The Man Who Fought Alone

  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. Truckloads of it. On one side, some schools refuse to join the IAMA 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 IAMA. 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 comes 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 IAMA 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 Shotokan 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.”