The Man Who Fought Alone

  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 Sternway 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 mean
t 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.

  20

  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, Tang assured me that he and his master would be ready at 11:00.

  Then I found myself out in the full force of Carner’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 IAMA 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 tensi
on 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 sensei. 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?”