The Man Who Fought Alone Read online

  Where was Ginny when I needed her?

  Next Sternway turned to other matters, pulling his court around him. Sammy Posten joined them, although the courtiers ignored him. Deborah Messenger lingered near Bernie and me.

  Just having her close made my back teeth hurt, and my palms itched like they were starting to grow fur. But I was supposed to be working, so I tried to stifle my hormones. Instead of drooling on her jacket, I asked Bernie, “What’re ‘chops’?”

  Before he could reply, his walkie-talkie chirped. He took it off his belt, listened, said, “We’re on our way,” and put it back.

  “That’s what they call the artifacts,” he growled under his breath. “Ridiculous name.” Then he headed for Sternway’s court.

  “Mr. Sternway, Mr. Nakahatchi is out in the parking lot.”

  “Good.” Sternway looked at his Tournament Coordinator. “We’ll open the doors as soon as the display and security are in place.” A small gesture of one hand broke up his meeting.

  As if on cue, all the suits except Posten and Bernie’s men turned to the head table, along with most of the pajamas. Only Hideo Komatori and Sifu Hong Fei-Tung—one canvas, one silk—joined Sternway’s entourage as he drew Bernie with him toward the lobby.

  I tagged along, partly because I was pretending to be a dignitary, but mostly because Deborah Messenger did the same.

  “A chop,” she told me, “is like a small block print.” She had a gift for talking to me as if no one else existed. “You ink one side and press it to a piece of paper to print something, usually an Oriental character—an ideogram or kanji. These are carved out of ivory. Instead of traditional characters, they print”—she shrugged delicately—“pictures of martial arts.

  “I don’t know much about Chinese antiques,” she finished, “but the workmanship is exquisite.”

  I would’ve asked her more questions, just to keep her talking, but by then we’d reached the doors, and the crowds outside made conversation impossible.

  With Bernie clearing the way, Sternway led us through the lobby to The Luxury’s formal entrance. Under the portico, we were awaited by a shambling old Dodge station wagon surrounded by white canvas pajamas.

  At first glance, I had no idea which one of them might be Nakahatchi sensei. They were all men, they all wore black belts, and half of them were Asian. But then Hideo Komatori cleared up the matter by approaching an older man whose belt had been worn almost to tatters and bowing deeply. At once, everyone else bowed back, and the older man murmured, “Hideo-san.”

  Next Nakahatchi and Sternway bowed to each other. After that, the rest of Nakahatchi’s people started unloading a long display case from the Dodge while Bernie positioned his guards and Posten bustled around getting in everyone’s way.

  Deborah Messenger consulted briefly with Bernie, nodded approval at what he told her, and stepped back to rejoin me.

  As the case came into sight, Sifu Hong Fei-Tung made a small hissing noise like a curse.

  I studied him as unobtrusively as I could. Apparently he was Chinese—unlike Hideo Komatori and Nakahatchi. And Bernie had already suggested that displaying these chops publicly might have undercurrents I couldn’t evaluate. Still, the intensity of the Sifu’s reaction surprised me.

  His face and eyes and nose, even his mouth, seemed flat, like he ironed them every morning—unmarked by age or pain, although grey spattered his eyebrows and brush-cut hair. And he didn’t move a muscle. Nevertheless I could see anger steaming off his whole body. Inside his silk, he remained quiet, untouched. Yet his anger radiated enough heat to fry bacon.

  Sternway must’ve heard him, too. The IAMA director turned a look like a warning on Hong Fei-Tung, threatening as a fuse. His eerie relaxation matched the Sifu’s. If anyone lit a match, they were both going to go off.

  Nakahatchi gazed into the distance placidly, apparently unaware of his surroundings.

  The Sifu didn’t back down. In a viscous acidic tone, he pronounced softly, “Forgeries. The true chops are lost.”

  At that, Nakahatchi’s students clenched like they’d been stung. Their sensei may’ve been oblivious, but they weren’t. Without warning, their indignation crowded the portico.

  Nakahatchi wasn’t oblivious, however. Still placidly, he intervened by turning to Hong Fei-Tung. With his eyes lowered humbly, he gave the Sifu a deep bow.

  He might’ve been forty-five or fifty, short and compact, with sparse hair and a hint of dullness like fatigue or premature aging in his eyes. His features had more definition than Hong’s, but they remained distinctly Asian. The only lines in his face were two deep seams on either side of his mouth that looked like trenches in a battlefield, cut to carry out an old war.

  “Forgive my presumption, Sifu Hong.” His voice was more guttural than Hong’s. If he hadn’t spoken mildly, the contrast would’ve made him sound crude, almost brutish. “I cannot aspire to your understanding of these matters. To us the chops are precious, and we revere the wisdom they contain. They have been entrusted to my care. It is my wish to share them as openly as I may, without dishonoring them—or my responsibility for them.”

  Hong Fei-Tung snorted disdainfully. “They belong to China. They are dishonored in Japanese hands.”

  That was an insult. It must’ve been—even I felt it. Ominously the students set their case down and gathered in a clench around their sensei. But Nakahatchi didn’t rise to the offense.

  “That,” he answered quietly, “is a matter which I must respectfully defer to my masters.”

  “Sifu Hong,” Sternway put in, “we’ve had these discussions before. They can’t be resolved here. Nakahatchi sensei wishes to share the chops in a spirit of martial brotherhood. For the present, that’s enough.”

  When Hong moved, I shifted toward him. If he wanted to start a fight, I meant to stop him.

  For the moment, at least, I’d forgotten all about the pain in my stomach.

  But Sifu Hong surprised me by aiming an elaborate bow into the air between Sternway and Nakahatchi—a flourish that seemed to involve a couple of steps and several complex arm movements.

  “Sternway sensei.” His tone hadn’t changed. “Nakahatchi sensei. I mean no personal disrespect. These questions will be considered at another time.”

  No personal disrespect, my ass. If Hong had been any angrier, he would’ve spit in both their faces.

  Nevertheless Sternway and Nakahatchi bowed back like completing an arcane ritual. Giving each other “face,” maybe. By degrees Nakahatchi’s people relaxed. Talking softly, they went back to their case.

  Bernie must’ve seen me move. He met my gaze and nodded. Apparently he approved.

  Sammy Posten looked around in confusion, palpably clueless. Smiling, Deborah Messenger moved away to exchange a few words with Nakahatchi—compliments, I assumed.

  Then the case slid the rest of the way out of the Dodge, and I got my first glimpse of the chops.

  I couldn’t see what the fuss was about. The case was polished black mahogany with a glass lid, and shaped like a coffin for some odd reason, but larger, maybe five feet by eight. It must’ve held a hundred or more chops—yellowed blocks of ivory nestled in precise rows on a cushion of screaming scarlet brocade. Each one was about as thick as my two thumbs, and intricately carved, but still they conveyed nothing to me. I would’ve had an easier time placing a value on the elephants that supplied the ivory.

  While Nakahatchi’s people shouldered the case, Deborah joined me again. Before her smile could send me back into shock, I asked in a whisper, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” she admitted. Then she explained, “The question of what they’re worth isn’t simple. Even a forgery that good could be precious, for the craftsmanship alone. But unfortunately the issue here is more than just the difference between, say, a nineteenth-century knock-off and an eighteenth-century original. The content, the information carved on the chops, also matters. I’m told that the originals reveal someth
ing important about the martial arts. Something with authority. If the chops are forgeries, the information isn’t authentic.

  “In theory a forgery could have been made anywhere, at any time—and belong to anyone. But if the chops are originals, they’re a Chinese national treasure.”

  That didn’t quite answer my question. I persisted. “But if they’re fake, what does it matter who owns them? Why is Hong in such a snit?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows?” I loved watching her shrug. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Sternway. I don’t understand the politics involved.”

  At last the case was ready to move. Solemn as a cortege, with Sternway and Nakahatchi in the lead, hotel security on both sides, and Bernie bringing up the rear, the display climbed the portico steps. As the lobby doors slid aside, a gust of colder air welcomed the procession into The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center.

  Sternway put his hand on my arm and pulled me to his side for a moment. The instant he touched me, my guts remembered the path of Estobal’s slug, and I wanted to break Sternway’s fingers. But Marshal had advised me to be polite, so I didn’t slap the hand away. Instead I matched Sternway’s stride.

  He didn’t glance at me. “If those two decide to go at each other,” he warned softly, “don’t get in the way. They’ll eat you alive.”

  Oh, really? Two short middle-aged guys in pajamas didn’t exactly terrify me. But it probably would’ve been rude to say so. Obliquely, I remarked, “I’ve survived worse.”

  He flicked me with a look that said, No, you haven’t, then let me go.

  I was starting to enjoy all this respect. If the situation didn’t improve soon, I might tell Marshal to go to hell. Resume my normal charming demeanor. Fuck the job.

  Right, I snarled back. And then what?

  For maybe the third time already, I wasted a breath ordering myself to relax.

  Together, Sternway and Nakahatchi parted the crowd like Moses. Apparently everyone except me took them seriously. The waters closed behind us, cutting off my retreat, but at least we didn’t have any trouble reaching the tournament hall.

  Once we were inside, the cortege headed along the bleachers toward the roped-off area at the near side of the dais. I detached myself from the procession to take another look around and think. There were questions I wanted to ask everyone in sight, but they’d have to wait. I wasn’t directly responsible for the security of the chops. This job I needed so badly had different requirements.

  In the middle of the holding area, Nakahatchi’s people stopped, unfolded legs from the display case, and set it down neatly in the exact center of the space. Sternway and Hideo Komatori exchanged a few words with Bernie while the Watchdog advisers listened. Then they all moved outside the ropes, and Bernie put his guards in position.

  The other pajamas, including Sifu Hong, had spaced themselves out around the hall, presumably setting up stations for their various schools. At the head table, Sue Rasmussen, the Master of Ceremonies, stood deep in consultation with the Director of Referees, Ned Gage. But Parker Neill, Tournament Coordinator, seemed to be doing the same thing I was—taking a last look around before the confusion started. I wandered over to join him.

  He was slightly plump, with fleshy cheeks, a nose that couldn’t decide on its own shape, hangdog eyebrows, and an unnatural sheen to his dark hair that suggested dye or sweat. His shoulders sagged. If I hadn’t become so sensitive on the subject, I might not have noticed the trained ease hidden behind his blazer and his IAMA patch.

  He gave me an absent-minded nod, his attention elsewhere. “Axbrewder.” Something that resembled boredom tarnished his gaze.

  Since I couldn’t look relaxed, I took a stab at affability. “Call me Brew, Mr. Neill. Axbrewder sounds like a medication. Something they give you for gas.”

  He smiled distantly. “OK, Brew. I’m Parker. Us functionaries don’t stand on ceremony here.”

  The implication being, of course, that under other circumstances he would’ve expected more formality.

  I plunged in before he could wander away. “Parker, I’ve never been to one of these before. I don’t really know what to expect.”

  “Oh, it’s pretty simple”—he could answer without thinking about it—“once you get used to the noise, and the crowding, and the people who block the aisles. The audience is supposed to stay on the bleachers, but we’ll spend the whole weekend asking them to leave the tournament floor.

  “Events are held in the rings. For kata and kobudo, the judges sit in those chairs.” He gestured at the folding chairs at the edge of each ring. “There are score-keepers. Timekeepers and referees for kumite and katame. Sue announces the events and the winners from the head table. For the lesser events, we award the trophies right away. The rest we give out Sunday night.

  “That area”—he pointed at the roped-off space opposite Essential Shotokan’s display—“is like an ‘on-deck circle.’ Competitors go there before their events to get instructions, have their gear inspected, and do last-minute warmups.”

  He smiled humorlessly. “We always run late. But it all gets done eventually.”

  There were probably fifty questions I could’ve asked while I had the chance. But I wanted to understand the answers, so I kept it practical.

  “Where do the competitors warm up when it isn’t the last minute?”

  Still on auto-pilot, Neill told me, “They’re supposed to find space outside the aisles. Some go out to the lobby—which the hotel doesn’t like. And a fair number use the corridor outside.” He nodded at the service doors. “Usually they don’t get lost.”

  That would complicate security, but it wasn’t my job to say so. Bernie and The Luxury presumably had an understanding with the IAMA.

  Just to keep Parker talking while I thought, I commented, “You must need a hell of a lot of judges. Where do you get them?”

  Maybe all his smiles were humorless. “That’s the price black belts pay for their rank.” Or maybe he really was bored, despite his responsibilities. “If they want to compete, or watch their students compete, we expect them to do it. But even they aren’t enough. For the kids’ events, we use brown belts when we have to.”

  At least they didn’t dragoon spectators. That was a comfort.

  “I guess you’ve done this before,” I offered, hoping to touch something a bit more personal. But he just nodded. The marginal attention he’d allowed me began to drift away. It seemed that no one here could think of a reason to take me seriously.

  I made one more attempt.

  “Forgive my ignorance. I don’t mean to sound rude. But I can’t help wondering what makes Mr. Sternway so important? Where does he stand in the martial arts world?”

  What did he have that made him a match for Nakahatchi and Hong?

  Parker Neill turned to look at me.

  “Depends on how you approach it,” he explained without much interest. “The IAMA was his idea. A resource for individual schools and karate-ka. It provides access to insurance, advice, advertising, tournaments, seminars. He started it, and he runs it.

  “But it wouldn’t work if he couldn’t command respect. There are hundreds of styles and thousands of schools, and they tend to be pretty self-involved. They’re ‘true believers,’ they all think they own a truth no one else understands. If an ordinary businessman tried to launch an organization like the IAMA, he’d be laughed out of town.”

  Parker’s attention wandered again, but he kept on talking.

  “Sternway sensei is an eighth-dan in Shorin-Ryu. They don’t go any higher than tenth. In fact, he’s my sensei. And Sue’s.” He nodded toward the Director of Referees at the head table. “Anson Sternway Shorin-Ryu Bushido is one of the biggest schools in Carner. He proved himself all around the martial arts world for a couple of decades before starting the IAMA. And he’s friends with people like Bill Wallace and Fumio Demura.

  “The IAMA couldn’t exist if Sternway sensei weren’t so highly regarded.”

  I got the picture. I cou
ldn’t help noticing, however, that Parker sounded just as bored talking about his sensei as he did explaining the tournament. Sternway may’ve been the god of Shorin-Ryu—whatever that was—but he didn’t inspire enthusiasm in his Tournament Coordinator.

  Maybe, I thought sourly, Parker had been worn down by Sternway’s air of superiority.

  Some of the IAMA blazers now moved toward the doors. Presumably they were about to let the hordes in. Neill had work to do, so I let him go.

  As far as I knew, Alex Lacone wasn’t here.

  He was my only hope for another job after this weekend.

  6

  The minute the doors opened, noise poured into the hall. Men, women, and children in pajamas and warmup suits, all jabbering at once, mobbed the IAMA blazers at the registration table while the first influx of spectators tried to choose seats without knowing where the events they were interested in would be held. Before I could decide on a vantage point, the whole space had begun to rumble with tension, expectancy, hopes, stifled fears. The ceiling seemed to settle a few inches, clamping down like the lid of a pressure cooker.

  As far as I could tell, no one paid any attention to the display of martial arts antiques.

  For the moment, at least, I didn’t have anything particular to do. The hall was too self-absorbed to need protection. Even a thief whacked out on crack or angel dust would probably know better than to start poking around until people settled into the tournament and got careless. Assuming Bernie’s men would even let someone enter in that condition.

  So I concentrated on trying to acclimatize myself. Tune my nerves to the pitch of the noise and the press of the crowd, the clamor of hormones and anticipation. The more familiar I became with it all, the better my chances of spotting trouble.

  In my present frame of mind, I had a long way to go. Ginny’s absence ached in me like the loss of a limb.

  Virtuously practicing my ability to pick details out of the human in-rush, I scanned the hall until I spotted Watchdog’s Security Associate, Deborah Messenger. She was talking with Sammy Posten across the rings from me, near the head table and the display—although from this distance it looked like he did all the talking, gesturing erratically while he worked himself into a lather over something or other. She listened the way you listen to your commanding officer when you know he’s crazy and you plan to disregard his orders as soon as he turns his back.