hard time living up to an image as black as the
one she paints."  Then she admitted, "But it's more than that.  I'm not
convinced he could do what she accuses him of without being in at least
two places at once.  She got calls this weekend while he was at that
tournament, but none of the numbers were from The Luxury.  And if he
slashed her tires when she says he did, he got back to his school at
about the speed of light.  I checked."

For no particular reason, I asked, "She get any calls Saturday
afternoon?"

For an instant Ginny's tone hardened.

"You mean while I was at The Luxury?"  She may've thought that I meant
she'd been derelict to Mai when she'd come to check on me.

"She says not.

"Why?"

I couldn't tell her.  I didn't know.  Intuition suggested the question.
The rest of me just groped for patterns.

"So you think she's faking it," I prompted.

"I'm starting to."  Slowly Ginny's voice unclenched.

"I'm not there twenty-four hours a day.  For all I know, she threw the
rocks and dumped the shit herself.  And she could hire the phone calls.
I'm starting to wonder if she retained Professional Investigations to
help her make Anson look bad, corroborate her story, so she can crucify
him in the divorce.

"I can't see how the pieces fit any other way."

Without thinking about it, I said, "If the calls don't stop now, you're
probably right."

Her silence sounded like, Huh?  so I went on, "I don't know how smart
Sternway is, but I'll bet he's pretty clever.  Like I said, I've been
around him a lot.

"And I'm there because Marshal recommended me.  Sternway knows that, of
course.  He can assume that I talk to Marshal.  Also he probably knows
that Mai hired Professional Investigations.  Marshal could confirm some
of her accusations by checking with me.

"Presumably Sternway can't know I share an apartment with Mai's
protection.  But he doesn't have to be Heisenberg to realize that I
could be a danger to him.

"If he's making the calls, he'll stop now.  He'll want me for an
alibi."

"So if the calls keep coming," Ginny finished for me, "they aren't from
him."

I didn't try another nod.  While I could still talk without thinking, I
said, "If I were you, I'd search her house.  Sometime when she isn't
there.  Really dig into it."

Right away, I felt her bristle.  I could read her with my eyes closed.
She sat eight feet away, but the nerves in my skin were sensitive to
her abrupt ire.

"What in hell for?  You don't think maybe that violates our
client-investigator relationship?"

More ethical questions.

"Sure it does."  What else was I going to say?

"But you might find something interesting."

Prying wasn't actually unethical.  It was her job.  Ethics only came
into it if she learned something that affected her decisions.

Besides, she'd never hesitated to research her own clients before.

But apparently she didn't see it that way this time.

"Like what?"  she demanded.

Suddenly I was angry.  Too much lurked beneath the surface, waiting for
one of us to make a mistake.  It wore me out.

"Ginny," I sighed, "if I knew that, I wouldn't be lying here like this.
I'd be fucking prescient, and goons like Turf Hardshorn wouldn't lay a
hand on me."

"

"Turf Hardshorn'?"  she echoed.  "

"Turf'?"

I didn't stop.

"If you think she hired someone to make those calls, maybe you can find
out who.  Hell, even crazy people fill out their checkbook registers.
Or maybe she keeps buckets of shit hidden away somewhera, just in case.
I don't know.

"You said you wanted to talk to me.  If I had a better suggestion, I'd
say so."

For a minute she didn't respond.  A couple of cars went by outside,
muffled and fuming.  My pulse yearned in my chest.

Then she muttered, "Damn it, Brew, I hate it when you do that."

I heard a familiar exasperation in her voice, the kind that meant she
wasn't seriously angry.  Not at me, anyway.

"Do what?"  I countered.

"Make those leaps.  I can't follow them.  And you're right way too
often.  Half the time when you're around I feel like I've had a
lobotomy without noticing it."

All at once the pressure in the room evaporated.  I had the giddy
sensation that someone had lifted a set of free weights off me. Despite
our difficulties, she was by God trying to get along with me.

I felt so relieved that I about lost consciousness.

For a while I didn't say anything.  Instead of trying to make sense out
of her, I concentrated on letting my aches and disappointments recede
into the couch.  With my eyes closed, I could almost imagine what it
might feel like to be at peace.

But Ginny wasn't done.  When she'd chewed her exasperation small enough
to swallow, she said in the same careful tone she'd used earlier, "So
tell me.  How does it happen that you're spending so much time with
Anson Sternway?"

I knew what she had in mind as soon as she said the words.  Bridging a
rift like ours wasn't something that you could tackle on just one side.
You had to work for the middle from both ends.  She'd made a start. Now
she was asking me to do my part.

And I wanted to respond.  I'd been wanting her to back me up for hours
now.

Probably I should've told her about Bernie.  That was what mattered to
me most.  And if nothing else it would explain how I got myself beat
up.  But I couldn't.  Somehow the way Alyse Ap-pelwait had looked at me
prevented it.  Between us there was nothing at stake except how I felt
about her husband.

Nevertheless Ginny had opened a door for me, and I didn't mean to let
it swing shut.

"It's like this," I began.

"After the tournament, a developer named Alex Lacone hired me to
improve security for his current project, a development he calls
Martial America.  It's a karate complex he's got four schools so far,
and he's trying for more.  Sternway's his martial arts consultant.

"The problem is those chops, the antiques at the tournament." Belatedly
it occurred to me that Marshal might not have told Ginny anything about
my job.  After all, he hadn't revealed much about hers to me.

"They're either priceless or just valuable, depending on whether or not
they're genuine."

Too drained to go into detail, I gave her a brief background sketch of
the chops, the tournament, and Lacone's insurance dilemma.  Then I
explained, "The chops haven't been authenticated yet.  That's supposed
to happen soon.  The insurance company has a local expert in mind to
appraise them."

Wearily I added, "I've already spent enough time at Martial America to
know that Lacone's security stinks.  Sternway gave me the tour this
afternoon."

My sense of fatigue grew.  And the more I said, the worse it became.
For some reason, answering Ginny's question was harder than it had any
right to be.  Instead of continuing, I wanted to concentrate on my
pains and confusion until they seemed big enough to excuse my failure
to match her.

Probably I would've felt safer that way.  Hadn't I spent most of our
years together convincing myself that I couldn't hold up my end?  I'd
liked calling her my partner, but actually she'd been my boss.  The one
who made the decisions, took the responsibility.  Kept me on my feet.

If I wanted a partner, I'd have to earn one.

Deliberately I opened my eyes and took a good look at the ceiling. When
I'd located or imagined a small collection of spider webs that I'd
missed in my various cleaning frenzies, I leaned my bulk off the couch,
braced myself, and stood up.

"Brew ?"  Uncertainty and concern complicated Ginny's gaze.  The
tension in her arms and shoulders made her look like she wanted to come
help me stand.  The effort of restraining herself sent slivers of
reflection off the curve of her claw.

"I'll be right back."  I intended my expression to be reassuring, but
it didn't feel that way.

Stiffly I lumbered past her to the kitchen, where I moistened a couple
of paper towels and picked up a broom.  Then, rather like a sailboat
navigating against too much wind, I tacked and hauled my way back into
the living room.

"But security isn't the real issue," I resumed.

"Lacone will install obvious things like better locks and alarms as
soon as the insurance company insists on them."  I hardly sounded
audible to myself, but Ginny looked like she could hear me.

"And whether or not the chops are genuine is secondary right now.  The
actual problem is that the chops are hot."

With a bit more effort than the job should've entailed, I draped the
paper towels over the end of the broom.  While Ginny stared, I angled
toward the corner where I'd seen the spider webs.

"Hot as in stolen," I explained.

"And emotionally hot.  One of the schools is Chinese.  Their sifu
considers the chops a national treasure, ripped off in a kind of
cultural rape.  He's practically quivering with outrage because right
now the chops belong to a Japanese sensei in the same building.

"Both schools seem to think those chops are about honor personal,
stylistic, national.  And Sternway tells me that martial arts schools
have a tradition of solving problems by beating the shit out of each
other.  Reclaiming their honor by main force."

In spite of my ribs, I stabbed damp towels at the offending webs.  Sir
Axbrewder in his armor, jousting with the Black Knight of Imperfect
Cleanliness.

"On top of which" in retribution, my bruises made me groan "he talks
like another school in the same building can't tell the difference
between honor and ego.  They're outraged because the chops give more
'face' than they've got.  Sternway has spent hours trying to warn me
about the likelihood of a three-way explosion although he can't say it
in so many words because Lacone pays him to promote Martial America."

Panting weakly, I lowered the broom.  Maybe I'd imagined the spider
webs.  Smudges on the towels, however, indicated that I'd cleaned
something.

Patiently Ginny waited for me to go on.  Her face wore the kind of
expression you'd expect from a psychiatrist while a patient with
multiple personalities argued with him selves

I needed to get to the point before I fell down.

"But it's more complicated than that," I told the end of the broom.  At
least to me.

"I spotted a team of thieves working the tournament.  We rounded up the
picks.  The security guard who got killed" I could go that far without
tarnishing my pledge to the Appelwaits "was trying to catch the
drop."

Abruptly I shambled back to the kitchen.  When I'd disposed of the
towels and stashed the broom, I returned to the couch.  Sitting down
because I didn't want to collapse headlong, I said thinly, "That just
doesn't make sense to me."  I told her why.  Then I added, "Since it
doesn't make sense anyway, I can't shake the idea that there was
something else going on.  Something I missed.

"The only things worth killing for at that tournament and I mean the
only things were those chops."

And whoever did it wouldn't stop until he had them, no matter how many
people he had to kill.

Ginny waited until she was sure I was done.  Then she suggested in a
quiet voice, "Another one of your leaps."

"Maybe," I admitted.

She paused briefly before asking, "Does this have anything to do with
getting beat up?"

I sighed as my sense of defeat renewed its grip.

"Turf Hard-shorn was the drop."

She whistled through her teeth.

"And now he's dead.  Cute."  I could almost hear her brain shuttle like
a sewing machine on full throttle, stitching together pieces of the
story that I hadn't bothered to mention.  After another pause, she
announced flatly, "You'll never know what he thought he was doing."

I almost countered, Not unless you trace that ID blocker.  But I
stopped myself in time.  The idea had jumped into my head with the
unmotivated inevitability of a post-hypnotic suggestion, and I didn't
trust it.  Sometimes intuition betrayed me.  On occasion I'd pushed it
so hard that it just went crazy.

What the fuck are you doing?

I wasn't ready to trust myself that far yet.

She went on stitching.

"So you have to make some assumptions.  It's hard to believe he could
be stupid enough to call attention to himself at that club if he killed
the security guard.  That seems to confirm your theory about another
man in the restroom.

"You can also assume" she hesitated momentarily "this other man still
wants the chops.  If you don't get your hands on him, he might kill
someone else."

Then she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Brew."  Her jaw tightened as if she were worried about my
reaction.

"I don't get it.  I can see why you think Hardshorn wasn't alone in the
restroom.  But the rest of it I don't see how you can assume the chops
were involved."

When she said it that way, it sounded pretty implausible.  I hadn't
mentioned my conviction that Bernie had recognized his killer.  That
the killer had a hell of lot more to lose than a bag full of petty
theft.

I also hadn't mentioned the flik.

Stubbornly I kept Bernie to myself.

She gave me another minute, just in case I wanted to come clean.
Deliberately she aimed her broken nose and her hawk's gaze off to one
side so that I wouldn't have to face anything I preferred to avoid.  In
a vague way, I found myself wondering what had changed for her since
I'd first contacted Marshal.  Her attitude toward me had shifted in the
past few days, and I didn't know why.  But we still weren't on terms
that would've allowed me to ask.

Finally she flicked a glance at me, then looked away again.

"You didn't ask for my advice."  She'd resumed her neutral tone.  Most
of the tension had eased from her shoulders, but her claw still caught
the light unsteadily.

"But I say, take it a step at a time.  Maybe there's something you can
do to defuse the problems in Martial America."

True, I hadn't asked.  But that didn't stop me.

"Like what?"

"Have you considered getting the what did you call him?  the sifu of
that Chinese school to authenticate the chops?"

I stared at her.

"If he decides they're fakes," she explained, "he might relax.  And
even if he thinks they're genuine, he might take being consulted as a
sign of respect.  It might give him 'face."  That could tone down his
outrage."

Damn.  My jaw dropped involuntarily, and I couldn't stop staring.  How
did she do that?

Now I remembered why I'd always thought she was wonderful.

She met my stare.

"Well?"

Somehow I swallowed my astonishment.

"That," I said hoarsely, "is a horrible idea."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't think of it.  And it might work.  I don't see how
Hong can turn it down.  He's too serious to pass it up.  The only
tricky part " I swallowed again.

"I'll have to convince the Japanese sensei to go along with it."

But I didn't actually think he'd object.

"Virginia H. Fistoulari."  A helpless grin twisted my bruises.

"If I'd come up with that one myself, I'd call it brilliant."

Ginny clicked her claw once or twice.  Her eyes smoldered humorously.

"You don't have to.

"Brilliant' is my middle name."

"Really?"  I knew for a fact that her middle name was Harriet.

"I thought the H stood for 'hacksaw."

" This time she grinned back.

"That's what you're supposed to think."

"Well, damn.  I wish you hadn't told me.  Now I'll be up half the
night, trying to figure out how many His 'brilliant' has."

"No, you won't."  Abruptly she stood up, cocked her fist on her hip
like an indignant schoolmarm.

"If you don't put yourself to bed immediately, I'll club you
unconscious.  I said you look terrible in a good way, but you still
look terrible."

I did what she told me.  I had a lot of work ahead of me if I could get
back out of bed in the morning.  And taking her orders still felt as
natural as sunshine.  Muttering complaints I didn't mean, I climbed off
the couch and lurched toward my bedroom.

As soon as I got my clothes off and stretched out, I plunged into sleep
like a fall off a tall building.

Nineteen.

During the night, patterns took shape inside me.  Strands of inference
that had nothing to do with my conscious mind wove toward a conclusion,
unseen.  By the time my alarm went off, I knew beyond all reason or
argument that the chops were the key to Bernie's death.

And that the man with Hardshorn in The Luxury restroom wouldn't
hesitate to kill again.

How I'd reached that conviction I couldn't guess.  I tried to
understand it as I stumbled into the bathroom, but both the reasoning
and the implications eluded me.  A cold shower didn't help.  Neither
did shaving.  And the deep bruises across my ribs only confused the
issue.  All I knew for sure was that I'd better get to work before more
people died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I hated intuition when it worked this way.  It seemed to do more harm
than good.  I had no idea who to protect.  Or who to protect against.
The more I thought about it, the more it eroded my confidence.

Fortunately that effect was counterbalanced by last night's talk with
Ginny.  Somehow we'd begun to repair the damage we'd inflicted on each
other.  Maybe I was finally starting to accept her relationship with
Marshal.  Or to accept that she had a right to it, whether I liked it
or not.

Also my torso and arms didn't hurt as badly as I'd expected.  Hardshorn
had hit me hard enough to flatten a utility shed, but the emotional
impact of the blows didn't linger, despite my bruises.

The fact that Ginny and I could talk to each other now meant more to me
than almost any number of battered ribs.

She'd left the apartment before I got up, depriving me of a chance to
see what her new attitude looked like in the light of day.  I didn't
fret over it, however.  I had plenty of other things to worry about.

Since I didn't own a second suit, I put on contrasting slacks and a
clean shirt.  While I cooked breakfast, I sorted through some of the
clutter in my head, which in turn enabled me to make a decision or two.
By the time I'd eaten, washed the dishes, extracted a few phone numbers
from directory assistance, and bolstered the .45 under my jacket, I was
approximately ready to face the day.

Outside the sun had already sunk its teeth into Garner's concrete.  The
Plymouth smelled vaguely of sweat, baked vinyl, and yearning.  It
didn't want to start, but on the third try it limped to life.  When the
AC had circulated enough stale heat to begin cooling, I headed for
Martial America.

Piously hoping that I wouldn't get lost, I attempted a route that
didn't rely on Garner's freeways.  I wanted to make some calls along
the way, and I figured I'd be safer on surface roads.

First things first.  Before anything else, I called Marshal's cell
phone.  When he answered, I said, "Thanks for the warning," even though
I hadn't profited from it much.

"Brew?"  he asked.

"I now know the truth," I announced.  The street I'd picked seemed to
lead in the right direction.

"I can tell you whatever you want to know about "Sternway's nights
out."

" Marshal wasn't amused.

"Does this mean," he demanded crisply, "you've decided to dispense with
politeness entirely?  It's customary to identify yourself when you
call.  In case you hadn't noticed, cell phones make it tough to
recognize voices."

"Oh, don't be so touchy."  His reaction surprised me, but I didn't take
it seriously.

"I call Lacone 'sir' whenever I talk to him.  How much politeness do
you think I can stand?"

Apparently my attitude made him madder.

"For someone who doesn't work for me, you presume a lot, Axbrewder."

Instead of snapping back, I admitted, "I know.  It's because I don't
have anywhere else to turn."  Also because I couldn't figure him out.

"Bernie's death got a whole lot messier last night, and I need to take
it out on someone."

"Is that why you told Ginny to search Mai Sternway's house?"  he
retorted.

"You're trying to 'take it out on someone'?"

Oh, shit.  She'd already talked to him.  That shocked me momentarily,
although it shouldn't have.  I was accustomed to thinking of her as the
boss, answerable only to her client.

"It's just a hunch," I sighed.

"I can't explain it.  I simply had the feeling that she might learn
something useful."

"Mai Sternway is a client," he informed me stiffly.

"She pays good money for loyalty, discretion, and " I cut him off.

"And stupidity?  Get off it, Marshal.  I didn't tell Ginny to do
anything disloyal.  Or indiscreet.  I just reminded her that any good
investigator tries to know as much as possible about the client.  If
nothing else," I pointed out with more sarcasm than the situation
required, "it might help prevent this particular client from setting
you up.

"Why don't you stop complaining and tell me what's really bothering
you?"

"I don't know you that well," he fired back.  But then he paused.  For
a few seconds my phone didn't pick up anything except occasional
static.  When he spoke again, he'd put most of his vexation aside.

"OK, I'll say this much.  I told Ginny to go ahead, search the house.
Not because I think it's a good idea.  I don't.  But I think I might be
getting complacent.  You've only been working here since Friday, and
already you know more about Anson Sternway than I do.  That pisses me
off."

And, I added for him, searching Mai's house hadn't occurred to him.
He'd gotten into the habit of taking his clients at their word.  Garner
was too rich, making money came too easily.  How many years had passed
since he'd been reminded that trusting his clients might be fatal?

Ginny and I, on the other hand I couldn't think of anything else to
say, so I answered the question he hadn't asked.

"He goes to a fight club, where he and a bunch of other blood lovers
pound each other into the canvas.  Last night one of them was a goon
they called Turf Hardshorn.  He attacked me.  Probably would've killed
me, but Sternway did him first.

"He's the drop Bernie followed into that men's room."

Marshal whistled surprise through his teeth which told me that Ginny
had kept her mouth shut about my business.

"Presumably," I explained, "he attacked me because he recognized me
from the tournament."  Then I went on, "Moy showed up eventually.  He
stayed to go through the club, find out what he could about Hardshorn,
but he didn't encourage me to join him.  I'll call him later.  Maybe
he'll tell me if he learned anything.

"He might," I insisted as if Marshal had objected.

"For some reason, he keeps giving me the benefit of the doubt."

Marshal muttered something I couldn't hear.  Then he aimed his voice
into the phone again.

"So the goon who did Bernie is out of the picture.  How does that make
his death 'messier'?"

"Because," I answered, "it still doesn't make sense, and I've lost my
only lead."  I'd already described my theory that Hard-shorn wasn't
Bernie's killer.

Marshal paused to consider the problem.  After a moment, he asked, "Who
else could it have been?  Who else had enough at stake to kill for
it?"

"How the hell should I know?"  His question cut too close to intuitive
convictions I couldn't understand and didn't trust.

"No one has any real connection to those chops except Hong and
Na-kahatchi, and they never left the hall."

Neither had Sue Rasmussen and Ned Gage.  Or Komatori and T'ang.  Or
Bernie's guards.  Only Master Soon was absent at the right time.

That left me with way too many other possibilities, and no viable way
to winnow the list.

"I see the problem," Marshal admitted.

"What do you hope to get from Moy?"

"Anything at all about Hardshorn.  Who he is, where he worked, where he
lived, who his friends were."

I meant, Anything that might suggest a link to the chops, or to someone
at the tournament.  Or to Bernie.

Marshal seemed to accept that.

"How can I help?"

"Keep after Moy about those fibers they found in Bernie's neck," I told
him.

"If they didn't come from his blazer " "There must have been someone
else in the restroom," he finished for me.

"Someone wearing a similar blazer."

Right.  Someone wearing a blazer.  And a contusion.  If Bernie hit him
hard enough to leave fibers in the flik, he'd have a bruise on him
somewhere.

"Consider it done," Marshal promised.

"Moy has already told me too much to stop talking now."

"Thanks."  I was sincere, but I couldn't leave it there.  Feeling
grateful to him still made me uncomfortable.  Only half joking, I
added, "You know I hate you, don't you?"

I couldn't imagine why he was willing to do so much for me.

He laughed humorlessly.

"You don't exactly hide it.  I just don't know why you bother."

The line clicked dead.  I put the phone down to concentrate on my route
for a minute or two.  I was already floundering in too many directions
at once.  I did not need to get lost on my way to Martial America.

Originally I'd assumed that Marshal was nice to me for Ginny's sake.
Because he was fucking her.  But that quaint notion no longer seemed
adequate.  It didn't explain why he'd thrown Ginny and me together over
the Sternways.

And it didn't account for the distinct modulation of Ginny's manner
toward me.

Just to be on the safe side, I checked my map.  It indicated that I was
right on track.

In my condition, the mere idea felt like a cruel joke.

Sighing to myself, I picked up the phone and dialed the number on Edgar
Moy's card.

He didn't sound surprised to hear from me.  And he told me without
prodding that the driver's license in Hardshorn's wallet identified him
as "James M. Hardshorn," address withheld pending investigation.  The
wallet also contained nearly fifteen hundred bucks in cash, but no
credit cards or other information in particular, no conveniently
incriminating phone numbers, addresses, or contacts.

If Moy had learned anything useful last night, he kept it to himself.
Instead he told me in a bored tone which might've masked humor or
irritation that no one had admitted knowing Hardshorn outside the fight
club.  Several patrons reported watching him fight several times.  A
couple of fighters said that they'd taken him on.  None of them had
ever seen him lose.

They'd said the same of Anson Sternway.  Apparently Stern-way and
Hardshorn had never tackled each other.  According to one of the
bouncers, the two were establishing their reputations so that when they
finally fought the winner would make as much money as possible.

Ah, hell.  I thanked the detective and hung up.  I still didn't know
whether he took my theory about Bernie's killer seriously, but I
figured I'd better leave that subject to Marshal.  He'd known Moy a lot
longer than I had.

So far I hadn't accomplished a thing for Bernie or Alyse.  So what?
Take it a step at a time.  No one ever cracked a case by standing
still.

Despite or maybe because of my floundering sensation, I called Deborah
Messenger next.

I was on a roll of sorts.  Like Marshal and Sergeant Moy, she answered
her phone right away.

"Deborah," I said, "it's Brew," just to prove that I could benefit from
Marshal's advice.

"Are we still on for tonight?"

She laughed with pleasure.

"Let me put it this way.  If you're calling to cancel, I'll buy a
voodoo doll and stick pins in it until you change your mind."

I grinned into the phone.

"Don't worry.  I wouldn't miss it."

How else could I hope to find out what she was up to?

"In that case," she said like nibbling on my ear, "this must be a
business call.  I'll try to act like a professional."  Her tone gave
the remark a provocative fris son

"I suppose one of us had better."  Without transition my grip turned
slick on the wheel.  I could hardly hold onto the phone.

"Otherwise I might drive into a pole."

She laughed again.

"Flatterer."

I swallowed at the sudden lump of desire in my throat.

"But you're right, it's business.

"Has Watchdog decided to get the chops appraised?"

"If you can call what corporations do 'deciding,"

" she told me, "yes.  The home offices still aren't willing to rely on
a local appraisal.  Their expert will fly out from New York next week
as scheduled.  But they agree that getting a temporary evaluation here
might be a good idea.

"Sammy talked them into it.  Those crooks at the tournament really
spooked him.  He's convinced himself that more of them are lining up on
the sidewalk."  I pictured her rolling her eyes.

"He can be pretty hysterical, as I'm sure you've noticed, but he knows
how to play company politics.  I'll bring Carliss Swilley out to
Martial America around eleven this morning, if that suits you."
Politely she added, "I've already called Essential Shotokan."

I checked my watch automatically.

"Eleven is fine.  Any excuse to see you before this evening works for
me."  I hesitated, then forged ahead.

"I've got an idea I want to try."

As soon as I said it, I felt like I'd stepped off a cliff.  Suddenly
I'd committed myself to intuitions I couldn't name, possibilities I
didn't want to face.

But Deborah didn't know that.

"Does Martial America have a restroom we can lock?"  She sounded like
she was licking her lips.

"It's not that kind of idea."  I wedged the phone at my ear with my
shoulder, scrubbed both palms on my pants.

"I thought it might be interesting to ask Sifu Hong's opinion of the
chops."

She took a moment to change gears.

"Is he an authority?"

"Probably not in the way you mean."  I continued falling.

"But he's a moral authority.  If I can tell him that Watchdog Insurance
and Alex Lacone value his opinion, it might relax his hostility a bit."
Certainly it might make my job easier by defusing some of his personal
distrust.

"And who knows?  It may give Posten ammunition to use on your home
offices."

Deborah paused to consider the idea.  After a few seconds, she answered
slowly, "Brew, I have to be sure I understand what you're asking."  She
sounded dubious.

"Do you want us to offer Sifu Hong an appraiser's fee?  Because if you
do " "No," I put in, "nothing that official.  I just want to be able to
tell him that I speak for Watchdog as well as Lacone when I ask for his
cooperation."

Lacone wouldn't object.  Anything to keep the peace.

"Oh, that's no problem."  Her relief was evident.

"You can use my name.  And Sammy's.  I'll make sure he doesn't get
hurry about it.  The homes offices won't complain.  Since they aren't
excited about the idea of a local appraisal, even a temporary one,
they'll welcome a second opinion.  If the two don't match, they can
feel smug about insisting on their own expert.  And if Sifu Hong agrees
with Mr.  Swilley, that only strengthens Watchdog's position."

She didn't add, In case something happens to the chops this week.  She
didn't need to.  Instead she said, "Don't worry about Mr.  Swilley.
I'll smooth his feathers before we arrive."

"Deborah Messenger, you're a sweetheart."  The danger that Swilley
might take offense hadn't occurred to me.

"On top of being the sexiest lady I've met in many a long year."

In a throaty whisper, she told me, "Check the restrooms."  Then she
hung up before I had a chance to make a fool of myself by dropping the
phone.

Damn.  The van's AC couldn't push out enough cold air to keep me from
sweating.  What was I getting myself into?  Last night I'd liked the
idea of consulting Hong.  Now without warning it scared the crap out of
me.

Deborah's attitude, her incomprehensible eagerness, no longer worried
me.  I couldn't think about it.  Somewhere in the back of my head, a
small voice whimpered wordlessly, like an illiterate mute trying to
warn against imminent violence.

I did not trust my instincts.  Not this time.  Not without some kind of
evidence to back them up.  The back of my head had leaped out over an
abyss, and I couldn't see the other side.

Until I understood what my nerves wanted to tell me, I couldn't do
anything except fall and pray that I latched onto something solid
enough to stop me before I smeared my body all over the rocks at the
bottom.

Trembling, I forced myself to check the street signs, confirm that I
wasn't lost.  Take it a step at a time.  What else could I do?  When my
forehead finally stopped dripping, I dug out the listings I'd acquired
from directory assistance.  Take it Carefully I dialed the number for
Essential Shotokan.

It rang until I was about to give up.  Then a male voice answered,
"Essential Shotokan.  I am Hideo Komatori."

"Mr.  Komatori."  I couldn't account for all this good luck with phone
calls.

"It's Brew.  Good morning."

"Brew-san.  Please excuse my delay.  I was meditating."  Underneath his
usual reserve, Komatori sounded pleasantly considerate.

"It is indeed a good morning.

"How may I be of service?"

"I was hoping " Abruptly I stomped on the brake to avoid a Corvette
convertible veering recklessly into my lane.  In his muscle shirt and
shorts, the driver had the cut look of a professional poster boy.  His
hair kept him too busy to bother steering.

Somehow I avoided swearing into the phone.

"Sorry," I told Komatori.

"Bad driver."  The guy had enough hair to get tangled in it when he
moved his hands.

"I was hoping I could speak to Nakahatchi sensei."

"I'm sorry, Brew-san," Komatori answered.

"My master doesn't use telephones.  I'm sure he'll speak with you in
person, if you wish.  Or could I speak with him on your behalf?"

I almost climbed the back of the 'vette before I realized what I was
doing.

"He doesn't use telephones?"

Komatori laughed politely.

"I'm afraid not.  He distrusts the modern world in many of its forms.
In particular, he believes that telephones allow men to avoid
responsibility for their words and actions.  He may be right.  I've
often thought that we all lie more easily over the phone than in
person.  Don't you agree?"

Deliberately I receded from the poster boy.

"But he lets you give him messages?"

"He doesn't hold me accountable for their content."

"Well," I said after a moment, "I'll take your advice on this one.  I
think you've already had a call from Deborah Messenger?  Watchdog
Insurance?"

"Indeed," Hideo replied promptly.

"She mentioned a Mr.  Carliss Swilley, who has been retained to
authenticate the chops.  My master knows nothing of this Mr.  Swilley,
but of course he has no objection.  For various reasons, he's deeply
concerned to determine whether or not the chops are genuine.  He's been
troubled on this point, and he welcomes anyone who might resolve the
matter."

I nodded at the phone, then remembered that Komatori couldn't see me.

"I'm glad to hear it."  Then I plunged on, still falling.

"Do you think he'd object to letting Sifu Hong inspect the chops?
Should I ask him in person?"

Again Komatori gave a reserved laugh.

"Ordinarily I shouldn't speak for my master.  It isn't considered
proper.  But in this case, I know his thoughts.  He would be honored by
a visit from Sifu Hong, for that purpose or any other.  I'm not
betraying a confidence, Brew-sem, when I say that he would have invited
Sifu Hong himself, but to do so seemed indelicate."

"

"Indelicate'?"  Feeling confused, I checked my map again.  I was
definitely getting lost somewhere.

"Sifu Hong has made his anger evident.  Naturally it must be respected.
To invite him here might be seen as an attempt to placate him.  That
would be an affront."

"I still don't " "Ah, but if the invitation comes from you, Brew-san,"
Komatori pronounced, "the problem evaporates.  It grants Sifu Hong
face, it allows this dojo to show respect for an esteemed master, and
it preserves Nakahatchi sensei's stature, so that he may offer Sifu
Hong courtesy rather than placation."

Mentally I threw up my hands.  It was clear that "good manners" to men
like Komatori and T'ang, Nakahatchi and Hong, meant something entirely
different than they did to Marshal something deeper, more definitive. I
couldn't claim that I understood it.

"Maybe," I said reluctantly.

"Maybe not.  Sifu Hong has at least one grievance that won't go away
just because the invitation comes from me."

Hideo waited while I dredged up what T'ang told me yesterday.

"There's no graceful way to say this," I went on.

"I guess it has to do with face.  Apparently Sifu Hong believes that
Nakahatchi sensei upstaged him.  Traditional Wing Chun signed the first
lease with Martial America, but Essential Shotokan moved in first. Sifu
Hong seems to think your sensei did that deliberately.  To eclipse him
in some way."

Feeling too awkward to frame a direct question, I shut up.

I couldn't read Komatori's silence.  Maybe I'd insulted him.  Or maybe
he was just considering his answer.

After a long moment, he replied, "Perhaps I can understand how Sifu
Hong might have received that impression.  There's no tradition of
personal communication between masters.  Schools such as ours have
always kept to themselves.

"But I can tell you plainly, Brew-san, that Sifu Hong is mistaken about
this.  Like his school, ours once occupied another location in Garner.
My master didn't want to move.  We'd been there for several years, and
he felt a loyalty to the owner.  When the time came to renew our lease,
however, we learned that his loyalty wasn't reciprocated.  The owner
raised our rent considerably, more than we could afford, and we needed
to find a new location rather quickly.  Mr.  Lacone offered us
favorable terms and immediate availability.

"In retrospect," Komatori admitted, "it seems unfortunate that we moved
in before Traditional Wing Chun."  Then he added, "But I assure you and
you can assure Sifu Hong that my master's decision was entirely
pragmatic.  It had nothing to do with a desire for precedence.  We
didn't learn that Sifu Hong had signed the first lease until both
schools were in place."

"You mean Mr.  Sternway didn't mention it?"  I asked more sharply than
I intended.  I would've expected Sternway to use every argument he
could muster on Lacone's behalf, including school loyalty and national
pride.

But Hideo didn't hesitate.

"Indeed not," he stated firmly.

"That would have been indelicate."

And Sternway knew how much Nakahatchi valued delicacy?  Maybe he did.

"Then how did you find out?"  I pursued.

"Since there's no 'tradition of personal communication."

" Now Komatori paused.

"I'm not sure," he said slowly.

"I believe Ms.  Rasmussen mentioned it.  We consult often.  But" his
tone conveyed a smile "I'm not confident of my memory."

Good oP Sue Rasmussen.  That gave me another reason to talk to her.  I
mean, aside from the fact that she hated me.

"What do you consult about?"

Komatori had his answer ready.

"Insurance and liability.  Leases.  Publicity.  Tournaments and
seminars.  She and I talk to each other at least twice a month."

Which made sense.  The same was probably true for T'ang Wen.  Still
another reason to give her a call.  Someone must've planted the idea
that I'd been hired because Lacone and Watchdog didn't trust Hong.

"All right," I sighed.

"I'll deal with that when I talk to Sifu Hong.  But I think you've
given me what I need.  Thanks."

"I hope I've been of service."  Hideo sounded sincere.

"My master desires to relieve the tensions between our schools."

"Well " I thought for a moment.

"Assuming I can talk Sifu Hong into this, does eleven suit you?  Since
we're all concerned about face, I don't know who should get precedence,
Mr.  Swilley or Sifu Hong.  I'd rather deliver them together."

"That will be fine."  Komatori's tone conveyed confidence.

So now all I had to do was convince Hong, and my fall would be
complete.  I didn't understand that either.

Where was the danger?  My guts churned with an almost metaphysical
alarm, as if I'd put someone at risk, someone I ought to protect.  But
who?

"Brew-san?"  the phone asked my silence.  Apparently I'd been
distracted longer than I realized.

"Sorry again," I murmured while I dredged my attention back to the
present.

"Another bad driver?"

"Unfortunately no," I admitted.

"The back of my brain has been trying to tell me something, but I can't
seem to hear it."

"Do you meditate?"  Komatori inquired.

"Perhaps your receptiveness is cluttered in some way.  To still your
mind is to hear yourself more clearly."

I made an effort to dismiss the notion without sounding dismissive.

"I'm sure you're right."  I already knew my receptiveness was
cluttered.

"But until I have time to still my mind, there's another question you
might be able to answer for me."

"Certainly."

I checked my bearings quickly, then asked, "Have you, or Na-kahatchi
sensei, or Essential Shotokan ever had any kind of contact with the
security guard who was killed on Saturday?"

"

"Contact," Brew-san?"  Komatori countered.

"What do you mean?  My master and I have been introduced to him at the
tournaments.  Perhaps some of our students also knew him by name.  Is
that what you wish to know?"

"Not really.  I was thinking more of contact outside the hotel.  Was he
ever a student of yours?  Did he ever do any security work for you on
the side?  Arrange loans or help pay them off?  For you or any of your
students?"

Komatori fell silent long enough to make me think that my cell phone
had lost the connection.  Then he said quietly, "You bewilder me,
Brew-san.  I don't understand why you ask these questions."  Then he
added more firmly, "However, I'm sure that your reasons are
excellent.

"Naturally I can't speak for the private lives of our students.  But to
the best of my knowledge, none of us has had any contact with the
unfortunate Mr.  Appelwait outside the hotel.  Certainly my master and
I haven't."

And that was the truth, at least as far as I was concerned.  Nothing
about him set off any alarms in my head.  If I needed to, I was
prepared to gamble on his honesty.

In any case, I'd already given up on the far-fetched notion that
Bernie's death had anything to do with Bernie himself.  He hadn't
brought it on himself through past indiscretions or unfortunate
connections.  He was dead, purely and simply, because he'd caught
someone in that men's room who considered his identity worth murder to
protect.

So I told Komatori again, "I'm sorry.  I don't mean to confuse you.
There's just something about Bernie's death that doesn't make sense.
I've been groping for any information I can get about his life.  Who he
knew.  Who he did business with.  What kind of business it was.  Just
in case," I finished with a shrug that nearly made me drop the phone,
"the cops miss anything."

"Ah."  Hideo's sigh seemed to convey more comprehension than he was
entitled to.

"I respect your concern.  If any other questions occur to you, please
ask them."

"I will."  He could count on that, anyway.

When we'd agreed to meet on the ground floor of Essential Shotokan a
few minutes before 11:00, we hung up.

I didn't need to check my watch.  The clock outside a nearby bank told
me that the time was about 9:30.  I had either a lot more time than I
needed or nowhere near enough, depending on how Hong reacted.  Since I
still didn't know why the idea of asking him to evaluate the chops
scared me, I took a couple of deep breaths and dialed the number for
Traditional Wing Chun.

As it happened, directory assistance had a listing for Hong Fei-Tung,
but I didn't want to call him directly.  I'd be in a stronger position
if I played by his rules, made an appointment through T'ang Wen.

My luck with phone calls held.  T'ang answered after the third ring.

His reserve as he greeted me had a different quality than Ko-ma tori an
instructed feel the sound of a student acting on his teacher's wishes
instead of his own.  When I asked if Sifu Hong might be willing to talk
to me in, say, fifteen minutes, he replied that he'd have to consult
with his master.  Then he put the phone down and left me hanging for
almost two miles.

I wasn't more than ten blocks from Martial America when T'ang returned
with the information that Sifu Hong had graciously consented to see me.
Since I couldn't grasp Komatori's distinction between "courtesy" and
"placation," I thanked T'ang with more enthusiasm than I actually felt,
on the theory that it was better for a gwailo to sound too humble than
not humble enough.  Then I concentrated on trying to control the
inarticulate clatter of panic in the back of my head.

Damn it.  What was the problem here?  Why did my guts believe that I'd
just made a mistake which would haunt me for years?

Hideo had suggested meditation.  As soon as I'd wheeled the van into
one of Martial America's abundant parking spaces, I tried to do just
that.  Close my eyes behind my sunglasses, relax into the background
mutter of the Plymouth's engine, empty the stale alarm from the pit of
my stomach.  Unclutter my "receptiveness."  The thought of involving
Hong with the chops frightened me for some reason, an intuitive reason.
I needed to know what it was.  Otherwise I'd have to ignore it.  In
rational terms, Ginny's suggestion made perfect sense.

Was I putting Hong at risk in some way that I couldn't imagine?  Was
that possible?

What could threaten a man who knew as much about fighting as Hong
did?

No answers occurred to me.  Instead of opening a door to the back of my
head, my efforts simply made me sweat.  Apparently meditation wasn't
something you could just jump into on the spur of moment.  Or maybe I
didn't have a meditative personality.

In disgust, I turned off the van, locked it, and headed toward
Traditional Wing Chun.

The dojo's ornamental door was open, but all the lights were off, and I
didn't find anyone on the ground floor.  Since manners were so
important here, I didn't go upstairs unescorted.  Instead I did my best
to look patient while I waited for someone to greet me.

T'ang kept me standing there for a few minutes long enough to make his
delay obvious, but not enough to justify a complaint.  When he reached
the bottom of the stairs, he gave me a bow just on the polite side of
brusque.

"Mr.  Axbrewder."  I thought I heard veiled anger.  The silver in his
eyes had the whetted look of a fighting blade.

"Your desire to speak with my master again surprises me.  He has shown
you great condescension.  Are you not satisfied?"

Something had changed since yesterday.  T'ang had had the better part
of a day to gnaw on his own ego.  Maybe he now resented his master's
comparative open-mindedness with me.

Or maybe not.  Maybe he had a new problem.

Under other circumstances, I would've said something snotty to provoke
him, just to gauge his reaction.  Snot being my stock-in-trade and all.
But today I had too much at stake.

With a bow of my own, I replied as blandly as I could, "I want to ask
Sifu Hong a favor, Mr.  T'ang.  He's in a position to give me some real
help, if he's so inclined.  His generosity yesterday makes me hope that
he'll agree."

"Generosity" was such a nice word for it, I thought, compared to
"condescension."

Unfortunately I'd already lost the courtesy competition.  T'ang's air
of umbrage intensified as he demanded, "And what is this 'favor'?"

Then I had it I knew what his problem was.  I'd committed a breach of
dojo etiquette.  Yesterday Hong had instructed me, if you wish our
assistance, please name your need to T'ang Wen.  But I hadn't complied.
I'd been so concerned with my fears that I'd forgotten Hong's
restrictions.

In other words, I was now denying T'ang Wen face.

And I couldn't think of a way to back down gracefully, not without
sacrificing my own face.  Nevertheless I had to soften the insult
somehow.  If I didn't, there would never be peace in Martial America.

I spread my hands.

"Forgive me, Mr.  T'ang."  I didn't have to fake the chagrin in my
tone.

"Naturally" ha!

"I remember that Sifu Hong told me to speak with you.  But my proposal
touches on his honor, and I wouldn't consider myself honorable if I
spoke of it with anyone else.

"There's another matter, however," I added before he could react, "that
I should leave with you.  I'm sure you'll bring it to Sifu Hong's
attention more appropriately than I could."

If that didn't mollify him, I didn't know what else to try.

T'ang lowered his eyes, masking irritation.  But I hadn't left him any
useful recourse.  After a moment he said like a sigh, "Name this
matter, Mr.  Axbrewder."

Almost sighing myself, I told him, "I talked to Mr.  Komatori about the
timing of Essential Shotokan's lease.  He said, first, that Nakahatchi
sensei moved in when he did because he was being forced out by his
previous landlord, and, second, that he didn't learn your master had
signed the first lease until after both schools were in place."

I didn't point out the obvious conclusion.  If T'ang couldn't see it
for himself, I was wasting my breath.

"Do you believe this?"  he retorted suspiciously.

"Why would he lie?"  I countered.

"Nakahatchi sensei has the reputation of an honorable man.  And Mr.
Komatori says that Sternway sensei" deliberately I emphasized
Sternway's martial stature "never mentioned Sifu Hong's business or
decisions when he persuaded Nakahatchi sensei to move here.  Isn't
Stern-way sensei also an honorable man?"

Again I hadn't left T'ang any recourse.  He couldn't argue without
insulting Sternway and so far I hadn't met one martial artist who
would've gone that far.

For a moment he studied my midsection as if he imagined the pleasure of
punching me, maybe rupturing an organ or two.  Then he conceded without
any particular grace, "As you say.  I will convey this to my master at
a suitable time."

"Thank you, Mr.  T'ang," I said firmly.  Still on my best behavior.
Then, remembering something else Komatori said, I went on, "Before we
go upstairs, may I ask you a question?"

T'ang lifted his head.  The silver in his eyes had lost its edge, which
apparently indicated that he'd recovered his self-possession.  Only a
slight frown complicated his expression.

"My master instructed that you should ask me if you have any
questions."

Like a man picking his way through a minefield, I began, "Yesterday you
seemed to think that I'd been hired to protect the chops from someone
in Traditional Wing Chun.  The idea upset me which is my only excuse
for reacting so rudely.

"Of course, you don't know me.  But I have to say, I'm still confused
by your reaction.  Have Sternway sensei or Mr.  Lacone given you any
reason to think that they don't trust and respect you?"

T'ang Wen squirmed.  Again he dropped his gaze, hid what was in his
eyes.  Uncomfortably he answered, "We were given reason."

I let my tone sharpen.

"You implied a minute ago that you consider Sternway sensei honorable.
What has Mr.  Lacone done to make you suspicious?"

T'ang stayed hidden behind the mask of his face.

"He himself has done nothing.  He is a polite and cooperative landlord,
as such things are measured in this country."

"Then where did you get the idea ?"

Abruptly he looked up, gave me a straight thrust of silver.

"Mr.  Sternway's associate.  Ms.  Rasmussen."

That cut seemed to bite deeper than it should have.

"She said that I'd been hired to protect the chops from you?"

"She did not say it," he stated flatly.

"It was present in her words."

"Let me guess."  I scrambled inside.

"She's also the one who told you that Nakahatchi sensei moved here
ahead of you to claim precedence.  She didn't say it.

"It was present in her words."

" T'ang replied with a curt nod.

Damn and damn.  Sue Rasmussen, the cutthroat cheerleader, was going out
of her way to plant trouble for Martial America.  Rather odd behavior
for a woman who slept with Lacone's ambassador.  What was she trying to
do?  Undermine Sternway so that she could take over the IAMA?

Instincts whispered in my ears, offering me hints too breathy and
obscure to be deciphered.  Sue Rasmussen wanted to seed distrust in
Martial America?  Sue Rasmussen?

Marking time while I tried to think, I murmured aimlessly, "That's
interesting."  If I'd had the sense God gave plankton, I would've
turned on my heel right then and walked out of the building, without
saying another word to anyone.  Alarms squalled at my head, and I did
not understand them.  My desire to talk to Ginny was so intense that I
nearly quailed.

Sue Rasmussen?

What the fuck are you doing?

But of course I didn't walk away.  In what you might call a moral
sense, I didn't know how.  I'd already put my feet on this path.  And
the idea of asking Hong to appraise the chops was simply too apt to
reject without a better reason than blind fear.

"Again, thanks," I said vaguely.  Then I made an effort to pull myself
together.

"It looks like she owes us all an explanation.  I'm certainly going to
ask her for one."

With that sop to T'ang Wen's tarnished face, I changed gears
awkwardly.

"Can I talk to Sifu Hong now?"

Since he didn't really have any choice, he bowed slightly and led me
upstairs.

I was breathing hard, hyperventilating almost transcendentally.  I felt
like a man in a burning house trying to carry victims he couldn't
identify above the reach of the flames.

Fortunately someone had flipped on all the lights, and illumination
filled the meeting room outside the apartments.  That steadied me.  It
seemed to expose my alarm to rational examination.

At Hong's door, T'ang composed himself for a discreet knock.  If my
mind hadn't been so congested with worry, I might've wondered whether
Hong's "condescension" would extend to inviting me into his home.  But
it didn't.  When he emerged, he closed the door firmly behind him
before offering me an impersonal bow.

By now I understood that there were no accidents in Oriental manners.
As he had yesterday, Hong meant to hear me out in public, at least
symbolically.  He wanted me and T'ang to know that he wouldn't tolerate
any secrets between us.

Which must've reassured the hell out of T'ang.  And it suited me fine,
especially in my present condition.  Despite what I'd said downstairs,
I didn't have the slightest interest in keeping my proposal private.

With so many lights on, we could see each other clearly.  T'ang stood a
bit to the side, ready to intervene if I committed some uniquely gwailo
gaucherie, while Hong and I faced each other.  Trying to minimize the
effect of my height, I made a point of keeping a little distance
between us.

I answered Hong's bow with the best one I could muster.

"Sifu," I began, "thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice.
I'm sure you must have a lot of demands on your time."

"Mr.  Axbrewder."  His flat features neither acknowledged nor denied
demands on his time.

"You represent Mr.  Lacone and Watchdog Insurance.  Their concerns
should be discussed with T'ang Wen.  However, I am willing to hear what
you wish to say."

I felt the slap of reprimand, but it was a light one.  By degrees I
began to breathe a little easier.

"Ordinarily I wouldn't intrude like this," I said to appease him.

"Mr.  T'ang has been more than helpful."  Another sop for T'ang and an
oblique apology for violating Hong's instructions.

"As I told him downstairs, I have a request to make.  But before I get
to it, may I ask a question?"

Hong didn't say anything.  His molded-clay features revealed nothing I
could read.  If I'd been talking to anyone else even Hideo Komatori I
would've insisted on a response of some kind.  Here I decided to
interpret silence as consent.

"Sifu," I began as if there were lives in my hands, "have you had a
chance to look closely at Mr.  Nakahatchi's chops?"

T'ang made a hissing noise.  His indignation was palpable.

"Do you expect my master to belittle himself in that way?"

Presumably he meant "belittle himself" by inspecting the chops at the
tournament, where anyone from Essential Shotokan might see him do it.

Hong flashed a warning glance at T'ang, but didn't give me any other
answer.

"In that case" every handhold in the face of the cliff seemed to
crumble under my weight "would you mind coming with me to Mr.
Nakahatchi's dojo and telling me whether you think those chops are
genuine?"

As soon as I said it, I knew what was coming.  To forestall an
eruption, I turned quickly toward T'ang Wen.

"Before you object, Mr.  T'ang," I said while his eyes flamed, "I want
to point out that I'm speaking for Mr.  Lacone and Watchdog Insurance
here.  The idea is mine, but I have their enthusiastic support. They're
eager for Sifu Hong's opinion."

Then I faced Hong.

"I also speak for Mr.  Nakahatchi.  I have his support as well.
Watchdog has already hired someone to appraise the chops a local
expert, Carliss Swilley.  But Mr.  Nakahatchi would be pleased to have
your evaluation."

I felt anger pour off Hong despite his lack of expression.  Every
muscle in his body remained relaxed, impervious to threat. Nevertheless
his gaze gripped mine like claws, and his iron hair seemed to bristle
with outrage.

I kept talking to prevent a response I couldn't handle.

"For one thing, he knows you're better qualified than anyone else to
appreciate the real importance of those chops.  He's" I wasn't sure how
to phrase what Komatori had told me "uncomfortable with the possibility
that he has a genuine Chinese treasure in his possession, where it
probably doesn't belong.  And for another, he regrets the appearance of
disrespect in his present situation.  He'd welcome a chance to honor
you in person."

That may've overstated what Komatori had told me.  Under the
circumstances, I didn't care.

Nothing in Hong's face shifted.  For two heartbeats, three, his charged
relaxation seemed to ooze danger, as viscid and fatal as nitroglycerin.
Like a flash of prophecy, I seemed to see every movement of the kata
he'd performed at the tournament, all compressed at once into his
stillness, and available without warning or transition.  He could've
broken my neck before I saw him move, despite the distance between
us.

How could a man like that be threatened by anything I asked of him?  He
was more truly capable of taking care of himself than I would've been
if I were a solid gold seer, as reliable as sunrise.

Yet my fear for him didn't so much as flicker.

While the moment lasted, I hardly noticed that Hong had made a small
gesture to control T'ang Wen.  I was barely aware of it as Hong bowed
to me smoothly, one hand closed into a fist, the other open to cover
it, contradict it.

Then his voice snatched me out of myself.

"Mr.  Axbrewder," he pronounced without a hint of tension, "I accept
your suggestion.  It is fitting.

"Some preparation is surely required.  If you will name a suitable
time, I will accompany you."

I should've felt that a crisis had been averted, but I didn't.  Instead
I had the gut-deep sensation that the catch on a guillotine had been
released, and that the only thing I'd be able to do for the rest of my
life was watch the blade fall.

Twenty.

Careful despite my intuitive shock, I spent a couple of minutes while
T'ang Wen led me out of the dojo confirming the arrangements Deborah
had made with Carliss Swilley.  At the door, T'ang assured me that he
and his master would be ready at 11:00.

Then I found myself out in the full force of Garner's sun.

I still had half an hour to recover my balance.  Time enough, you
would've thought.  Unfortunately time wasn't what I needed.

I needed someone to give me the kind of hint I used to get from forlorn
drunks and lost souls late at night back in Puerta del Sol a suggestive
twist of fact or inference which would resolve to clarify my
instinctive groping.  For years I'd relied on help like that, and on
Ginny's straight-ahead tangible rationality, to anchor me against
unfounded assumptions and flighty guesswork.

Here I was far out of my natural element, and I didn't know who to turn
to.

Sunlight washed over me from all sides up from the concrete, off the
dimmed glass of the windows, out of the sky.  For a moment or two I
endured its harsh scrutiny.  Then I got mad.

Slapping on my sunglasses, I strode back to the van, wrenched open the
door, and jumped in.  While the engine started and the AC whined to
life, I swore at everyone I could think of at Bernie's killer, at James
M. "Turf" Hardshorn for getting himself killed, at Marshal's
impenetrable superiority and Edgar Moy's disinterest, at the clotted
arrogance of all martial artists, especially Hong and Nakahatchi and
Sternway.  Then I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the number directory
assistance had given me for Sue Rasmussen.

Forty seconds later the receptionist at the Weathers, Slewell, Mallet,
Rasmussen law firm informed me that Ms.  Rasmussen was working at the
LAMA offices this morning.  I already had the number, but the
receptionist offered it so cheerfully that I let him give it to me
again.

That phone rang four or five times just long enough to make me think
that I was finally out of luck.  Then a man's voice answered,
"International Association of Martial Artists.  May I help you?"

Despite my phone's limitations, I recognized Parker Neill.

"Parker," I said, striving to sound calm.

"It's Brew."

"Brew," he replied pleasantly.

"How are you?"  Before I could answer, he added, "Rumor has it you've
moved from tournament security to buildings.  Is that progress, or
should I offer condolences?"

Remembering our last conversation brought a sympathetic ache to the
spot he'd poked on my chest.  We hadn't exactly parted on good terms.
But apparently he didn't hold it against me.

"It pays better," I told him.

"I suppose that's an improvement."  Then I added, "Looking back, I
think I owe you an apology.  Anson says I like kicking over anthills.
Sometimes I guess I kick at things that should've been left alone."

"Forget it."  I didn't hear any tension in his tone.

"Tournaments make me irritable.  They've changed since the days when I
competed regularly.  Or I have."  He didn't elaborate.

Ned Gage had described him as a "true believer" who didn't know what to
do with himself now that he had too much rank and responsibility to
participate fully.  But I'd picked up the impression that his unspoken
disenchantment ran deeper, that the martial arts hadn't offered him
anything with enough substance to replace the competitive intensity of
his youth.

Which reminded me obliquely that Sternway was Parker's sen-sei.  And
Anson Sternway definitely hadn't found any useful substitute for
competitive intensity.  For him whatever ideals the martial arts
espoused had degenerated into money grubbing and brawls.

In my opinion, Parker needed a new sensei.  Not that anyone actually
cared what I thought.

But this wasn't the right occasion for my anger, so I said, "It's
forgotten.  Thanks," and then asked quickly, before I talked myself out
of it, "Could I call you sometime?  Do you mind giving me your phone
number?  You've already been a big help.  I'd like to ask you a few
more questions when you aren't on duty over there."

I meant, when he wouldn't be overheard by Sternway's acolytes and
sycophants.

"Sure, anytime."  Without hesitation, he gave me his cellular number.
Then he asked, "Were you looking for me, or is there something else I
can help you with?"

"Thanks," I said again.

"As a matter of fact, I'm trying to track down Sue Rasmussen.  Her
office told me she might be there."

"Sure.  Let me put you on hold, and I'll get her."

The connection clicked onto the vacant sound of empty space.  While I
waited, my stifled fuming seemed to echo back from the void like the
radio debris of some ancient astrophysical cataclysm.  At least the
IAMA didn't torment callers with Muzak.  The homogenized dysfunction of
popular love songs would've driven me mad.

A minute later, the handset clicked again, and Sternway's girlfriend
said, "Mr.  Axbrewder," with the kind of sweetness conspirators use to
conceal hemlock.

"This is an unexpected pleasure.  What can I do for you?"

Not liking poison much, I wanted to charge right in, guns ablazin'. If
even part of what I'd heard recently was accurate, she had a lot to
answer for.  But I'd been told that she was a no-holds-barred
competitor as well as a hard-ass lawyer, despite her cheerleader's
facade.  And I already knew that she didn't much like me.  The
forthright approach probably wouldn't work.

I went on pretending I was calm.

"I'm glad you're willing to talk to me, Ms.  Rasmussen.  We didn't
exactly hit it off at the tournament."

"Call me Sue, Mr.  Axbrewder."  Her tone didn't waver.  No doubt she
had a lot of fun that way during cross-examinations, confusing her
opponent's witnesses with honey.

"You're right, we didn't hit it off then.  And we probably won't now.
But Sternway sensei values the job you're doing for Mr.  Lacone and
Martial America, and he wants the IAMA to give you every cooperation.
I'm sure we can be civil to each other, if we really try."

Well, I wasn't sure, but what the hell.  I could go along with it, at
least for a little while.

"That's good to hear, Sue."  Deliberately I didn't remind her to call
me Brew.

"There are several things I think you can help me with, if you don't
mind."

"I'll do what I can," she promised.

I waited a beat or two, mostly for effect, then said, "Anson may've
told you that I'm interested in Bernie Appelwait.  The Luxury security
guard who was killed at your tournament.  The cops are investigating,
of course, and the detective in charge seems to be doing a pretty
thorough job."  Sweetness Axbrewder-style.

"But I've been poking around anyway, asking the kinds of questions that
might not occur to anyone else, just to see what turns up."

Apparently that caught her by surprise.  She sounded perplexed as she
replied, "I thought you identified Mr.  Appel-wait's killer last night.
Sternway sensei told me that's why he attacked you."

"Well," I drawled with a hint of malice, "that's not quite accurate.  I
identified the man as a thief, not a killer.  So far anything else is
just supposition."

Then I got to the point.

"But in fact I'm reasonably sure he wasn't Bernie's killer.  So, as I
say, I've been asking questions."

"I see."  She considered the idea.

"What sorts of questions?"

She disappointed me by recovering her honey and by not pushing to find
out why I thought Hardshorn wasn't the killer.  But I didn't really
care.  I had plenty of ammunition.

Without a pause I brought my guns to bear.

"Did you know Bernie at all?  I mean, outside The Luxury and your
tournaments?"

"Know him?"  Now I heard a little strain in her voice.

"Bernie Appelwait?"

"Did the IAMA ever do any private business with him?  Did you?  Or
Anson Sternway Shorin-Ryu Bushido?  A bit of part-time security work,
for example?  Or maybe he arranged some quiet financing, helped you
solve a cash-flow problem?"

"Mr.  Axbrewder," she put in quickly, "are you suggesting that Sternway
sensei is involved with loan sharks?"

I sensed a lawyer's instincts at work.

"I'm not suggesting anything," I told her firmly.

"I'm just asking questions."

"Then the answer is no."  She'd abandoned sweetness for asperity the
tone she probably used on opposing counsel.

"In all the years I've known Sternway sensei, or been involved with the
IAMA, we've never had any dealings of any kind with Mr.  Ap-pelwait
outside his role as The Luxury's Chief of Security."

I refined my focus, continued maneuvering her into range.

"Was he ever a student of yours?  Can you think of any personal
connection that might exist between him and anyone at the IAMA, or in
Anson's school?  Any connection at all?"

"No.  Categorically not."

I made a pretense of pausing for thought.  Then I inquired, "And you'd
tell me the truth about this, Sue?"

Her reaction stung across the airwaves.

"That's either an insult or a very stupid question."  She bit off each
word precisely.

"What makes you think I might lie to you?"

"I'll answer that," I returned promptly, "if you'll answer another for
me first."  Before she could refuse, I asked, "What's the real reason
Anson hasn't moved into Martial America?"

"What do you mean," she countered, " 'the real reason'?  What reason
have you heard?"

I snorted.

"Money and politics.  Martial America costs too much.  And Anson
doesn't want to get caught in the middle of potential conflicts between
schools."

"And that doesn't make sense to you?  It sounds perfectly reasonable to
me."

"No," I retorted, "it doesn't make sense.  Lacone has too much to gain
by attracting Anson's business.  He's eager to make a deal Anson can
afford.  And as for politics " She cut me off.

"Stop right there, Mr.  Axbrewder.  You're already wrong.  Mr.  Lacone
is eager to make a deal Sternway sensei could afford if he didn't
already have financial problems.

"In case you haven't heard, he's trying to divorce his wife.  And she's
contesting it.  In fact, she's doing everything in her power to leave
him destitute.  She was extravagant before they separated.  I swear to
God, the man was a saint with her.  But now she's determined to gut his
assets.  As a school, we survive where we are on a month-by-month
basis.  Under the circumstances, Sternway sensei certainly can't commit
himself to the kind of long-term lease Mr.  Lacone wants.

"I'm trying to be cooperative here," she finished, "but I think you
have a hell of a nerve suggesting that I might not tell you the
truth."

Gotcha, I thought.  If Sternway heard what she just said, he'd probably
demote her.  Hell, he might even kick her out of his bed.  The last
thing a balls-to-the-wall fighter like him would want was to be exposed
as a pussy-whipped weakling who couldn't defend himself against his own
wife.

Sue Rasmussen I was sure of this had told me too much about money
because she didn't want to talk about politics.

"That's all very interesting," I returned.

"But you've only answered part of my question."  At last I cocked one
of my guns, let some of my anger show.

"What about the conflicts in Martial America?"

She met me with exasperation.

"What about them?  They're traditional, Mr.  Axbrewder they go back
longer than you can imagine.  With the best will in the world, Sternway
sensei can't resolve them.  What little effectiveness he has as a
mediator depends on his stature outside those conflicts."

Working to convey the impression that I took her response seriously, I
paused again, relaxed into the silence.  I wanted her to drop her
guard.  But I didn't drag it out.  A moment later I remarked, "That's
also very interesting.  Unfortunately it's bullshit."

Then I opened fire.

"From what I've heard, both Sifu Hong and Nakahatchi sensei like
Anson's idea of cooperation among dojos.  They're in conflict with each
other because you've been stirring up trouble."

I heard the hiss as she snatched a breath.  The next instant she
flashed back at me, "Mr.  Axbrewder, I've had enough of this.  I'm
trying to answer your questions, I'm trying to get along with you here.
I certainly don't deserve " I interrupted hard.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Sue.  Didn't you prepare the leases for
Essential Shotokan and Traditional Wing Chun?"

"Yes, but " she began.

That admission was enough.

"So you were in a position to know that Hong expected precedence.  But
you didn't mention his feelings until you'd already moved Nakahatchi
into Martial America ahead of Hong.  In fact, you created an insult
that didn't exist."

"That's absurd!  How was I supposed to know ?"

I kept right on interrupting her.

"You just lectured me about conflicts between martial arts schools. How
could you not know?  Do you expect me to believe that Anson didn't tell
you he'd offered Hong the chance to be first in Martial America?

"But you didn't stop there.  As I hear it, you made a point of making
Nakahatchi aware that Hong was offended.  But you didn't explain
Nakahatchi's circumstances to Hong.  How am I supposed to interpret
that?  It sure looks like you didn't want Hong to understand that
Nakahatchi wasn't trying to upstage him."

"Mister Axbrewder."  Sue's vehemence caused a crackle of distortion in
my phone's earpiece.

"You're taking the entire situation out of context."  Her disdain
filled the connection.

"I don't discuss one client's business with another.  That's privileged
information.  I'm ethically bound not to tell either Sifu Hong or
Nakahatchi sensei about each other's decisions.

"I only mentioned Sifu Hong's reaction when I realized he'd
misinterpreted Nakahatchi sensei's actions.  I thought Nakahatchi
sensei deserved a chance to correct Sifu Hong's misapprehensions.  It's
not my fault he didn't take advantage of the opportunity.

"And that's privileged information as well.  I don't know who has been
talking to you, but they should not have done it."

All right.  So she was fast on her feet.  Living up to her reputation.
That didn't bother me.  I could exchange volleys with her like this all
day.

"Well " I made a pretense of backing down.

"Maybe you're right."  Then I tried a more oblique attack.

"But I have to say, I'm still confused by your role in all this.  If
you thought Nakahatchi deserved a chance to straighten things out, why
didn't you think Hong deserved accurate information?"

"Because," she retorted with heavy impatience, "he's a Wing Chun
stylist.  I don't expect you to understand what that means, but believe
me, it's relevant.  He's too touchy to be reasonable."

I had her, and she didn't even know it.  Grinning fiercely at my
windshield, I let her bury herself.

"Soft stylists are like that generally," she pronounced.

"They're flashy and dramatic because they don't want anyone to know
that their techniques don't really work.  Instead they cultivate
secretiveness, trying to convince themselves that the rest of us aren't
smart enough to recognize their real power.  And they're touchy.  You
should hear the complaints at tournaments.  The judges aren't fair, the
refs won't give them points they deserve, everyone is prejudiced
against them.  Since they can't demonstrate any effectiveness, they've
made the whole thing about ego.

"I didn't explain Nakahatchi sensei's position to Hong," she concluded
with mis-aimed sarcasm, "because I had no reason to think he'd
listen."

"I see."  I let my grin show in my voice.

"It's starting to make sense now.  There's just one more thing I don't
get."  Then I asked cheerfully, "Why did you tell Hong that I was hired
to protect the chops from him?  I mean, considering that he's so
'touchy' and all."

"Mr.  Axbrewder" my earpiece positively spat at me "I've had enough of
this."  Righteous Sue Rasmussen in full cry.

"From the beginning you approached our tournament with contempt, and
all you've done since then is sneer.

"You forget that I know what you're like.  When I heard Mr.  Lacone
made the mistake of hiring you, I knew you weren't qualified to deal
with the situation in Martial America.  You're too ignorant and
'superior' to appreciate the danger.  So " She took a deep breath.

"I gave you some help.  I made Sifu Hong aware that his school was
being watched.  You weren't likely to grasp what the ownership of those
chops means, or how far almost anyone at Traditional Wing Chun would go
to retrieve them.  On your behalf, I made them nervous.  I made them
cautious.  Otherwise they might have stolen those chops out from under
your nose."

I wanted to applaud, but she didn't give me the chance.

"This conversation is over," she informed me.  Then she slammed down
the phone.

Well, gosh, I thought.  Apparently she'd figured out why I suspected
her of lying.

I'd finally won a round.  For a minute or two I couldn't stop
grinning.

Sternway's squeeze spent almost as much time and ingenuity undermining
Martial America as he did promoting it.  Bless his woman-ridden little
heart, he had a saboteur in his midst.

Or With the suddenness of a cerebral hemorrhage, a window seemed to
open in my head.  Through it, I saw nameless intuitions tremble on the
verge of clarity.  Hong and Hardshorn and Bernie shimmered on the
horizon like mirages, obscured or invented by heat, and accompanied by
other figures with their faces hidden.

Maybe it wasn't her lover sweet Sue had sabotaged.  Maybe it was me.

Before I could grasp all the implications, however, before I could
catch even a glimpse of the danger I'd created for Hong, the window
closed.  I found myself in a muck sweat, despite the van's valiant AC.
Even through my sunglasses, Garner's hard light had a mocking tinge.

Goddamn it, where was Ginny when I needed her?

Some part of me knew what Sue's performance meant, I was sure of that.
But I'd lost the window.  It wouldn't open again until it was good and
ready.  Or I was.

Maybe it was me.

Damn and damn.  The sensation that people might get hurt because I
couldn't understand my own instincts was almost more than I could
stomach.

Unfortunately experience had taught me that I wouldn't get anywhere if
I sat and stewed about it.  Muttering curses, I forced myself out of my
own head long enough to look around the parking lot for some indication
that Deborah had arrived.

I didn't see any new cars.  But it was getting close to 11:00, so I
decided not to wait.  Reluctantly I turned off the Plymouth and stepped
out onto the griddle of the concrete.

Deliberately I tried not to hurry.  I needed to relax somehow.
Nevertheless anxieties I couldn't identify goaded me too hard.  In
spite of my best efforts, I burst into Traditional Wing Chun like a man
with furies in his wake.

To my surprise, I found Hong and T'ang Wen ready in the hall.

They both wore formal kung fu silks.  As usual, I couldn't read Hong's
face, but his posture hardly hinted at violence.  If he saw threats in
meeting Nakahatchi, he may've been reluctant to prejudge them.  At his
side, T'ang appeared subdued, almost chastened.  I suspected that he'd
told his master about Nakahatchi's lease, and had been shaken when Hong
took the information seriously.

Pulling off my sunglasses, I bowed to both of them.  They responded
without making a production out of it measured courtesy, a tentative
acknowledgment that waited for events to justify something more
definitive.

"I'm a bit early, Sifu."  By using his title without his name, I hoped
to suggest that he continued to rise in my estimation.  My own form of
measured acknowledgment.

"I don't think Ms.  Messenger and Mr.  Swilley have arrived yet.  Would
you prefer to wait for them here, or shall we go on over to Essential
Shotokan"?  I'm sure we'll be welcome either way."

Hong inclined his head.

"We will go."  He may've wanted to gauge Nakahatchi's reaction without
Deborah and Swilley there to complicate matters.

"Good."  With another bow, I swung the door open so that Hong and T'ang
could precede me.

But as we reached the sidewalk, I saw Deborah and a man I didn't know
emerge from a BMW so immaculate that it might've descended from the
hand of God right there in the parking lot.  She wore a pale blue
business suit that seemed to turn her auburn hair the color of
firelight and flames.  When she spotted us, she waved cheerfully, then
escorted her companion toward Nakahatchi's dojo.

Without transition my heart started thudding double-time.  As
surreptitiously as I could, I wiped my palms on my slacks, but it
didn't help.  Somehow I controlled my impulse to stare while she
crossed the concrete.  If I got caught up in the lissome sway of her
gait, I'd forget that I still didn't know how to trust her.

We converged under the awning at Essential Shotokan's symbolic door.
Deborah gave me a smile that nearly dropped me to my knees, greeted
Hong and T'ang with a subtle combination of familiarity and reserve,
then introduced all three of us to her companion.

Carliss Swilley's appearance struck me as odd.  From a distance, he'd
looked both shorter and fatter than he actually was.  In fact, he was a
man of medium height and average weight, dressed in a rich, slightly
shimmering blue suit that God could've handed down along with the BMW.
Dark, horn-rimmed glasses gave his face a studious air.  Well-behaved
scraps of hair around his balding head suggested elegance.  And yet
somehow his aura, his presence, insisted that in reality he was short
and pudgy, that the man who shook my hand was a facade for someone
smaller and less fastidious.

Above his expert's smile, he had plain features a bit too broad for his
height, and a substantial birthmark smack in the middle of his
forehead.  It increased the effect of his glasses, as if nature had
marked him with authority.  Or maybe it was the insignia of what lay
behind his facade.

"A pleasure, Mr.  Axbrewder," he informed me in a desiccated tone like
the sound of dust settling.

"I understand I have you to thank for this commission.  Do you know
Chinese antiques?"

"Not even a little bit.  But I have a vague grasp on insurance."  I
flicked an involuntary grin at Deborah.

"Enough to be sure we need a professional appraisal."

"I'm grateful nonetheless."  He sounded as grateful as a tombstone.

"A chance to study ivory and workmanship which may have come from early
in the Qing dynasty, and which may indeed have been produced by Leung
Len Kwai himself" he rustled his hands "well, suffice it to say that
missing such an opportunity would be an occasion for regret."

I doubted that.  He gave me the impression that he didn't take his
"regret" out of the closet very often and hadn't quite finished
brushing off the cobwebs.

"I hope you won't be disappointed," I put in bluntly.

"The chops may not be authentic."

"I'll enjoy seeing them in any case," he assured me without
enthusiasm.

"Forged antiques often demonstrate as much skill and industry as their
originals, and may be nearly as old.  Indeed, any copies of Leung Len
Kwai's work could well derive, as his originals do, from the eighteenth
century.  Historically " He was poised to deliver a disquisition, but
Deborah interrupted him tactfully.

"Shall we take this inside, Mr.  Swilley?  It's fascinating, of course,
but I'm sure Nakahatchi sensei is waiting for us."  Her smile paused on
me briefly as she scanned our little group.

"And I'm sure we'd like to escape this heat."

"Certainly," Swilley assented with no change of tone.  Maybe
dry-and-neglected was the only tone he had.

Deborah reached for the door, but T'ang Wen forestalled her, bowing
each of us inside ahead of him.

The air of the dojo was a relief cooled and dim, almost comforting.  If
I'd been that easily comforted, I might've relaxed a bit.  But nearly
audible mental voices insisted persistently that I'd entered the
presence of threats I couldn't identify or defuse.  That lives were on
the line somehow.

Hideo Komatori awaited us at the foot of the stairs.  He was formally
dressed in a dark suit and understated tie which made him look like a
pallbearer.  Vaguely I wondered what that meant.  If there were no
accidents in Oriental manners, what message did Komatori mean to
convey?  For that matter, what did Hong and T'ang imply with their
silks?

I wasn't qualified to guess.  Certainly Hideo's smile seemed genuine.
Ignoring Swilley, Deborah, and me, he bowed deeply to Hong and almost
as deeply to T'ang.

"Sifu Hong," he said, "T'ang-san, I am honored to welcome you.  We've
desired this day for a long time, but didn't know how to bring it
about.  For that we're indebted to Brew-san."

Neither Hong or T'ang replied, but Hong gave Komatori a bow that looked
adequately respectful.  T'ang also bowed, although he couldn't match
his master's reserve or grace.

Then Hideo turned his attention to the rest of us.  He bowed to me as
he had to T'ang, shook Deborah's hand, expressed gratitude for Carliss
Swilley's presence the perfect host.

"My master is waiting."  He gestured toward the stairs.

"Will you join him?"

"That's why I'm here," Swilley announced.  I detected a note of
peevishness in his voice.  Maybe he thought he deserved more "face"
than he'd been given.

Confirming my impression, he started to talk as soon as Komatori
approached the stairs.

"As I was saying, the later decades of the eighteenth century were a
time when such martial artifacts as Leung Len Kwai's Wing Chun chops
would have been especially desirable.  The martial arts in general, and
Wing Chun in particular, played a significant political role during the
first century of the Qing dynasty.  They were considered subversive in
the hands of the dynasty's opponents, and strenuous efforts were made
to suppress them.  For that reason, such artifacts as Leung Len Kwai's
chops were uniquely valuable.  They represented knowledge and
traditions precious to the dynasty's opponents.  Historically, the time
was ripe for copies of all kinds.  A skilled reproduction from that
period would have considerable value of its own, regardless of its
provenance."

He went on in that vein, throwing out references to "literati art,"
hanging scrolls, and bamboo carving claiming authority with both hands
but I stopped listening.  Without much effort, I maneuvered us so that
Deborah and I brought up the rear of the group.  Giving her hand a
quick squeeze, I bent down to whisper in her ear, "I've got a bad
feeling about this."

She looked at me quickly.

"Why?"

"I can't explain it," I admitted.

"Just a hunch."

She aimed a luminous smile into my heart.

"Carliss has that effect on people," she breathed.

"I had to ride with him all the way here.  Until I saw you, I wanted to
step in front of a truck."

My throat went dry as her breath kissed my cheek.  I swallowed hard.

"That's not it.  It began before I met him."

Now she frowned.

"Don't you trust Mr.  Nakahatchi?"

I shrugged helplessly.

She gave me a squeeze of her own.

"Let's see what happens."

I didn't have anything better to suggest.  Hong could probably handle
an entire roomful of thugs, if it came to that.  And Nakahatchi had no
discernible reason to turn this appraisal into a battlefield.

But that didn't reassure me.  Whatever the danger was, it didn't come
from Nakahatchi.  Or from anyone at Essential Sho-tokan.

At the top of the stairs, we moved toward the meeting room.  The door
was open, and I noticed that Lacone hadn't yet installed any of the
bolts I'd requested.  The display was visible, but I couldn't see
anyone inside until Komatori bowed us through the doorway.  Then I
spotted Nakahatchi.

Like his senior student, he baffled my expectations.  Since Komatori
was wearing a business suit, I'd assumed that Nakahatchi would do the
same.  Instead, however, he had on an elaborate Oriental outfit I could
hardly describe.  A brocade bathrobe a kimono with gold stitching and
too many colors draped his torso, closed at the waist by a wide white
sash fastened in a knot that must've taken him a week to tie.  Below
the bathrobe he wore voluminous black pantaloons like culottes on
steroids.  White socks and cotton sandals peeked out under his pant
legs.

Apparently this ensemble was the Japanese equivalent of a morning suit,
or maybe even a tux.  By rights, he should've looked ridiculous, but he
didn't.  Instead he seemed to emanate grave dignity.  His costume had a
stately processional quality that made the rest of us look shallow, as
if we'd joined a funeral cortege after way too many beers.

As an exercise in Oriental manners, it made my skin crawl.  I felt sure
that Hong wouldn't appreciate it.

Like Komatori downstairs, Nakahatchi began by concentrating exclusively
on Hong and T'ang.  With a bow as stylized as his garb, he said, "Sifu
Hong, respected T'ang, please be welcome in my small home.  Your
presence does me great honor."  The seams on either side of his mouth
looked deeper than they had the last time I'd seen him, cut into his
cheeks by care.

"It fulfills one of my most cherished desires."

Hong bowed in return, but he didn't fool me.  I could feel anger fume
off his skin, so hot it boiled the air.  As unobtrusively as I could, I
shifted Deborah out of the way, moved closer to him.

"Nakahatchi, you shame me," he replied stiffly.

"I was not invited to a formal occasion.  I was asked to consider the
authenticity of the chops.  It is offensive " "Ah, forgive me,"
Nakahatchi put in.  His air of unrelieved mourning robbed the
interruption of rudeness.

"That was not my intent.  I have been very clumsy."

He took a small step forward, lowered his voice.

"It is my wife, Sifu Hong.  Mitsuku-san is entranced with pleasure at
the thought of your visit.  She instructs me to invite you to take tea
with us when the matter of this appraisal is concluded.  And nothing
would satisfy her but that I must show my respect as such things are
done in Japan, among the old families.  I protested that surely you
would wish to make your own preparations.  But she would have none of
it.

"Sifu Hong," she insisted, 'does quite enough by consenting to visit.
No further effort is required of him."  At last it became clear to me
that I must comply with her wishes.

"The fault is mine entirely if I have erred."

Again he bowed as if he were offering the back of his neck to a
blade.

A small sigh of relief escaped me.  Halfway through Nakahat-chi's
speech, I felt Hong's emotional temperature drop.  Some arcane issue of
"face" had been resolved.  When Nakahatchi bowed, Hong did the same.
Then he offered, "A good wife is a great treasure.  They ask much of
those who hold them, as all treasures do."  He sounded almost genial.

"Put my protest from your mind.  I spoke in ignorance.  T'ang Wen and I
will take tea with you."

T'ang's face wore a congested expression, but he kept his mouth shut.
Which was a good thing.  If he'd started trouble now, I might've
punched him.

Deborah gave me a tentative smile, like she didn't quite grasp what had
just happened.

"You are very gracious," Nakahatchi murmured in response.

On cue, Komatori stepped forward.

"Sensei, let me introduce Ms.  Deborah Messenger, who represents
Watchdog Insurance.  Also Mr.  Carliss Swilley, who is widely
considered an authority on Chinese antiques.  Mr.  Axbrewder you've
met.  It was he who persuaded Sifu Hong to join us.

"Ms.  Messenger, Mr.  Swilley, Mr.  Axbrewder, this is my master, Sihan
Nakahatchi."

I took a few deep breaths while Nakahatchi shook hands all around.
Swilley had surprised me by containing himself this long.  He'd
exhausted his patience, however.  As he put his limp hand in
Nakahatchi's, he said, "I am an authority, sir.  I recognize Leung Len
Kwai's work when I see it.  And if your chops were carved by someone
else, I should be able to date them quite accurately.  That, as you
know, is critical to determining their value.  A more recent copy can't
compare with an eighteenth-century reproduction, especially if the
workmanship suggests an authorized reproduction.

"There are several crucial questions.  First " Deborah rolled her eyes
at me, then interposed herself smoothly between Swilley and
Nakahatchi.

"The chops are here, Mr.  Swilley."  Tucking her hand under his arm,
she drew him toward the case.

"Why don't you explain while we look at them?  That will help the rest
of us understand."

Apparently he didn't care who he talked to, as long as he got to talk.
Still lecturing, he approached the display.  Komatori opened it for
him, then withdrew in my direction.

For a moment Hong held back.  Maybe he didn't want to encroach on
Swilley's expertise.  Or maybe he just couldn't stand Swilley's manner.
But Nakahatchi urged him to go ahead with his own examination. Followed
by T'ang, they joined Deborah and Swilley at the case.

I stayed where I was.  I wouldn't learn anything by watching other
people peer at ivory carvings.  And I didn't enjoy the unconscious
insult of Swilley's pedantry, his implicit assumption that Hong and
Nakahatchi knew nothing.  He could expatiate on "the Qianlong emperor's
eulogy" and "the application of pidiao techniques to ivory during the
Qing dynasty" until his jaw broke, and it would still be rude.

Komatori approached me.  The pale scar cutting across his eyebrow into
his left cheek gave his smile an ironic cast.

"You've done us a considerable service, Brew-san," he stated softly.

"My master and Sifu Hong may finally be able to dispel some of their
differences."

"Over tea?"  I asked, just to keep him talking.

"Yes," he assented.

"The occasion will be highly ceremonial.  If you were present, you
might find it too" he considered adjectives briefly "indirect to be
useful.  But it gives great face.  I think Mitsuku-san is right.  Sifu
Hong will understand that any disagreement about the chops doesn't
indicate disrespect."

"So why aren't you all dressed up?"  I meant, like Nakahatchi.

He smiled more broadly.

"Because I was born in this country, Brew-san.  And my ancestors
weren't aristocrats.  My family has remained Japanese in many ways, but
our traditions don't include formal aristocratic tea ceremonies.  I
don't own the right clothes.  This" he indicated his suit "is the best
I can do."

"Well, you've got me beat, at any rate," I muttered.

"It's a good thing I'm not invited."  I was sincere about that.  An
hour kneeling at a low table while I struggled not to use the wrong
chopstick would've ruptured something.

"I'm not that pretty on my good days."

Komatori didn't respond directly.  Without any particular transition,
he announced, "My master would like to speak with you later.  Perhaps
after lunch?"

That surprised me.

"What about?"

Hideo didn't offer me any help.

"He'll tell you."

For the second time my throat went dry, like I'd swallowed a lump of
alum.  New tension ran along my nerves.  I had the sudden impression
that something big had opened ahead of me, just out of sight. Something
personal My instincts must've been working overtime.  Or else I was so
knotted up about Hong that I'd started flinching at shadows.

I forced moisture back into my mouth.

"After lunch is good," I said, nearly croaking.  I hadn't made any
specific plans.

"I'll be glad to talk to him."

Komatori bowed as if I'd granted a significant request.

Meanwhile Swilley continued hectoring his unfortunate audience.  He'd
produced a loupe which he used to scrutinize several of the chops from
all sides, while he went on and on about secret artist's marks and
scientific means of dating ivory.  As far as I could tell, he hardly
paused for breath.  Maybe having a voice that dry enabled him to inhale
through his ears.

At his side, Deborah listened and nodded, feigning attention.

Hong had examined a couple of the chops, primarily by rubbing them with
his fingers.  Then he withdrew as if he didn't want to get in Swilley's
way.  His face held no more expression than a clay pot.  In contrast,
T'ang watched Swilley like he expected the appraiser to grab a handful
of chops and bolt.

From a respectful distance, Nakahatchi presided over the display.  The
sheer artificiality of his attire seemed to emphasize the sorrows
ingrained in his features.  He looked like a man with more bereavements
than he could name.

The more I saw of him, the more difficulty I had imagining him as a
martial artist.  He looked like Death's Gatekeeper, immersed in the
griefs of those who passed through his portal.

Abruptly Swilley put down the chop he'd been peering at, lowered his
loupe, and turned around.

"Ms.  Messenger.  Mr.  Nakahatchi."  His voice held a tremor I hadn't
heard before excitement or alarm, I couldn't tell which.

"There's no doubt.  Other experts will agree with me.  The workmanship
is unmistakable.  And the particular way that the ivory has aged is
right."

He paused as if he needed to gather his courage.  Then he announced,
"The chops are genuine.  They were carved by Leung Len Kwai."

Oh, shit.  My heart kicked into a faster beat.  Genuine?  That sure as
hell raised the stakes.  For me, for Watchdog and Lacone.  Definitely
for Nakahatchi.  And for Hong Somehow Swilley's pronouncement
multiplied the danger I'd put Hong in.  Suddenly the floor around him
was littered with land mines, metaphorically speaking, and I didn't
know where any of them were.

Deborah's eyes widened at the news.  T'ang looked hard at his master,
expecting some reaction, but Hong remained expressionless, silent.
Nakahatchi bowed his head like a man in prayer.

Komatori glanced at me and shrugged discreetly.  I guess he didn't know
where the mines were either.

"I would be reluctant to assign a specific value," Swilley continued,
"without consulting my sources."  Now that he'd taken the plunge, his
voice grew steadier.

"And Mr.  Hong may have relevant information which would clarify an
important point."

Shifting to face Hong, he asked, "Do you know if this collection is
complete, sir?"

After a moment Hong nodded ambiguously.

Did that mean, Yes, I know, or, Yes, it's complete?  I wanted to ask,
but Swilley didn't give me a chance.

"On that basis," he proclaimed like a desert wind, "I feel confident in
suggesting that a complete set of this provenance cannot be worth less
than one million dollars."  He looked like he wanted to chortle.

"Beyond question.  Possibly more.

"Congratulations, sir," he finished, addressing Nakahatchi.

"You are now a rich man."

Damnation.  Killing Bernie probably seemed trivial to a man who aimed
to get his hands on that much loot.

At the case, Deborah appeared to shake herself out of a daze.

"Mr.  Nakahatchi," she began earnestly, "I recognize that this may not
be entirely good news.  When Mr.  Swilley is ready to name a precise
figure" she looked toward the appraiser "by tomorrow if possible?"

"By three o'clock today," Swilley answered with a smug smile.

"No later."

Nakahatchi raised his head.  Whatever he'd felt a moment ago was hidden
now.  He might've been ecstatic, suicidal, or merely confused, and I
wouldn't have known the difference.

Deborah nodded reluctantly.

"When we get a figure," she continued to Nakahatchi, "we'll consult
with Mr.  Lacone and the IAMA.  And our home offices, of course.  We'll
see what we can work out.  I'll do everything possible to keep the
insurance within your means.  But that will take at least a couple of
days.

"In the meantime" she pulled in a deep breath "I assure you that you're
covered.  Your policy, and the policy on Martial America, will protect
you until we're ready to discuss new terms."

Nakahatchi should've been glad to hear that.  A couple of days would
give Lacone time to get serious about security.  But Deborah's promise
didn't seem to affect him.  Apparently he'd raised stoicism to the
level of an art form.  Or else he just didn't care.

That I did not believe.

"You are most kind, Ms.  Messenger," he said the same way he might've
thanked her for mailing a letter.

"We will await further discussion."  Then he turned to Hong and
bowed.

"Sifu, may I inquire if you are satisfied with your own inspection?"

"I am, sensei" Hong replied quietly.

"No more need be said."

His answering bow looked just a touch deeper than the one he'd given
Nakahatchi earlier.

The intensity on T'ang Wen's face resembled shock.  But he effaced it
quickly.  Good disciple that he was, he didn't do or say anything to
undermine his master, regardless of his own feelings.

Nevertheless he gave me the sudden impression that he knew where at
least some of the mines were.

"Then," Nakahatchi continued with another bow, "I thank you for your
time and attention in this matter, Mr.  Swilley."

Swilley nodded back like he didn't think that an ordinary old bow did
him justice.

Next Nakahatchi bowed to Deborah.

"Ms.  Messenger, when you are ready you will speak with Hideo-san."

"Of course, sensei" She used his title like she couldn't help it.

I knew how she felt.  Despite his getup, and his diffidence, he
commanded respect.

"Sifu," he went on, "will you now enter my humble dwelling?  You will
do my dear wife great honor if you and the esteemed T'ang Wen will take
tea with us."

"It is we who are honored, sensei," Hong replied with an air of
liturgical gravity.

"We will join you with pleasure."

The fact that neither of them let Swilley's pronouncement affect their
courtesies did nothing to ease my panic.  I couldn't match them. Inside
I reeled with the sensation that at least one of them had already
stepped on a mine and blown himself to bits.  I just didn't know how or
why or when the damage would show.

Then everyone bowed to everyone else.  Again.  Komatori joined his
master at Nakahatchi's door.  With an almost processional solemnity, as
if everything they said and did carried spiritual weight, they ushered
Hong and T'ang into Nakahatchi's apartment.

I found myself staring past Deborah and Swilley like I'd gone stupid.

"Brew."  She reached for me with a smile.

"I'm going to take Mr.  Swilley back to his shop.  Then I'll call Mr.
Lacone, let him know what's going on."

I heard myself say thanks.  Between her smile and my alarm, I hardly
knew who I was anymore.

She came closer.

"It looks to me like you've accomplished something pretty special.
These schools can't go on distrusting each other now."  Her eyes
studied my face for hints of what was wrong.

"Maybe you should take the afternoon off, get some rest."  Holding
herself so that Swilley couldn't see her face, she moistened her
lips.

"You've got a big night ahead of you."

I couldn't imagine smiling myself, but I tried.  It felt like a skull's
grimace.

Swilley looked ostentatiously at his watch.  It was probably a Rolex,
but I didn't care.

"Tell Mr.  Lacone," I replied unsteadily, "he can't sit on his hands
any longer.  Those security measures I requested have to be installed
now."

Deborah's smile shifted into a perplexed frown.

"Scare him a bit," I explained.

"Even if it's not true.  We need action here.  And I don't think he
takes me very seriously."

Her expression cleared.

"Got it.  If he won't listen to me, I'll sic Sammy on him."

Trying not to sound too fervent, I muttered, "Good."

She arched an eyebrow.

"Same to you."  Then she turned back to Swilley.

"Shall we go?"

He didn't muffle his impatience.

"Indeed."

Just for a second, before she escorted him out of the room, I could've
sworn he glared at me.

I didn't care about that either.  When they were gone, I leaned back
against the wall, then slid down it to the floor.

Bernie was already dead.  So was Hardshorn.  How many more people would
get hurt or killed before I figured out what was going on?

Twenty-One.

Unfortunately moping about it solved just about as many problems as
sitting on the floor did.  Also it made my butt hurt.

With a sigh, I labored to my feet and considered my options.

The only people I really wanted to talk to were Marshal, Detective Moy,
and Ginny.  But she was on duty with Mai Sternway.  And the other two
wouldn't appreciate being harassed for answers they didn't have.
Marshal would probably call me if he learned anything including
whatever he heard from Moy.

So.  What else could I do?

No question about it, the time had come to tackle Song Duk Soon.

I'd been putting that off, even though it was obviously necessary. He'd
left the tournament hall in plenty of time to trap Bernie.  And, as I
remembered his location on the bleachers, he could've seen me watching
the picks.  If he were Hard-shorn's spot I told myself I'd delayed
confronting him so that I could learn more about the residual tensions
in Martial America.  However, the truth was that he scared me. I hadn't
seen any sign that he shared Hong's and Nakahatchi's measured
restraint.

And I still wanted to postpone encountering him.  I didn't even want
food.  I was losing confidence by the hour, and I needed a shower.  I
wanted to blast hot water at my knotted doubts until they dissolved
into soapsuds and steam.  But I couldn't afford to wait any longer. Not
if the chops were genuine.

Nevertheless I had to warm up for the challenge.  On general
principles, I let myself out of Essential Shotokan, coaxed the Plymouth
back to life, and drove away in search of lunch.

An hour later I was back.

It wasn't 1:00 yet, which seemed a bit early for "after lunch."  In
other words, I'd run of out excuses.  Bob Gravel and Malaysian

Fighting Arts didn't worry me Song Duk Soon and his school did.  After
drumming my fingers fretfully on the van's steering wheel for a couple
of minutes, I tightened my grip on myself and went to face Master
Soon.

Under his awning, I found another wooden door engraved with Asian
symbols and kanji.  I couldn't tell the difference between this one and
Essential Shotokan's design, except that here everything had been
gilt-edged.  The intaglio effect made the door stand out like the
portal of a trap.

Sternway shouldn't have admitted that he considered Tae Kwon Do a "toy
martial art."

Inside, I took off my sunglasses and looked around.  As expected, the
basic floor plan matched the other schools a main dojo to my right, a
smaller one lined with specialized training equipment to my left.  In
the larger room, a youngish man wearing a crisp white gi and a black
belt led twenty or more students, mostly middle-aged women in leotards
and sweat shirts, through exercises that looked suspiciously like
martial aerobics.  The students bounced and flopped strenuously around
the floor, yelling at regular intervals punching and kicking their way
to fitness.  In contrast, their instructor seemed to coast through the
movements.

The smaller room held four or five students of various ages, all male,
all wearing white canvas pajamas and brown belts, with Master Soon's
Tae Kwon Do Academy patches on their chests.  They practiced drills in
pairs.  One partner launched an implausible attack of some kind a
two-handed punch, or an aerial kick while the other attempted an
equally implausible block.  Snorting to myself, I turned away.  Most of
the street thugs I knew would've dismantled these "artists" in about
four seconds.

While I waited for someone to notice me, I scanned the entry hallway.
Maybe a dozen trophies, some of them four feet tall, stood on stands
attached to the walls.  Between them hung rank certificates in ornate
frames, boasting of at least twenty black belts.  And up out of reach
near the ceiling hung a variety of weapons, all of them apparently old.
Some I recognized katanas, tonfas, bos.  Others I'd never seen before.
A couple looked so unwieldy that I couldn't imagine how they were
used.

A cluttered bulletin board hung near the doorway to the main dojo.
Mostly it held flyers for Tae Kwon Do tournaments all over the country.
But after a moment I located a class schedule.  Apparently Song Duk
Soon ran a busy school.  The women in leotards were studying "Fitness
Tae Kwon Do."  A whole series of kids' classes would take over the dojo
from 2:00 until 5:30, after which the training divided into beginning,
intermediate, advanced, and black belt sessions.  Soon's Academy
must've had at least two hundred students.

Since I didn't see a brown belt class listed for the afternoon, I
assumed that the men in the smaller dojo were working out on their own.
Demonstrating their diligence for anyone who bothered to notice.

A sheet of general information about the school hung near the class
schedule.  It informed me, among other things, that dues were $100 a
month.  $20,000 a month altogether.  $240,000 a year.

Somehow I felt sure that Traditional Wing Chun and Essential Shotokan
weren't doing anything like the same amount of business.

The straining women had stopped yelling.  When I turned away from the
bulletin board, I found their instructor in the doorway, staring at me
with thick arms folded on a broad chest.

He was a white guy, aggressively so, with pale eyes, sandy hair, and
enough freckles to make him look vaguely leprous.  From a distance he'd
seemed youngish, but up close he looked older.  For a heartbeat or two,
I couldn't figure out why.  Then I realized that the skin of his cheeks
was too worn for his years.  He had the kind of cheeks you usually see
on tired boxers, flesh beaten to the consistency of leather by too many
fists over way too many years.  His left cheekbone had been flattened
with blows.

He also looked like you could smack him across the chops with a bundle
of re bar and not faze him.  He would've fit right in at Sternway's
fight club.

"You're Axbrewder," he announced.  His voice didn't suit his pugilistic
features.  It was incongruously high, a voice for whimpering in fright
or whining complaints, not for intimidation.  But that didn't stop
him.

"I remember you from the tournament.  You humiliated one of ours.

"We don't like that around here."

Oh, joy.

Right on cue, the brown belts came out into the hallway and ranged
themselves across from me, shoulder to shoulder, like a team of amateur
enforcers.  They all had belligerence in their eyes.  At least a couple
of them looked like they meant it.

Joy and wapture.  Just what I needed, a testosterone check.  And here I
was supposed to be keeping the peace and all.

"Then I guess it's a good thing," I replied pleasantly, "that you're
wrong.  I didn't humiliate him.  He humiliated himself.  All I did was
intervene before someone hurt him."

One of the brown belts opened his mouth, but another shut him up with
an elbow in his ribs.  Apparently students weren't supposed to express
themselves in the presence of an instructor.

"Is that right?"  the black belt sneered.

"I guess you think you're pretty tough.  Is that right, Axbrewder?"  He
made my name sound like an obscenity.

"Do you?"

Sweat gathered against my ribs.  Trying to be unobtrusive about it, I
shifted so that I could keep an eye on the brown belts and their
instructor at the same time.

"I'm sorry," I said in a neutral tone.

"I didn't catch your name."  Then I stuck out my hand optimistically.

My challenger didn't take it.  Instead he grimaced like he was going to
spit.

"I'm one of Master Soon's senior black belts.  That's all you need to
know."

Two of the brown belts fumed at the ears.  The rest just did their best
to look fierce.

I smiled with all my teeth.

"Oh, I don't think so.  I'm sure I'll want to mention you by name when
I tell Master Soon how I was welcomed.

"I'll have to talk to him, you know," I explained amiably.

"Part of my job.  I'm in charge of security for Martial America.  Just
in case" I unsheathed a threat of my own "anything happens to
Nakahatchi sensei's collection of Wing Chun chops."

"That's bullshit," freckles retorted.

"Those chops are junk.  We've got swords here worth more than any damn
collection of printing blocks, and nobody ever hired security for
us."

"I'm not so sure."  Exercising my famous people-skills.

"Did you ever ask for security?"

At the same time I slipped my right hand under my jacket, ostensibly to
scratch my ribs.  Let him think I took him that lightly.  But I left my
hand inside my jacket.

"Nobody hired security for us," the black belt snapped back,

"because they've got it in for Tae Kwon Do.  Especially for Master
Soon.  Hiring you for Nakahatchi is another way of sneering at us.
We're the best, but nobody wants to admit it.

"We don't need you here.  We don't need your fucking security.  We take
care of our own.  So why don't you just get out of here before I show
you how we do it?"

He was probably serious.  An extravagant, almost rabid glare darkened
his face.  His fists tightened at his sides.  Following his example,
the brown belts clenched themselves, tensing to jump at me.

"Well," I drawled, "I still think you should tell me your name.  It's
the polite thing to do."

Hell, it was probably the martial thing to do.  Hadn't I heard people
talking about "respect" and "perfection of character"?

Deliberately freckles hawked and spat at my feet.

So much for respect.

The poor bozo couldn't spit worth a damn.  His mouth was too dry.  The
little saliva he produced came out in an ineffectual spray.  A bit of
it got on my pants, but mostly it dribbled down his chin.

He was more frightened than he wanted to admit.  That's what made him
so belligerent.  He'd been hit far too often for his own good, but he
kept picking fights and getting clobbered so that he wouldn't have to
recognize his own fear.

I didn't let that stop me, however.  Some days scared fighters are more
dangerous than nerveless thugs who know what they're doing.  And if
freckles was frightened, half his brown belts were downright
petrified.

Before any of them could move, I swept out the .45 and lined it up on
the startled face of the nearest brown belt.  My left index finger I
pointed like another gun at freckles' forehead.

Instantly he froze, and the blood rushed out of his face.  Instead of
glaring, he gaped like I'd stuck a knife into his crotch.  For a second
there, I thought he might piss himself.

Quietly very quietly I said, "Listen to me, junior.  Before someone
gets hurt.  I don't have to think I'm tough.  And I certainly don't
need to prove it to you.  I've been stomping on punks like you since
high school."

Then I repeated, "I didn't catch your name."

He didn't answer.  Maybe he couldn't.  The poor clot didn't realize
that I hadn't chambered a round.

"His name is Harrison, Mr.  Axbrewder," a voice behind me said, full of
compressed ease and violence.

"Cloyd Hamson."

Past my right shoulder, I saw Song Duk Soon at the foot of the
stairs.

"Perhaps you would do well," he went on, "to set your weapon aside and
step into our dojo."  He didn't move.

"Allow Mr.  Ham-son to measure himself against you.  We would all
profit by observing how you 'stomp on punks."  It might be quite
instructive."

I couldn't help noticing that he didn't reprimand Hamson.  Or the brown
belts.

"Master Soon."  I wanted to wheel toward him, cover him with the .45,
but instead I lowered it immediately, put it away under my left arm.

"Do your students always treat visitors this way, or am I getting
special treatment?"

He lifted an eyebrow.  His brows were stark and black against his brown
skin.  They arched over his muddy eyes like lines of surprise, but the
hard lines of his jaw and the inflexibility of his mouth contradicted
them.

"Are you a visitor, Mr.  Axbrewder?"

Touche.

"I guess not," I admitted.

"I've been hired to take a look at security for Martial America.  That
practically makes me a resident."

Which to me meant that I deserved more courtesy, not less.  But
apparently he didn't see it that way.

"Then enter our dojo, Mr.  Axbrewder," he retorted.

"Demonstrate yourself to us.  Or depart.  I have no interest in the
needs of those who cannot defend their own."

Damn, I was tempted.  Life isn't much fun if you aren't willing to put
your muscle where your mouth is.  Besides, he pissed me off.  I hadn't
forgotten the way he'd humiliated one of his students at the
tournament.  I felt hot and ready, and all my frustration and alarm
wanted to boil over at once.

But he'd left the tournament ahead of Bernie and Hardshorn.

That made me think again.

In addition, getting into a brawl here didn't exactly fit my job
description.  I was supposed to ease tensions, reduce potential
security problems, not alienate Soon and his entire school.

Swallowing my pride, as they say, I attempted a smile.

"Master Soon, I apologize.  I got off on the wrong foot with Mr.
Hamson.  There's a serious misunderstanding here, and I'd like to
correct it if I can."

By then my knees quivered with anger, and the frustration in my
shoulders felt like overstretched cables.  I hated backing down.
Loathed it.  Always had.

"Bullshit," Hamson muttered again.  He sounded stronger with his sensei
to back him up.

Somehow I ignored him.

"Truly?"  Soon's eyebrows signaled disbelief again.

"You were swift to exert yourself against a defeated brown belt, a mere
youth.  Yet now you decline to confront a black belt who challenges
you.  Are you not a coward?"  His tone held no sarcasm.  He didn't need
any.

"What have I misunderstood?"

"Everything, apparently," I snarled before I could catch myself.  Then
I bit down on my anger.

"Whether or not I'm a coward" my mouth twisted involuntarily "is beside
the point.

"The point," I pronounced more carefully, "is that Nakahatchi sensei
owns a rather controversial treasure, and you need my protection."

My right palm ached for the necessary weight of the .45.

"I?"  Soon scowled.  This time I'd surprised him for real.

"What foolishness is this?  I need no man's protection."

I shook my head.

"You're mistaken."  Ire leaked into my voice despite my efforts to
control it.

"If anything happens to those chops, there will be only two primary
suspects.  Sifu Hong first.  Then you."  Soon tried to interrupt, but I
overrode him.

"Him because he resents seeing the chops in Japanese hands.  You
because you resent seeing them in anyone's."

And because he'd left the tournament.

"You think they diminish you," I finished.

"You think they draw attention away from your school."

The small hairs on the back of my neck picked up hostility and
discomfort from Soon's students.  I felt exposed, vulnerable.  The skin
over my kidneys squirmed, but I kept my focus on Soon.

"They do so," he said between his teeth.

"They do so."  He'd lost his explosive relaxation.  Tension knotted his
shoulders.

"We compete for students, Mr.  Axbrewder.  For students and respect.
Perhaps you do not understand that.  In any equal comparison Tae Kwon
Do will stand above its competitors.  But here the comparison is
unequal.  The attraction of antique netsuke grants Essential Shotokan
an advantage it has not earned.

"That is the true source of Hong Fei-Tung's dissatisfaction," he stated
flatly.

"And it is the source of mine."

His students seemed to swarm like bees near my shoulder-blades.  Behind
the clenched surface of my professional facade, I wanted to pistol-whip
them all.  I was fucking tired of being treated like a personal insult.
But I didn't do it.  Instead I countered, "And it's why you need my
protection.

"You probably consider yourself a man of honor.  But if that display
disappears, the cops won't even listen when you tell them you're too
honorable to sully your hands by stealing.  They know something you
might not want them to know.  They know you left the tournament just a
few minutes before I found The Luxury's Chief of Security dead in the
men's room."

Actually I hadn't told Moy anything about that.  But I had no intention
of saying so.  I wanted Soon nervous.

"Incidentally," I asked as if I were merely curious, "why did you leave
the tournament?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer.  His gaze held mine, and in his
eyes I could see my death, gathering like thunderheads.  I'd
practically accused him of murdering Bernie.  If he couldn't control
his rampant ego or if he'd killed Bernie I might never know what hit
me.

But then, slowly, the darkness receded from his stare, pushed aside by
calculation.  By degrees the tension in his shoulders eased.  Facing me
squarely, he asked, "Am I suspected ?"

"You will be," I put in, "if anything happens to those chops.

"That's why you need me."  The visceral shame of backing down serrated
my voice.

"I'm security here.  If I do my job right, I'll be the best protection
you can get."

Obviously he hadn't considered the situation in that light.  When he
spoke again, he'd made up his mind.

"You are Western, Mr.  Axbrewder."  It wasn't a compliment.

"I am not.  Perhaps your understanding of these matters has merit.

"What do you require of me?"

Maybe I should've let him change the subject.  Bernie's death wasn't my
responsibility.  Martial America was.  But I positively could not
retreat another step.  I'd already backed up more than I could bear.

"For starters," I told him harshly, "answer the question.  Why did you
leave the tournament when you did?"

That brought a new flicker of butchery into his glare, but he didn't
waver.  When he made a decision, he stuck to it.

"One of my students was expected to compete, but he had not arrived.  I
wished to call him, and went to the telephone."

If I hadn't been working for Lacone, I might've yelled, And you expect
me believe that?  Why didn't you send one of your flunkies?
Unfortunately I couldn't go that far and justify it to myself
afterward.  Anger aside, I had no solid reason to accuse him of lying.
And anyway I was mostly furious at myself for backing down.

Like an act of self-mortification, I nodded to accept his answer.  Then
I went back to the job Lacone paid me for.

"Thank you, Master Soon.  What I need right now is pretty simple.  If
you'll answer a couple of questions, I'll get out of your way."

He gestured for me to go ahead.

Gritting my teeth, I asked, "How do you provide for your own security?
I understand that you have some pretty valuable artifacts yourself.
What do you do to protect them?"

As if in response, Soon looked past my shoulder at Hamson and the brown
belts.

"Return to your training," he instructed them.

"Do not concern yourselves with Mr.  Axbrewder."

That was as close as he came to reprimanding them.  Apparently it was
all the satisfaction I'd get.

I didn't turn to watch his students go.  I could feel them disperse.
And a moment later I heard the aerobics class start yelling again.  Low
voices came from the smaller dojo, but I couldn't make out what they
said.

Grimly I slipped my hands into my pockets and dug my fingers into the
tops of my thighs, clawing at my quads for restraint.

"Mr.  Axbrewder," Soon announced, "you will not speak of what I tell
you."

"Not unless I have to," I agreed.

"But if the cops question me for some reason, I'll talk.  For my
protection as well as yours."

After an instant's uncertainty, he accepted that.

"I am my own security," he explained.

"I sleep lightly."  His tone suggested that every real martial artist
did the same.

"And I am attuned to my dojo.  I would be aware of any intrusion.

"Further, my first student, Pack Hee Cho, makes his home here.  He is
talented and sensitive, and I have taught him well.  Also" Soon spread
his hands slightly "he is a large man.  Even you would say so.  In
fighting his effectiveness is extreme."

"That's it?"  I didn't even try not to sound skeptical.

"As an additional precaution," he went on more sharply, "and as part of
their training, all my brown belts in turn sleep here.  They place
their pallets there."  He tilted his head at the door behind me.

"No one can enter without disturbing them."

A pretty good precaution, I had to admit.  And it explained a few
things to me intuitively, anyway.  Despite its obvious benefits, his
approach to training said less about security than it did about
solidarity, school loyalty.  It ingrained an us-against-them attitude.
After spending a few sleepless responsible nights on the floor, half
expecting every cough and pit stop to bring down his master's
disapproval, even a tough-minded brown belt might lose his ability to
think for himself.

My mouth twisted as I considered the implications.

"That should do it," I remarked, although I meant something different
than Soon probably thought I did.  If Hong and Nakahatchi taught
us-against-them, Martial America would degenerate into a war zone.

All the front doors, as I'd already noticed, opened outward.

Which brought me to my other question.  Before Soon lost patience with
me, I said, "I need to ask you about keys.  Just to cover an obvious
point.

"Do you still use your original key?  The one you got from Mr.
Lacone?"

"Yes," he answered without interest.

"Your key works for the fire doors as well as this one?"  The
apartments upstairs didn't concern me.

"Yes."

"How many copies are there?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Each of my black belts is given a key."

I raised my eyebrows.

"So there are, what?"  I glanced around at the rank certificates
"twenty copies?  More?"

"Yes," he said again.

"That's a lot, Master Soon."  A bitter wind gusted in the background of
my voice.

"Can you trust that many people?"

Not to mention their girlfriends, spouses, buddies, co-workers.  He
pinned a lot on school loyalty.

He wasn't worried, however.  Stiffly he informed me, "I do not grant a
black belt to a student who has not earned my trust."

Oh, of course.  Naturally.  I faked a smile.

"I'm sure you don't."  Then, taking a precaution of my own, I said,
"Thank you, Master Soon.  That's all I need for now.

"We'll have the chops appraised in a few days.  When we know whether or
not they're genuine, we'll decide how much security they really need. I
might want to consult with you again then."

Thinking while I talked, Come on, asshole.  Tell me you know that's a
lie.  Tell me you know they're genuine.

Tell me you didn't leave the tournament to make a phone call.

But he disappointed me.  Indicating the door, he said, "We will speak
again at that time."  And not before, his tone added.

Discretion and all that.  The better part of fucking valor.  I took my
cue and left, snarling inwardly at the sensation that I had my tail
tucked between my legs.

Outside the sun felt like a wash of fire against my heated face.  I
abhorred backing down.  Maybe I was doing my job.  Earning Lacone's
money.  But as far as I could tell, I'd accomplished exactly nothing.

I didn't know how much longer I could keep it up.  I longed for the
simplicity of Puerta del Sol's dark streets, the straightforward
corruption of men who lurked in alleys and doorways to sell drugs or
flesh or stolen property.  Crimes like Bernie's murder and Soon's
attitude were making me crazy.

Probably I should've driven away right then, given myself a chance to
decompress a bit.  I could always call Essential Shotokan from the van,
let Nakahatchi know I'd talk to him later.  No doubt that would've been
sensible.

So of course I didn't do it.

Carliss Swilley had pronounced the chops genuine.  A complete set of
this provenance cannot be worth less than one million dollars.  And
Bernie was still dead.

Squinting against the light because I was too angry to put on my
sunglasses, I rounded the building to Sihan Nakahatchi's dojo.

I had no idea what he wanted to talk to me about.  Presumably it had
something to do with guarding the display.  In which case

I had a very simple suggestion for him one that wouldn't impress
Watchdog even a little bit, but that might do more to keep the chops
safe than all the security measures I'd mentioned to Lacone.

As I pulled the door open and entered the building, I went blind for a
few seconds while my eyes adjusted to the relative gloom.  When I could
see again, I caught a glimpse of a white gi through the doorway to the
main dojo.  Hideo Komatori shifted quickly in and out of view as he
worked up and down the hardwood floor alone, practicing some kata or
other.

And he did it without all the tension and threats, the strained
breathing and flushed faces, that I'd seen at the tournament.  Instead
he moved like oil flowing down a cascade of worn stones, viscid and
somehow out of reach, as if by the time you identified where he was
he'd already slipped somewhere else.  His reflection in the mirrors
made him look like he filled the room.  His breathing was deep and
easy, inaudible.  In fact, the only sounds came from the snap of his gi
against his forearms and calves at the end of each technique.  Even
when he jumped, his feet returned to the boards as lightly as a falling
breeze.

If I'd had the brains God gave lawn furniture, I might've taken it as a
warning.

For some reason I felt sure that he was aware of me, but he didn't so
much as glance in my direction until he'd come to the end of his
pattern.  Even then he didn't acknowledge me until he'd bowed to the
room a sign of respect for the dojo, apparently.

At last he turned and walked toward me, smiling.

"Brew-sem," he said when he'd bowed himself out of the dojo, and bowed
again to me.

"You've come to talk to my master."

I nodded.  But I was still too angry for my own good.  Procrastinating
so that I wouldn't rush into a mistake, I asked, "Have any idea what
it's about?"

He gestured me toward the stairs.  Clearly he didn't want to keep
Nakahatchi waiting any longer than necessary.  As we headed upward, he
said, "Sensei hasn't told me what he has in mind.  Knowing him,
however, I might hazard a guess."

"Guess away," I muttered.

"If he doesn't want security advice, I'm in the dark here."

"Brew-san" Komatori smiled again "7'm eager to hear any advice you can
give me.  As my master's senior student, I'm responsible for the chops.
But Nakahatchi sensei won't discuss that with you."

I considered my options briefly while we left the head of the stairs
and approached the meeting room.

"So what's your guess?"

Hideo inclined his head, acquiescing to something I couldn't
identify.

"I expect my master wants to form a deeper impression of your
character."

Oh, joy.  And me without my references.  Not to mention my
characteristic good humor.

I ground my teeth.

"How will he do that?"

Now Komatori shrugged.

"I can't say."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Can't," he replied calmly.  Instead of leading me into the meeting
room, he halted at the foot of the stairway to the third floor.

"His methods are his own.  And they vary.  He assesses different people
in different ways."

I was in no mood to accept anything from anyone.  Nevertheless his
answer sounded perfectly reasonable.

Facing him squarely, I said, "OK.  I'll cope.

"Here's my security advice."  For what it was worth.

"Understand that Alex Lacone won't want to spend the money for a really
adequate alarm system.  Oh, he wants to keep you and the chops here.
He's pretty clear about that.  But he's not exactly brimming with
cash."

As it stood, Lacone's "dream" would only work if it grew big enough. He
needed to put up more buildings, attract more schools.  Otherwise he
wouldn't be able to generate the traffic, publicity, and revenue that
would suck in serious investors.  But without those investors he might
not be able to put up more buildings.

"I'll get everything I can out of him," I promised.

"And you can bet that Watchdog will lean on him.  But you'll have to
take precautions of your own."

Komatori's face didn't show any particular reaction.  He simply waited
for me to go on.

I gave him the best I had.

"Don't trust this lock."  I pointed at the meeting room door.

"Move the display into your apartment at night.  Every night.  Or

Nakahatchi sensei's.  Then put extra deadbolts on your doors.  And
don't use the same key."

He nodded without hesitation.

"I'll begin tonight.  Tomorrow I'll have the deadbolts installed.

"Thank you, Brew-sem."  Then he added, "My master is upstairs.  You'll
be able to speak privately."

In other words, he wasn't coming with me.

The warning I'd missed earlier finally began to nag at the ends of my
nerves.  This was going to be such fun.  I started up the stairs
immediately so that I wouldn't have time to talk myself into a frothing
rage.

Right away, however, I thought of another question.  I stopped
abruptly, turned to look down at Komatori.  Trying to sound
unconcerned, I asked, "By the way, how did your tea ceremony go?"

He laughed, a soft ripple of pleasure.

"Quite well.  I was" he spread his hands "surprised.  I expected some
discomfort.  But Mitsuku-san is really an extraordinary hostess.  And
Sifu Hong was very gracious.  Poor T'ang Wen and I found it hard to
emulate such grand manners without embarrassing ourselves."

That was a relief.  Apparently the danger I'd created for Hong didn't
involve driving him into overt conflict with Nakahatchi.  Something
that I'd wanted to accomplish had actually gone right.

I'd expected Hong's pride to assert itself somehow When I thanked Hideo
and started upward again, I had a bit less dread in my stride.

This was my first visit to any top floor in Martial America.  Sternway
had told me that Nakahatchi had a private dojo up here, as well as a
library and a guest apartment.  I hoped that I wouldn't have to blunder
around knocking on doors.  Fortunately, at the head of the stair I
found myself in the library, with the dojo immediately beyond it
through a wide entryway.

Ignoring the library except to notice that the shelves along the walls
held a number of books that looked old and weren't in English I crossed
to the dojo.

Like the rooms on the ground level, this one had a hardwood floor, the
wood rubbed and cleaned until it seemed to glow with its own warmth.
But this dojo didn't have any mirrors.  Instead its long exterior wall
held one long series of heavily tinted windows.  Presumably the door in
the neighboring wall gave access to Na-kahatchi's guest quarters.

Below the precise center of the windows stood a small three-sided
structure like a shrine of some kind.  It was made of wood lacquered
black, ornament ally carved in an austere way, with a line of incense
holders nearly at floor level, a black stand supporting two slightly
curved swords above that, and above them another stand which cradled a
scroll.  The swords differed in size, but looked identical in other
ways.  The larger one, I assumed, was a katana.  I didn't know what to
call its smaller twin.

On both sides of the shrine where you could look at them while you lit
your incense or slit open your guts hung sheets of paper or parchment
in plain black frames.  The characters written on them looked like
kanji.

Sihan Nakahatchi knelt there.  He'd replaced his elaborate tea-ceremony
garb with a white gi cinched by a black belt so worn that it'd frayed
white.  He didn't kneel the way Catholics in Puerta del Sol did,
straight up from the knees.  Instead he'd lowered himself onto his
heels with his feet extended under him.  A small curl of incense rose
past his swords and his bowed head.  The air held a faint tinge of
sandalwood, so delicate that I almost missed it.

Since I didn't know what else to do, I stayed where I was, watching him
from the entryway.  But then I caught an ambiguous flash of intuition.
Before I could question it, I bent down to take off my shoes.  Leaving
them in the library, I stepped onto the hardwood in my socks.

That may've been a signal of some kind.  Or a clue.  At once Nakahatchi
lifted from his knees as lightly as smoke and turned toward me.  Like
he'd been watching to see how I entered the dojo.

He bowed in my direction, hands at his sides.  When I'd bowed back, he
beckoned me to join him in the middle of the room.

Up close he looked a bit less sorrowful than he had earlier, and his
eyes were brighter, as if someone had rubbed a layer of tarnish off his
gaze.  I couldn't imagine that he felt better knowing his insurance
rates were about to erupt like Krakatoa.  Something else must've
happened to ease his settled distress, reduce the rub of a worry that
had galled him for a long time.

"Mr.  Axbrewder."  The lines at the corners of his mouth deepened he
almost smiled.

"Your presence in my small dojo pleases me.  I am much in your debt.
Your invitation to Sifu Hong has lifted a burden from my spirit."

I was tempted to shuffle my feet and mumble, Aw, shucks.  A side effect
of being so pissed off, I suppose.  The anger blowing through my head
urged me to insult his thanks by mocking it.

Instead I muttered, "Just doing my job.  We'll all be better off with a
little less tension around here."

He didn't reply to that.

"I have observed your actions with interest, Mr.  Axbrewder," he went
on as if I hadn't spoken.

"Now I wish to teach you.  You will spar with me, please."

I gaped at him I couldn't help it.  Spar with him?  He wasn't serious.
He may've been a great martial artist, but this was ridiculous.  For
one thing, he was hardly two thirds my size.  If I sat on him, he'd
never get up again.  And for another, he had more than a decade on me.
Occasionally his air of unrelieved mourning made me feel almost
young.

And I'd just backed down from a fight at Soon's school, despite a hell
of a lot more provocation.

"Sensei " I groped for a response.

"You natter me."  Or maybe he insulted me.  I wasn't sure there was any
difference.

"They asked if I wanted to study with them.  At Sifu Hong's school.
Yesterday."  I must've sounded like an idiot.

"I turned them down.  I've got a job to do.  I don't have time to study
a martial art."

Nakahatchi dismissed all that.  It seemed to run off him like water.

"Sifu Hong is a great master," he stated as if that answered my
objections.

"But Wing Chun is not for you.  For you, Shotokan is best."

"Well, now," I replied, procrastinating shamelessly, "I'm not sure
about that."  I needed time to think.

"What I've seen of Wing Chun looks pretty impressive.  And " You're too
short.  You're too old.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek to make myself shut up.

"Much of Wing Chun is oblique," he said.  Explaining something he
thought I needed to understand.

"It's purposes are likewise oblique.  Shotokan is direct.  For you, to
be direct is necessary."

As if I needed the benefit of his wisdom on that point.

Exasperated now, and too angry to be polite about it, I countered,
"Listen to me, Mr.  "

With no warning at all no flick of his eyes, no catch in his breathing,
no hint of intensification he stepped toward me.

The room whirled, and I found myself on my hands and knees.  The
hardwood in front of my face had a long grain like flowing veins.  It
seemed full of remembered sunlight, too warm for ordinary wood.  The
lines between the boards looked deep enough to reach the center of the
world, the center of reality.  Shock paralyzed my solar plexus.  That's
how I knew he'd hit me.  I certainly hadn't picked up any other clues.
Until the room stopped moving I couldn't imagine how he'd swept me off
my feet.

When I finally raised my head, I saw him standing several feet away far
enough for safety, too far to threaten me if I wanted to get up.

The paralysis in my chest eased.  My lungs sucked small gusts of air. A
distant roar in my ears sounded like advancing rage, a tornado
gathering its forces on the horizon.

Unsteadily I pushed my legs under me and stood up.

Trembling, I went back to the place where I'd left my shoes, emptied my
pants pockets into the pockets of my jacket, did the same with pens and
notes from my shirt pocket, then pulled my jacket off and dropped it
beside my shoes.  I undid the straps of my shoulder holster, set the
.45 on top of my jacket.  Despite the way my knees shook, I crouched
down to strip off my socks.

Ginny'd have my hide for this.  If we were still partners.

If I still cared.

The roaring grew louder.  It filled my head.  Anything that might've
objected to what I was doing couldn't make itself heard.  I'd already
had all the cowardice I could bear.  While that wind tore through the
room, nothing else mattered.

Deliberately I walked back into the center of the dojo.  The center of
the world.  Toward Nakahatchi.

Evaluate my character?  Mine?  I wasn't the one who wanted to steal
those chops.  I hadn't killed Bernie.

Tremors mounted through me, hints of crisis.

He stood ready for me, waiting.  This time he assumed what he seemed to
consider a sparring stance, left foot forward, left hand open near the
level of his chin, right fist relaxed on his hip.  Somehow he conveyed
the impression that he floated a fraction of an inch off the hardwood,
impervious to such mundane concerns as gravity and mass.

Well, fine.  Just stand there.

If he wanted direct, I'd show him direct.

Timing it in stride, riding the storm, I wheeled a punch at his head
hard enough to stagger a lamp post.

Except that my bicep found the point of his elbow before my fist
reached his head.  A shredding pain like the path of a bullet ripped at
my arm while Nakahatchi cross-stepped past me.  His right hand touched
my groin.  I felt his fingers skim my crotch before they reached the
underside of my thigh, but I couldn't do anything about it, it was
happening too fast, lightning strikes of pain had burned their way
through the gale inside my head, when he pinched the nerve center of my
hamstring a cattle prod went off in my thigh, and all my muscles
spasmed, flinging me backward across his hip.  If he hadn't caught me
at the last second, slowed my fall, I would've landed like a load of
cinder blocks.

A warning.  Komatori had warned me.  Nakahatchi had just warned me
twice.  Evaluate my character.  My damaged bicep wailed along the wind.
The back of my thigh felt like the kiss of a high-tension line.

Rolling through the rest of the fall, I staggered upright.  For some
peculiar reason, my chest strained for air as if I'd just run the mile.
Nakahatchi seemed to stand at a slight angle.  Or, no, it was the floor
tilting Hell, even Parker Neill had warned me.  Sternway had
practically jumped up and down on my head about it.

Barely audible through the howl in my ears, Nakahatchi announced, "It
was written by Gichin Funakoshi sensei, "If your hand goes forth,
withhold your anger.  If your anger goes forth, withhold your hand."

" All right.  If that's the way he wanted to play.  I'd show him what
"goes forth" really meant.

I went at him again, exactly the same as before.  If you didn't count
the weakness in one arm, or the involuntary hitch in my opposite leg.
Or the fact that I couldn't tell the difference between rage and pain.
This time, however, I didn't try to punch him.  Instead I swung up a
kick from the pit of my stomach, aiming to punt the little shit out of
the stadium.

He slid aside effortlessly.  I missed so hard that I would've smashed
down onto my back if my pinched leg hadn't collapsed under me, pitching
me forward.

Somehow I caught myself on my arms.  The jolt rocked through me hard.
If I'd stopped to notice, I might've realized that I'd dislocated a
shoulder or two, or maybe a kneecap.  But I didn't, and apparently I
hadn't.  The slam of the impact and the wind seemed to bounce me back
onto my feet, and I could still stay there, so in some sense I must've
been OK.

Nakahatchi had resumed his floating stance, one hand raised and ready.
I could barely breathe, but he didn't show any sign of strain or even
exertion.

That was about to change.  I'd already suffered enough beatings to last
me forever.  But I'd also delivered a fair number of them.  There were
still thugs in Puerta del Sol enforcers, extortion muscle, bodyguards,
and such who couldn't look at me without flinching.  And I hadn't let a
little thing like a bullet through my guts stop me from putting Muy
Estobal out of everyone's misery.

Evaluate my character, fuck.

Ignoring my sore bicep and hamstrung thigh, my bruised knees and
shocked shoulders and stunned respiration, I attacked again.

More cautiously this time.  More slowly.  And straighter.  I didn't try
to swing a roundhouse, or bring up a kick.  That sure as hell hadn't
worked.  Instead I concentrated on jabs.  And careful footwork, so that
he couldn't turn my momentum against me.  Jab jab jab.  A quick step
in.  Jab cross jab.  Another step.

Also I kept my eyes on his, studying them for hints.  He'd
counterattack soon.  When he did, I wanted to see it coming.

He didn't meet my stare.  Instead he kept his gaze focused on the
middle of my abdomen.

For the first few flurries, he seemed content to block and retreat,
block and retreat.  His blocks were so effortless, so nearly gentle,
that I couldn't figure out why I hadn't hit him yet.  No matter how
hard I punched, he merely patted my fist or my forearm with one hand or
the other and stepped back.  None of my blows reached him.

Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker's man.

Jab jab.  Jabjabjab.  I could not get inside his defenses.

Nevertheless I didn't consider surrender.  My inner tornado consumed
me.  That blast demanded release.  Clearly I wouldn't get a real chance
to hit him until he stopped retreating, so I used my attacks to steer
him toward one of the walls.

If he couldn't back up, I'd connect sooner or later.  Or come close
enough to get my hands on him.  Then I'd have him.  Hell, all I had to
do was fall on the sonofabitch That might've worked, but he didn't
stand still for it.  Just when I thought I'd trapped him, and my desire
to finally land a punch had become fire in my veins, he turned one of
his patty-cake blocks into a sweep and stepped aside.

Behind me.

Inspired by pain and gales, I wheeled in the opposite direction, all
the way around, and lunged after him.

He must've sensed what I was about to do, felt it before I moved.  By
the time I dove at him, he'd already retreated two steps, three out of
reach.

Almost out of reach.

By stretching out headlong, and making no effort to keep my feet under
me, I managed to grab the hem of his gi just above his sternum before
the rest of me dropped to my knees.

Now, I thought through the roar, now he was mine.  From here on it was
just muscle, and he didn't stand a chance.  If he believed that he
could force me to let go by simply hitting me, he was about to learn an
important lesson.

Only I was wrong.  Again.  He didn't hit me.  While I scrambled to gain
my feet, straining for leverage so that I could use my bulk, he calmly
set the ball of his thumb into the hollow where my collarbones met. And
pushed.

His thumb dug in.  Damn, it dug in.  He was going to strangle me. Crush
my trachea.  Already I couldn't breathe.  Or see.  Blackness stormed
through my head, effacing everything else.

And it hurt.  The nerve center in the super sternal notch has links
throughout the torso.  My brother taught me that, Rick Ax-brewder,
Richard, he'd learned it while he was with the Special Forces.  The
brother I'd shot to death in drunken negligence.

With my free hand, I hacked at Nakahatchi's arm.  He stopped me
somehow.  Suffocating around the pressure of his thumb, I hardly
registered other sensations.  Had he taken hold of one of my fingers?
Was he bending it backward?  Did the agony of it pull me harder onto
his thumb?

I clung to his gi anyway.  Fuck him.  In fact, fuck him with a crowbar.
He couldn't make me let go.  Not just by hurting me.

Not me.  I knew things about pain that would make him howl at the moon
if I happened to mention them.

He made me let go.

An autonomic desperation compelled me.  Just when I'd decided to hang
on until he killed me or lost his nerve, I snapped.  Releasing my hold,
I wrenched sideways to twist my throat off his thumb, then frantically
heaved myself upward, up and forward, over his tearing grasp on my
finger.

His finger lock helped me go.  My legs pitched at the ceiling, and I
plunged face first at the floor.

Broke my neck, crushed two or three vertebrae, severed my spinal cord.
Or would have, if he hadn't caught me again.  Anchoring me in the air
until my legs finished their arc, he lowered my shoulders to the
hardwood.  Actually lowered them.  Only my heels landed hard.

If I were lucky, I thought, stupid with shock, I'd shattered bones, and
I'd never walk again.  Then I wouldn't have to go on humiliating myself
like this.

But I didn't stop.  After a couple of seconds or a couple of minutes I
rolled onto my side, then over to my chest.  Pulled my knees under
me.

Gasping for breath, I shifted my weight back onto my feet.

The pain made me gasp.  My heels felt like they'd been hacked apart.
Serrated agony sliced along all my nerves into my brain.

Nevertheless I could stand.  My feet held me.

Nothing else held.  The windows and the floor and Nakahatchi all
existed in dimensions of their own, drifting on trajectories that made
no sense in relation to each other.  Air shuddered in and out of my
lungs, but it didn't help.  There wasn't enough oxygen in all the world
to turn me back into the man I was.

Somehow I didn't fall over.

While the room went off in all directions like hurled water, something
in my head found its center.  A place where no wind blew.  An
imponderable stillness cupped the dojo, humbling me when I didn't know
how to humble myself.

Soon I could hear again.  First the declining racket of my heart, the
edged urgency of my breathing.  Then the ambiance of the room, the
shrouded complaint of traffic outside, the small splash of sweat
dripping from my face to the hardwood.  The faint deified susurrus as
Nakahatchi shifted his feet.

Well, hell.  Maybe he didn't actually float after all.

My face felt strange.  For a few moments I couldn't figure out why.
Then I realized that I was grinning.  I couldn't help it.

My list of hurts was too long to count, so I didn't bother.  Instead I
dragged my fists up in front of me, flexed my knees a bit, and took two
or three fractured steps forward.  When I was close enough to talk
without raising my voice, I panted hoarsely, "You said you wanted to
teach me.  I'm ready to learn now."

I went on grinning.

For all I knew, grinning at your instructor was an insult.  But he
didn't look offended.  And he didn't resume his fighting stance.  With
his hands at his sides, he bowed deeply.  Then he announced, "We are
done, Axbrewder-san.  We will spar no more today."

"No, please."  Straightening my legs, mainly because I didn't have the
strength to keep them flexed, I opened my hands like an appeal.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get in the right frame of mind.  I
wasn't angry at you.  I just needed a target.  But I'm ready now."

I'd never been more sincere in my life.  Whatever his secret was, I
needed it.  Badly.

"No."  He shook his head gravely.

"I honor your courage.  And I will teach you.  But first you must learn
this.  Pain is a means to an end, but it must never become the end.
Today you believe you are ready because your pain has become greater
than your anger, yet you are not defeated by it.  That is important,
Axbrewder-san.  It is necessary.  But you will not be ready indeed
until your pain has become separate from your anger."

Again he bowed.

This time I did the same.  I didn't think I had much choice.  And he'd
called me "Axbrewder-san."  That counted for something.

Now he smiled.  For a moment the old sorrow on his face lost its
immediacy.

"I will leave you," he said quietly.

"You may remain or depart, as you wish.  Return tomorrow at the same
time."

With the kind of dignity you can only get from real mastery, he walked
to the edge of the floor, bowed to the dojo and his shrine, then
crossed the library and disappeared down the stairs.

Apparently he trusted me alone in his sanctum.

Separate from your anger.

I almost understood him.

Twenty-Two.

Briefly I considered defacing his shrine.  Not that I had the slightest
desire to do so.  In fact, I would've fought to protect it.  But such
lunacy helped distract me so that I could move.  Become separate.
Otherwise I might've remained stuck where I stood for hours, trapped
between bruises and immanence.

Sure, deface the shrine.  The world was full of spare excrement.  I
could probably find some if I put my mind to it.

Whee.

Then some of the tension in my chest released itself, and I began to
breathe a bit more easily.

I let my shoulders slump, took a couple of tentative steps toward my
shoes and jacket.  At first everything in me seemed to hurt, and I felt
damn near crippled.  But as I breathed the pain receded to more
realistic proportions.

Nakahatchi hadn't actually done me much damage.  Apart from one
throbbing bicep, one strung hamstring, a sore finger, and a lump of
pain at the base of my throat which made swallowing difficult, I'd
mostly hurt myself by falling a lot.  And he'd softened that for me as
much as he could.  Hardshorn had hit me harder.

I finally concluded that Nakahatchi's lessons felt so dangerous because
he'd disoriented me completely.  I'd never been eluded and tossed
around like that before.  Everyone else who'd ever beaten me up
including Muy Estobal had done it like Hard-shorn, straight and brutal,
in ways I understood.

Vaguely I noticed that my shirt looked like I'd used it to polish the
floor.  That disoriented me as well.  I felt filthy and transformed.
Torqued into a new shape.  No wonder I wasn't entirely sure which way
was up.

I paused to rub my bicep for a moment, then shambled over to the edge
of the hardwood.  My heels weren't happy with me, but they didn't bitch
too much when I pulled on my socks and stepped gingerly into my shoes.
With that challenge behind me, I had an easier time slipping my arms
into the straps of the shoulder holster and the sleeves of my jacket.

Now what?  I had no idea.  I'd recovered some small measure of
mobility, but I still couldn't think effectively.  The chops were
genuine.  Bernie was dead.  Surely I was supposed to do something?

At last I got it.  Take a shower.  And a nap.  Put on clean clothes.
For my date with Deborah Messenger.

That seemed inadequate somehow.  Insufficiently arduous.  Us manly-type
private investigators were born to suffer.  That's why God put us on
this earth.  But what alternatives did I have?  Figure out why Hong was
in danger?  Grasp the connection between Bernie's murder and
Nakahatchi's antiques?  Make everything right with Ginny?  In my
condition?  Ha.

A shower and a nap sounded like Heaven.  And I was getting just a bit
tired of all this divinely inspired angst.

I decided to go back to the apartment.

Fortunately I didn't encounter anyone on my way out of the dojo.
Unhindered, I stumbled out into the sun's glare like I'd just escaped a
shipwreck.

The Plymouth seemed ridiculously far away, but under cover of
sunglasses I managed to cross the blazing concrete, unlock the van, and
climb in.  God, I hoped I wasn't still here when summer came.  Garner
would be a furnace.  Some people considered Puerta del Sol hot, but
there the drier air and the elevation blunted the sunlight's cruelty. I
didn't feel so belittled by it.

Still in a state resembling stupefaction, I coaxed the Plymouth to
life, engaged the AC, and began to retrace the route I'd used to come
here just a few hours ago, in a previous life.

Become separate from your anger.

I probably could've driven all the way to the apartment without
actually thinking about anything.  As it happened, however, my phone
rang while I still had a couple of miles to go.

For a moment or two I couldn't figure out what that insistent
electronic chirp meant.  On automatic pilot, I fumbled around in my
pockets until I found the phone.  By the time I tugged it out, I'd
remembered what it was for.

The possibilities gave me a little rush.  I sounded almost awake as I
announced, "Axbrewder."

"Brew, are you all right?"  Deborah's voice answered.

"You seem blurry.  Or do we have a bad connection?"

Suddenly I was awake all the way.

"No," I assured her quickly, without quite making sense.  Then I pulled
myself together.

"I mean, no, we don't have a bad connection.  I'm fine."

As fine as I needed to be, anyway.

"That's good" her tone conveyed a grin "because you have a date with me
tonight, and I have no intention of letting you tell me you've got a
headache."

I grinned back.

"Don't worry.  I could have the absolute apocalypse of all headaches,
and I'd forget it existed the minute I laid eyes on you."

Deborah laughed.  Even the cell phone's deficiencies couldn't disguise
her warmth.

"Ah, such gallantry.  I do love the way you talk."  Then she turned
serious.

"Especially since I'm afraid I'm about to give you a headache
myself."

"Don't worry," I repeated.

"What's one more?"

"In that case " She may've nodded to herself.

"I've been busy this afternoon.  Mr.  Swilley didn't keep us waiting
for his appraisal.  According to him, the chops are worth " She named a
number that made me hold my breath and stare, despite the fact that I'd
been braced for seven figures.

When I could inhale again, I murmured, "Christ on a crutch."

"My sentiments exactly," she returned dryly.

"You see the problem.  If the chops aren't adequately insured, Watchdog
will walk away from Mr.  Nakahatchi.  We'll have to.  And if Mr.
La-cone won't accept a coverage exclusion, we may be forced to turn our
backs on Martial America.

"Sammy would prefer to do that, by the way.  He thinks we've reached
the point where Mr.  Lacone's business isn't worth the risk."

"But you disagree," I suggested.

"At the moment," she answered, "I don't agree or disagree.  I'm
exploring options.  I've consulted with our home offices at length.
I've spoken to Mr.  Lacone.  I've talked to Sue Rasmussen and Mr.
Sternway."  Presumably so that the IAMA could participate in a
solution, if there was one.

"Here's what I have so far.

"The good news is that nothing needs to be decided today.  Mr.
Nakahatchi is covered in the short term the very short term.  By
Thursday we'll want him to pay the premium for a temporary rider which
will cover him until our New York expert appraises the chops next week.
However, that premium shouldn't be too burdensome.  And Mr.  Lacone and
Mr.  Sternway have agreed to share the cost with Mr.  Nakahatchi. For
obvious reasons, they both feel strongly that the chops should stay
with Martial America."

I chewed my lip.  A week wasn't much time for Nakahatchi to arrange
heavy financing or to consider other options.  But it allowed plenty of
time for someone to make an attempt on the chops.

Which put Watchdog in a precarious position.  And Deborah herself, I
assumed, since apparently no one else in the company was likely to
fight for Nakahatchi or Martial America.

"Unfortunately," she continued with a sigh, "everything changes when
our expert delivers his appraisal.  Of course, there's always a chance
he'll come in below Mr.  Swilley."  Her tone told me she didn't
consider that likely.

"But even that won't do poor Mr.  Nakahatchi much good.  Mr.  Lacone
and Mr.  Stern-way may want to keep the chops here, but they don't want
it enough to make themselves financially uncomfortable.  At the rates
we'll have to charge " She paused briefly.  When she spoke again, she
sounded bitter.

"Mr.  Nakahatchi will be on his own."

"So what happens then?"  Her bitterness held me.

"Then," Deborah pronounced acidly, "Sammy and Mr.  Lacone will force
him to accept coverage that excludes the chops.  Unless he's willing to
do without insurance, he'll have to keep them somewhere else.  Or leave
Martial America.

"But really," she admitted more quietly, "nothing will solve his
problem.  Whatever he does, wherever he goes, he'll want insurance.
He'd be insane not to.  And I've already squeezed our numbers as hard
as they can be squeezed."  She sighed again.

"In the end, he'll be forced to sell the chops.  He won't be able to
afford to keep them."

The remnants of my brain considered the dilemma.  I'd seen similar
situations too often to dismiss her concerns.  And someone always
profited from them.  Always.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"  I murmured into the phone.

"Wonder what?"  Deborah asked quickly.  She may've been looking for a
little hope.

"Whether anyone we know could afford to buy Nakahatchi out."

I was thinking of Hong Fei-Tung and his platoon of cash-wise relatives.
But she had different ideas.

"If you mean Carliss Swilley" her bitterness returned "the answer is
no.  As it happens, Watchdog writes his insurance, too.  His resources
are limited.  If they weren't, he'd be better known trust him for that
and our home offices wouldn't feel the need to insist on a New York
expert."

I still hadn't shaken off the effects of Nakahatchi's instruction.  For
a moment or two I lapsed into a kind of daze, wondering about Deborah's
role in all this.  She sounded like she sincerely wanted to help him
keep the chops.  But why was she so eager to spend an evening with me?
What did she gain by distracting me?

I couldn't think it through.

I must've been silent longer than I realized.  Abruptly I heard her
say, "Brew?  Damn this phone.  Did we lose the connection?  Are you
there?"

"I'm still here."  Looking around, I discovered that I was close to the
apartment.

"I'm just trying to think.  But I must've strained something in the
attempt."

She accepted my version of humor gracefully.

"Nothing critical, I hope."  Her tone lifted a couple of notches.

"I am counting on tonight."

"Nope," I assured her, "nothing critical.  Nothing that seeing you
won't fix."

With a renewed smile in her voice, she reminded me of the time and
place.  Unnecessarily.  While I parked in front of the apartment, she
said goodbye and hung up.

For a minute or two afterward, I left the engine running and leaned
back in my seat.  My eagerness to see Deborah again despite my
uncertainty about her conflicted with a smoldering indignation on
Nakahatchi's behalf.  As far as I could tell, he was an honest man
troubled by the ethical ambiguity of owning a Chinese national
treasure.  He didn't deserve to have a decision imposed on him by his
insurance rates.

I couldn't solve his problem.  But I didn't like it either.

Ah, shit.  Groaning complaints against the moral order of the universe
as personified by Watchdog Insurance and Alex La cone I finally turned
off the Plymouth, left it parked, and went into the apartment.  After
all, I still needed a shower.  Positively required one.  And the idea
of a nap hadn't lost its seductive ness

Ginny wasn't there.  As expected.  I had the place to myself.  Which
suited me just fine.

Unfortunately when I glanced at the answering machine I saw its message
indicator flashing red.

Damnation.  I didn't want to play the message back.  It probably wasn't
for me anyway and I positively did not want to hear a message for
Ginny, something that was none of my business.

Sure of my ground, I made a firm decision to ignore the machine's
stubborn indicator until I'd had my shower.  A firm decision, by God.
So firm that I stuck by it just long enough to cross the room and jam
my thumb down on the playback button.

There was only one message.  It was from Ginny.

It said, "Brew, call me when you get this.  We need to talk."

She'd used her lives-at-stake voice.  Don't ask questions, don't
hesitate, just do it.  If she'd told me to throw myself out the window
in that tone, I'd have done it.

There was only one problem.  I didn't know how to reach her.

Dropping my bulk into the armchair, I jerked the phone onto my lap and
dialed Marshal's cell phone number.

As soon as the ringing stopped, I said, "Marshal, it's Brew.  I got a
message from Ginny.  She wants to talk to me."  By then I could hear
myself hyperventilating.

"But I don't know how to get in touch with her."

"Brew."  He sounded distant, untouchable, like a man who couldn't be
compelled by anything I said or did.  If he noticed my breathless
urgency, he didn't comment on it.

"What's going on?"

"She didn't say."  My voice twitched and spattered.

"Well," he drawled back, "your timing is good, anyway.  I was just
about to call her myself.  You can give her a message for me."

Grinding my teeth so that I wouldn't lose control, I waited for him to
go on.

"You have a pencil?"  he asked.  Maddeningly.

Somehow I said, "Go ahead."  The effort nearly strangled me.

"Tell her my sources have finally tracked down the phone number she's
been curious about.  She'll know the one I mean."  So did I, but I
didn't interrupt.

"I haven't heard yet who it belongs to, but we do have the number."
Carefully he read it to me.  And repeated it.  Even though I was about
to scream.  Then he inquired, "Got that?"

"Yes," I choked out.

"Good."  As if to himself, he mused, "Maybe our client will recognize
it."

The receiver seemed to throb in my hand.  I wanted to howl at him, She
won't!  I was sure of that, although I couldn't have told him how or
why.  Mai Sternway had no clue what was going on.  But I kept my
conviction to myself.

Instead I snapped, "Fine.  I'll tell her.  But I still don't have " He
overrode me.

"You would if you gave me half a chance.  I was about to tell you."  I
heard teasing in his tone.

"She's using a company cell phone."  Then he took pity on me.

"Here's the number."

The instant he'd recited all seven digits, I meant to slam down the
handset and dial again.

I meant to.  But I didn't.

We need to talk.

Despite Ginny's exigency, the pressure of her demand, something in
Marshal's attitude held me like the spark at the end of an intuitive
fuse, hissing and spitting down the length of its gunpowder string
toward a explosion.  I could almost see in advance what the detonation
would do, almost measure its significance Ginny needed me.

I didn't even work for him.  Nevertheless he treated me like I had the
right to call on him any hour of the day or night.

And Ginny wanted to close the gulf between us.  She'd demonstrated that
last night.  Even though a week ago she could hardly wait to
disentangle herself from me.

"Marshal," I heard myself say, "can I ask you a question?"

I hadn't so much as known that I was going to speak until the words
came out of my mouth.

"Ask away."  He sounded too casual for the circumstances, too relaxed,
as if he didn't know Ginny needed me.  Or I needed her.  Or we'd ever
been partners.

"Why are you helping me?  I mean, I'm grateful."  That was the truth,
but I didn't dwell on it.

"If you weren't willing to give me a hand, I don't know how I'd cope.
But I don't understand it."

He was still in a teasing mood.

"Take a guess.  I'm sure you have a theory or two."

Remembering Beatrix Amity, I almost snarled, Maybe it's because you
like helping us handicapped folks.  Maybe that's how you atone for your
sins.  Axbrewder at his most sympathetic.  But the burning fuse in my
head warned me to think.  I'd already missed too many hints.

Slowly, carefully, I said, "Of course I do.  I'm good at guesses.  But
these days most of them aren't worth shit.  I'm floundering here,
Marshal.  I'll do better if you just tell me."

Abruptly the atmosphere of our connection shifted.  Through the phone's
impersonality, I had the impression that he'd leaned forward in some
way, tuned his attention more sharply.  With exaggerated precision, he
replied, "OK, Brew.  I'll tell you.

"You and Ginny have a gift for getting involved in real cases.  I don't
know how you do it, but everything you touch turns into something
serious, something that matters.  I envy that.

"Professional Investigations brings in a lot of money, but most of what
we do is pretty boring.  It doesn't make any particular difference,
even to the poor souls who hire us.

"I want some excitement.  I want real work."

Then his tone seemed to retreat, as if he'd already exposed too much of
himself.  More distantly he added, "Of course I'm helping you.  And
Ginny.  I haven't had this much fun in years."

Which probably explained his irritation with me this morning.
Inadvertently I'd made him feel insubstantial and uninformed.

"So I was wrong," I offered tentatively.

"My theory" my only real explanation "was that you help me because you
feel guilty.  For fucking Ginny when she and I used to be partners."

Then I gaped at the wall in chagrin.  I said that?  How had he gotten
so much honesty out of me?  If I'd given the words any actual
consideration, I would've bitten my tongue in half.  Or said something
unforgivably nasty.

In response, Marshal burst out laughing.

"Brew, Brew, Brew," he chortled.

"Can you spell 'chemistry," you overgrown moron?  If Ginny and I were
going to jump into bed, we would've done it years ago, and your whole
life would've been different.  I like her.  I respect the pantyhose off
her.  But " He laughed again.

"Have you been acting like an insolent twit all this time because you
thought ?"  Finally he was done.

"There's no chemistry."  He might've been wiping the mirth from his
eyes.

"I swear to God."

After a moment I muttered, "I told you that my guesses haven't been
worth shit."  What else could I say?

"Later I'll explain how stupid I feel."  Apparently telling myself the
truth wasn't enough.  I had to tell other people, too.

"Right now I need to talk to Ginny."

"I understand."  His grin reached me along the phone line.

"When you're done working for Lacone, we'll talk about whether you want
a job with Professional Investigations."

Then he hung up.  Which spared me having to gape some more.

Until I tried to dial Ginny's number, I didn't notice how badly I was
trembling.

No, not now.  Not now.  I absolutely could not afford to be this
stupid, too fumble-brained to dial a fucking phone.  There was too much
at stake.  Not with Ginny.  Within me.

I put down the receiver, wrapped mental arms around my guts to contain
my visceral frenzy, and tried again.

After an interminable stretch of dead air while the cellular connection
went through and my bowels tied themselves in knots, the number rang.

Ginny answered so promptly that she must've been waiting with the phone
in her hand.

"Fistoulari."

"Ginny, it's Brew."  Now that I had her, I could barely speak.

"What's happened?"

She chuckled grimly.

"Calm down, Brew."  She knew me too well.

"I wanted to talk to you before I pick up Mai.  She's with her lawyers.
She's supposed to call me when she's ready to come home, but I haven't
heard from her yet."

In other words, I'd reached her in time.

Almost involuntarily I sagged back in the chair.

"Don't mind me," I panted unsteadily.

"I'm just having a small coronary.  Nothing to worry about."

"I know how you feel."  She wasn't amused.

"But you might want to put it off for a few minutes.  This can't
wait."

"Right."  I already knew that she hadn't used her lives-at-stake tone
just to scare me.

"Go ahead."

She hesitated, then said, "When you suggested searching her house, I
thought you were crazy."  Like Marshal, she spoke distinctly, but for
different reasons.

"I wanted to ignore you, but you're right too often for my peace of
mind.  Way too often.  And the crazier you sound, the more likely you
are to be right."

Recently I hadn't been right about anything and I was getting crazier
by the second.  About Mai Sternway, however, I had no doubts at all.

"So " Ginny's voice trailed off.  When she went on, she sounded angry
in the cold businesslike way that meant she was at her most
dangerous.

"You'll never guess what I found."

"Tell me," I murmured softly.

"It's like a duffel bag."  Her tone had teeth in it.

"The kind athletes carry gear in.  With a shoulder strap.  Black
plastic, not cloth do they make these things out of vinyl?"

Sweet Christ.  I sat up as if she'd yanked me by the hair.

"It closes with a flap instead of a zipper."

There she stopped.

The inside of my head began to clang like a cathedral bell.  At the
same time I seemed to become translucent, the way flesh does in the
glare of a thermonuclear blast.  Piercing light shone through me.  If
I'd looked fast enough I would've seen everything.

"What's in it?"  I asked, suddenly calm.  A flood of illumination
washed away my tremors.

"Well, for one thing," she replied harshly, "there are a dozen or so
watches, wallets, bracelets, money clips.  No more than that.  Not a
very successful haul."

"And ?"

"And nothing," she snapped.

"A flik, for God's sake.  With dried blood on it.  Bits of skin.  Maybe
a few fibers of some kind.  Hair or something, I don't know."  Then her
voice softened.  She sounded sad, rueful over a crime that she couldn't
have prevented.

"It smells like a murder weapon, Brew."

That was it, right there in front of me.  The connection.  The link
that bound everything together.  If I could just grasp how that one
link attached to all the others.

"No, it doesn't," I told her.

"It smells like the murder weapon.  The one that killed Bernie
Appelwait.  At The Luxury."

Ginny recoiled.  I sensed it through the phone.

"You didn't tell me he was killed with a flik."

Clanging and fuses, impossible translucence.  A concussion like
explosive decompression.  I'd taken too many blows, landed none.  My
head should've been full of chaos, a blitzkrieg of possibilities

I couldn't process, but it wasn't.  Instead I hung on the edge of
unattained clarity, so tantalizingly close that I would've wept to
reach it.

"I didn't know it was important," I answered thinly.

"I couldn't have guessed " She'd found the weapon that killed Bernie?
In Mai Sternway's house?

"Shit!"  Ginny snarled hoarsely.

"What's it doing here?"

I knew the answer.  Or I didn't, but I almost did.  My brain felt like
a crash zone, the place where frames of reference collided to
extinguish each other.

"One step at a time."  I could hardly recognize myself.

"Is there ID in any of the wallets?"

"Just a minute."  I heard her shuffle through the contents of the
bag.

"Here's one.  Woman's clutch purse, red, with a driver's license. Kerri
Lee Fuller."  She read the address.  Then she demanded through her
teeth, "What the fuck is this shit doing here?  What does Mai have to
do with Bernie Appelwait?"

"I don't know."  Maybe I did.  Almost.  But it felt false somehow,
misleading, like an intuitive leap in the wrong direction that lands,
impossibly, on solid ground.

"I've got a theory, but I don't like it.  I'm not sure it makes
sense."

"Spit it out, Brew."  Without transition, her voice changed.  She'd
recovered her poise.

"I know we're not partners anymore.  But this is my business too, now.
Mai Sternway is my client.  We need to work together."

And she knew how to do that.  She'd had years of practice.

A day or two ago in a previous reality I might've retorted, Fuck that.
But not today.  Not after Nakahatchi had jolted me out of myself, and
Marshal had answered my questions.  Not when Ginny had made it clear
that she wanted to heal the breach between us.

"One step at a time," I repeated.  For my sake this time, not hers.

"Marshal asked me to give you a message.  He's traced that phone
number, the ID-blocked one."  I recited it for her.

"But he doesn't know who it belongs to yet."

"Got it," she muttered.  Then she waited.

"You need to do two things," I went on carefully.

"Get that bag to Marshal.  Without letting Mai know you found it.  Tell
Marshal it's for Sergeant Edgar Moy.  And try out that phone number on
Mai.  Look for any hint that she recognizes it."

Before Ginny could react, I went on, "I'm going to track down this
Kerri Lee Fuller, ask her if she was at the tournament.  Then I'll give
that phone number to Moy.  He'll identify it faster than Marshal
can."

Ginny accepted that as if she routinely let me tell her what to do.

"And your theory is?"  she inquired when I was done.

"It doesn't feel right," I insisted.

"I don't trust it."  Then I took a deep breath and told her, "But I'd
bet my left ventricle I know whose number that is.

"Turf Hardshorn, James M. The goon who tried to kill me last night."

By rights, that should've confused the hell out of her.  She knew how
my mind worked, however.  She couldn't leap blind the way I did but she
could catch up in a hurry.

"So your theory," she replied slowly, putting it together as she
talked, "is that he's the thug Mai hired to frame her husband.  You
think the same bozo who ripped off the tournament also made those
threatening phone calls, slashed her tires, did everything else."  She
paused.

"That part makes sense.  He sounds like the kind of bastard you'd want
to hire if you were trying to frame your husband for stalking you.

"But the bag " I could imagine the predator's concentration in her
eyes, the sharp lines of her mouth, the unconscious flexing of her
fingers and claw.  She might as well have been standing in front of
me.

"What's it doing here?"

She answered her own question.

"Maybe he stashed his haul at her house as a kind of insurance, to
implicate her if she ratted him out."  Again she paused.

"Or they had some other idea, like planting it at Sternway's, only
Hardshorn got killed before they could do it.  He might've planned to
leave the club as soon as he saw Sternway there, so he could get to
Sternway's apartment while it was empty.  But you ruined that by
recognizing him.  Or Sternway did by defending you."

Quietly she added, "Of course, none of that helps your theory that
Hardshorn didn't kill Appelwait."

Listening to her, I felt my blast of clarity recede toward the
horizons.  The shock still resonated, but I wasn't translucent anymore.
In another minute I'd be as blank as a stone.

And there was still too much I hadn't grasped.

I'd been positive that Hardshorn wasn't alone with Bernie in the men's
room.

"That'll be Moy's interpretation," I admitted.

"Unless I can come up with something better."  Otherwise he'd close the
case, and I'd be left like a fool with my brain hanging out.

Ginny didn't argue.

"As a theory," she mused, "it sounds plausible enough.  What's wrong
with it?  I already told you I don't think her husband is harassing
her.  The pieces don't fit.

"And I can tell you this.  Mai hasn't had any more threats since last
night."

Since Hardshorn was killed.

I couldn't contradict her.  I had too many strands, all tangled, and no
way to sort them out.  Besides, they were pure instinct about as
tangible as that flicker you sometimes get at the corner of your
vision, the one that feels like a fading glimpse into another
dimension.

Mr.  Sternway lets his wife treat him like dirt.

I made Sifu Hong aware that his school was being watched.

So the pieces didn't fit.  What were the alternatives?  Say Mai hadn't
arranged to harass herself.  And Anson wasn't responsible.  Then who?

Sue Rasmussen?  The man was a saint with her.  To protect her
boyfriend?

Don't say anything about the club.

What the fuck are you doing?

Sternway knew Hardshorn from the fight club.  Why hadn't Anson spotted
him at the tournament?

You will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from
your anger.

Meanwhile the chops were worth an appalling amount of money to anyone
with the expertise to recognize their value.

How about my fear?  Was that supposed to be separate too?

I stifled a groan.

"What's wrong with it," I said finally because I couldn't imagine where
else to begin, "is that it doesn't explain why asking Hong to evaluate
those chops scares me so much."

"Damn it, Brew, you've lost me again."  Ginny wasn't angry now.  She
was just trying to shake me out of my confusion.

"Is Hong in danger?  Did he look at the chops?  Did he say something
strange about them?"

I shook my head uselessly.

"Shit, Ginny.  I've lost myself.  A couple of minutes ago I was so
close " I simply hadn't been quick enough.  The back of my brain had
offered me a chance, and I'd let it get away.

As far as I knew, Hong hadn't said anything at all about the chops.

"But," she stated flatly, "it was too much to take in all at once.  Cut
yourself some slack, Brew.  You've been here before.  You know how to
cope.  Just give yourself a little time.  You'll get it back when
you're ready for it."

Sure, I muttered to myself.  What's a few hours among friends?  Or a
few deaths?

Nevertheless she was right.  I had been here before, trying to see
things that I already knew clearly enough to understand them.  And my
brain never worked worth shit when I tried to force it.

But I couldn't shake the conviction that Hong's death was already on my
conscience, and it hadn't even happened yet.

"Probably," I sighed.

"But it never feels like it's going to come back."

"Then stop thinking about it."  Ginny was ready to get off the phone.

"Go do something.  Find Fuller.  Talk to Moy.  Warn Hong.  Give
yourself a chance.  I need to figure out how I can get this bag to
Marshal before Mai calls."

"Sure," I conceded wanly.  The aftermath of missed opportunities left
me desolate, as ruined as a wasteland.  But before she could hang up I
added, "Ginny," with the fervor of a prayer, "thanks."

She chuckled grimly.

"Thanks yourself.  I would never have thought of searching this
house."

And I wouldn't have thought of asking Hong to evaluate the chops if she
hadn't suggested it.  If she hadn't wanted to close the rift we'd
driven between us.

When she hung up, I didn't know whether to smile or weep.

Twenty-Three.

A nap was out of the question now.  I couldn't have slept with a quart
of Seconal in my veins.  But I needed a shower badly.  In fact, I might
not survive without one.  I felt too grimy to function, so
dirt-streaked and bespattered that it reminded me of my drinking days.
Back then Ginny sometimes had to roust me out of the trash before she
could put me to work.

A shower could wait, however.  I had time.  First things first.

The phone sat in my lap like one of those black boxes that would tell
you why an airplane crashed if you could just figure out how to access
it.  Personally I loathed phones.  I was spending way too much time
talking to people I couldn't see.

Maybe Nakahatchi was right.  Maybe you couldn't trust what people said
over the phone because they weren't present to take responsibility for
it.

Unfortunately I had to make calls anyway.

After a couple of minutes, I sank my teeth into myself in a manner of
speaking and dialed again.

Finding Kerri Lee Fuller turned out to be easy.  Directory assistance
gave me her number.  She answered on the third ring.

Yes, she was a karate-ka, although I'd never heard of her school.  Yes,
she'd competed in the tournament.  Yes, she'd lost a red clutch purse
there.  It held her driver's license and all her credit cards.  She was
in trouble without it.  Her relief was evident when I told her that
it'd been recovered.

I gave her Moy's number, informed her that her purse was evidence and
Moy would want to talk to her, and assured her that she'd get
everything back in a few days.  Then I hung up.

Calling Moy myself didn't work out so well.

After the phone rang three or four thousand times, I was connected to a
voice messaging system.  Press "1" to leave a message, press "2" to
speak to another detective, that sort of thing.  I didn't have the
heart to repeat everything for Moy, so I left the important stuff to
Marshal.  Instead I just said that I'd come across a phone number and
wanted Moy to identify it for me.  When I'd given him that one as well
as my cell phone number, I replaced the handset and put the phone back
on the end table.

Then finally I went to take a shower.

I still intended to call Hong.  But I put it off.  I had no idea what
to say to him.

Sifu Hong, your life is in danger.

Why?

You got a good look at the chops.

Yeah, right.  Pull the other one, I need it stretched.

Sternway had assured me that Hong could turn me into dog food with both
hands tied.  And now I thought he was in danger because he'd seen the
chops up close?

I had to have a shower.

Some days just peeling off dirty clothes was like molting.  Removing
encrusted sweat and inadequacy from contact with my skin made me feel
like I'd become new.  But not today.  Today my befouled sensation ran a
whole lot deeper.

Where was I when I needed myself most?  How had my intuitive instincts,
my unconscious impulse to make patterns out of hints, become so
conflicted?  The back of my head already had all the information I
needed.  And yet I couldn't see the truth.

You will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from
your anger.

I didn't trust myself enough to see it.

What the fuck are you doing?

Sternway had referred to Tae Kwon Do as a "toy."  And he was Parker
Neil Ps sensei.  Yet Parker had informed me flatly, Any teacher who
doesn't train his students to honor all the martial arts doesn't
deserve to have students.

Ginny had found Bernie's flik and Hardshorn's loot in Mai Sternway's
house.

Almost desperately I climbed into the shower and turned the volume up
to "brain jelly," hoping that enough pressure and heat would blast the
confusion out of my skull.

Eventually the heat started to sink in.  Hot spray worked at my muscles
like fingers.  Steam baked the grime from my pores.  And the muffled
roar and splash of the water deafened me to my own clamor.  Then at
last I could think again.

Still dripping from the shower, I went back to the phone and dialed the
number for Traditional Wing Chun.

A voice I didn't know answered.  Having recovered a degree of cerebral
function, I asked for T'ang Wen instead of Hong Fei-Tung.

When he finally came to the phone, I told him straight out, "Mr. T'ang,
I'm worried about Sifu Hong.  I think he might be in danger."

"

"Danger," Mr.  Axbrewder?  What manner of danger?"  He sounded
suspicious.

"Call it a hunch.  I can't explain it.  I wish I could."  God, I wished
I could.

"But ever since he went to look at the chops, my instincts have been
trying to warn me about something.

"When I invited him the situation looked harmless.  It still ought to
be.  But I can't afford to ignore my instincts.  They're right too
often.  And they picked up some kind of threat."

I couldn't say things like that to Hong.  His stature as a martial
artist his "face" precluded them.

T'ang was silent for a moment.  Then he pronounced, "You distrust
Nakahatchi sensei."

"No," I retorted at once.

"That's not it."  I was sure.

"But it has something to do with the chops."

On impulse or inspiration, I asked, "Did Sifu Hong tell you if he
considers them authentic?"

"If you wish to speak of such matters," T'ang informed me severely,
"you must address them to my master.  It is not my place to share his
thoughts."

That might've been a hint.  Or another warning.  But I couldn't
challenge T'ang Wen about it.

"Face" again.

Cursing the exigencies of Oriental manners, I dropped the subject.

"All right.  I respect that.  But please tell Sifu Hong that I'm
worried.  Tell him" I was in no mood for restraint "I'm on my knees
here, begging him to be particularly careful."

If something happened to him T'ang's tone softened.

"I will tell him, Mr.  Axbrewder."  Apparently I'd gotten his
attention.

"And I will be careful for him.  We will all do so."

Presumably he meant everyone at Traditional Wing Chun.

That was probably more reassurance than I had any right to expect, so I
thanked him and got off the phone.

By then I'd stopped dripping.  After checking the time to be sure that
I wasn't late, I went into my bedroom and paralyzed myself wondering
what I ought to wear.

My only suit was too rank to put on.  And after today the jacket was
worse.  But I didn't have time to locate a one-hour cleaner, so I
tossed the jacket and a sheet of fabric softener into the dryer and let
it run while I tackled the Augean Labor of choosing a shirt and
slacks.

Light blue with khaki?  Khaki with dark blue?  Civilization as we know
it hung in the balance.

When I'd achieved a state of perfect silliness, I applied the Fuck-It
Principle.  Whatever happened between Deborah and me tonight didn't
depend on my clothes.  Or my assumptions.  It rested squarely and
solely on how clearly we saw each other.  So fuck it.

On that basis, I got dressed, shaved, trimmed my fingernails, then
strapped on my shoulder holster and clicked the .45 through its
chambers.  While the dryer finished groaning over my jacket, I unfolded
my map of Garner on the kitchen table and figured out how to follow
Deborah's directions to the restaurant.

When I retrieved my jacket it wasn't clean, but at least it didn't
stink anymore.  Shrugging my arms into it, I tucked my cell phone into
one of the pockets and left the apartment.

As the sun retracted its fierceness toward evening, I saw a surprise in
the distance.  Dark clouds massive as thunder piled around the setting
sun like storms ready to boil.  If they kept coming, they'd block the
light before long, shed premature night across the city.  The air bore
hints that I'd learned to identify in Puerta del Sol, suggestions of
moisture and violence, a deluge of change.  Back home clouds like that
brought rain which flattened pedestrians, drowned headlights until you
couldn't see to drive, ripped down tree limbs and TV antennae like
rubble from the broken heavens.  Grandfather storms, tireless and full
of malice.

But maybe I was wrong.  This was Garner, not Puerta del Sol.  As far as
I knew, they didn't have weather here.  The city fathers didn't permit
it.

Nevertheless the sight of those clouds tightened my nerves,

singing shrill harmonies across the neurons.  Sensible people stayed
home when they saw clouds like that, but I was aimed right into them.

As I wheeled the van away from the curb, I had the disturbed sensation
that I was leaving the rest of my life behind that I was about to cross
a threshold, an event horizon, which only allowed passage in one
direction, and which would definitively alter all my landscapes.  Or
maybe Nakahatchi had already pushed me past the boundary, and I simply
hadn't recognized the change until now.

This was terra incognita.  The kind of terrain that scared me spit
less

At the moment, it was the only kind that mattered.

Fortunately I'd allowed myself over an hour for what appeared on the
map to be a forty-five minute drive.  Before I was halfway to the
restaurant, I hit preliminary spatters of rain.  At first they smeared
weeks or months of accumulated oils over the windshield, and I could
hardly see.  But that didn't last long.  As the wipers rubbed the
streaks away, the rain gathered force.  Lashed from side to side by the
wind, the soft drizzle thickened into a downpour.  Within a couple of
miles it'd become what Puerta del Sol called a "gully-washer," a rain
so hard that it caused flash floods in arroyos which hadn't held
streams for years.  And then the rain turned torrential.  It plunged
out of the sky like cataracts from a shattered dam, releasing lakes of
stored water as hard and fast as its weight and the wind could drive
it.

Blackness and scourging rain shut off every vestige of evening.  In
fact, they nearly effaced Garner's unremitting electric illumination. I
lost sight of each street lamp before I crept into reach of the next.
The traffic signals appeared in front of me as suddenly as
enchantments.  Half the time I only knew that I hadn't lost the road
because I was following taillights.  Garner's systemic commitment to
artificial daylight was all that enabled me to make out the occasional
street sign.

The roar of the storm cut out every other sound.  I drove in a bubble
of reality, a space of isolation created by the pitiless hammering of
rain and wind on metal.

The possibility that Deborah might decide not to come at all under
these conditions didn't cross my mind until I finally located the
restaurant half an hour late.

By then most of the traffic had scurried for shelter.  I found a
parking space at the curb no more than ten yards from the entrance to
Chez Amneris.  Ten yards in this storm There may've been covered
parking somewhere nearby, but I'd never find it.

Naturally I didn't own anything as reasonable as a raincoat or an
umbrella.  By the time I reached the restaurant's front door, I'd look
like a puppy someone tried to put to sleep in a bucket.

For a couple of minutes, I sat where I was, hoping for a break in the
deluge and trying to convince myself that Deborah wouldn't let weather
like this stop her.  But the rain just came down harder.

Finally I swallowed what was left of my dignity.  Leaving my cell phone
on the passenger seat to keep it dry, I jumped out of the van, slammed
the door, and ran like the damned for what Deborah had called her
favorite restaurant.

Those ten yards felt like slogging along the bottom of a lake.  By the
time I burst into shelter, I wore enough water to irrigate a football
field.

Slapping moisture out of my eyes while I fountained in all directions,
I found myself almost nose-to-nose with the maitre d'.  His
disapproving mustache matched the hard glare in his eyes.  He retreated
quickly to protect his tux, flapped his hands to ward me away.

"Perhaps," he sniffed with immaculate hauteur, "monsieur is unaware of
the invention of umbrellas."

"That's not all," I told him in a sputter of rain.

"I also didn't know they'd invented rude waiters."

He didn't rise to the challenge.  Instead he fixed his glare on my
sodden shoes.

"Of course monsieur has a reservation."

Like I needed one.  The place was practically empty.

When I looked around, however, I spotted Deborah Messenger at a table
near the back of the room.  As soon as I saw her, she waved and
smiled.

I grinned back.

"I guess I do," I told mine host as I turned my back on him and
strolled away, squishing.

Chez Amneris was done up in a pseudo-Egyptian motif, complete with
potted palms, Moroccan tableware, and sand-strewn pyramids in fresco.
But the management had replaced the traditional rush-strewn floor with
a hearty maroon carpet that made the whole room look awash in drying
blood.

As far as I could see, Deborah wasn't wet at all.  Her hair flowed
around her head like a nimbus, dry and full of life, and her face had
the fresh moist gloss of makeup rather than rain.  She wore a mauve
silk blouse that would've shown every drop of water, but instead it
seemed to float against her, teasing me with hints.

She must've brought an umbrella the size of a trampoline.

A welcoming glitter in her eyes matched her smile.  What with one thing
and another, she nearly ravished me off my feet.

I didn't try to sit down.  I wasn't sure I could.  When I'd grinned
back at her for an hour or two, I muttered sheepishly, "I could use
some paper towels."

She laughed and pointed.

"The restrooms are that way."

Unsteadily I sloshed away.

By the time I returned still wet, but no longer dripping she'd ordered
herself a glass of burgundy, and the maitre d' had taken advantage of
my absence to set a menu at my place.  As I sat down across from her,
she laughed again.

"Apparently I forgot to tell you there's a parking garage next door."
So much for the trampoline theory.

"You poor man, you look like you've been through the rinse cycle once
too often."

Since there was hauteur in the air, I tried to fake some.

"I prefer to think of it," I sniffed like the maitre d', "as 'rode hard
and put away wet."

" Deborah bit her lip mock-solicitously.

"Did you have a horrible time getting here?"

"Moderately horrible," I admitted.

"But it's already worth it."

"You're too kind," she told me.

"But don't stop.  I like it."  Then she turned serious.

"This must have been a difficult day.  How are you?"

I considered the question briefly.

"Confused."

"Not about me, I hope."

"Actually, I am.  I can't figure out what a woman like you wants with
me."  I smiled to take the edge off my clumsiness.

"But on the Great Scale of Incomprehension, that's one of my lesser
problems.  The rest are bigger."

"Tell me," she urged.

So I told her.  Even though I didn't know how to trust her.  I needed
to talk more than I'd realized.

Apparently I'd forgotten how much I used to talk to Ginny and how much
good it did me.

Once I got started, I lost track of the ordinary details of dinner. The
fact that I felt like I was wearing wet towels stopped bothering me.  I
ordered and ate something without registering what it was, drank club
soda without noticing the lovely, pernicious aroma of burgundy. Instead
I just talked.  About Puerta del Sol and Ginny.  About Bernie and Mai
Sternway.  About Alyse and Marshal, Turf Hardshorn and Sifu Hong. 
Whenever I got stuck, Deborah asked an attentive question, and I went
on.

Outside the storm grew stronger.  Thunder crashed like granite through
the downpour, and shots of lightning paled Chez Am-neris's lamps in
jagged streaks.  But the effect was muffled, almost impersonal.  It
didn't get in my way.

I was still going when Deborah announced, "Brew, I want you to come
back to my apartment."  From the look in her eyes, you would've thought
that I'd been seducing her for hours.

"Please," I answered ardently.  Nevertheless I couldn't stop.  While
she summoned the check, I asked, "What do you remember about Saturday
when Bernie was killed?  You were in the lobby, weren't you?  Talking
to Sternway and Lacone?"

"That's right."  She didn't push the question away.

"Alex had asked me to meet him, but he didn't really have anything to
discuss.  He just pretended he did.  He doesn't take me seriously as a
professional, I mean.  All he wants is a chance to stand close and
proposition me."  She shrugged.

"But he's an important client, so I do my job and make nice.  Most of
the time his propositions are easy to ignore.

"Mr.  Sternway joined us after a while.  I suppose we'd been making
small talk" she consulted her memory "for maybe five minutes when we
realized something was wrong."

"How did you know?"

She claimed the check before I could reach it.

"We saw hotel security running.  They looked upset.  And one of them
blocked the men's room."  She smiled wryly.

"That was enough for me."

"Can you remember where you were standing?"  I pursued.

"Which direction were you facing?  What could you see?"

"Brew."  She put her hand on my arm.

"I'll think about it.  I'll tell you everything I can remember.  But
I'd like to go now.

Please?"  Mischief and desire shone in her eyes.

"The way you talk about your work I don't know how much longer I can
keep my hands to myself."

I nearly fell over getting out of my chair.  Then, just in case I
didn't already look foolish enough, I bowed to the floor.

"Yours to command, my lady."

Laughing again, she stood to join me.

Through the windows the storm looked fierce enough to overturn cars.
After each hot strike of lightning, the thunder fell like buildings
under demolition.  She offered to give me a ride, bring me back to the
Plymouth tomorrow, but something nagging in the back of my head told me
that I might want the van.  So she led me out the restaurant's rear
entrance and up an escalator to the parking garage, then drove me in
her sleek robin's-egg blue Audi into the lashing torrents and around
the block until we were right beside the Plymouth.  From there I heaved
myself out in one stride, hauled open the van, and dove in.  Altogether
I wasn't exposed to the storm for more than three seconds.

It soaked me to the skin.  Drenched me completely.  I couldn't have
gotten any wetter if I'd strolled here from Chicago.

The Plymouth didn't want to start.  I could barely see the lights from
Chez Amneris.  The rain fell like reified darkness, driving every scrap
of illumination to its knees.  Whenever a bolt of lightning hit, the
buildings on both sides of the street seemed to jump into existence as
if they were crowding closer.  Then the sudden impact of thunder
restored the dark, tightened its noose around me.  I felt like a
fugitive from justice, desperate for escape, as I cranked the starter
again and again.

Invisible through the rain, Deborah waited for me.  Only her headlights
showed that she was still there.

Finally the engine coughed a few times and sputtered to life.  I revved
it hard, trying to burn the damp from the plugs.  When I'd snapped on
my headlights and flicked them two or three times, Deborah's Audi began
to creep ahead of me.

Guided by her taillights, I followed her through the smothering
storm.

I didn't know where her apartment was, so I concentrated on not losing
her.  Unless lightning cracked open the torrents at just the right
moment, I couldn't make out street signs.  And I had too many other
problems to wrestle with.

Clinging to Deborah's taillights as if they might save me, I asked
myself the same question I'd almost asked her.  What did she want from
me?  I couldn't avoid it any longer.  I was on my way to spend the
night with her when some part of me believed that I should be standing
guard over the chops and Sifu Hong.

Lightning gave me a clear white look at the Audi.  Buildings that
might've been banks crowded the road, leaning inward like they were
being thrashed by the rain.  Thunder pounded overhead, so close that it
made the Plymouth shudder on its tires.

What did she gain by distracting me?

By distracting me tonight?

From a loyal insurance company employee's point of view, Watchdog would
lose major bucks if something happened to the chops.  Therefore of
course Deborah wanted me to do my best for Lacone and Nakahatchi.

But suppose she wasn't a loyal employee What if instead she was a
greedy woman with tastes too expensive for her salary and a secret yen
for just picking a name at random T'ang Wen?  Think of the cash she
could get her hands on if she helped him steal and fence the chops.

The idea made me want to puke Chez Amneris' cuisine all over the van.
According to this theory, she'd arranged for Hardshorn and his team to
make Posten and Watchdog nervous by working the tournament.  Then, when
she was sure that I'd jump through any number of hoops for her
including ditching my former partner she'd urged Lacone to hire me.  So
that she could get me away from Martial America tonight.

Then it followed that Hardshorn had killed Bernie.  They must've been
alone in the men's room.  Deborah was out in the lobby with Lacone and
Sternway, and no one else had a motive to crush Bernie's larynx and
take the flik.

But I didn't believe that Hardshorn killed Bernie.  Hardshorn's
willingness to kill me only made sense if he had more at stake than a
bag of petty loot.  But nothing except the presence of a recognizable
partner explained Bernie's death.

And the bag later ended up hidden in Mai Sternway's house?  How crazy
was that?

No matter whose name I substituted for T'ang's in this theory,

I couldn't make the pieces fit.  If Deborah had larceny in her heart
when she invited me to her apartment, nothing added up, and I was
utterly lost.

For a moment her taillights eluded me.  The deluge swarming down my
windshield drained my self-confidence as it ran, washing me by scraps
and shreds into Garner's overfilled sewers.  If I were that wrong,
absofuckinglutely anyone could've killed Bernie.

Then the Audi braked for a turn.  I'd almost overshot it in the
blackness.

Maybe everything in my head was just so much lightning and thunder, a
tension reaction, neurons making themselves insane under the strain of
the storm.  Or maybe Garner itself lay so far beyond any reality I
understood that I couldn't think straight.

I needed an answer, and I needed it soon.

At the next slash of lightning, I heard myself yelp.  How long had I
been doing that?  My throat felt tight and raw, as if I'd already
howled half a dozen times without noticing it.

Incoherently I began to fear that I'd have to follow Deborah through
this pummeling chaos for the rest of my life.  God alone knew how she
coped without a set of taillights to guide her.

When she swung left, I assumed that she'd turned to another street. But
the roadway sloped suddenly downward, and then between one heartbeat
and the next the rain stopped, cut off as cleanly as if we'd fallen
over the edge of the world.  We were in an underground parking garage. 
A swollen river accompanied us downward.  As the pavement leveled out
the rainwater spread into a surging lake that covered the Audi's wheels
to the hubcaps.

Deborah sculled her car into a parking space.  I found one nearby for
the van.  When I opened my door, she stood on the Audi's running board,
facing me over the roof.

"Now that," she called through the muffled clamor, "was horrible."
Enforced gaiety strained her voice.

"I haven't seen a storm like that in my life."

"Stay there," I shouted back.  My whole body ached with the absence of
torrents.  My head felt like it'd been packed with cabbage and buried
to rot.

"I'm already wet.  I'll carry you."

She made a noise that might've been laughter or hysteria.

"Don't be silly.  I'm a big girl."  She removed her shoes, then hopped
off the running board, closed her door, and splashed toward me.

"Although I have to say," she added as she got closer, "I'm tempted. It
sounds just too gallant for words.

"Besides, the water is cold."

As soon as I stepped out of the van in past my ankles she gave me a
febrile grin and sprang at me.  I braced myself just in time to catch
her without falling over backward.

One arm under her knees, the other around her back, I held her above
the lake.  She kissed me quickly, then flung one arm outward like a
command.

"That way, Sir Knight," she ordered imperiously.

"To the elevator, and at once.  I need a drink.  And you" she slapped
my shoulder "need to get out of those clothes."

She hadn't dropped her purse.  I've never understood how women do that.
Ginny had the same gift.  She could fall down a logging flume, and when
she splashed out the end she'd still have her purse.  Hell, it probably
wouldn't even be damp.

Awkwardly I reached back into the van to retrieve my phone.  I had to
release one arm to do it, but she compensated by clinging to my neck.
Once I'd settled my arms under her again, I leaned against the door to
close it and headed for the elevator, high-stepping to avoid concealed
obstacles.

She was right the water was cold, bitter as a serpent's tooth.  Soon
the clenched concentration of driving caught up with me, and I started
to shiver.

"Brew!"  Deborah protested at once.

"Put me down.  You're freezing.  We should hurry."

I didn't obey.

"Forget it."  Chills shuddered through me.

"Right now you're the only warmth I've got."

I wanted her in my arms.  The cold wasn't the only thing that made me
shiver Nevertheless I tried to take longer strides.  She hugged herself
against me, ignoring the possibility that she might ruin her blouse.

At the elevator, rainwater no longer drained into the shaft.  It was
already full.  If the elevator's motor and wiring were in the bottom of
the shaft, and they weren't insulated I didn't know how many stairs I
could climb in my condition.

But when Deborah hit the call button, lights over the door showed the
elevator descending from fifteen floors above us.

Fortunately the car came straight down.  When the doors opened, water
flooded in.  But it leaked back out as we rose.  By the time we reached
her floor, my shoes were no longer submerged.

Carefully I set Deborah on her feet.  Waves of shivering undermined my
balance.  Holding my arm, she supported me into the hallway.

The hall gave off an impression of muted gentility framed prints in
soft colors interspersed with ornamental lighting fixtures along the
walls, a carpet with a comfortable pattern.  Four or five doors down
from the elevator, she produced her keys, undid the lock, and hustled
me inside.  Then she hurried away.

"Take off those clothes," she ordered over her shoulder.

"I'm going to turn on the shower and start some water boiling."

Take off those clothes.  Ha.  Would've been a good idea if my hands
weren't shaking so badly.

I stood in a short entryway like a mini-foyer, complete with a delicate
side table and I assumed a coat closet.  A light blue carpet several
shades richer than the one outside led to a living room on the left and
a kitchen on the right, with half-open walls between them above a
sideboard for the living room, counters for the kitchen.  The room
she'd disappeared into beyond the kitchen must've been the bathroom.
Presumably the doorway opposite it led to her bedroom.

A nice apartment for a woman living alone.  Not quite wealthy, but
definitely upper-middle-class.  Maybe Watchdog paid well.  Maybe she'd
inherited money, or struck gold on the stock market, or won a modest
lottery.  Or maybe I still held my phone.  I put it down on the side
table.  Fighting shivers, I managed to work my jacket off my shoulders
and down my arms.  The holster came next.  That was harder.  While I
fumbled at the straps, I wondered distantly whether the .45 would still
fire.  Probably it would.  I'd used enough gun oil to make the damn
bullets waterproof.

Shirt buttons?  How?

Deborah bustled out of the bathroom, leaving the door open.  I heard
water running, glimpsed a wisp of steam.  She started for the kitchen,
then veered toward me instead.

"Let me," she instructed firmly as she tackled the buttons.  With
matter-of-fact efficiency, she undid them all, loosened my belt, bent
down to tug off my shoes.  She'd had practice, apparently.

Finally she worked my shirt off and dropped it on my jacket.  The skin
of my chest looked like I'd spent a week underwater.  Pointing at the
bathroom, she said, "Leave the rest of your clothes on the floor.  I'll
put everything in the dryer.  I'm going to have a drink.  Do you want
coffee or tea?"

"Coffee," I mumbled.  I sounded like I had frostbite in my mouth.

With a nod, she nudged me into motion.

I shut the bathroom door behind me, mainly to keep the steam in.  That
warmth restored enough sanity to get me undressed the rest of the way
and to make me test the temperature before I stepped into the shower.

I'd already had more water than I knew what to do with.  But this was
hot, and it stung my skin like needles of bliss.

While I soaked away my chills, I heard the door open and close as
Deborah retrieved my clothes.  When I finally emerged with a parboiled
blush on my skin and a towel clamped around my waist, she had a
steaming cup ready for me.  The coffee smelled like nectar.

On an ordinary day Ginny's coffee was sludge.  On a bad day it tasted
like turpentine.  I'd done most of the cooking so that we wouldn't have
to get our stomachs pumped after every meal.

If Deborah wanted to seduce me out of my senses, render me too stupid
to think, she had the right approach.

She appraised me frankly for a moment, then nodded approval.

"That's a definite improvement."  Her mouth twitched into a grin.

"Lose the towel, and it'll be flawless."

Luxurious amber filled the glass in her hand.  It smelled like
Macallan's, an old revered single-malt Scotch, more costly than blood.
Against the stifled backdrop of the storm, I heard a dryer rumble
softly.

Sipping coffee to disguise my yearning, I tightened my grip on the
towel.

"Don't rush me.  Us Knights Errant are supposed to be shy.  It's in the
manual."  Unsteadily I added, "You didn't finish answering my
question."

She treated me to a perplexed frown, as beguiling as a summer's day.

"Did you ask me a question?  The last thing I remember you saying was
about warmth."

"Back at the restaurant," I explained.

"I asked you where you and Lacone and Sternway were standing.  In the
lobby on Saturday.  I want to know what you remember."

If she resisted, it would mean I didn't know what.  Surely it would
mean something or other.

"That's right."  She seemed to give herself a shake.

"You asked me which direction I was facing."

I nodded dumbly.

"And I said I'd tell you everything I could remember."  She looked me
up and down.

"Now?"  she countered almost wistfully.

"Can't it wait?"

I swallowed hard.

"Now.  Later I won't remember my damn name, never mind Saturday."

And Bernie.  And Hong.

She sighed.

"All right."

Deliberately she shut her eyes.  For a moment she frowned in
concentration.  Then she turned to face away from me, toward the wall
of her bedroom.

"I'm in the lobby," she murmured through thunder and rain.

"The main entrance is there."  She nodded at the wall.

"I arrived before Alex did.  He's usually late, I knew that.  But I
hoped I'd see you, so I came a few minutes early."

Fortunately she didn't look at me while she spoke.  The lines of her
back and neck were alluring enough.  Her eyes might've made me lose
myself completely.

"There aren't very many people in the lobby.  You aren't one of them,
and I don't recognize anybody else."  Her tone sounded dreamy, distant
with recollection.

"I find a place to wait where I can watch the front doors and the
hallway to the convention center, just in case.  When Alex arrives, I
turn more toward the doors.

"He starts his usual flirting.  I smile and talk without playing his
game.  He stands close to me, on my right, so he can touch my arm and
stare at my breasts."

I visualized the lobby with her, tried to see what she saw.  The
registration desk at 10 o'clock.  The doors at noon.  Alex leering at
3. The convention center hallway at 7:30 or 8.

The short corridor toward the restrooms at 8 or 8:30.

"Eventually Anson joins us.  He comes from the convention center.  He
stands two or three feet away on that side, facing Alex."  9 o'clock.

"Alex stops flirting.  We make small talk.

"Occasionally I glance behind me.  I see you leave the hallway.  I
smile at you, but you don't respond.  You hesitate, looking around.
Then you head for the men's room.  You're almost running."  She
chuckled softly.

"I wonder if you've eaten something that doesn't agree with you.

"How am I doing?"

"Don't stop," I warned her quickly.

"Keep your eyes closed."

She continued to face her bedroom wall.

Keeping my voice low so that it wouldn't shake, I asked, "Did you see
Sternway leave the convention center?  Or did he just show up on your
left?"

Had she simply assumed ?

Without hesitation, she answered, "I didn't see him at first.  Alex
glanced in that direction, and I turned my head.  He was ten or fifteen
feet away."

"So you didn't actually see him leave the convention center?"

"No," she admitted dubiously.

"I guess not.  But where ?"

"As far as you know, he could've come from the men's room?"

Abruptly she turned back to me.  Distress filled her eyes, darkened
them until they looked bottomless.  Her hands held her glass as if
she'd forgotten it.

"Brew " she began, then bit her lip.

"I don't want to say that."

"Why not?"

"Because," she protested, "it sounds like I think he could have killed
Bernie Appelwait.  And I don't.

"My God, Brew, he's the Director of the IAMA!  He's had his own school
in Garner for fifteen years.  Every martial artist I talk to thinks he
sits on the right hand of God."

I knew what she meant.

"I know I called him a coward around women."  She might've been
pleading with me.

"But that doesn't make him a murderer.  The world is full of men who
are terrified of women, and they don't go around killing hotel security
guards."

As she spoke, slow relief eased into my heart.  One small muscle at a
time, my distrust began to let me go.  She didn't plead for him
personally.  My nerves were sure.  Instead she pleaded for her reality.
In her world killers were people she didn't know and couldn't
understand, men and women driven by demons that her mind refused to
acknowledge.

A different heat rose along my pulse.

Of course, I ached to believe that she was exactly and only what she
seemed.  I couldn't hide that detail from myself.  It affected my own
reality.  As a general rule, however, crooks who needed to protect
their accomplices didn't try to convince me that other potential
suspects were innocent.

But I still had to be careful.  Distrusting her was one thing.
Distrusting myself was entirely another.  Quietly I asked, "Did you say
any of this to that cop, Detective Moy?"

Deborah frowned like a wince.

"No.  He didn't ask.  I mean, his questions weren't that specific.  And
I didn't think of it.  I was so shocked by what had happened "Is it
important?"  she demanded.

"Do you actually ?"

I gave her a thin smile.

"Relax.  It's my job to be suspicious."  Gripping my towel, I shrugged
awkwardly.  I hadn't pursued all this with her because I distrusted
Anson Sternway.

"I've known too many people with blood on their hands."

I was one of them.

"The fact is," I continued more easily, "I like Sternway as a suspect.
He pisses me off every time I see him.  But murder isn't just means and
opportunity.  It's also motive.  And for the life of me I can't imagine
why he'd want Bernie dead."

Even the bizarre fact that Ginny had found Hardshorn's bag in Mai
Sternway's house didn't shed any light.  Ginny believed Mai wanted to
frame her husband so that she could extort a fat divorce settlement. If
Sternway went into that men's room to protect Hardshorn, he was
cooperating in his own financial castration.

"I'll tell Moy what you've said the next time I talk to him," I
added.

"He'll follow up on it if he thinks it matters.  Until then " I
gestured hopefully with my coffee cup.

"You've answered my question.  I'm done."

All at once she raised her glass to her mouth and drained it.  The
Scotch brought tears to her eyes, made her breathe open-mouthed as if
she'd swallowed a lump of fire.

The rain sounded like scrubbing outside her windows, a storm to scourge
away every doubt I had.

Dropping her glass on the carpet, she wiped her eyes with the backs of
her hands.  When she could take a normal breath again, she lifted a
tentative smile toward my face.

"Well, if you're really done " I did my best to grin for her.

"With questions, yes.  Absolutely."

For the second time, she jumped at me.  I caught her in both arms,
forgetting all about the towel.

We kissed like we were trying to drink each other down.  And after that
I forgot about any number of things.

Twenty-Four.

I didn't go to sleep.  I was determined not to.  Stretched out and
deeply comfortable on Deborah's bed with my arms around her, I didn't
want the night to end.  I'd arrived at a place of peace that
simultaneously soothed me and left me hungry for more.  The ceaseless
rain outside and the thunder bombarding the city like an exchange of
Howitzer shells seemed to make staying where I was the most desirable
thing in the world.

But I must've drifted off without knowing it.  And my dreams must've
disturbed me, gnawing like beasts at the marrow of my bones.  Otherwise
I wouldn't have gasped and fallen out of bed when the phone rang.

For a moment I couldn't get my bearings.  Where was I exactly?  And
whose phone was that?  It didn't sound right at once too distant and
too piercing to mean anything except disaster.

Deborah didn't stir.  Her nerves weren't attuned to intimations of ruin
Lightning drove back the dark.  I sprawled on the carpet in an
unfamiliar bedroom, craning my neck toward an open doorway.

The phone rang again.  The sound didn't come from anywhere around me.
The phone wasn't in the bedroom.

The living room?  The kitchen?

When it rang for the third time, I recognized it.

My cell phone.  Which I'd left in Deborah's small foyer.

How long would it ring before it switched to voice mail?  I didn't
know, so I jumped to my feet and ran, waving my arms blindly to fend
off obstacles, collisions.  Remnants of dreams confused my steps,
hounding me like nightmares.

Somehow I located a light switch on the fourth ring.  Snatching up the
phone, I thumbed the button to accept the call and panted, "Yes.
Hello?"

"Axbrewder?"  a man's voice demanded.

"It's about damn time."

I didn't recognize the voice, but it dug into me, gouging too deep for
such a small sound.

"What ?"  I stammered, floundering.

"Who ?"

"You're in serious trouble, boy.  You better get your ass on down here,
and I mean right now."

The voice "Moy?"  I asked.

"Detective Moy?"

"You were expecting maybe your parish priest?"  he retorted.

"Where the hell are you?  You're supposed to be working."

Finally his tone worked its way through the scraps of my dreams.  Edgar
Moy, no question about it.  I'd left my phone number on his voice mail.
He didn't ordinarily sound this exasperated.

Back in the bedroom, a light snapped on.

"I was asleep," I explained uselessly.

"Where are you?  What's going on?"

"Martial America."  He paused, then added harshly, "There's been a
murder."

Abruptly the storm no longer raged outside.  It crashed in my head,
lashing through my skull like the wrath of the Almighty.  Confined
thunder knelled at my ears.  But I could still hear him.

"The guy who runs Traditional Wing Chun.  Hong Fei-Tung.  Looks like
somebody broke his neck in his sleep.

"Isn't security here supposed to be your job?"  Moy finished sweetly.

Deborah emerged from the bedroom wearing a robe that would've been
sheer in better light.

I dropped to the floor like I'd had my hamstrings severed.

"I tried to warn him," I told the phone.  But my voice was so small
that Moy probably couldn't hear it.

"The way I see it, Axbrewder," he informed me with a touch of his
familiar disinterest, "there's a whole shitload of stuff going on here
that you haven't told me about."

Hong.  Hong.

Christ!

I'd tried to warn him, but on some level I'd known that wasn't good
enough.  I should've protected him myself.  But I hadn't trusted my
instincts.

"Brew?"  Deborah asked.

"Brew?  My God, what's going on?"  She sounded stricken.

I trusted them now.  Now that it was too late.  I'd have Hong's blood
on my hands for the rest of my life.

I swallowed at a knot of grief or fury.  As clearly as I could, I
announced to Moy, "I'm on my way.  I'll get there as fast as I can." As
fast as the storm allowed.  Then I hung up.

Deborah dropped to her knees beside me.

"My God, Brew."  She put her hands on the sides of my face, forced me
to look at her.

"What's wrong?  What's happened?"

The cannonade in my head needed to break out somehow, positively
required an outlet, but I could hardly form words, nothing that I could
ever say would carry enough force to release what I felt.  I had to
whisper.  Otherwise I wouldn't have been able to speak at all.  Not
without screaming in her face.

"Sifu Hong has been murdered."

As soon as I said the words, I knew who did it.  Lightning etched the
truth out of the tumbled chaos in my head.

And I was responsible.  Absolutely.  Hong would still be alive if I
hadn't talked him into appraising the chops.

It hurt so bad that I almost wailed aloud.

She retreated with a gasp.

"Oh, Brew."  Horror and tears filled her eyes.

"Sifu Hong?"  Her mouth trembled.

"That's terrible."

She didn't ask, How did it happen?  She asked, "What're you going to
do?"

If I hadn't wasted so much energy doubting her, I might've been able to
do something in time.

If I'd trusted myself

Thunder goaded me to my feet.  Every blast and flail of the storm
brought more into my head, pieces of the picture like shattered bones
and streaming veins.  I almost had it all, I was close I still didn't
know why.  Not exactly.

But I knew exactly what I was going to do about it.

Deborah rose beside me.  She wanted an answer.  Maybe she needed it.
But I wasn't ready.  I had to know

As fast as I could with sheets of rain confusing my fingers, I dialed
the number for Essential Shotokan.

What time was it?  2:00 in the morning?  That felt about right.  I
didn't have my watch on.

The number rang until I thought it would break my heart.  Then Hideo
Komatori answered warily, "Yes?"  I heard vestiges of sleep in his
voice.

"Hideo, it's Brew."  I couldn't muffle my fury.  It must've sounded
like an attack.

"Check on the chops."

He recoiled.

"Brew-san?  What do you mean?  The chops are safe.  We moved the case
into my apartment this evening, as you advised.  I passed it as I came
to the phone."

No!  I wanted to scream, the chops aren't fucking safel Somehow I
stifled the storm.

"Take another look," I insisted.

"Please."

A pause.

"Very well."  The connection conveyed a dull thunk as he put down the
handset.

Deborah tried to get my attention.

"The chops, Brew?  I thought you said Hong Has something happened to
them?"

I ignored her.  With everything I had, I clung to the phone.

"Brew-san?"  Komatori's tone had changed utterly.  Now he sounded like
he was fighting for his life.

"They're gone."

Of course.

"The case is intact," he went on.

"But it's been opened.  All the chops are gone."

Of fucking course.

"Brew?"  Deborah pleaded.

"Don't ask me any questions," I told Komatori.

"I don't have time to explain.

"Sifu Hong has been murdered.  Detective Moy is already there.  I'm on
my way, but I won't be able to stop him.  It's only a matter of time,
minutes, before he comes for Nakahatchi sen-sei."  Naturally.  Who else
would T'ang Wen accuse?

"When Moy hears the chops are gone, he's going to arrest your
master."

Because of course Moy would assume that Nakahatchi had found the chops
gone, believed Hong stole them, and killed Hong to get even.  The fact
that the case was in Komatori's apartment wouldn't mean anything to
Moy.  Hideo had already demonstrated that he could sleep through the
theft.  He could've slept through a visit from his sensei as well.

"You must explain," Komatori put in.

"Can this Detective Moy believe that my master killed Sifu Hong?  That
is insane."

"I don't have time!"  I shouted back.

"Just wake up Nakahatchi.  When Moy gets there, tell him about the
chops.  Don't hide anything.  And don't resist.  I know your master
didn't do it.  I'll clear him as soon as I can.  Right now I have to
go!"

Before he could object, I hung up.

Deborah stared at me wide-eyed.  As I lowered the phone, she breathed,
"The chops are gone."  She looked smaller, diminished by the sheer
scale of the disaster.

"Oh, God."

"Listen to me," I demanded.  As if I thought maybe she wouldn't.

"I have to get to Martial America.  I don't have time to talk, and I do
not have time to explain.

"I need directions.  And I need you to make some calls for me.  I can't
stay to make them myself, and once I'm outside I won't be able to hear
myself think."

"I have to call Sammy," she offered in a small voice.

"Do that last," I ordered.  Knowing Posten, he'd reach Martial America
before I did.  He'd teleport if he had to.  If he weren't already
there.

"First call Marshal Viviter.  Professional Investigations.  Tell him
what's happened.  I have his cell phone number."

I recited it like I expected her to memorize it on the fly.

She nodded gravely.  Either she didn't have any trouble remembering
phone numbers, or she wasn't listening at all.

"Then call Ginny Fistoulari.  My former partner."  I repeated her
cellular number.

"Tell her not to answer the apartment phone tonight.  Not.  Tell her to
let the machine get it."

Our answering machine was one of the old-fashioned tape models.  Once
it started to record, it would keep going until the caller hung up.  Or
until it ran out of tape.

Deborah nodded again.  I had the sensation that I'd lost her, but I
couldn't afford to stop.

"Then call Parker Neill."  I gave her a third number to remember.

"Tell him what's happened.  Tell him I need him at Martial America.  As
fast as he can get there."

I needed him to keep me alive.

Once more she nodded.

I had to trust her.  Shoving myself into motion, I headed for the dryer
and my clothes.

"Do all that," I told her, "after you give me directions."

"What are you going to do?"  she called after me.

"Brew, I need to know."

She deserved an answer.

"My job," I snapped as I hauled open the laundry closet.

"My fucking job!  Hong is dead because I didn't figure this out.  The
chops are gone because I didn't figure it out.

"It ends tonight."

She caught up with me, pulled the rest of my clothes out of the dryer
while I shoved my legs into my pants.  Without looking at me, she
asked, "Have you figured it out?"

"Yes."  I buttoned my shirt partway.  I didn't even think about tucking
the tails in.

"Or else I dreamed it.  But I can't explain it yet.  I don't understand
all of it."

I meant that I didn't have even one scrap of evidence to make it
credible.

I definitely needed Parker to keep me alive.

Carrying my jacket, I hurried back to the foyer.  My shoes were still
damp, and I couldn't untie the laces.  Deborah tackled them for me
while I shoved my arms into the shoulder holster, spun the cylinder of
the .45.  While she helped me into my shoes, I pulled the jacket on.

I already had the door open when she started to give me directions.

Right out of the parking garage, right again, count three blocks, turn
left, keep going to the freeway.  Head east.  She named an exit.  If I
didn't miss it, or turn in the wrong direction, I'd be on a road that
led straight to Martial America.

I'd almost reached the elevator before I heard her say, "Keep yourself
safe, Brew.  I want you back."

God, I hoped she could remember phone numbers.

While the elevator sank interminably toward the parking level, I keyed
my apartment phone number into one of the cell phone's speed-dial
locations.  Then I searched the phone's menus until I found the command
to silence the keypad.

Rainwater leaked into the car as soon as it reached bottom.  The water
was colder than ever, and without socks I lacked even the illusion of
protection.  But the sodden chill only tightened my nerves, sharpened
my concentration.

Through the deepening lake of the garage, I splashed my way to the
Plymouth.

The van started with a roar because I'd already shoved down on the gas
too hard.  Wheeling backward out of my parking space, I pointed the van
at the exit ramp and plowed like a battering ram up into the storm.

A battering ram way too small for the gate it aimed to shatter.

Right through the cudgeling torrents.  Right again almost
immediately.

From the bottom of my heart, I prayed that Deborah would do what I'd
asked.  That Parker and Ginny would come through for me.

Count three blocks wasn't easy.  I gave it my best guess, then hauled
the Plymouth left into the wrong lane of a street that appeared to be
my only option.

I couldn't see buildings or street signs except at unpredictable
intervals when lightning cracked open the night.  Most of the time I
could barely locate curbs.

Keep going to the freeway.

I wasn't worried that Moy would finish in Martial America and leave
before I got there.  He needed backup, his lab boys, an ambulance and
all of them faced the same obstacles I did.  And Nakahatchi lived right
there.  He and Komatori both had too much self-possession to do
anything stupid.  His arrest might go down as one of the most leisurely
collars in history.  Hell, if I were Edgar Moy I might just keep
Nakahatchi confined to his apartment until the storm let up.

The deluge had wiped out the world, smothered any sensation that I was
actually going somewhere.  The speedometer indicated more speed than
sanity, but the impregnable rain contradicted it.

I'd started to believe that the freeway didn't exist, that the whole
concept of freeways was mythological, when a ragged glare exposed
massive concrete supports with a louring darkness above them.  The
after-flash on my retinas left the image of a sign that said east.

In that direction another ramp opened onto a wider surface than the
ones I'd driven so far.

At intervals the windscreen fogged over.  The Plymouth's vents blew
cold into my face, but when I added even a touch of heat the
condensation thickened.  I had to accept the chill.

Pushing the speedometer higher ludicrously, moronically higher I
resumed my prayers.

As I saw it, my biggest problem was to keep the cell phone dry.  I
meant, my biggest problem apart from extracting all the information and
evidence I needed.  And staying alive If the phone shorted out, I might
as well just shoot myself in the head and go home.

I tried to test it by calling a number at random, but I couldn't

hear anything.  The sledge hammering rain covered everything.  I felt
like the inside of a gong.

Since my life depended on my driving anyway, and I was already going at
a berserk rate, I wedged off my shoes, picked them up, and set them
upside down on the passenger seat to drain.

In the real world, however the sane world my biggest problem was
finding the right exit off the freeway.

Somehow I did it.  Pure luck.  So far, the gods of storm and violence
were on my side.  Approximating caution, I gushed down off the freeway
and headed for Martial America.

Hong Fei-Tung was dead.

Looks like somebody broke his neck in his sleep.

How fucking likely was that?

Rain lashed at me from all sides.  Between splitting bursts of
lightning, thunder boomed like denunciation.

As I finally shouldered the Plymouth into Martial America's parking
lot, my headlights picked out way too many cars.  CPD cruisers I
expected, four or five of them, lights winking frenetically against the
dark.  An ambulance.  A Crime Lab van.  But where had all these other
cars come from?  I'd never seen the lot this full.

My stomach squirmed.  Bile crowded against the anger and sorrow in my
throat.  I'd taken too long to get here.  The disaster had already
expanded into new dimensions, grown to proportions I hadn't
anticipated.  Someone had kicked over something a whole lot worse than
an anthill.

Sweet Jesus, just let one of these cars belong to Parker.

Through the blurring downpour, I saw that Essential Shotokan had all
its lights on with the exception of the top floor.  The same was true
in Master Soon's Tae Kwon Do Academy.  The bulk of the building hid
Traditional Wing Chun.

But Malaysian Fighting Arts remained completely dark.  Apparently Bob
Gravel and his students had more sense.

Swearing to myself, I searched the parking lot until I found a space
near the intersection of the two buildings.  After that I didn't
hesitate.  I'd used about a decade's worth of spare time just getting
here.  Now I had to go or give up.

Retrieving my shoes, I tucked the cell phone into one of them and
clamped them against my chest, heels up, soles out.  That was the best
I could do.  With my free hand, I flung open the door and plunged
barefoot into the torrents.

At least the lot didn't hold water.  The rain rive red elsewhere as
soon as it fell.  On the other hand, the concrete felt cruel on my
unprotected feet, bitter as ice.  Already drenched, I jogged for the
entrance to Essential Shotokan.

Maybe I should've headed for Traditional Wing Chun.  The lab boys were
probably still there.  I might get a look at Hong's bedroom and even
his body before they carted it away.  If they let me in.  But Moy had
had plenty of time to finish there.

Heaving the ornamental door open, I lunged into Nakahatchi's dojo.

The sudden cessation of the rain nearly knocked me off balance.  I
hadn't realized how hard I'd braced myself against it.  The comparative
warmth of the entry hall stung my skin to gooseflesh.  I was soaked to
the marrow of my bones.

"Hold it!"  a CPD uniform barked.  He guarded the foot of the stairs
with his partner, a woman who would've looked slim without the
bulletproof vest and all that cop gear.

"No farther!"

I lurched to a halt, sluicing water in all directions.

"This is a crime scene," the man announced.

"You shouldn't be here.  I'd chase you out if it weren't raining so
damn hard.  What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Apparently Moy hadn't warned his underlings to expect me.

Now I didn't hurry.  I didn't need to I knew why the uniforms were
here.  When I'd scrubbed the rain out of my eyes, I bent down to place
my shoes on the floor.

That gave the uniforms a glimpse of the .45 under my arm.

They both shouted, "Freeze!"  Faster than her partner, the woman had
her automatic out first.  From my angle, it looked like a Clock.

I didn't freeze, but I lifted the .45 out of its holster with two
fingers and tossed it to the carpet a few feet away.  When I'd taken
out the cell phone and set it down, I worked my numb feet back into my
shoes.

"My name is Axbrewder," I told the uniforms.

"I'm a security consultant for this building.  Detective Moy called me
here.  He wants to talk to me."  I tried to smile, but I couldn't do
it.

"If I promise to be a good boy, can I take off my jacket?"

Slowly they lowered their weapons.

"He's upstairs," the man muttered.

I wanted to ask who was with him, but I'd find out soon enough.

Tugging my arms out of the sleeves, I removed my jacket, wrapped it
around itself, and twisted it in my fists to wring it out.  When it
stopped dripping, I draped it on the floor beside the .45.  Maybe it
would dry enough to keep the phone functional.

"I want everything back," I informed the cops.

"I'll need them.  I'm on cleanup.  When you guys leave, my job
starts."

The woman nodded.

"They'll be right here."

Her partner shifted aside to let me at the stairs.

Trying not to hold my breath, I went up to the second floor.

The door to the meeting room stood open.  Through it I saw Edgar Moy,
Komatori, Nakahatchi, and an Oriental woman dressed in a flowing
kimono.  I'd never met her, but she must've been Nakahatchi's wife,
Mitsuku.  Moy didn't have any backup with him.  Apparently he realized
that he didn't need any.

Their silence felt like the fatal quiet after a crash of thunder.

The detective occupied the center of the floor.  For the first time,
his trench coat didn't look out of place.  Dark streaks showed that
it'd lost some of its waterproofing over the years.  His hands held a
damp fedora with enough brim to keep most of the rain out of his
eyes.

Komatori stood to his left, wearing his full karate-ka regalia, a crisp
white canvas gi cinched with his black belt.  Obliquely I wondered if
Moy caught the symbolism.  It meant that Hideo was willing to go to the
wall for his master.  Literally.  If Nakahatchi told him to fight, he'd
feed Moy and every other cop in reach to the guppies.  He had that look
in his eyes.  If Nakahatchi allowed it, he'd take his master's place
under arrest.

But Sihan Nakahatchi hadn't allowed it, that was obvious.  He had on a
dark blue business suit that would've looked dapper if he hadn't worn
it with such sorrow.  He didn't so much as glance at me when I entered
the room.  As far as I could tell, he never looked at Moy.  Maybe he
hadn't even shared a gaze with his wife.  He'd withdrawn into himself
to face a crisis worse than dying.

Mitsuku comported herself with as much dignity as he did, but she
didn't suffer his bereavement or dishonor with the same stoicism.  Her
lower lip quivered at intervals.  Strands of grey hair straggled at her
neck.  Time had crossed her face with so many vertical lines that it
looked pleated.  By slow poignant degrees, tears seeped from her eyes
into the wrinkles.  Small spots displayed her distress on the front of
her kimono.

"Axbrewder," Moy said by way of greeting.

"It's about time."

I thought I heard an uncharacteristic strain in his voice.

Hideo gave me a brief bow.

"Brew-san, I must thank you."  His gaze searched me for something.
Help, probably.  Or hope.

"But I don't have to," Moy put in before Hideo could explain.

"It seems you called them before I got here, warned them I was coming.
Later I'm going to tell you exactly what 'interfering with an officer
of the law in the performance of his duty' means."  In this case it
meant that I'd given them a chance to ditch any incriminating
evidence.

"But right now " He wasn't just feeling the strain, he was outright
uncomfortable.

"The four of us have been standing right here ever since I arrived."

His tension enabled me to relax a notch.  Faking detachment, I drawled,
"What seems to be the problem, Sergeant?"

Moy glared at me.

"You mean, apart from grand theft and murder?  I'll tell you what the
problem is" he bared his teeth under his thin mustache "because I
expect you to fix it."

"If I can," I offered.

He didn't stop.

"After that I expect you to explain this whole goddamn mess to me."

I couldn't think of a sensible response, so I kept my mouth shut.

"The problem," he went on more quietly, "is that Sihan Na-kahatchi here
has been accused of killing Hong Fei-Tung next door, and he won't talk
to me.  He won't even tell me his damn name.  He doesn't say a thing
when I read him his rights.  I can't find out if he wants a lawyer."

Moy was a cop.  He wanted Nakahatchi to at least deny the accusation.

I thought I knew why Nakahatchi wouldn't talk.  I'd learned a few
things about Oriental manners and honor.  But it wasn't my place to
answer for him.  Turning to Hideo, I asked, "Why haven't you ?"

Komatori shrugged.

"What would be the point?"

"The point of what?"  Moy demanded.

Nakahatchi studied oblivion.  His wife's eyes clung to me like
desperation.

I faced Hideo's shrouded distress squarely.

"You have to say it.  The Sergeant may understand, or he may not.  But
he can't understand if you don't say it."

Komatori considered for a moment.  Anger seethed behind his
self-containment.  Then he relented with a sigh.

Turning to Moy, he said, "Sergeant, my master is Sihan Nakahatchi
sensei.  Therefore the accusation is absurd.  To answer such a mortal
insult is to tolerate it" his voice rose "and we won't tolerate it.  We
won't 'account for our movements."  We won't give you 'alibis."  He is
Sihan Nakahatchi sensei.  That's sufficient."

Nakahatchi himself wouldn't even say that much.

"No," Moy began, "it's not."  But I interrupted him.

"Sergeant."  Deliberately I let my outrage uncoil like the thong of a
whip.

"You don't need to talk to them anyway."  He wasn't my enemy.  Under
the surface, we were on the same side.  But I had to get his
attention.

"You need to talk to me.

"I'm security here."  The fact that I'd done a lousy job was beside the
point.

"Grand theft and murder are my department, not theirs.  If you want to
understand honor the way they do, ask them nicely."  Without realizing
it I'd clenched my hands into fists like a death grip.

"But if you want to understand what happened here" I forced my fingers
open "ask me."

Unfortunately I couldn't offer him evidence.

"If I were you," I added before he had a chance to reply, "I wouldn't
even arrest Nakahatchi sensei.  You don't need to.  He'll be here
whenever you want him."

Some of the streaks on Mitsuku's face looked like gratitude.  As far as
I could tell, her husband hadn't heard me.

For a long moment, Moy stared at me like he was trying to guess how
much of my mind I'd actually lost.  Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"You know I can't do that."  A heartbeat later he announced, "But you
are most definitely going to talk to me."

"Sure."  I let a bit of my anger go.

"But let's take it downstairs."

I meant, Let's spare Nakahatchi and his wife the indignity of listening
to us.  Moy accepted the suggestion for a different reason, however. He
didn't want Essential Shotokan's people to hear anything that might
help them invent an alibi.

Hideo let me see the raw, bleak questions in his eyes.  I wanted to
reassure him, but I couldn't.  Not without facts.  The truth was that I
didn't really have anything to tell Moy.  I just wanted to get him
alone.  Maybe then he'd share what he had so far.

Despite the detective's impatience, I took the time to bow to
Nakahatchi.  He surprised me by bowing back.

Shaken by his response, I blurted out, "Sensei, I'll deal with this."
Somehow.

"I know I'm not ready to be your student.  But I can do my job.  This
insult won't stand."

Nakahatchi said nothing.  He'd already returned to his contemplation of
distances and depths I couldn't see.  But Mitsuku offered me a wan
troubled smile and bowed deeply.

I replied awkwardly, then bowed to Komatori and turned away.

Together Moy and I trudged down the stairs.  My shirt stuck to my arms
and torso.  The damp fabric rubbed at my armpits.  My pants felt like a
cold second skin.  Soon I'd start shivering again.

Moy nodded to the uniforms, sent the woman upstairs to keep an eye on
Nakahatchi, then led me into the smaller dojo, the one with all the
training equipment.  I left the .45, the phone, and my jacket where
they were.

He confronted me in the middle of the floor.

"Not exactly impartial about this, are you, Axbrewder?"  He'd lost his
usual disinterest.

"You need to be careful here.  You're looking more and more like an
accessory."

"I can see that."  I didn't waste time denying the obvious.

"But for the record, I didn't call Komatori to warn him you were
coming.  That was an afterthought.  When you told me Hong was dead, I
wanted to know if the chops were safe."

My wet shoes clamped a chill around my feet.  The leather stuck to my
skin.

"Alex Lacone didn't hire me to bodyguard anyone," I explained.

"Men like Hong are better qualified to take care of themselves than I
am.  My job is the chops.  When you called, my first reaction was the
same as yours.  Why would anyone risk tackling a trained killer like
Hong?  Whoever did it must've had a powerful motive.

"I don't know anything about Hong's personal life.  Maybe he's got
enemies.  From what I've heard, he imports his relatives into this
country as fast as he can.  Maybe one of them offended some Hong Kong
triad, or a Chinese Tong."  This was all chaff, but I threw it in Moy's
eyes with both hands.

"I wouldn't know.

"But here, in Martial America, those chops are the only motive I can
imagine.  I called Komatori because I had to know if they were safe."

Shivers started in my legs.  My knees shook.  I locked them to try to
hold them steady, but it didn't work.

"Since they aren't " I finished lamely.

"That's not what I heard."  Moy sounded calmer.  Maybe he thought my
obfuscation meant that I was being cooperative.

I frowned.

"What did you hear?"

Why had T'ang Wen accused Nakahatchi?

"When we got the call," Moy told me, "the only other person over there
was Hong's head student, T'ang Wen.  According to him, he heard
something during the night.  He was worried about his master he says
you warned him his master was in danger so he went to the other
apartment, knocked a few times.  When his master didn't answer, he used
a spare key to let himself in."

"Just a minute."  I needed details.

"The apartments had different keys?"

I didn't want the detective to ask me why I'd warned T'ang.

"According to T'ang," Moy answered.

"Does either one of them open the dojo?"

"T'ang's does.  Hong was the only one with a separate key for his
apartment."

I nodded.  That complicated the killer's situation.

Lightning glared through the windows.  God's kettledrums pounded hard
enough to rattle the glass.

"Go on."

With one finger, Moy stroked both sides of his mustache thoughtfully.
Considering the question of access?  Wondering why I thought keys were
important?  Then he shrugged to himself.

"T'ang found Hong dead in his bed.  It didn't take a forensics expert
to know he had a broken neck.  T'ang called us.  He said he didn't
touch or move anything."

Tremors climbed into my belly.  In another minute my voice would
shake.

"If the door was locked, how did the killer get in?"

Moy let disgust twist his mouth.

"Bedroom window."

A window.  Oh, shit.  That possibility had never occurred to me. Garner
lived on AC.  I'd assumed that no one here ever left a window open on
purpose.

"It was open," Moy explained.

"Tang says Hong always slept with it open.  He liked the night air.

"We've already been up on the roof.  Not that we can see shit in this
storm.  But one of the utility grates sure looks scratched.  And we
found fifty yards of rope tied to a grappling hook out in the Dumpster.
Ordinary towing rope, the kind you can buy in about a hundred hardware
stores."

"Spell it out for me."  I didn't need the help, but I wanted to keep
him talking.

"What do you think happened?"

Moy rolled his eyes.

"Nakahatchi heard a noise and went to check on the chops.  When he saw
they were gone, he figured Hong took them.  He went out the fire exit
to the utility shaft, climbed up to the roof, hooked the grapple onto a
grate and shimmied down to Hong's window.  When he'd killed Hong, he
went back up the rope, took his rope and grapple out to the Dumpster,
and let himself back into Essential Shotokan."

"Isn't that kind of stupid?"  I asked dishonestly.

"Leaving the rope and grapple where you're sure to find them?"  I
already knew why they'd been disposed of so obviously.

Torrents blinded the windows.  The parking lot might as well have
existed in a different dimension.  Full of cars like I'd never seen it
before "There's no IQ test for killers," the detective retorted.

"Nakahatchi may be a moron.  God knows he acts like one."

"Bullshit."  I couldn't stifle the shivers in my chest.  My voice shook
like I was feverish.

"I've spent too much time around him.  I know better."

He hadn't had any difficulty finding my weaknesses.

"Maybe," Moy countered, "he didn't have time to ditch the rope anywhere
else.  Not in this storm.  He couldn't risk being gone when Hong's body
was discovered.  Hell, maybe he was still in Hong's apartment when
T'ang Wen knocked.  He had to hurry."

I conceded the point.  What choice did I have?  Instead of arguing, I
threw more chaff.

"That doesn't explain why you considered Nakahatchi a suspect in the
first place."  I sounded the way I felt, chilled to the bone.

"Unless T'ang already knew the chops were gone when he talked to you "
I didn't believe that for a second.  Hong hadn't stolen the chops.  And
T'ang Wen would never have left his master open to that kind of
suspicion.

"He didn't," Moy stated flatly.

"He didn't mention the chops at all.  In fact, he doesn't know they're
gone."  He stared at me hard.

"Unless somebody called him after I came over here."  Like me, for
instance.  But Moy didn't pursue the question.

"I asked him if Hong had any enemies.  He named Nakahatchi.  But he was
reluctant about it.  He kept insisting that Nakahatchi behaved
honorably toward his master as recently as yesterday."

"He must've given you some kind of reason," I countered.

Moy nodded.

"He said the Japanese are hostile toward all things Chinese. Especially
the martial arts.  He claimed it's traditional, almost hereditary." 
The detective paused briefly, then added, "And he's sure Nakahatchi was
jealous of Hong."

I let my jaw drop.

"Jealous ?"

"Hong had more students.  And Nakahatchi had to recognize Hong was a
better martial artist.  It's obvious to everybody."

I got the impression that Moy wasn't impressed.

"Says T'ang," I insisted.

"Says T'ang," he admitted.

"Well," I went on, "he's right about the traditional hostility."
Tremors gave my tone a cutting edge.

"But the part he didn't tell you is that it works both ways.  The
Japanese and the Chinese and the Koreans all distrust each other.  Soft
styles and hard styles sneer at each other.  Traditional styles think
modern styles are junk.  Modern styles think traditional ones are
ossified.  Martial America is a hotbed of ingrained suspicion. Everyone
here wants precedence.

"That Tae Kwon Do school next door is one of the worst."  More chaff.

"They don't think Nakahatchi deserves the chops.  They give him too
much 'face."

"And speaking of 'face,"

" I continued, hurrying so that Moy wouldn't notice my efforts to
distract him, "who do you think inherits Traditional Wing Chun now? The
head student, T'ang Wen.  With his master out of the way, he stands to
gain major 'face' if Hong was murdered by a Japanese sensei."

That was cruelly unfair to T'ang.  He esteemed his master too highly to
be selfish about it.  But I ached to deflect Moy from Nakahatchi.  That
was crucial.  I couldn't tell Moy the truth.  If I did, he'd have only
two choices, a cop's choices believe me and get in my way, or doubt me
and take me in as an accessory.  Somehow I needed to make him question
his assumptions about Nakahatchi without turning him in the right
direction.  Otherwise I'd never be able to extract the evidence I
needed.

Moy held up his hands, urging me to slow down.

"Are you trying to tell me T'ang Wen had a reason to kill his master?
He took the chops to throw suspicion on Nakahatchi, then killed Hong so
he could take over the school?"

I shook my head.  I couldn't go that far.  Not even to protect
Nakahatchi or myself.  Shivering in gusts, I admitted, "I think T'ang
is a decent guy.  But maybe he's figured out that he could be the big
winner here.  If Nakahatchi goes down, the only rival T'ang has left in
Martial America is Master Soon."

For a moment, Moy looked out into the storm as if he hoped all that
rain and violence would help him think.  Frantically I rubbed my hands
up and down my arms, chafing my skin in an effort to generate some
warmth.  If I couldn't stop shivering, my brain might start to rattle
in my skull.  Then I wouldn't be able to put one coherent idea in front
of another.

But I was too angry to let that happen.  I'd pick a fight with the
wall, batter my blood back into circulation, before I allowed myself to
fall apart now.

When Moy faced me again, he changed directions.

"Speaking of keys, Axbrewder," he asked in the bored tone I remembered,
"how do you get around in the building?"

Shit!  He was still interested in me as an accessory.

I met his gaze as innocently as I could.

"I have a master."

"Where did you get it?"

"Lacone."  Indirectly that was true.

"And it opens all the doors here?"

I didn't look away.

"It opens all the locks that haven't been changed since these schools
moved in.  If T'ang's key works on the front door to the dojo, mine
unlocks his apartment.  But Hong had a new lock installed.  My key
won't open it."

Moy held my eyes for another moment.  Then he smiled thinly.

"Try to relax.  At this rate you'll shiver yourself sick."

Relax?  He had no idea.  Roughly I slapped at my chest, trying to sting
in a little warmth.

"Are we done here?"  I did not want him to ask me anything else.

"I should get over to Traditional Wing Chun."  The people who'd driven
all those cars to Martial America had to be somewhere.

"I know you've covered it, but if I don't at least take a look I won't
be doing my job."

"Just a couple more things."  His eyes told me that he still wondered
about my involvement.

"T'ang said " A loud whoosh as the front door burst open interrupted
him.  We both wheeled in that direction.

Driven by a rush of rain, a short figure wrapped in a raincoat splashed
into the dojo.  At first I couldn't see who he was.  An umbrella
concealed his head.  Right away, however, he dropped the umbrella so
that he could pull the door shut.

I'd never have thought that I'd be grateful to see Sammy Pos-ten. Maybe
he'd distract Moy for me.

"Hold it right there," the uniform guarding the stairs ordered.

"You can't come in here.  This is a crime scene " Posten ignored the
warning.  The instant he spotted Moy and me, he stomped toward us.  But
he wasn't interested in the detective.  As soon as he got close enough,
he hit me in the chest with both hands.  Like he thought he could knock
me backward.

"Goddamn it, Axbrewder!"  he shouted up at me, "this is unforgivable!"
His face reminded me of a perforated ulcer.

"You call yourself a 'security consultant'?  Where were you"?  Probably
out fucking some whore, you incompetent sonofabitch!"

Moy put a hand on Posten's shoulder to intervene.

"Take it easy.  We're investigating every possibility.  We'll find "
The little man flung him off.

"Let me tell you something!"  he practically screamed at me.

"We won't pay for this!  Not a penny.  It's your fault, your fault, and
I am personally going to take it out of your hide."  His raincoat shed
water like froth.

"You're going to make restitution if you have to sell your soul for the
money!"

"Sarge?"  the uniform asked from the doorway.

"You want help?"

Moy smiled again, without enthusiasm.

"No, thanks.  I think Axbrewder and I can handle it."  Now he sounded
bored.  Normal.

"If nothing else works, we'll sit on him."

The uniform chuckled harshly and returned to his post.

"Sergeant Moy."  If I hadn't been so angry, I might've laughed in
Posten's face.

"This is Mr.  Sammy Posten.  He's a security advisor a senior security
advisor for Watchdog Insurance.  They hold coverage on the chops.

"Mr.  Posten, this is Sergeant Edgar Moy, Homicide."

"I know, I know."  Posten gave us his best imitation of a dismissive
snarl.

"Hong is dead.  I don't care about that.

"Axbrewder, if you don't " Since he'd already hit me, I gave him a jolt
of my own.  It turned his face the color of apoplexy.

"Tell you what, Mr.  Posten."  I let shivers carry my rage.

"I'll make a deal with you.  You go home.  Let the Sergeant do his job.
You can't accomplish anything right now anyway.  And I'll take my
chances with my soul."  I grinned like the blade of an ax.

"I've been in that position before."

Posten started to sputter a retort, but Moy stepped in front of him.
Posten wasn't tall enough to fume at me past him.  He was reduced to
sputtering like a sodden chicken.

"Mr.  Axbrewder is right, Mr.  Posten," the detective said flatly.

"You should go home.  But there's one question you can answer for me
first.  How did you know there'd been a crime?"

"My associate called me," Posten huffed.

"Deborah Messenger.  She said she heard it from Axbrewder."  He tried
to aim his indignation at me past Moy's shoulder.

"Ask him how he knew."

"He knew because I told him."  Now Moy had a grip on Posten's elbow. It
didn't look hard, but his fingers dug in enough to turn Posten toward
the front door.

"I assume he called Ms.  Messenger because of Watchdog's
involvement."

Sure.  That's why I told her.  Because of her involvement "Just a
minute," I demanded.  Lightning echoed the glare of intuition in my
head.  Thunder spread its impact over the city.

Moy paused.

"Deborah called you," I said to Posten.

"Who did you call?"

Who had he involved?

He was too sure of his righteousness to squirm.

"People who need to know," he snapped.

"Our offices.  Mr.  Lacone.  Sue Ras-muss en  He did his best to
sneer.

"Unlike you, I do my job."

Oh, joy.  Now I knew why there were so many cars in the parking lot.  I
wasn't the only one who understood obfuscation.

I'd lost whatever advantage I might get from surprise.

Moy hadn't told the uniform he'd sent upstairs to keep Hideo Komatori
there, and I thought I knew exactly what Komatori would do.  Unless
Nakahatchi stopped him In the entryway Moy released Posten.  Mildly he
instructed the uniform to make sure that Mr.  Posten reached his car
safely.  Then he walked back in my direction.

He had to let me go.  Before Komatori did something I'd regret.
Unfortunately the look in his eyes told me he wasn't ready to do that.
He didn't trust me yet.

"Posten raises an interesting point, Axbrewder," he commented with all
the excitement he might've shown for a case of athlete's foot.

"Where were you when I called?"

Did I have an alibi?

The deluge outside sounded like the end of the world.  Tremors ran
through me from head to foot.  I bit down on them in an effort to
control my voice.

"I was with a friend.  A woman.  I'll tell you her name if I have to.
But she isn't part of this."  I was sure now.

"I think her privacy deserves some respect."

Moy studied me for a moment, obviously trying to decide how much leeway
he could afford to give me.  When he spoke, he didn't ask for Deborah's
name.  Instead he said, "Tell me something else first.  Where did you
get that phone number you left on my voice mail?"

Damn him, he had to let me go.  I didn't have much time.

Practically dancing from foot to foot, I replied, "I can't answer that.
Client confidentiality."

Literally, of course, Mai Sternway was none of my business.
Nevertheless Marshal had given me more help than I had any right to
expect.  I owed him a little discretion.

"Axbrewder " The sheer disinterest in Moy's tone warned me that I was
losing ground.

I blundered ahead.

"But you can ask Marshal Viviter.  Professional Investigations.  It's
his client.  What he tells you is up to him."

Moy took a look at his fingernails.  They bored him, too.

"I'll do that.  But he isn't here."  He meant, Viviter isn't the one in
trouble.  You are.

"And all of a sudden you don't want to give me a straight answer."  He
frowned up at me.

"I'll offer you one more chance.

"T'ang Wen says you warned him Hong was in danger.  What the hell was
that about?"

Christ!  The one question I absolutely did not want to answer.  If I
did, Moy wouldn't have any choice.  He'd have to get in my way.

"It was a hunch, Sergeant."  I wanted to shout, Let me go!  I'll
explain everything when I've got some evidence.

"That's all.  A bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"I swear to God" I forced all the conviction it would hold into my
voice "if I'd known what might happen, I would've spent the whole
fucking night with him myself."

Moy peered at me like he would a particularly distasteful lab
specimen.

"As hunches go," he asked slowly, "how does this one compare with your
theory that Hardshorn didn't kill Appelwait?"

I nearly cracked.  The violence of the storm centered here, in me.
Thunder broke against the windows like blows.  I started yelling
because I feared that if I didn't I might hit him.

"You don't get it, do you?  I know Hardshorn didn't kill Bernie!  I
knew it last night.  If I'd been even five percent that sure about
Hong, we wouldn't be standing here.  I'd have shot the bastard who did
this before I let him get away."

Or he would've killed me, too.

He still might.  If Moy ever released me.

The uniform reappeared in the entryway.  He had his hand on his
weapon.

"Sarge?"

Moy made a placating gesture.  For the uniform or for me, I couldn't
tell which.

"All right, Axbrewder.  Take it easy.  You'll work yourself into a
seizure.  I believe you.

"I get hunches myself."  I thought I saw calculation in his smile.  Or
malice.

"I'll cut you loose.  You can go."

Maybe he wanted me to leave so that I'd crucify myself.

I could scarcely breathe.  Instead of thanking him, I headed for the
entryway.  When I'd retrieved the phone, the .45, and my jacket, I went
back into the small dojo.  That was my quickest route to the fire
exit.

As I passed him, Moy cleared his throat.

"In case you're still interested.  That phone number.  It's
Hard-shorn's home number.  He may not have had any friends, but he sure
made a lot of calls."

That stopped me momentarily.  Like Marshal and Deborah and quite a few
other people Ginny included Moy was treating me better than I deserved.
Better than I'd treated him.

"Thanks, Sergeant," I said with a hoarse shiver.

"I'll remember you in my will."

Part of me itched to take him along.  To keep me alive.  And repay his
trust.  But if I did I'd never get the proof I needed.

From the back of the dojo I crossed the dressing room to the fire door
and punched it open with the heel of my palm.

Twenty-Five.

The fire door let me out onto the ground floor of the building's
utility well.  Wet and damn near frozen as I was, entering the well
felt like walking face first into a space heater.  The boiler, furnace,
and AC units put out enough BTUs to liquefy Styrofoam.

I went straight to the equipment cage, spread out my arms, and pressed
my shivering against the grate.  I couldn't afford the time to hang
there like a heat sink, soaking warmth while my clothes dried.
Nevertheless I stayed motionless for twenty or thirty seconds long
enough to restore blood to at least some of my muscles.

Duct and conduit insulation gave the air a faint sulfurous tinge I
hadn't noticed the other day.  Floodlamps in the walls filled the well
with a glaring shadowless artificial illumination.  The whole place
resembled the atrium of an inferno.

Fortunately it was quieter than I'd expected.  Or feared.  Despite the
thrashing fury outside, only a muffled sibilance penetrated the well.
The skylights overhead must've been just about bulletproof.

As soon as I could move without quivering, I shoved the .45 back into
its damp holster, hid the cell phone in a jacket pocket, and tugged the
jacket up my arms.  I wasn't much concerned with concealing the .45,
but I needed to keep my phone hidden and accessible without risking it
in my sodden pants.

Wrestling out my keys, I hurried around the equipment cage to
Traditional Wing Chun's fire door.  If I got in there before the lab
boys, paramedics, and uniforms left, I might be able to prevent this
disaster from getting any worse.

My key released the lock.  I pulled open the door and went in.

The dressing room was dark.  Likewise the small dojo beyond it.  But
enough light leaked in from the entryway to let me see where I put my
feet.  In any case, I didn't need light to hear that I was already too
late.  Again.

The confusion of angry voices sounded like thirty or forty people
primed to tear each other's throats out.  A hell of a crowd must've
gathered in the main dojo.  The consequences of Hong's death multiplied
faster than I could imagine them.

Trying not to run, I crossed the dressing room and the dojo to the
entryway.

Ahead of me the front door swung open, letting a slash of rain carry a
man and a woman inside.  They wore canvas gis with their belts purple
and brown respectively cinched tight.  Neither of them paid any
attention to me.  Tossing their umbrellas to the carpet, they hurried
into the main dojo.

I followed on their heels.

Instead of thirty or more people, I saw only twenty or so.  Maybe half
of them wore street clothes.  Three or four still had on raincoats. The
rest had donned their martial uniforms silk pajamas, canvas gis.  I was
tall enough to see over most of them.

They crowded around a clear space in the middle of the floor, shouting
furiously at each other.  The gis were mostly to my right, opposite the
pajamas.  I didn't know any of the pajamas, or the men and women in
street clothes.  Among the gis, however, I recognized one of
Nakahatchi's students, Aronson, and the two kids who'd helped him and
Komatori move the display case to Martial America.

Words like "murder" and "revenge,"

"unforgivable," and "stolen" raged back and forth, but I didn't try to
sort them out.

In the center of the crowd stood Hideo Komatori and T'ang Wen.  Hideo's
wet gi dripped on the hardwood.  Water cast a sheen along his scar.  He
must've taken the fire escape route out of Essential Shotokan, then run
through the rain unprotected to Traditional Wing Chun.  Unlike their
supporters, he and T'ang didn't yell.  It wasn't necessary.  They faced
each other with the deceptive menace of martial artists, self-contained
and calm, ready to detonate.  From where I stood, I couldn't see
T'ang's face, but Komatori's eyes held a killing intensity that made my
guts ache.

I couldn't locate Parker Neill.

His absence hit me like a club.  I'd been hoping fervently that he'd
arrived ahead of me.  That Deborah had reached him, and he'd agreed to
do what I asked.

Without him Oh, fuck.

Then some of the shouts penetrated my alarm.  Stolen?  Moy had told me
that T'ang Wen didn't know the chops were gone.  What in God's name was
Hideo doing?  Had he come over here to accuse Hong of stealing ?

Using my bulk, I plowed through the crowd into the clear space around
Komatori and T'ang.  My presence struck the dojo silent, at least for a
moment.  Suddenly all the hostility in the room refocused on me.  When
Komatori and T'ang noticed me, I stepped between them.

Quietly I demanded, "What the hell's the matter with you two?"  If I
kept my voice down, the crowd might stay quiet to hear me.

"You don't think we already have enough trouble?  Now you want your
students to beat each other up?"

Hideo didn't hesitate.

"Brew-san, this affront to my master is intolerable.  You know that I
can't " "No!"  T'ang put in hotly.

"My master has been slainl I did not insult that Japanese.  I said to
the police only what I know to be true, that I can think of no one else
who might wish my master ill.  Yet he comes here to accuse my master of
the theft of the chops.  It is indeed intolerable, and we will not
suffer it!"

"He lies, Brew-san," Komatori retorted.

"I haven't mentioned the chops.  I haven't accused Sifu Hong in any
way.  I came because I won't endure the claim that my master has any
desire for Sifu Hong's death.  My master's esteem for Sifu Hong is
boundless.  His death is an affront to all martial artists.  I will not
allow it to be placed on my master's shoulders."

I believed him.  Hell, I believed both of them.

But if Hideo hadn't said anything about the chops "He's right,
Axbrewder," a hard voice put in.

"It is an affront to all martial artists.  But who else took the chops?
Who else wanted them as badly as Hong did?  And if you don't think
Nakahatchi killed him, tell us who did.  Who else had a reason?"

Turning sharply, I faced Anson Sternway.  He stood with his back to the
windows like he'd just materialized out of the storm.

Reflected lightning strobed behind him, emphasizing him against the
dark glass.

He wore virtually the same clothes he'd had on last night, a grey
sweatshirt and warmup pants over canvas deck shoes.

Between one heartbeat and the next, my pulse rate about tripled.  Maybe
he'd been there all along.  Somehow I hadn't spotted him.  Too busy
praying that Parker would show up, probably.

"Mr.  Sternway," I gritted through my teeth.

"What the fuck are you doing?  This'll be great for Martial America's
reputation.  Just great.  I need help here.  You're stirring these
people up.  We should be calming them down."

He shook his head.

"No, Axbrewder.  You don't understand."  His lack of inflection was the
viscid surface of a pool of acid.

"This has to be resolved.  If it isn't, it will tear Martial America
apart.  They're approaching it the traditional way, the only way it can
be resolved.  A challenge between schools.  Both Komatori-san and Mr.
T'ang are prepared to fight for their masters' honor.  Their students
are ready to back them up.  I suggest you get out of their way."

"Do you mean to tell me," I protested, "that you buy this bullshit? You
think Hong stole the chops, and Nakahatchi killed him to get even? In
case you haven't heard, Hong was killed in his bed.  Do you actually
believe that Nakahatchi could sneak up on a renowned fighter like Hong
Fei-Tung, break his neck in his sleep?"

Never mind the obvious fact that Hong had no known access to Essential
Shotokan.

Without faltering Sternway countered, "Do you know anything about
Ninjitsu?"

I stared at him.  He had everyone's attention now.  Even Ko-ma tori and
T'ang shifted in his direction.

"It's an assassin's art," he explained.

"It teaches stealth and an imaginative use of weapons.  Similar arts
have developed in other countries.  The Thuggee in India, for example.
But no one has ever surpassed Ninjitsu.

"It's a Japanese art."

He shocked me.  Nakahatchi?  A Ninja?  Surrounded by men and women so
charged with adrenaline and fear that they could hardly hold themselves
back, I could still feel a kind of horrified admiration.

The IAMA director was that confident.

Despite my shock, however, I had to admit that he might be right about
one thing.  Maybe a fight was the best way to resolve this.

Komatori sure as hell thought so.

"Withdraw, Brew-san," he told me like the stroke of a blade.

"Mr.  Sternway indulges in fancies.  I don't hear him.  I leave the
theft of the chops to you.  And Sifu Hong's murder.  You've earned that
much respect from me.  But the accusation against my master I leave to
no one."

"Yes, withdraw," T'ang Wen sneered.

"It may be that you have earned honor from this Japanese, but you have
dishonored yourself to me.  With your own mouth you promised that your
presence would protect my master.  Now I have seen how your promises
are kept.  You have no word to speak that I will hear."

Inwardly I cringed.  He was right.  I'd bought Hong's cooperation with
promises I couldn't keep.

And I'd given his killer a reason to take him out.

But I was still bigger than Komatori and T'ang.  I was bigger than most
of their students.  And I could yell louder.

"You want me out of your way?"  I barked at both of them.

"Fine.  I'll 'withdraw."

" My voice rose.

"On one condition.  No one else fights.  Your students stay out of it.
They accept the outcome."  In a brawl any number of them would get
hurt.  With so much martial expertise running loose, someone might be
killed.

"Otherwise I'll haul the cops in here, have them arrest the whole pack
of you."

An empty threat.  In this weather I couldn't summon anyone except Edgar
Moy and his two uniforms.  But that might be enough "No!"  Aronson
shouted immediately.  Damn fool.  Half the karate-ka with him were
kids, but he was old enough to know better.

At once T'ang's students roared back.  In an instant the whole room
erupted with challenges.  Pajamas andgis and street clothes started for
each other.

Sternway watched me nervelessly.

Before I could react, however, Hideo wheeled on his people.  His voice
rang out with a command I didn't understand.

His students jerked to attention as if he'd cracked a whip in their
faces.  He had that much moral authority for them.

"You will do as Brew-san says."  Each word struck with the force of a
fist.

"You'll watch and do nothing.  Otherwise you'll dishonor Nakahatchi
sensei and you know I won't allow that."

I wanted to give him a round of applause, but I didn't have time.  As
soon as he finished, I turned on T'ang Wen.

I didn't speak.  I didn't have to.  Komatori's example was more
eloquent than anything I could've said.  I simply glared into T'ang's
face until he gave a reluctant nod.

"This Japanese has given me face," he told his students bitterly.

"You will not take it away.  While those of Essential Sho-tokan remain
only to witness, you will do the same.  If you do not, I am dishonored
regardless of the outcome."

I thought that some of his supporters would object.  They had more at
stake Hong was dead, Nakahatchi wasn't.  Nevertheless they agreed
ungraciously, muttering to each other as they did so.

That was the best I could do.  To no one in particular, I muttered,
"Fine.  Knock yourselves out."  Feeling like a coward, I moved into the
crowd toward Sternway.

He considered my approach scornfully.  As soon as I reached him, I took
hold of his left forearm and dug my fingers in hard, just to get his
attention.  When he winced involuntarily, I let go.

"Don't leave," I breathed in his ear.

"I want to talk to you when this is over."

Without warning his right hand flicked under his left arm.  His
fingertips brushed my ribs, he hardly touched me and yet a sudden spasm
of pain clenched my chest.  He must've caught a nerve.  For a moment or
two I couldn't move.  If he'd decided to put his entire arm down my
throat, I wouldn't have been able to stop him.

"I'll be right here," he replied like a warning.

I sneaked a quick gulp of air.

At least we understood each other.  He knew what I wanted to talk to
him about.  And I knew I was as good as dead.

In the center of the dojo Hideo Komatori and T'ang Wen prepared
themselves for battle.

They stood six or seven paces apart.  Hideo bowed to T'ang with his
palms on the sides of his thighs, then shifted into a fighting stance
like the one Nakahatchi had used on me earlier.  T'ang replied by
dropping into a kind of crouch, his right leg doubled under him, his
left extended ahead with only the ball of his foot on the floor.  In
that position he covered his right fist with his left hand and
straightened his arms toward Komatori.

Neither of them moved.

Everyone else in the room seemed to have suspended breathing.

Then T'ang moved his lead foot, stroked the hardwood with his toes in a
circle that brought his left foot under him.  Flowing up from his
crouch, he poured his weight onto his left leg, tucked his right foot
behind the knee, cocked his left arm over his head with the fingers of
that hand pinched together, and gestured toward Komatori with his right
hand open, palm upward.

That hand beckoned for Komatori to attack.

Without warning Komatori surged forward.

At the same instant T'ang sprang at him, yelling fiercely.

In unison, as if they were both part of the same technique, they burst
into a flurry of movement.  Punches from all angles met blocks, blocks
became punches and more blocks, Komatori and T'ang swayed in and out
from the waist while their arms fired like bolts off a static
generator.  The spasm in my chest eased, yet I hardly breathed.  I
couldn't believe that they weren't pummeling each other bloody.  But I
didn't actually see a blow land.

Abruptly T'ang whirled into a spin so swift that he seemed to flicker.
His leg flipped out, snapping his heel at Komatori's head.

Komatori ducked under the kick, swept one of his own at T'ang's
supporting leg.  T'ang hopped over the attack into another spin and
kick that would've taken Komatori's head off if Komatori hadn't dropped
to the floor and rolled away.

T'ang went after him.  By the time Komatori regained his feet, T'ang
had leaped high into the air.  For an instant, a small shard of time,
he seemed to hang there, poised to crash down on his opponent like a
boulder from a trebuchet.  Then he dropped, driving both heels at
Komatori's chest.

He hit hard enough to pulverize cement, never mind ordinary human bone
or he would have if Komatori hadn't slipped aside.  While T'ang was
still in the air, Komatori fired a punch from his hip straight into
T'ang's sternum.  Komatori's hoarse shout covered the thud of impact.

T'ang didn't fall.  I couldn't imagine how he managed that.  A

blow like Komatori's would've dropped me to my knees for life.  But
somehow T'ang got his feet under him, landed staggering backward.  Two
steps later, he recovered his balance.

His flat eyes burned silver with mayhem.

At the edge of my attention I thought I heard the front door open.  I
turned reflexively.  Parker ?

No.

A second later half a dozen people in gis, no, ten, fifteen, charged
into the dojo, streaming rainwater as they came.  Their gis sported
patches that said Master Soon's Tae Kwon Do Academy.  They all wore
black belts.  Apparently Song Duk Soon had brought most of his senior
students with him.

What the fuck ?

Before anyone could react, Soon's people rushed into the middle of the
room, forcing the combatants apart.

Shock held the dojo for a moment.  No one moved.  Komatori stood at
attention, his expression shrouded.  Panting at the force of Komatori's
blow, T'ang poised himself on the balls of his feet.  The lines of his
stance shed threats the way Soon's black belts shed water.

Sternway cocked an eyebrow at me.  He might've been laughing.

Goddamn it, how many phone calls did Sue Rasmussen make?

Then Soon spread his arms, cleared a small space around him.  The look
on his face resembled triumph.

"Disgraceful!"  he almost crowed.

"Chops stolen.  Masters murdered.  Fighting in your dojo.  This is the
work of children!  You disgrace yourselves and your schools.  You
disgrace the martial arts."

It was Rasmussen's doing.  All of it.  Unless Sternway himself had told
T'ang Wen about the chops.

Any doubt I might've retained was gone, burned away in a flare of
perfect outrage.

"I will not allow it!"  Soon went on.  Water dripped from his gi like
eagerness.

"You are fortunate that we were informed.  For you yourselves I care
nothing.  I would leave you to pummel each other like babies.  But I
will not allow this insult to the martial arts.  The newspapers will
not make distinctions between us.  They will say that all martial
artists are wild dogs."  He closed his fists.

"It falls to taekwondo-ka to act responsibly."

The sonofabitch sounded like he'd gained the pinnacle of Heaven.
Anointed by the Almighty to achieve his rightful superiority.

Which would've been fine with me.  As long as he stopped the fight
before T'ang or Komatori got hurt as long as he sent everyone home I
didn't give a shit how much stature he assigned himself afterward.

But that wasn't really what he wanted.  I could see it in his eyes. One
of his black belts was Cloyd Hamson, looking even more belligerent in
other words, frightened than he had yesterday.  Another was a big
Korean man, practically a giant, with a face like a hatchet and the
closed remorseless aspect of an ax murderer.  He was probably Pack Hee
Cho, Soon's chief enforcer.

What Soon really wanted was a fight.  He wanted to beat the crap out of
every karate-ka and Wing Chun stylist in sight, force the whole damn
building to admit that he was the best.

Stung by dread, I started forward.  But I was too late.  Always too
late.  Before I'd taken a step, T'ang Wen brought up a yell from the
bottom of his heart and struck Soon's nearest black belt hard enough to
double the man over.

Instantly the room went up like a high-octane gas fire.  Howling their
anger and fear, thirty-plus men and women with too much training and
too little restraint hurled themselves at each other.  By the time I'd
finished one step and started another, the uneasy balance of the dojo
had shattered into a brawl.

Kicks, punches, throws, yelling and cries, gasps, frantic respiration.
Aronson went down with a gash over his eye that hadn't yet had time to
start bleeding.  From the floor he kicked his antagonist in the crotch,
then clawed his way back to his feet.  Komatori cracked heads with his
elbows, jammed his palms into ribs.  T'ang flashed from opponent to
opponent, striking each of them so fast that he was two blows away
before they reacted.  The giant picked up pajamas and gis
indiscriminately, threw them against each other.  With every punch and
kick he felled someone.  A couple of them didn't get up.  They lay
still and let themselves be trampled.

In the middle of the confusion, Soon measured out spinning kicks that
staggered everyone they hit.

Wrenching myself away, I grabbed onto Sternway, shouted, "Do
something!"

He sneered in my face.

"Such as?"

Fuck him.  Covering my head with both arms and crouching to protect my
torso, I crashed into the melee.

Somewhere nearby, a scream pierced the storm.  I ignored it.  Bodies
collided with me, fists jolted my arms and ribs.  Kicks landed on me,
heavy as bags of sand.  I ignored all that as well.  Single-minded as a
bulldozer, I drove my bulk through the battle.

Toward Pack Hee Cho.

I didn't consider him the most dangerous fighter in the room.  Not even
close.  But he was doing the most immediate damage.  And I needed to
make an example out of someone.  Otherwise none of these misguided
lunatics would listen to me.

I got lucky Cho had his back to me.  If he'd seen me coming he would've
knocked me in half.  A blow to the small of my back staggered me, but I
shrugged it off, forced my feet back under me.  Then I snatched out the
.45, reared up, and pounded it at the side of Cho's head.

At that moment I didn't particularly care whether I broke his skull or
not.

Although breaking a skull like his was probably impossible.  It
could've been bone from ear to ear.  For the first second or two after
I hit him, I actually thought that he wouldn't fall.

Finally he did.  Instead of toppling, he slumped almost gently to the
floor.

At once fighters stumbled and stomped over him.  Bodies slammed into me
from one side, then the other.  A kick came at my face so fast that I
almost didn't duck in time.

Racking a round into the chamber, I pointed the .45 at the ceiling and
pulled the trigger.

In that crowded space the shot sounded as lethal as a grenade.

And like a grenade, shrapnel scything wheat, it cleared a circle around
me instantaneously.  Reacting on instinct, gis and pajamas and street
clothes jumped or blundered or fell away.  In moments Cho's supine form
and I had the middle of the room to ourselves.

Without hesitation I located Soon and aimed the .45 at his stomach.

Loud enough to abrade my throat, I shouted, "No one moves!  No one! You
do, and I shoot Master Soon in the gut!  You move again, and I start
blazing.  I don't give a fuck who I hit!"

Fury congested Soon's face, but he stood still.

Komatori spread his arms to hold his people back.  His stare searched
me for an explanation I couldn't give him.  Not without exposing the
whole place to more violence.

T'ang Wen looked even angrier than Soon.  A yearning for blood poured
off him like flame off napalm.  Yet he, too, didn't move.  I'd clubbed
Cho, not one of his students.  I held the .45 on Soon, not him.
Apparently that bought me a moment of his restraint.

He was the one I needed to convince.

Back against the windows, Sternway appeared to be having fun.

"This is a setup!"  I roared hoarsely.

"You're all being manipulated.  This whole disaster was staged!  To
distract you from what really happened.

"Do you," I nearly screamed, "like being puppets?"

I didn't even glance at Komatori.  Him I trusted.  But I watched Soon,
saw the passion in his eyes shift toward suspicion.  And T'ang's stance
eased slightly as a hint of uncertainty crossed his face, eroding the
righteousness he stood on.

Taking my life in my hands, I uncocked the .45 and tucked it back into
its holster.  Then I faced T'ang Wen.

"We need to talk," I told him quietly.

"Here.  Now."

As soon as I put the .45 away, half the room moved.  Anticipated blows
flared along my nerves.  But no one came toward me.  Men and women on
the floor got up if they could.  Their fellow students went to help
those who couldn't.  A couple of pajamas remained unconscious.  One of
the kids who'd helped Komatori and Aronson with the display case had a
crushed knee.  Their friends supplied what assistance they could.

No one approached Pack Hee Cho.  I still stood over him.

T'ang glared back at me.

"My master treated you honorably when I would not have done so.  Now I
have seen how you repay such courtesy.  I say again what I have already
said.  You have no word to speak that I will hear."

"You're right," I retorted, too angry myself to pretend otherwise.

"You said that already.  And I did fail your master.  But I didn't kill
him.  I was miles away when it happened.  And Naka-hat chi sensei
didn't kill him.  He was asleep in bed with his wife.  If the two of
them weren't being so damn dignified and insulted about it, they
would've told the cops that already."

When I saw that I'd shaken his confidence just a bit, I announced
harshly, "Mr.  T'ang, you have a word that I need to hear."

The doubt in his eyes didn't last long.  He clenched his teeth, said
nothing.

"I think I know why your master was killed."  My tone spat like
overheated cooking oil.

"But I can't be sure until you answer a question for me."

Through the room's quiet I could hear rain thrash the windows, despite
the hard breathing of the fighters and the choked moans of the
injured.

"Sifu Hong looked at the chops yesterday."  I ignored everything else,
concentrated exclusively on T'ang.

"But he didn't tell any of us what he thought of them.  Maybe he told
you."

I paused to gather my courage.  Then I demanded, "What about it, Mr.
T'ang?  Are the chops genuine?"

He straightened his shoulders.

"They are not."

He was willing to go that far, if no farther.

I felt rather than heard Komatori's surprise behind me.  His students
raised a low murmur of protest.  Even Soon's black belts objected.

"How could he be sure?"  I had to know.  Too much depended on it.

"A professional appraiser declared them genuine.  He sounded convincing
enough.  What made your master think he's wrong?"

T'ang snorted his contempt.

"My master did not 'think' your appraiser was wrong.  He was certain of
it."

"But how?  What made him certain?"

T'ang shook his head.

"No."  His jaw knotted angrily.

"This is not a matter for outsiders.  It is private, secret to Wing
Chun.  Only the greatest masters know of it.  I myself did not know
until my master entrusted it to me yesterday."  The admission cost him
a visible effort.

"I will not speak of it, not to you, not to these" he gestured around
him "intruders.  I will not betray my master's confidence."

Confidence.  Secrets.  I wanted to throttle him, squeeze the truth out
of his narrow-minded throat.

"Oh, stop," I snarled.

"Not even to catch your master's killer?  Are you so content with his
death that you're willing to let the man who broke his neck go free?"
Not to mention Bernie's murderer.

"If you insist on keeping your precious secret, I won't be responsible
for what comes next.  Maybe Sifu Hong's killer will kill you, too.
He'll sure as hell try."

As long as Hong's secret died with T'ang, the bastard might still come
out on top.

There T'ang hung fire.  I could see his internal struggle as clearly as
if he'd drawn me a schematic.  Pride in his master and his style, an
almost genetic instinct for secrets, ingrained combativeness a sore
ego, grief, and a kind of transcendental rage warred with the insult
I'd thrown in his face.  He wanted revenge on Hong's killer, he wanted
to crush me for putting this kind of pressure on him, he wanted to make
Soon eat his air of superiority and his interference.  And maybe, just
maybe, he wanted to prove that he could match Hideo Komatori's
self-possession.

Through the veiled threats of the storm, I seemed to feel the dojo lean
in on me, concentrating three schools worth of "face" and pain on my
vulnerable shoulders.  At my feet Cho groaned, shifted his shoulders. I
stepped aside just in case he'd regained enough consciousness to grab
at me.

By slow degrees, T'ang Wen sagged.  He had to surrender something, that
was obvious.  I hadn't left him any choice.  He couldn't preserve his
master's secrets without refusing to help me identify his master's
killer.

But he didn't let himself sound beaten.  His tone was defiant when he
finally said, "I spoke to you of Ng Mui, the Buddhist nun who escaped
the destruction of the Northern Shaolin Temple, and who taught her
secrets to Yim Wing Chun."  At the tournament on Saturday.  Before
Bernie died.

"That tale is a legend spread to protect Ming adherents from the
Manchurian Qing dynasty.  In truth, Wing Chun was developed in the
south, with the aid of certain masters from the north.  They sought to
supply Ming supporters with an effective fighting style after the
burning of the Southern Shaolin Temple.

"Perhaps Leung Len Kwai carved the chops," he finished roughly, "but he
knew nothing of Wing Chun."

In other words, if Swilley hadn't certified the chops as historically
valuable artifacts instead of mere antiques, Watchdog could've measured
its risk in tens of thousands of dollars instead of millions.
Artistically the chops may've been as beautiful as

Seraphim, but they lacked authority.  Their value as a martial record
of Wing Chun was nonexistent.

Now I had everything I needed.

Anson Sternway, bless his little heart, didn't look like he was having
fun anymore.

Twenty-Six.

Cupping my left hand over my right first, I bowed to T'ang Wen.

"Thank you."  I was too scared and angry to sound as fervent as I felt,
but I gave it my best shot.

"You humble me.  Sifu Hong must truly have been a great master to teach
a student like you.

"He was killed because he knew that the chops weren't genuine."  I made
sure everyone in the room could hear me.

"If the bastard who did it had realized your master shared the secret
with you, he would've killed you, too.  But now we all know.  There's
no point in killing any more of us, unless he kills us all."

I'd accomplished that much, whatever happened.  No one remained in the
line of fire except me.

Unfortunately I'd also raised the stakes.  Greed drives some people
hard but survival drives them harder.

I had everything I needed, but I didn't stop.  One more question cried
out for an answer.

"Help me understand something," I said to T'ang.

"Knowing the truth, why didn't your master tell Na-kahatchi sensei
about the chops?"

T'ang's hostility had collapsed when he surrendered.  He swallowed at
the distress in his throat.

"How could my master speak?  Nakahatchi sensei showed him respect."
Presumably by welcoming his evaluation of the chops.  By inviting him
to tea.

"And your appraiser proclaimed his superior knowledge.  To contradict
that gwailo would deny face to my master's host, into whose care the
chops had been entrusted.

"My master could not foresee what followed."  T'ang's tone hardened.

"He would have shown his own respect in deeds if he had perceived the
danger."

I believed him.  Once Hong had accepted Nakahatchi's hospitality, he
would've gone to war to square the debt.

Leaving the window, Sternway came toward me, a fixed expression on his
face, his hands relaxed at his sides.  I had to get moving.

"Care for your students," I told T'ang more quietly.

"Protect your dojo.  I'll resolve this tonight."

If I had the strength.  Or the brains.

Before Sternway reached me, I turned to Song Duk Soon.

He was helping Cho stand.  The big man looked dazed, vaguely
bewildered.  Maybe he still didn't know who'd hit him.  But Soon met me
with a glare hot enough to sizzle bacon.

"Master Soon," I said so softly that I almost whispered, "I need your
help."

Maybe I did, maybe I didn't.  Nevertheless I had to soothe his
aggrieved pride somehow.  Otherwise I wouldn't be able to turn my back
on him.  And I owed at least that much to Alex Lacone's dream for
Martial America.

Soon's angry stare didn't waver.  However, he raised the palm of his
hand toward Sternway.

The IAMA director stopped obediently just out of earshot, calm as a man
with all his questions answered.

In a low voice, I told Soon, "This isn't done."  I indicated the
dojo.

"There's going to be more trouble.  I need you, or one of your black
belts, to keep watch on the empty school," the unoccupied fourth side
of the building.

"If anyone goes in, find out who it is.  If anyone comes out, stop
them.  Then call the police."

He appraised me indignantly.  After all, I'd threatened him once and
insulted him at least that often.  But apparently he didn't like the
idea that he'd been manipulated any more than T'ang and Komatori did.
After a moment he nodded.

"Thank you," I murmured.

Despite the alarm that scraped the lining of my stomach, the visceral
desire to break and run, I took the time to offer him a bow as well.
Then I stepped past Cho toward Hideo.

At once Soon gathered his people to leave.

Sternway came to join me.  But now I didn't care what he heard.  At
this point I only wanted to keep Komatori and his students out of
harm's way.  Like T'ang Wen and his students.

The IAMA director watched with an expression that might've indicated
bemusement while I told Hideo essentially what I'd said to T'ang.  I
thanked him for his restraint earlier, urged him to call an ambulance
for the kid with the ruined knee, promised I'd clear Nakahatchi's name
by morning, and asked him to take his supporters back to Essential
Shotokan.  Now, however, Stern-way's threatening presence marred my
sincerity.  Sending Ko-ma tori away left me alone, unarmed apart from
the .45, my cell phone, and an anger so deep that I could've drowned in
it.

Exertion had dried Komatori's face, but his gi remained damp.

"If you have your key," I added, "you can go out the back here and let
yourself into your dojo by the fire door."  That way he and his
students wouldn't have to carry the kid through the rain.

He'd regained his self-containment, but I saw shadows in his eyes,
suggestions of turmoil, and his scar had darkened.

"We'll go, Brew-sarz," he answered quietly.

"But I don't understand what's happening.  You've taken too much onto
yourself."

Dishonestly I tried to reassure him.

"It's not as much as you think."  I wanted him safe.  Innocent men were
already dead.  Not to mention Turf Hardshorn.  My conscience couldn't
bear any more victims.

"As long as no one except Sifu Hong knew the truth, a man could get
rich stealing the chops.  But now " I faltered, shrugged.

"There's no money in it.  We'll get them back.  And prove your master's
innocence."

Glancing at Sternway to avoid Hideo's scrutiny, I finished, "I'm not
alone.  Between us, Anson and I'll work everything out."

Sternway's thin smile reminded me of his eagerness in the fight club,
where he'd killed Hardshorn.

I still had no evidence.  None at all.

Finally Hideo nodded.  He made a point of crossing the room so that he
could bow to T'ang Wen.  When T'ang responded, Ko-ma tori collected his
students.  Carefully they carried the moaning kid out if the dojo.  A
moment later I heard the fire door clash open.  The sound was barely
audible against the background of the storm.

"Now what, Axbrewder?"  Sternway asked flatly.

"You said you wanted to talk."

Instead of answering, I returned to T'ang.

He knelt beside one of his students now, checking the extent of the
man's injuries.  He looked up as Sternway and I approached.

"Mr.  T'ang, Mr.  Sternway and I have a lot to discuss."  Fear and the
aftereflects of shouting left my voice rough.

"We'll need privacy.  But I don't want to intrude on you.  We'll let
ourselves out the back."

T'ang nodded a dismissal.  I'd already taken more from him than he
thought he could afford.

When I'd given Hideo enough time to get his people back where they
belonged, Sternway and I followed him.  At the fire door, I gestured
Sternway ahead of me.  He shrugged in curiously and complied.  He'd
seen me club Cho, but apparently he wasn't concerned that I might do
the same to him.

While he had his back to me, I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket,
touched the cell phone preset to bring up the number for my apartment,
and pushed the dial button.

Praying that the answering machine wouldn't fail me, I stepped out into
the heat of the utility well and let the fire door shut itself behind
me.

Sternway went as far as the equipment cage.  Light glared down from the
flood lamps casting accusative shadows across us from the catwalks
overhead.  His features appeared to slip in and out of existence as he
shifted through the shadows.  For some reason, the smell of brimstone
seemed stronger.  After the comparative quiet inside Traditional Wing
Chun, the rain rattled in the air like distressed sheet metal. Whenever
thunder struck nearby, it raised a muffled vibration like keening from
the grills and catwalks.

Too late, I realized that the answering machine might not hear anything
except rain and faint metallic woe.

Ah, shit.

At the cage, Sternway turned to face me.  His arms hung expectantly at
his sides.

"Well?"  he demanded.

"Spit it out, Ax-brewder."

I could hardly hear him myself.

I didn't have any choice.  If the answering machine couldn't pick up
our voices, I'd just have to survive.  Somehow.

Staying at least three long strides away from him, I moved until the
fire-escape corridor was at my back.  Now he couldn't escape unless he
got past me first.  There I straightened my spine, let him see my teeth
in a harsh grin.

"Tell me something, Anson."  I raised my voice to carry through the
muffled downpour.

"I think I have the rest of it figured out."  The parts that mattered,
anyway.

"But how did you know you were going to need that rope and grapple?"

He laughed sharply, like the crack of a handgun.

"What rope and grapple?"

"The ones the cops found in the Dumpster.  You made it too easy.  When
you handed off the chops to Swilley, you could've given him the rope
and grapple too.  He could've ditched them anywhere."

That got his attention.  He opened his mouth to laugh again, then
changed his mind.  His frown caught the shadows.

"Swilley?  Carliss Swilley?  I don't know what you're talking about.
I've never met the man."  He feigned a dawning surprise.

"Do you mean to say you think I ?"

I cut him off.

"Never mind.  It doesn't matter.  Let's just assume that you left the
evidence where the cops couldn't miss it because you wanted to
implicate Nakahatchi.

"The part that really pisses me off and I mean really is killing Bernie
Appelwait.  Hong sure as hell didn't deserve to die, but at least there
was always a chance that he'd wake up in time to defend himself.  Not
Bernie."  For a moment rage constricted my chest.  I had to fight it
down in order to breathe.

"He couldn't have saved himself from you and Hardshorn with a fucking
cannon, never mind a mere flik."

"Stop!"  Sternway ordered.

"Damn you, Axbrewder, stop."  Now I could hear him better.  All I had
to do was keep him angry.

"I don't know what you're talking about!  I hardly knew Appelwait.
Hardshorn was just a man I saw around the fight club.  Until he tried
to kill you until I saved your life I never had anything to do with
him.

"You better have a good excuse for accusing me like this.  If you
don't, I'll sue you for harassment.  Slander.  I'll call that
detective, what's his name, and have you arrested!"

Pure bluster.  I ignored it.

"Here's the way I see it."  I spat out every word so that he wouldn't
miss it.

"You tell me if I miss anything.

"You knew the chops were fake.  That particular secret wasn't hard to
ferret out.  Not for a martial arts god like you.  But Nakahatchi
didn't.  Watchdog didn't.  If you stole them, you could make a fortune
selling them.  As long as your buyers believed they were genuine.

"That meant you had to get them appraised as genuine.  But of course
Watchdog's New York expert wouldn't do that, so you had to make sure he
never saw them.  Instead you approached Swilley, offered him a share of
the take if he authenticated them for you.

"He's a greedy little weasel, and he jumped at it."

Sternway changed his approach.  I guess he'd realized that righteous
indignation wouldn't work.

"Do you have children, Ax-brewder?"  he inquired sardonically.

"You should.  You're good at bedtime stories."

His sarcasm didn't touch me.  I understood it too well.

I knew it was a sign of weakness Keeping my voice loud goading him to
do the same I continued.

"Next you needed to make Watchdog nervous.  They had to want a local
appraisal before their expert could get here.  And you already knew
Hardshorn.  You'd hired him to frame your wife so that she looked like
she was trying to set you up for a fat divorce settlement.  Now you had
him bring a team to the tournament.

"You weren't particularly interested in petty cash" I gave him another
bloodthirsty grin "although you always need money.  You wanted to scare
Watchdog, make them think ordinary security wasn't good enough to
protect the chops.

"Naturally Hardshorn didn't intend to risk getting caught, so you
arranged to meet him in the men's room, just in case he needed help.

"Unfortunately," I growled, "you didn't expect me to tag the picks."
Sternway must've been Hardshorn's spot.

"Bernie caught you by surprise.  He was probably already in the men's
room when you got there, flailing his flik at Hardshorn.

"And he knew you."  Again I had to struggle for breath.  The heat of
the utility well and the sound of the rain seemed to clog my lungs.

"That was his only crime.  As soon as he saw you, you weren't looking
at millions anymore.  You were looking at prison."

Fury mounted in my raw throat.

"So you took his flik right after he gave you that nice bruise on your
left forearm, the one you keep hidden and you crushed his larynxl" For
the second time Sternway opened his mouth to respond, then thought
better of it.  Apparently he'd run out of jibes.

Instinct told me that I'd set him up as well as I could.  Now I had to
blindside him somehow, hit him with something he didn't expect.
Otherwise he might never give me what I needed.

"Afterward," I informed him, "you went out to the lobby, blended in
with Lacone and Deborah Messenger.  Later you got the bag from
Hardshorn, put the flik inside, and hid it in Mai's house.  You were
still trying to incriminate her, make her look like she'd hired
Hardshorn to frame you."

That shook him, I could see it.  Obviously he believed that he could
bluff his way out of anything I said about the chops and Swilley.  But
the fact that I knew what he'd done with Hard-shorn's gear-bag
undermined his confidence.

At last I'd found a vulnerable spot.  Like the bruise on his forearm. I
dug into it as hard as I could.

"The cops have the flik now.  They can prove it's the murder weapon.
Since you didn't bother to clean it," I explained trenchantly, "they'll
find Bernie's blood on it.  And the same fibers they found in his
throat.

"Once they match those fibers to your LAMA blazer, they're going to fry
your ass.

"Of course, they don't suspect you yet," I drawled.

"You've been pretty clever so far.  But a friend of mine is searching
your place right now, looking for that blazer."

Which was pure bullshit.  I hadn't thought that fast, or that far
ahead, when I'd asked Deborah to call Marshal.  But he might figure it
out for himself.  Or Ginny might.

"And even if he doesn't find it," I added, "you're still fried.  You
didn't clean the damn flik."  That I knew for sure.

"It has your fingerprints on it.

"Really, it's too bad you're so fucking determined to punish your wife.
Otherwise you might've gotten away with it."

Now I couldn't read Sternway expression.  He'd draped a shroud over his
gaze.  Instead of watching my face, he'd lowered his eyes to the center
of my chest.  Like Nakahatchi sparring I probably should've pulled out
the .45 right then.  But he still hadn't admitted anything.  My
connection to the answering machine if it worked at all had recorded
nothing except my accusations.

I needed him to say something I could use.

"But of course," I went on, "you didn't realize any of that.  You
thought you were getting exactly what you wanted.

"Sammy Posten panics.  Lacone hires me.  I help convince Watchdog they
need an appraisal right away.  Hell, you probably hung around with
Lacone on Sunday to make sure he hired me.

"Mission accomplished.

"The downside is, I want Lacone to improve his security.  A lot.  You
know all about my suggestions because you and Lacone are such pals. And
you know he isn't stupid enough to drag his feet once Swilley
authenticates the chops.  So you have to act fast which means taking
the chops and killing Hong."

If I hadn't invited Hong to take a close look "But first you want to
get rid of me.  Once Watchdog decided to bring in Swilley, you and
Hardshorn would both be safer that way.  That's why you convinced me to
go out with you Monday night.  A big dumb rent-a-cop at a fight club
what could be more natural?  Brain-dead Axbrewder catches sight of
Hardshorn, chases him out into the alley.  Then he's dead.  He can't
tell anyone that you helped Hardshorn kill him.  Chances are the cops
won't even realize you were there.  And they aren't likely to track
Hardshorn down.  He's safe unless you rat him out which you won't do
because he knows too much."

I sucked thick heat into my lungs.

"But you changed your mind."

What the fuck are you doing?

"At the last minute you killed Hardshorn instead.  That's the only
thing I really don't understand.  You had me right where you wanted me,
and you let me live.

"Why?"

Through the sheet metal obstruction of the rain, the echo of thunder in
the catwalks, Sternway answered as if I'd invoked the truth from him
with blood and sacrifice.

"Because you were no danger.  Him I couldn't control."

Yes!  Got you, you sonofabitch.

Scornfully he explained, "You're one of those big men with a gun and no
real courage.  If I thought you had the stones to get into the ring
with Hardshorn, I would have let him break your neck.  He had it all
planned.  But I knew you wouldn't.

"After that" Sternway shrugged "I couldn't risk letting him kill you.
You'd already used your phone.  I could assume you told someone you
were with me.  Then the police would wonder why I hadn't tried to help
you.  And if I only pretended to help, Turf would have gone berserk. He
would think that I was setting him up.  That I was going to testify
against him."

I let triumph into my voice.

"And since I'm a big man with a gun and no guts, you knew you could
handle me.

"Still, it must've given you quite a jolt when I told Moy that
Hardshorn hadn't killed Bernie."

Sternway didn't react.  I forged on anyway.

"So you went ahead with your original plan.  You'd already talked
Lacone into letting you take me and the chops to Martial America.  And
of course you couldn't stand in for him without his master key which
you copied before you handed it over."

He nodded indistinctly.

"That gave you access to the chops."  I was winning.

"Now all you had to do was wait until Swilley did his part.  As soon as
Deborah Messenger called Sue Rasmussen to discuss the problem, you knew
how fast you had to act.

"And you knew that I'd asked Hong to take a look at the chops.  You had
to kill him when you stole them.  Before he told anyone the truth."

Shadows from the catwalk filled Sternway's eyes.  I couldn't tell
whether he regarded me with contempt or alarm.

I locked my arms across my chest to contain my anger.

"As for the rest Your Sue is good at incendiary phone calls.  Once you
had the chops and Hong was dead, she started talking to people like
T'ang and Soon, selling the idea that Hong stole the chops and
Nakahatchi killed him for it.  You wanted to stir up enough good ol'
'traditional hostility' to convince the cops that they didn't need to
look any farther for motives."

Sternway had resumed his lethal relaxation.  He stood like mockery,
waiting for me to finish.

Through my teeth I pronounced, "Which brings me back to my original
question.  How did you know you were going to need a rope and
grapple?"

He snorted.

"That's easy.  I'm surprised it isn't obvious."

For the first time, he shifted his position, took a step toward me.

"T'ang told Sue Hong had changed his lock.  He even told her Hong liked
to sleep with his window open."  Another step.

"It's amazing what you can learn from people when they think you share
an enemy like the Japanese.  Or the Koreans."

And when Posten called Rasmussen, she let Sternway know.  He returned
to stoke the fires all that talk about "Ninjitsu" and keep an eye on
me.

Uncrossing my arms, I pulled out the .45 and pointed it dead at his
face.

"That's close enough, asshole."

He sneered.

"You won't shoot me, Axbrewder.  You said it yourself.  No guts.  And
I'm unarmed.  Even a coward like you can't kill people in cold
blood."

He started into another step.

With my left hand, I chambered a round.  Background noise dulled the
sound.

"Maybe I'll shoot you, maybe I won't.  Unlike you, I've still got a
couple of scruples."  Anger poured from me like venom.

"But I've been known to let them slip on occasion.

"However," I admitted bitterly, "I'm a terrible shot.  I could probably
miss.  Even at this range."  Not bloody likely.

"So I took precautions."

I lifted the cell phone out of my pocket, held it up so that Sternway
could see it.  The connection counter hadn't stopped.  My link to the
answering machine remained open.

"When we left the dojo, I called a tape recorder.  It's been running
the whole time.  It'll have a lot of background noise rain, thunder,
that sort of thing.  But the crime lab can clear it up.  When they're
done, you'll be perfectly audible."

Abruptly a storm of fury seized his features.  All at once he looked
rabid and unstoppable, like he could walk through machine-gun fire,
tear me apart with his teeth.  But that passed almost immediately.
Without effort he relaxed his shoulders, let the tension out of his
hands.  A twist of his mouth dismissed my precautions.  Ready as a
stick of dynamite, he flashed a glare into my face.

"That won't save you, Axbrewder," he announced distinctly.

"I don't care how many lies you tell about me.  I don't care if you
shoot me.  You can't hide the truth.  Eventually the police will hunt
you down."

That sudden change in his stance scared me worse than a direct charge.
If he'd come right at me, I could at least have tried to whack him on
the head.  If nothing else, I should've braced myself.

Instead I dropped the phone back into my pocket, steadied the .45 with
both hands.

"Oh, give it up," I rasped back.

"Maybe you're too tough to die."  I sighted at his guts.

"Maybe you're the fucking Ebola virus of martial artists.  But too many
people know what I know.  The cops have a piece, Marshal Viviter has a
piece, the friend who found that bag has a piece."  I wasn't about to
say Ginny's name.  Just in case.

"They'll put it all together sooner or later."

"Lies," he retorted.

"You're lying.  I have to wonder where you've hidden the chops.  You
haven't had time to take them far.  If you're as careless about that as
you've been about other things, they may still be in your car."

"That's enough!"  What the hell was wrong with him?  He couldn't wipe
out what he'd already said by accusing me.

"Get down!  Nowl On the floor.  Face first.  I don't want to kill you,
but I do not mind leaving a hole you can put your fist through in your
goddamn stomach!"

He stepped back like I'd scared him like he suddenly believed that I'd
blow him away when scarcely a minute ago he'd actively dared me to
shoot him.

I didn't get any other warning.  I'd already missed too many danger
signs.

Out of nowhere a weight like the business end of an Abrams tank plowed
into my kidneys.  My head cracked back, my arms jumped at the ceiling.
I held onto the .45 as hard as I could, but that didn't prevent me from
sprawling heavily onto the cement.

My back felt like my spine had snapped.

Sternway kicked at my right wrist, wrenched the .45 out of my
fingers.

"What kept you?"  He didn't sound angry or even irritated.  He sounded
smug, satisfied.

"Another minute, and he would have killed me."

A voice answered, "We had to be careful."  A man's voice.

"If he heard us coming " Numbness washed everything away for a moment.
Numbness and rain.  It was never going to stop raining.  Then the man's
voice came back.

" didn't want him to kill you."

Whoever he was.

Sternway said, "He has a phone, Sue.  Left jacket pocket."

Sue?  Hell of a name for a man.  I'd always thought so.

Hands rummaged in my pocket.  The phone appeared on the cement in front
of my face.  I could almost focus on it.  Then a foot wearing an
athletic shoe came down, crushed it.

"Did he use it?"  A woman's voice this time.

Or not?  With my back broken, I couldn't be sure.

"He says he did," Sternway replied.

"He says he called a tape recorder.  It got the whole conversation."

"Oh, shit!"  She sounded like she might be pretty when she was angry.

"You didn't tell him anything?"

"Enough."  Sternway still sounded pleased.

"Enough to keep him from shooting me."

"Jesus Christ, Anson!"  The woman wasn't pleased.  Not at all.

"What were you thinking?"

"What was there to tell?"  A man's voice again.

"I thought he wanted to " Sternway had two rescuers.  Definitely.  At
least two.

"He did," Sternway retorted.

"I can't explain right now.  We don't have time.  We have to get rid of
him.  Before somebody comes looking for him."

"What do you mean, get rid of him?"  the man asked.

"If Sue hadn't ruined his phone, you could call the police.  I'll go
out to f Essential Shotokan, use their phone."

V "Shut up!"  the woman barked.

"You don't understand.  Anson's right.  We have to get rid of him. Now.
 We'll explain everything when we have time."

I didn't much like the idea that they'd broken my back.  They could get
rid of me all they wanted, but I did not want a broken back.  And I
couldn't feel anything.  Not anywhere.

But when I told my right hand to move, it twitched.

My numbness vanished in a sudden jolt of pain, as incandescent and
irrefusable as lightning.  Bruised bones, torn muscles, there was no
distinction.

It galvanized me like lightning.  Without noticing how I did it,

I squirmed onto my back.  My wrist and kidneys hurt like the fires of
hell, but at least now I could see.

Outlined by flood lamps a woman who looked exactly like a cheerleader I
used to know in high school stood over me.  Sue Rasmussen.  She wore a
warmup suit and athletic shoes.  When I flopped over, she retreated a
step, but she didn't take her eyes off Parker Neill.

He also wore a warmup suit.  And athletic shoes.  Uniform of the day.
Neither of them was wet.  They must've left their rain gear at the end
of the fire escape corridor.

Parker Ah, Christ.

He was the tank that ran me over.  Rasmussen had the rep of a killer
martial artist, but she lacked the sheer mass to hit me so hard.

The cavalry had arrived, all right.  For Sternway.

Parker didn't look at her.  His attention focused on Sternway.  Shadows
and uncertainty confused his round face.

"Anson " he tried to say.

"Sensei " "Trust me," Sternway ordered.  He'd lost his smugness.  His
patience.

"This will all make sense, I promise.

"What do you think, Sue?  If we shoot him " She shook her head
violently.

"That could attract attention."

I agreed with her.  A shot might be heard in one of the dojos.  Despite
the storm.

Sternway nodded.

"What I would like to do," he said in a speculative tone, gazing
upward, "is drop him off the top catwalk.  Make it look like an
accident.  We can dispose of the gun later.  But I don't think we can
wrestle him up there.  He's too heavy."  He glanced down at me.

"And he's conscious.  He'll resist."

"Then we break his back," Rasmussen announced harshly.

"If we arrange him by the cage, he'll look like he fell, killed
himself."

"Good."  Sternway grinned at her.

"Let's do it."

"You're serious," Neill said.

"You're going to kill him."

"Because we have to," she spat at him.

"Get it through your head.  We don't have any choicel" "Oh."  He
sounded shaken.

"I see.  OK."

"Finally!"  Rasmussen didn't disguise her exasperation.

"Help me pick him up."

Neill ducked his head, defeated.

"OK," he said again.

He came over to my right.  She took the left.  Clearly they didn't
expect their revered sensei to do any of the work.

Together they manhandled me to my feet.  When they had me upright, they
turned me to face Sternway.

He still stood in front of the cage, no more than six feet away.  If I
fell at him, I could butt him in the kneecap.  The .45 rested in his
hand like it weighed nothing, meant nothing.

If he fired from this range, the slug would tear out half my back.

I shut my eyes.  I could feel my legs now.  Jagged blades stabbed up
and down my thighs and calves.  The small of my back was a sodden mass
of hurt.  Parker may've injured one of my kidneys.

But pain was a good thing.  In a manner of speaking.  As long as I felt
it, I knew I wasn't dead.

"How shall we do this?"  Rasmussen asked Sternway.

"OK," Neill said for the third time.  He nodded to himself.

"I have an idea."

Rain pounded like retribution onto the roof of the building.  I
reopened my eyes.

He let go of me, and I nearly crumbled.  Somehow I managed to lock my
knees, keep myself upright.  He put himself between me and Sternway.
Between me and the .45.

"How about," he suggested, "we do this?"

His left fist lashed out.  His knuckles struck Rasmussen on the bridge
of her nose.  I heard it shatter.

At the same time, his right forearm hacked at Sternway's hand.  At the
.45.  His left fist rebounded from Sue's nose to punch at Sternway's
head.

Sternway had trained her well.  Parker caught her by surprise, yet his
blow hardly cost her half a second.  Then she flung herself after
him.

The .45 arced away, skidded across the concrete.

Sternway blocked Neil Ps punch, countered hard.

I toppled myself like a stack of cinder blocks onto Rasmus-sen's
back.

Parker wheeled aside, blocking furiously.  Sternway went for him like a
whirlwind.

With my bulk crashing down on her, Sue couldn't control her momentum,
deflect herself, avoid She didn't even have time to get her hands up.
Head first, she slammed into the utility cage.

The heavy grate rang like falling re bar  I stumbled into it, hooked my
fingers through the links to hold myself up.  She bounced back a step
or two, then folded quietly to the floor.

Blood stained her face.  I didn't like the angle of her neck.  It
looked final.

Sternway drove Parker backward.  They exchanged blows like barrages,
kicks with the impact of mortar shells.  I'd never seen fighters move
so fast, not even at the fight club.  Concentration flamed in Neil Ps
eyes, rapt and consuming.  But he was overweight, couldn't match
Sternway's conditioning.  And he lacked Clinging to the cage, I turned.
Pain thundered in the air.  I couldn't hear blows or breathing.  I
couldn't hear desperation.

lacked Sternway's eagerness for combat, the keen joy that lifted him
out of himself and made killing easy.

Frantically I searched the floor.  As soon as I spotted the .45,1
pitched forward onto my hands and knees, and began crawling toward
it.

Hell, it wasn't more than twenty feet away.  I could reach it easy.
Fuck Sternway, I could reach it.  Parker hadn't broken my back.  And
pain was my friend, my oldest companion.  Every shift of my knees and
scrape of my palms hurt like rage.  Like courage.  And if it hurt like
this, it had to be worth doing.  Simply had to be.  All I needed,
absolutely all, was for Parker to hang on.

Long enough.

Sternway had killed Bernie.  He'd killed Hong.  For money.

I wanted to shoot him straight in the head.

I thought I heard laughter.

"You're slow, Parker."  Taunts.

"You're no fighter.  You've always been slow."  Taunts and blows,
hammered flesh.

"I can take you whenever I choose."

"Show me," Parker gasped.

Halfway to the .45.  Two thirds of the way.

Hang on long enough.

More jeering.

"I'll let you wear yourself out first.  I want you to see it coming."

Fuck him.

Pain was a good thing.  Oh, yes.  As good as rage.  I wedged my legs
under me, lunged into a dive.

Landed hard.

Rolled.

Came up onto my knees with the .45 in both fists.

Their struggle had taken Neill and Sternway over by one of the catwalk
ladders.  They were too far away.  And too close together.  Parker
fought with his back to the wall now, defending frantically while
Sternway inundated him with blows.

I raised the .45 to fire a shot over their heads.

Except I couldn't.  My fingers didn't work right.  Sternway must've
hurt a nerve in my wrist.  I couldn't pull the trigger.

Awkwardly I shifted the .45 to my left.  It felt like a club, inert and
too heavy to lift.  I'd never be able to aim this way.

I didn't need to aim.

The concussion nearly knocked me off balance.  For an instant the storm
and the fight fell silent, deafened by the blast.  Then I heard the
slug ricochet off concrete and spang into one of the catwalks.

Involuntarily Parker turned his head to look at me and Sternway hit him
in the solar plexus with a two-knuckled punch that dropped him like a
sack of discarded clothes.

Sonofafoztcfa!

I staggered to my feet, stood wavering with the .45 stretched out in
front of me.

"That's enough," I panted.

"Don't move."  When had my voice become so weak?

"Don't even think about moving."  I started toward him, lock-kneed and
rigid, one step at a time.

"You've already done too much harm.  You won't do any more."

Had anyone heard the shot?  Even that demanding sound might not
penetrate the walls and the storm.

But if it did More cannon fodder for the IAMA director.

Shadows hid his expression.  He glanced at Sue Rasmussen's huddled
body, then looked back at me.

"Do it, Axbrewder."  He sounded like butchery.

"Shoot me.  If you don't, I'll tear your heart out through your ass."

Parker didn't move.

"Fuck you."  Some chances I had to take.

I fired on the move, lurching through the recoil.  I didn't expect to
hit him.  All I wanted was to make him remain still until I got
closer.

Entirely by chance, my shot spalled a cinder block three feet from his
head before it angled away, whining like a drill in granite.

I saw outrage seize his face again, the recognition that he was
trapped.  I was willing to shoot him after all.  And I must have a few
rounds left.  If he let me get close enough, he was finished.  He
couldn't fight a bullet.

And no one else would get hurt.

Snarling, he turned and jumped for the ladder.

I tried to hurry after him, but he was faster.  By the time I'd covered
enough distance to aim the .45 adequately, he'd already scrambled up to
the second floor catwalk.  There metal bars and railings protected him.
He was out of my reach before he started up the next ladder to the top
floor.

Damn him.  Damn him inside out and backward.  I wanted him, but I'd
never get him now.  He still had his key, he could let himself into all
four sides of the building.  I'd have to try to intercept him before he
gained an exit.

If he doubled back while I hunted him, I'd never stop him.

And if he didn't, if he entered one of the schools and headed for the
front door, he'd find innocent people in his way.  Hideo's students.
Hong's.  Soon's.  I couldn't tell myself that they'd all gone home by
now.  And Komatori and T'ang lived here.  So did Soon.

And if Sternway chose the unoccupied side, he'd encounter one of Soon's
black belts.  Or Soon himself.

More innocent people.  More death.

It was too much.  I couldn't let it pass.

Coughing to clear my throat, I shouted, "Anson!"

The rattle of his feet on the ladder stopped.  I didn't hear him clang
along the catwalk.

"Ansonl" I had to cough some more.  Fortunately I didn't hack up blood.
My kidneys hadn't been damaged as badly as I'd feared.

He didn't answer but he didn't move either.  Maybe he didn't like his
chances inside any of the dojos.  If nothing else, someone would see
him running away "You beat Parker!"  Parker still hadn't moved.  From
my angle, he hardly seemed to breathe.

"I saw that.  But you can't take me!"

Sternway didn't answer.

Desperately I tossed the .45 so that it skittered across the floor into
the white scowl of the flood lamps  Where he could see it.

"I didn't avoid fighting Hardshorn because I'm a coward!  I did it
because I wanted him alive.  I wanted him to tell me who killed Bernie.
If he hadn't ambushed me, you'd already be in jail!"

Abruptly Sternway leaned out over the railing, sneered down at me.

"You're lying, Axbrewder.  You couldn't take him with his head tied
between his legs.  You'll need a platoon to take me."

I beckoned.

"Come back down here.  I'll show you."

He snorted a laugh.

"You come up.  I'll let you show me."

What, climb all the way up there?  With misfiring nerves in my wrist,
and bruises riding my kidneys?  Just so he could kill me?

What choice did I have?  If just one more innocent karate-ka paid the
price for my mistakes, I wouldn't need Sternway to tear out my heart.
I'd already mastered that surgical procedure for myself.

"Fine," I coughed up at him.

"Just don't rush me.  I'm conserving my strength."

He grinned, a flash of eagerness.  After a moment he moved away from
the top of the ladder to the corner of the catwalk, where he could
watch my progress without threatening me.  A show of good faith.  He
meant to slaughter me in a fair fight.

Somewhere during the past few hours, he must've lost his mind.
Otherwise he would've paid more attention to his own survival.

I was counting on that.

First I knelt beside Parker, checked his pulse with my good hand.  When
I found it strong and steady in his neck, my heart gave a little leap
of relief.  He was still unconscious, but he wasn't dying.  I could
risk leaving him while I challenged Sternway.

I tugged off my jacket, dropped it over Parker to keep him warm.  Then
I raised my arms to the ladder and began to struggle upward.

Which would've been impossible if Sternway had stomped on my wrist
instead of kicking it.  But my right hand began working better as I
climbed.  On the down side, Parker's blows had left my legs as weak as
a drunk's.  Nakahatchi had thrown me around the room hardly fourteen
hours ago.  Just last night Hardshorn had pummeled me nearly
unconscious.

Nevertheless this was the work I'd been born to do the work of pain and
endurance, the unforgiving task of standing in harm's way.  Today you
believe you are ready because your pain has become greater than your
anger, yet you are not defeated by it.  That is important.

It is necessary.

If I didn't understand anything else, I understood that.

Instead of thinking about my hurts while I climbed, I concentrated on
the clarity of unmarred rage anger as cold and ready as black ice, and
as fatal.  Sternway had killed two innocent people.  Plus Turf
Hardshorn.  He'd used my efforts to ease the tensions in Martial
America as an excuse to break Hong's neck and get Nakahatchi arrested.
It didn't matter how much I hurt.  Or that I was scared almost
witless.

Only stopping him mattered.

"What's the problem?"  Sternway crowed over me.

"At this rate you'll take all night."

I remembered Nakahatchi's face, and Mitsuku's, and went on climbing.

Gradually I found more strength.  My muscles worked out some of the
congestion in my back.  The fingers of my right hand tightened on the
rungs.  I began to make better progress.

I wanted to rest when I reached the second floor, but I kept going.  I
was no match for Anson Sternway, I understood that.  Nevertheless I had
one advantage he couldn't match.

I knew I'd lost my mind.

I knew why.

"Come on, Axbrewder."  He still watched me from the corner of the
catwalk.

"I hate waiting."

What's the matter?  Getting nervous?

I didn't try to hurry.

Finally I reached the top.  By then my lower back felt like a bucket of
lead clamped to my hips.  I hauled it after me up onto the catwalk.

Paused to gasp for air.

This close to the skylights, the downpour sounded louder.  Lightning
leered across the darkness.  But I could still hear the ragged labor of
my heart.  It drummed like panic in my temples, pounding out an
autonomic message of terror.

Sternway was going to kill me.

Fuck that.

He backed around the corner.  With the fingers of one hand, he beckoned
me forward.  When I didn't obey, he cocked his fists on his hips.

"I hate to say this, Axbrewder, but you look pathetic.  Don't you ever
exercise?  I train harder than you do in my sleep."

I thought I knew why he backed up, why he wanted me to follow.  To get
me away from the ladder.  So that I couldn't escape The bastard didn't
understand me at all.  He had no clue.

Panting from the pit of my stomach, I started after him.

He retreated until he reached the middle of the catwalk, a step or two
past the nearest fire door.  I quickened my pace.

But he ignored the door.  Apparently the exit didn't interest him.

I slowed down.  Still outside his kicking range, I wobbled to a halt.

His eagerness had reached manic proportions.  Light flashed off the
whites of his eyes.  He bounced gently on the balls of his feet,
warming up to spurn gravity.  His hands flexed like springs at the ends
of his arms.  Like fliks.

"Speaking of carelessness," I panted, "what makes you think you'll
accomplish anything if you do beat me?"  The effort hurt my throat.

"Have you forgotten that tape?  Once they hear it, the cops will come
after you.  You won't stand a chance.  Not against the kind of manhunt
they'll organize."

He shrugged.  His shoulders conveyed a hint of fever, urgency.

"I'll find the tape after I finish you.  The police have no reason to
suspect me.  And Marshal Viviter has no evidence."

He smiled like the blade of a table saw.

"The tape is in your apartment."

I shook my head speciously.

"That's not a mistake Sue would've let you make.  You'll have to do
better."

He exploded at me as if I'd lit a fuse by saying her name.

I tried to counter him as Nakahatchi had countered me, gently, without
alarm.  My right hand still felt stiff, so I held it up, covered my
stomach with that elbow.  My left hand I used open, striving to slip
every high punch aside with my palm.

Some of them I missed.  Those ones landed like hammers.  Whenever my
elbow blocked his foot or his fist, the blow wailed along my nerves.
With enough breath I might've wailed myself.

Nevertheless this was my work, my work, and I didn't back down from it.
He forced me to retreat slowly, a few inches at a time, but the wall
and the railing hampered him.  He couldn't swing kicks around at my
head.  For every blow that reached me, I stopped two.

All I needed was a grip on him, one second with my fist closed in his
sweatshirt.  Then I could kick him, swing the toe of my shoe into his
guts with every ounce of my bulk and fury behind it.

When I got the chance.

If I got it.

I didn't.  He struck too hard, too fast.  Too often.

But the second, no, the third time his fist rocked my head, something
changed.  Instead of knocking me out, the impact seemed to translate me
into a state that resembled Nakahatchi's impregnable tranquility.
Without transition I found myself in a place that held no anger and no
fear.

Pain no longer distracted or drove me, and I relaxed.

I could move faster now.  My left skidded his attacks away earlier.  My
elbow adjusted to deflect him more effectively.  Fewer strikes made
contact.  Every breath came a bit more easily.

If only Nakahatchi had given me one more lesson Sternway felt the
change.  I saw it on his face.  A new glee for combat flared in his
eyes, ignited by eagerness.  He stopped kicking, speeded up his
punches.  Put less force into each blow.

I thought nothing, felt nothing.  The explosive discharge of his fists
consumed all of my attention, my whole world.  Reality.  The instant I
allowed anything else to exist, anything at all, he'd break every bone
in my face.  And he wouldn't stop there, oh, no, he'd go on breaking
and breaking me until Shit!

until I woke up enough to realize that I was wrong.  He had no
intention of breaking me.  Not with his fists.

Too late.  Always too late.

Suddenly he surged forward, ducking under my defense faster than I
could react.  In one fluid motion, he braced himself, hooked one arm
under my right leg, clenched his other hand in the back of my shirt.

And heaved.

Walls and skylights and flood lamps reeled around me.  The catwalk
jumped away.

In spite of my size, he tipped me over the railing.

Flailing instinctively, I managed to hook my right elbow over the top
rail somehow, catch the lower bar with my left hand.  My entire weight
snapped along the length of my body like the strike of a scourge.

I screamed.  I couldn't help it.  My left hand hadn't caught enough of
my weight.  Most of it dropped onto my right elbow.  Dislocated the
joint, shattered it, both, neither, I had no idea.  After the first
instant, the first tearing howl of pain, I couldn't even feel it.  Just
hanging there took everything I had.

Now I knew why he'd wanted me to climb up here.  He still intended to
make my death look like an accident killed by a fall from the top
floor.  If I struck the cage on the way down, the damage to my body
would disguise everything he'd done to me.

He'd positioned me near the fire door, in the middle of the catwalk, so
that I'd hit the cage.

Leave Rasmussen where she was.  Kill Parker.  Make it look like I did
it.  Once I fell, he could tell Moy anything he wanted.

He stood at the railing, lit by flood lamps and triumph stark as an
angel.  All he lacked was a flaming sword.  His arms relaxed as he
grinned down at me.

"What a shame.  Just when I thought the fight might become interesting,
you decided to commit suicide."

If I hadn't been in so much pain, I would've wept at my own
blindness.

Casually he lifted his foot, nudged at my right hand.

Now I was gone, erased.  Nothing at all remained except white staring
agony and the long plunge to darkness.

Behind him, the fire door crashed open, slammed back against the wall.
Metal rang in protest as Ginny sprang out onto the catwalk.

He whirled toward her.

She had her .357 in her hand.  Her right hand.  He was on her left. And
he was too fast, she couldn't swing the .357 toward him and shoot
quickly enough.

She didn't try.  Without hesitation she slashed her claw across his
face.

Yelling, he fell back a step.  Instant blood filled his eyes.

And still he was too fast.  As she brought the .357 to bear, he lashed
up a straight kick that caught her under the chin.

It whacked her head back.  Whiplash compressed her brain against her
skull so hard that it rebounded, hurt itself again.

The gun dropped from her hand, clanged against the bars of the catwalk,
slipped through and fell.  I saw it go like the pinching out of a
candle flame, the extinguishing of my life.

He crouched over her, splashed blood into her face.

"Bitch!"  A howl of madness.

"Whorel Get up!  Get up!  I'm not finished with you!

"You cut me!"

His fists grabbed her shoulders.  He jerked her up and down, whipping
her head back and forth.  He was going to break her neck.  If he hadn't
already I couldn't do anything about it.  I was about to fall myself.
My elbow wouldn't hold.

No.

Separate from your anger.  Wasn't that what Nakahatchi had said?  You
will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from your
anger.

Not greater than your anger.  Or less.  Separate.

The flawless black ice of fury and the detached impersonal calm of
concentration.  Not combined, but simultaneous.

Together they canceled the cruel gravity of my helplessness.

I had to reach Ginny.

I knew how.

I could do it.

Took damn near forever.  Nevertheless Sternway didn't notice me.  He'd
gone berserk.  He dropped Ginny so that he could wipe the blood out of
his eyes, but it streamed down his face anyway, his hands couldn't keep
up with it, she must've gashed the hell out of him.  Once he let her
go, she sprawled like death on the catwalk.  He stood over her, still
yowling insults that made no sense.

I swung my legs hard, hooked my right heel up onto the catwalk to take
some of the weight off my elbow.  I couldn't balance there, but in the
small instant of support before my foot slipped I swung my left arm
upward, snagged a grip on the top rail.  Then I could pull without
crucifying my elbow.

As soon as I got my right foot back onto the catwalk, I lunged up and
over the railing.

Landed like bricks on my right arm.

Didn't care.

He must've heard me, felt the vibration of the catwalk, something.  He
turned before I got my feet all the way under me.

Blood veiled his face.  It throbbed out of him along a ragged tear that
crossed his forehead from one temple down into the opposite cheek.  The
intense white of the flood lamps turned it black and slick.  His eyes
made gaps of madness in the dark stream.  Madness or mortality.

Roaring my name, he launched another kick like the one that felled
Ginny.

I made him miss by lurching aside and forward.  Which enabled me to
plant my right foot.  Then I straightened up under his kick.

His leg came down on my left shoulder.  I couldn't do much with my
right arm, so I swung my left around his leg and up under his left
armpit, shifted my hips forward strained to rise.

I may've screamed again, but I didn't hear it.

He did it for me as he went over the railing.

I never saw him hit.  I never saw him again at all.  I lasted long
enough to kneel beside Ginny, fumble for her pulse, see that she was
still breathing.  I think I tried to call for help.  But of course the
fire door had shut itself.

Then I disappeared into a darkness like the storm outside and the blood
on Anson Sternway's face.

Twenty-Seven.

The hospital let her go late the next afternoon.  Concussion, severe
whiplash.  X-rays ruled out a broken jaw.  She needed rest and
ibuprofen, regular physical therapy, frequent checkups, but the doctors
said she'd be all right.

Parker Neill spent a few hours in the emergency room, being poked and
peered at for signs of internal seepage.  But once the shock to his
solar plexus eased, he recovered well enough.  He called one of his
friends to give him a ride, and went home.

Me they kept for a day and a half.

"For observation," just in case my kidneys started bleeding.  They
bandaged a few contusions, trapped my hand and arm in a cast to protect
my dislocated elbow.  No problems.  Nothing to worry about.  It was
their considered medical opinion, however, that I needed a different
hobby.  Getting beaten half to death wasn't good for me.

I would've laughed if I hadn't been so full of morphine.  Getting
beaten half to death was what I did best.

That, and getting through it.

Maybe eventually I'd even understand Sihan Nakahatchi.  The IVs made
his lessons look easy.

During the day I had a succession of phone calls and visitors.
Fortunately most of them came in the afternoon, when the nurses had
eased back on my morphine.  I hurt more then, but occasionally I could
think.

Most of the calls were from Marshal and Sergeant Moy.  With their help,
and Ginny's, I pieced together what had happened behind my back.

When Deborah reached her, Ginny had decided not to wait until she heard
whatever the answering machine might record.  Instead she'd called
Marshal, told him the little she knew.  Then she headed out into the
storm for Martial America.

Once she arrived, however, she wasn't sure what to do next.  I wouldn't
welcome interference, I'd made that clear.  And she had no idea what
might be going on inside.  She only knew that Hong was dead and the
chops had disappeared.  But she figured that I couldn't be in too much
trouble with all those people around, so she waited in the Olds until
the parking lot began to empty.

Even then she hesitated.  Every time she tried my phone, she got a busy
signal.  But eventually, when most of the other cars had left, she saw
two people run for the building.  Under the circumstances, she didn't
get a look at them, and wouldn't have recognized them anyway, but they
didn't go into one of the schools.  Instead they entered through the
fire exit.

That was enough for her.  She went after them.

Of course, she couldn't get in.  No key.  So she followed the edge of
the building to Essential Shotokan.  Inside she found herself talking
to Hideo Komatori.

By then the cops had taken Nakahatchi away, and Komatori wasn't feeling
cooperative.  Fortunately he adjusted his attitude when he learned that
she worked with me.  He confirmed that I'd been there recently.
Unfortunately he had no idea where I was now.

After some hesitation, however, he offered to call Traditional Wing
Chun, ask if I were still there.  T'ang Wen informed him that Sternway
and I'd gone into the utility well.

Now Ginny well and truly didn't know what to do.  She had no reason to
consider Sternway dangerous.  He'd saved my life at the fight club. And
I hadn't reacted well the last time she'd arrived unexpectedly.  If
Marshal hadn't called to tell her what he'd heard on the answering
machine, she might not have done anything at all.

But she still couldn't be sure that I was in trouble.  I might have
Sternway under control.  After all, I had the .45.  On the other hand,
the two people who'd entered through the fire exit worried her.  Maybe
I'd called them to help me, maybe I hadn't.  Finally she decided to go
up to the top floor and ease open the fire door.  From there she might
see or hear something that clarified the situation.  If I were OK, she
could withdraw without intruding.

Hideo wanted to go with her.  Convincing him to stay behind cost her a
minute or two.  But she didn't want to endanger him if I needed her, or
to waste his time if I didn't.  Finally she climbed the stairs to
Nakahatchi's private dojo alone.

She was outside the fire door when I screamed.

As for Marshal, he hadn't wanted to be left out.  When Ginny told him
she was going to Martial America, he braved the storm and jimmied his
way into our apartment so that he could listen to any messages I left
on the machine.  He heard most of my confrontation with Sternway at
least the parts that weren't covered by background noise.

As soon as Sternway started to incriminate himself, Marshal called
Ginny.  Then he called Moy, caught the detective a mile or so from
Martial America.  Still dragging Nakahatchi along, Moy turned back.

By the time the detective reached Martial America, Hideo had already
found Ginny and me.  When she hadn't returned after a few minutes, he'd
gone upstairs and opened the fire door.  Then he'd called 911, given us
some rudimentary first aid.  As Moy arrived he and Mitsuku were
improvising a makeshift stretcher out of two bos and a blanket so that
they could carry us downstairs.

At that point, Moy released Nakahatchi "pending further investigation."
At least Nakahatchi didn't have to spend the night in jail.  That was a
relief.

Before dawn Moy took a search warrant to Carliss Swilley's place of
business.  His uniforms found the chops hidden in a storeroom under a
pile of "genuine" ratty-looking Oriental rugs.  Swilley himself
crumbled without much persuasion.  Apparently he hated driving in the
rain so much that he'd assumed everyone else did too, so he believed
that he didn't need to hurry.  Instead he preferred to wait until the
storm let up before stashing the chops in an anonymous storage locker,
as he and Sternway had agreed.

Within a few more hours, the cops had searched Sternway's apartment.
They found his IAMA blazer.  Its left forearm showed subtle signs that
it might've been struck with an object like a flik.  Moy would know
more when the lab boys compared the fibers.

By midafternoon a forensics team in the IAMA offices had appropriated
the organization's financial records.  The cops weren't ready to make a
statement yet, but a quick analysis of the books and Sternway's
personal accounts suggested that he'd been skimming for years.
Nevertheless he was practically broke.

Naturally this infuriated Mai Sternway.  As his widow, she'd inherit
everything he had left which was mostly karate gear and unpaid bills.
Poor woman.  She'd have to get a job.

For his part, Parker Neill hadn't heard anything that tied Sternway to
Hong or the chops.  But he told Moy in no uncertain terms that Sternway
and Sue Rasmussen meant to kill me.  Which effectively protected me
from any kind of "wrongful death" charge.

When Marshal told me his side of the story, he sounded almost envious,
like he wished that he could've traded places with me.  I spared him
the benefit of my usual poor grace.  I was just grateful that he'd
taken me seriously enough to get involved.

Moy was more businesslike, but that didn't stop him from chewing me
out.  Where did I get off, he wondered, facing Stern-way alone when I
could've had half a dozen uniforms with me if I'd just bothered to tell
him what I suspected?  Didn't I trust the police?  Well-meaning loose
cannons like me did more harm in Garner than almost any number of plain
criminals.  And so on.  He enjoyed his Stern Officer of the Law shtick
so much that he nearly ruined it by laughing.

I thanked him anyway.  Mainly for letting Nakahatchi go.

Alex Lacone also called by proxy.  I actually spoke to his personal
assistant, the enduring Cassandra Hightower.  In a quavering voice, she
advised me that Mr.  Lacone was pleased with my work.  He considered my
assignment completed.  Naturally he would pay me in full.  In addition,
he and Watchdog had put together an attractive bonus which would more
than cover my medical expenses.

Later Deborah Messenger revealed that most of the bonus money came from
Watchdog.  In lieu of a "recovery fee."

She saw me several times.  The first time she said it was the second,
but I didn't remember one earlier I had too many drugs in my system to
concentrate.  But that afternoon we talked for quite a while.  I gave
her a bowdlerized version of events, with all the parts where I
screamed and felt sorry for myself edited out.  Even that upset her
more than I expected.  Her eyes spilled tears until I thought she might
break down.  Then she got mad.

"You arrogant, inconsiderate " Her voice rose.

"All you men!  You charge off into the night without explanation.  You
leave me alone to panic, you risk your life stupidly against a man
you've seen kill.  Everybody who glances at TV knows you need backup. A
so-called professional ought to know that better than anybody.

"Did you ever stop to think I might not like it if you got yourself
murdered?"

I grinned at her, I couldn't help it.  She looked so delectable that I
wanted to pull her clothes off on the spot.  And her anger touched me
She warmed me in ways I hadn't felt for years.  Lots of them.

Still fuming, she started to sputter, "If you ever " There she stopped
herself.  For a moment she looked away.  When she faced me again, her
tears were gone.

"I'm sorry.  I get emotional sometimes.  This is what you do.  It's
right for you.  I'll get used to it."

Then she asked anxiously, "Every case isn't like this?  Is it?"

"No," I admitted, "every case isn't like this."

Just the important ones.

We held hands until she had to go back to work.

Nakahatchi sensei surprised me with a visit.  His wife and Hideo
accompanied him.  None of them said much.  They were too dignified. But
they brought gifts which they presented formally, like promises of
friendship.

Nakahatchi gave me a scroll which unrolled to reveal a beautifully
indecipherable hand-painted inscription.  It was, he informed me, a
quotation from Gichin Funakoshi.

"The ultimate aim of the art of karate lies not in victory or defeat,
but in the perfection of the character of its participants."  We would
resume my lessons when I was fully recovered.

Mitsuku proffered a self-contained ornamental fountain the size of a
mailbox.  Add water, plug in the pump, and listen to the soothing
trickle of water over polished black stones.  Unexpectedly modern of
her, I thought.  Maybe it would help me relax.

And Komatori presented me with a white canvas gi, including what he
called an "honorary" black belt.  I wasn't supposed to actually wear
it.  Nevertheless I'd earned it, he said, by defeating such a renowned
fighter.

They left me feeling better than I had in years.

T'ang Wen also put in an appearance.  And gave me a present, a pair of
polished fire-hardened rattan sticks, maybe twenty inches long, which
he called "Kali sticks."  They weren't traditional Wing Chun weapons,
apparently, but he'd studied them in another dojo on his master's
urging.  If I granted him the honor of letting him teach me, he'd show
me how to use them.

I hardly knew what to say except, "Sure," and, "Thanks."  Hong Fei-Tung
was dead because I hadn't trusted my instincts.  Instead of reproaching
me, however, T'ang covered my bewildered guilt by giving me "face" by
telling me more about the origins of Wing Chun and the chops.

According to Hong, the Joi Si, the 'first leader," of Wing Chun wasn't
either Ng Mui or her disciple, Yim Wing Chun.  Rather, he was a Ming
military officer who studied in the Southern Shaolin Temple.  He called
himself Da Jung, although that wasn't his name.  After the Manchurian
Qings burned the Temple, his style was developed and preserved by Yat
Chum Dai Si, twenty-second in a continuous lineage of Shaolin
grandmasters, and by his disciple Cheung Ng, who spread Wing Chun under
the guise of performances by the Red Boat Opera Company.

The true chops were carved under the direction of Cheung Ng as part of
his efforts to expand Wing Chun against the Qings.  Those by Leung Len
Kwai may've had great value as examples of his art, and as antiques.
But to Wing Chun they were fakes.

Later Watchdog's New York expert said they weren't even that.  In some
obscure way, he determined that the ivory was too recent for Leung Len
Kwai's work.  The chops were forgeries of fakes.

Sammy Posten about had a seizure.  Deborah Messenger just threw up her
hands and laughed at him.

For some reason, being entrusted with a piece of Wing Chun lore which
T'ang hadn't known himself until a day ago helped me accept his gift.
In his oblique courteous fashion, he seemed to be offering me
forgiveness.

Parker Neill stopped by as well, unhappiness dragging at the flesh of
his face, but once he'd asked me how I felt he couldn't think of
anything to say.  Trapped misery closed his throat.

I couldn't bear to lie still and watch him ache.

"You saved my life," I informed him hoarsely.

"Maybe you don't realize that.  When you jumped in, I couldn't have
defended myself against an autistic Girl Scout.  You gave me time to
pick up my gun."

He didn't look at me.

"He taught me everything I know," he murmured, "but it wasn't enough.
If you hadn't stopped him " "Bullshit."  I might've been gentle with
him, I suppose, but I

didn't think that would work.

"He didn't teach you everything you know.  You're the one who told me,
Any teacher who doesn't train his students to honor all the martial
arts doesn't deserve to have students.  You sure as hell didn't learn
that from Anson Sternway," the man who'd tried to undermine every
school in Martial America.

"And you have scruples " "He was my sensei."  Parker kept his head
down.

"Do you know what that means?  It means 'revered teacher."  I " He
spread his hands helplessly.

"I did that.  I revered him.  He was God, and my father, and Gichin
Funakoshi, all rolled into one."

"Fine," I snorted.

"Do you know how your 'revered teacher' spent his spare time?  He went
to a fight club.  And he didn't go there to earn any fucking reverence.
Instead he got into the ring and made pulp out of anyone stupid enough
to face him.  And he picked up some easy money betting on himself.

"That's how he stayed sharp."

At last Parker met my gaze.

"Is that true?"  He sounded shocked.

"I went with him Monday night.  I saw it."

Something in his face lifted.  After a moment he said slowly, "I've
been wondering what to do about his school.  I couldn't imagine taking
over for him.  But maybe " "Maybe," I put in, "you're the best man for
the job."  Then I added, "You're probably the best man to take over the
IAMA as well.  You already know everyone.  They all respect you.  And
you had the courage to oppose your own sensei when he went crazy. Right
now you've got enough 'face' to start your own hall of fame.  If anyone
can keep the IAMA going, you can."

The challenge suited him.  As he considered it, his eyes lost their
tarnish.  For the first time, I got a chance to see what he looked like
when he wasn't dying of boredom.  As he left, I thought he might burst
into song.

Aside from the usual parade of nurses, aides, and technicians, plus the
occasional doctor, Ginny was my only other visitor.  She came to my
room twice, once in the afternoon after the doctors let her go, and
again late the next morning.  The first time, we concentrated on
practical matters who did what to whom, in which order.  Other than
that, we left each other alone.  I didn't even try to tell her how I
felt about being rescued.  The subject was too complicated for
morphine.

Her second visit was different.  Behind her bruises, she had something
heavy in her eyes.  She looked like a woman who'd spent the night in
surgery having the features of her life rearranged.

I owed her more than I could ever hope to repay, so I went first.

"I have a problem," I admitted as she sat down in a chair against the
far wall.

"I can't find the words to tell you how much your help means to me.

"Just in the past few days, you found the real connection between
Sternway and Hardshorn for me, you put me on the right track about the
chops," by suggesting that Hong evaluate them, "and you saved my life
for the umpteenth time.

"I owe you a desperate apology."

She studied me sharply.

"For what?"

"Well" I faltered momentarily "for being such an asshole in general."
Then I rallied.

"But specifically for the way I reacted when you came to The Luxury."
Meeting her gaze was tough, but I did it.

"When you decided to end our partnership, I felt so betrayed and angry
that I couldn't think.  First I lost you as a lover.  Then I lost you
as a partner.  It never occurred to me that I hadn't lost you as a
friend."

Ginny shook her head.

"Don't be so hard on yourself.  God knows I gave you plenty of reason
to think that way."

Then she stood up and came to the side of the bed so that I could see
her swollen face more clearly.  The contusion along her jaw made her
look like a victim of domestic violence.

"The truth is " To my amazement, she faltered as well.  But she didn't
back down.

"The truth is," she began again, "I thought we stopped being friends
months ago.  After I lost my hand.  I felt so damn dependent, and I
loathed I decided we weren't friends because I didn't deserve to have
any.  But I couldn't admit I felt that way.  Even to myself.  I
couldn't face it.

"Even after I started to function again, I still couldn't face it, so I
took it out on you.  I decided you were a drunk by nature, even if you
never had another drink.  Your weakness was permanent.  You weren't
worth trusting."

She paused to gather her courage, then said, "But it wasn't permanent.
Ever since Estobal put you in the hospital, you've been trying to prove
yourself to me, earn back my respect.  Only you couldn't.  I wasn't
paying attention."

I swallowed roughly.

"What changed?"  I wanted to know what she'd seen in me.  But she
didn't answer that.

Instead she told me, "Marshal."  The edge in her voice sounded like
anger or regret.  Or both.

"Ever since you two met, we've been arguing about you.

"Knowing you, you probably think he's too successful to be honest.  But
let me tell you, he's pretty damn perceptive.  And you impressed him. I
mean, except for your manners.  He is impressed.  He's been telling me
for days that I was wrong about you."  Her eyes flared.

"He called me a coward.  He said I was blaming you for things I didn't
have the courage to face in myself."

She glared through me hard enough to crack the wall behind the bed.

"He isn't easy to argue with.  And when I made myself look, I started
to see what he was talking about."

That explained the shift in her attitude when I got home from the fight
club Monday night.

"Hearing from your girlfriend clinched it."  Once she'd finished
demolishing the wall, her gaze softened.

"You needed help, but you couldn't ask for it, no matter how much
trouble you were in, because I'd made you think I'd sneer at you if you
did.  When your girlfriend called, she told me almost nothing.  I
assumed you hadn't explained anything to her because you didn't want
her to pass it on."

"Actually," I put in uncomfortably, "I didn't explain it because I
didn't have time.  And I hadn't figured it all out.  I was just
reacting on instinct."

Ginny dismissed my objection.

"That's not the point.  The point is, I believed you couldn't ask me
for help because I've been so unfair to you."

She studied me briefly, then asked, "If you hadn't been in such a
hurry, would you have called me to back you up?"

I shook my head.  She was telling me the truth.  She deserved the truth
in return.

"Brew " Her throat closed.  She had to look away for a moment before
she could speak again.

"I want us to be friends.

This" she indicated her jaw "is a small price to pay if it means I can
ask you for a second chance."

Not as a lover.  I understood that.

Or as a partner.  Not yet.

But as a friend ?

Yes.  In fact, hell, yes.  No question about it.

"Ginny."  I reached out with my good hand, took hold of hers.

"I'm sorry I've made you think you have to ask.  I've been in pain, and
I've taken it out on everyone in sight."  Marshal included.

"I couldn't bear the thought that I'd lost you completely," couldn't
bear that much grief, "so I turned everything into anger.

"You talk about not deserving any friends.  I never believed I deserved
you.  But ever since I stopped drinking, I have been trying "

I couldn't go on.

Fortunately I didn't have to.

"I know," she murmured.

"Like you haven't already proven yourself a hundred times over.  You
made one drunken mistake, and you've punished yourself for it ever
since.  Satan Himself couldn't whip you any harder."

That was true, too.

And maybe I'd done it enough.  Pain is a means to an end, Na-kahatchi
sensei had told me, but it must never become the end.  Maybe that's
what he meant.  Enough was enough.  God knows I'd already spent a
lifetime of hurt on Richard's death.

When the hospital finally let me go, I went back to Bernie's apartment.
I wanted to look Alyse Appelwait in the eye while I said goodbye.  And
thank you.