The Man Who Fought Alone

  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.

  12

  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 championships” 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 Soke 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—Arnis, 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 dangerous.

  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.