The Man Who Fought Alone

  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 stuntmen 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 senseis 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 IAMA,” 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 IAMA 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 greedy. She’d take every penny 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 IAMA’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 huffy. “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 good
bye.

  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 h
elp 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.