The Man Who Fought Alone

  Rasmussen and Parker Neill were there, along with the record-keeper and a couple of people in street clothes who looked like they might be reporters. In the staging area, Ned Gage directed an increasing press of traffic—karate-ka, judges, instructors. Down on the floor, younger kids received their trophies while older ones competed in other rings. A trickle of competitors and spectators visited the chops, but they weren’t keen on it. Maybe Watchdog had overrated the danger.

  The Master of Ceremonies left her microphone to approach me. She still looked mad. Apparently my earlier disrespect was like the German invasion of Russia—never forgotten, never forgiven. “Mr. Axbrewder,” she demanded, “don’t you have a job to do?”

  Obviously she didn’t want me on the dais.

  “I’m doing it.” By then I was in no mood to placate her. “I can see better from here.”

  “So what? If you see anything, you’ll be too far away to do anything about it.”

  “Ms. Rasmussen,” I retorted heavily, “I don’t know anything about karate, and I sure as hell don’t know anything about karate tournaments. But I know my job. If you want me to do it better, let me ask you some real questions. Then give me some real answers.”

  She didn’t bother. Turning away sharply, she went back to her microphone. When she announced the latest katame winners, she didn’t sound angry at all. She knew how to turn it on and off.

  I didn’t like that much. Being such a paragon of self-control myself, I naturally distrusted it in others.

  Time crept along. I made another circuit of the hall. Fascinated—or horrified—in spite of myself, I watched a few rounds of kids’ sparring. They flailed away at each other with such seriousness and ineffectuality that I wanted to barge into the ring, take them by their ears, and send them to their rooms. Fortunately they wore so much gear—Styrofoam on their hands and feet and heads, shin-protectors, presumably cups as well—that they were in no danger of hurting each other, even by accident. I couldn’t figure out how the refs chose winners. Divination, maybe.

  By the time I got back to the head table, Neill had gone elsewhere. But Sternway was there, accompanied by a man I hadn’t seen before. Ignoring the IAMA director’s stolid demeanor, the other man carried on an artificially animated conversation with the reporters.

  The reporters were done shortly. Sternway and his companion withdrew to the back of the dais—possibly the most private spot in the hall—and Sternway beckoned me to join them.

  I obeyed. I figured I knew what was coming.

  For once I was right. “Mr. Axbrewder,” he said flatly, “this is Mr. Lacone. Alex Lacone.” Then he told Lacone, “Mr. Axbrewder is a private investigator. I’ve mentioned him. The Luxury hired him to provide extra security, on Marshal Viviter’s recommendation.”

  “Mr. Axbrewder.” The other man and I shook hands. His voice seemed to boom even when he spoke quietly, but no one turned to look at him, so maybe he didn’t attract as much attention as I thought. “Good to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  He was a big guy, about my size, only heavier—and a truckload heartier. An incessant grin split his square face, exposing perfect teeth that would’ve been blinding by sunlight. With his cosmetic tan and precise grooming, he looked like a poster boy for an expensive salon. But under the tan his skin tone was slack, and the lines around his eyes and mouth ran deep, which made me think that he’d lubricated his way through too many power lunches. I knew the signs.

  In a budget like his, I was petty cash. Since I couldn’t imagine why he’d been looking forward to meeting me, I asked, “What’s your interest in all this, Mr. Lacone?”

  He chuckled easily. “I can’t help it. I’m a developer, Mr. Axbrewder, and I live in Carner. That means I like to build things, and I’m interested in sports.

  “Unfortunately most of the other sports are already taken. There isn’t much room for me.” He beamed so that I wouldn’t think he was complaining. “But karate is still on the rise. In fact, it hasn’t even begun to tap its potential markets.” He swept the hall with an expansive gesture. “I want in on the ground floor.”

  He wasn’t likely to stop there, but I encouraged him anyway. “That’s quite an ambition. What does it mean in practical terms?”

  Sternway regarded me with a hint of distaste, but he didn’t interfere.

  The developer never turned off his grin. However, it had enough channels to hold my interest. This time he tuned it to an aw-shucks station. “It’s simple, really. I’m building a martial arts complex, Mr. Axbrewder. I call it ‘Martial America,’ and it’s already pretty impressive, if I do say so myself.”

  Sternway offered a nod that could’ve meant anything.

  “I’m leasing the finest dojo facilities in the country,” Lacone went on, “to any school that wants to locate with me. In fact, I already have four fine schools, including Essential Shotokan—you’ve met Nakahatchi sensei, haven’t you?—and Master Song Duk Soon’s Tae Kwon Do Academy. Two more will move in at the end of the month, one of which is an authorized Gracie Brothers Jujitsu franchise.” Apparently that was supposed to impress me. “I’m hoping I can persuade Sternway sensei to join me. I’ll give Anson Sternway Shorin-Ryu Bushido and the IAMA the best space and the best deal in North America.

  “But I’m aiming higher.” Now his grin transmitted an inspirational glow, gospel music filtered by easy listening. “I’m a dreamer, Mr. Axbrewder, and I like to dream big. If I weren’t a damn good developer as well”—he chuckled again—“I’d have put myself out of business years ago.

  “My master plan for Martial America includes as many as twenty schools of all kinds, a tournament facility twice this size, and a hall-of-fame-style museum, a complete education center, repository, and promotional outfit for any martial art in the world. The perfect home,” he pointed out in case I missed it, “for Nakahatchi sensei’s Wing Chun antiques, for example. Including stores, of course, where you can buy anything and everything that has to do with the martial arts.”

  Sternway hid his reaction. He hid all his reactions. But he didn’t look to me like he believed in Lacone’s “dream.”

  “Sounds expensive,” I remarked. The martial arts were supposed to be good for people. “Who’s paying for it?”

  Lacone turned up the volume on his grin. “It’ll pay for itself. In fact, it’ll make us all rich.

  “But still,” he admitted with less enthusiasm, “it takes money to make money. You know that. Down the road, I’ll need to bring in some pretty heavy players.

  “For now, I’m concentrating on my core schools. If enough famous martial artists locate with me”—he glanced at Sternway—“Martial America will promote itself. They’ll attract attention, we’ll get more and more ink, advertisers will become interested, and the whole thing will snowball.”

  I didn’t think he’d ever seen a snowball. Not in Carner, that’s for sure. But he finished confidently anyway.

  “Then we’ll be off and running.”

  I nodded noncommittally, feeling a bit baffled. I couldn’t imagine why Marshal thought Lacone might be good for a job.

  Apparently the subject bored Sternway. Shooting his cuff, he checked his watch like he wanted an excuse to be somewhere else. Then he surprised me by suggesting to Lacone, “Tell you what. Why don’t the two of you join me for lunch? We can get to know Mr. Axbrewder a little better.”

  While I raised my eyebrows, the developer beamed in Sternway’s direction. “Sorry, Anson. No can do. Sammy Posten is bringing one of Watchdog’s underwriters out here to discuss Martial America’s coverage. We’re supposed to belly up to the trough in about twenty minutes.”

  He still hadn’t mentioned anything that suggested a job. Which was natural, I told myself. He knew next to nothing about me.

  Sternway shrugged, then looked a question at me.

  I wanted a chance to make him squirm a bit. And I could think of plenty of questions for him. “I’ll need to check it with Bernie,” I answer
ed promptly.

  He didn’t betray a reaction. “We can do that on our way out.”

  We both shook hands with Lacone again, and I followed Sternway off the dais.

  If nothing else, having lunch with the IAMA director would help confirm my status as a dignitary.

  We found Bernie where I’d left him, but Sternway didn’t give me time to ask his permission. The director simply announced that he was taking me to the coffee shop. When Bernie acquiesced with a dyspeptic nod, Sternway drew me out of the hall.

  I rolled my eyes for Bernie’s benefit as I passed. Taking a swing or two at Anson Sternway was turning into one of my life’s ambitions. He’d been “important” too long—he’d gotten into the habit of presuming on his own authority. The prospect of asking him a few subversive questions added a dash of adrenaline to my bloodstream.

  Unfortunately I had to wait my turn. As soon as we were seated in The Luxury’s coffee shop—a generic space complete with a single plastic flower, garish and cheerless, on every table—and had ordered some food, he started on his own questions.

  His approach unsettled me a bit. He didn’t seem to care that I was stone ignorant about him, the IAMA, or the martial arts. While he pried into my qualifications, experience, and training, he paid no particular attention to the answers. In fact, he hardly looked at me. Despite his air of impenetrable self-possession, his gaze slid away whenever I tried to make eye contact.

  I might’ve thought that he was just killing time with me while he waited for someone more substantial to come along, but he didn’t carry himself like a man who killed time. Instead he reminded me of a coyote circling a lost lamb—pretending disinterest while he made sure the lamb wasn’t just bait.

  When he did pounce, however, I couldn’t figure out why he’d been so cautious about it.

  What he really wanted to understand, apparently, was my connection to Marshal Viviter. In view of Marshal’s recommendation, why didn’t I work for him directly? And if he wasn’t inclined to hire me himself, why did he think I was good enough for tournament security?

  That, I had to admit, was a fair question—although I didn’t know why it mattered. But I couldn’t give it a fair answer, not without violating Marshal’s confidential relationship with Sternway’s wife. So instead I told him that my qualifications had nothing to do with it. The problem was a practical one. A former partner of mine already had a job with Professional Investigations, and Marshal suspected that we’d cause trouble for each other. Otherwise he wouldn’t have hesitated—ha!—to hire me himself.

  Sternway seemed to accept that. At any rate, he didn’t push it. But I still didn’t understand his concern.

  When I’d flagged down the waitress for a fresh pot of coffee, I moved the plastic flower out of the middle of the table, giving myself a clear shot at him. Then I took my turn.

  “You already know, Anson”—he’d been calling me Brew, and I wanted to sound polite—“I’m a complete stranger to this whole world. The martial arts. Schools. Tournaments. If you could explain a few things, it would help me do my job.”

  He granted me a glance. “Go ahead.” Maybe he thought I’d appreciate his condescension.

  I bared my teeth, metaphorically speaking. “Where I come from,” I told him, “violence means blood. Guns, knives, clubs, fists—if the guy using them doesn’t actively want you dead, he sure as hell intends to hurt you. He’s serious about it.

  “But you’ve got kids in those rings, wearing so much gear that if they fell down they wouldn’t be able to stand up again. From what I’ve seen of the sparring, the refs stop the action as soon as anything even comes close. And in the forms—the kata?—your contestants attack imaginary opponents who cooperate with every move.”

  Somehow I caught his gaze. Leaning forward, I faced him squarely and counted the seconds until his eyes slipped away.

  “If I were being gentle, Anson, I’d say it all looks like a game. But honestly, it looks like a lie. You’re selling an illusion here. Isn’t that true? You give out trophies the size of gazebos to convince the ‘winners’ that they’re heavy hitters, they can whip whole platoons of thugs, no one sane is ever going to mess with them. But in fact I haven’t seen anyone who’d survive for twenty seconds on the street. It’s all just charades.”

  He didn’t last long. His gaze wandered off by the time I mentioned trophies. If I’d succeeded at making him uncomfortable, however, he didn’t show it. His voice had about as much inflection as a concrete floor.

  “Of course it’s an illusion. A tournament is sport karate, and all sports are games. They depend on rules to keep people safe, and real violence isn’t safe. That’s obvious.”

  I hadn’t expected him to be so open about it. “Then why do you do it, if you know it’s a lie? Other sports use violence. Some of them.” Football, for example. “Karate is about violence. That makes the lie dangerous.”

  “Because,” Sternway repeated like he thought I was stupid, “no one would participate if it weren’t safe.”

  He scanned the room, possibly counting the plastic flowers. “Where do you suppose the money comes from?” he asked rhetorically. “People want to compete. That’s human nature. They want to prove they’re the best. And for every man, woman, or child who wants to prove they are the best, there are a couple hundred more who want to see them try.

  “That’s how it works. First karate-ka pay for a chance to prove themselves. Then spectators pay to watch. When they’ve generated enough interest, newspapers report the result. Advertisers recognize a chance to promote themselves. Winning means more. More people want to compete, even more want to watch, newspapers and sponsors increase their vested interest. The eventual outcome is the NFL, a multibillion-dollar business dedicated to the love of competition.”

  He’d started to scare me. “But that’s less dangerous,” I insisted. “Those games aren’t about violence.”

  He sighed. Just for a moment, he actually looked at me.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Brew. What we do here isn’t a lie. It’s simply not the whole truth.”

  Probably he could’ve told me how many other people were in the coffee shop.

  “The skills we test,” he explained without any obvious patience, “are a starting point, a foundation. A karate-ka who can handle competition has begun learning to handle real violence. Serious martial artists pursue additional training to improve their skills further. That’s the difference between a master and a student.”

  He, of course, was a master. Eighth-dan, whatever that meant. Worshipped nationwide.

  I felt sorry for his students.

  I wanted to ask, So you understand real violence? You can defend yourself if someone jumps you on the street? But I didn’t because what I really meant was, Do you think you can handle me? And I knew that question wasn’t a good idea.

  Instead I reverted to the one Sue Rasmussen hadn’t answered.

  “But what does it accomplish? What’s it for?”

  What makes the martial arts good for people?

  “Do you have any idea how much those trophies cost?” Sternway countered. He must’ve misunderstood me. “They’re the biggest expense we have, by far.” He emphasized the words by jabbing the tabletop with his index finger. “Do you know how much it costs to run a decent dojo? You need gis, gear, belts, wood floors, mirrors, heavy bags, speed bags, makiwaras, mats, Wing Chun dummies, shinais, bos and sais, dressings rooms with showers. None of us could stay in business if we didn’t promote the martial arts, attract new students, and generate new interest.

  “Mr. Lacone said, ‘It takes money to make money,’ but he’s been wealthy too long. He’s forgotten the truth. It takes money to stay alive.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Maybe he wasn’t the right man to answer the question I’d tried to ask. Maybe I needed to talk to Nakahatchi. Or Hong.

  But still I hoped that he’d let slip something I needed. I kept my tone casual. “Does that have anything to do with wh
y you haven’t joined Martial America?”

  Sternway appeared to consider several replies before he said, “If he were closer to his goal, I would. But as matters stand, it’s too expensive.”

  Then he nodded at my plate. “Are you done?”

  I held up my hand. “Just one more question.”

  He waited impassively.

  “Are Hong and Nakahatchi serious?” I didn’t even try to look innocent. “Aren’t they overreacting? I mean, since this is all a game anyway. They seem”—I grinned uncharitably—“too intense for sport karate.”

  I’d succeeded at last. Sternway pushed back his chair. A hint of darkness disturbed his self-control.

  “You haven’t been listening, Axbrewder.” He could make his voice punch when he wanted to. “Sifu Hong and Nakahatchi sensei are masters. Either one of them could grind you into dog food with their hands tied. I advise you to believe they’re serious. If you don’t, you will regret it.”

  Turning like a blow, he left me where I sat.

  Dog food? I wanted to laugh out loud. Dog food? He was deluding himself. So far, I hadn’t seen anyone here who struck me as a spice mill, never mind an actual meat grinder.

  Nevertheless something about the idea must’ve appealed to me. I was in a better mood as I headed back to the tournament.

  7

  By midafternoon the tournament was heating up—in more ways than one.

  More spectators had arrived. More rings were in use. And they all put out more energy. The adults and teenagers who competed in team sparring showed a real passion for attempting to thump on each other. Sometimes the passion looked like eagerness. The rest of the time, it was plain fear, the kind that makes you overreact because you’re trying so hard to pretend you aren’t scared.

  On top of that, the AC had to work harder, and it was losing ground. Sweat gathered at the base of my spine, and my shirt began to smell like a salad going bad.

  And on top of that, my nerves still hadn’t made the adjustment. I couldn’t tune myself to the hall. Watching cost me too much effort. Details distracted me. And all that yelling and pounding tightened the muscles on my scalp until my head ached.