The Man Who Fought Alone

  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 sensei’s 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 IAMA’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, “Watch- dog 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. Lacone 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 IAMA to its fans and adherents.

  I’d missed Fumio Demura’s demonstration completely.

  13

  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. N
ot 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.”