“Mr. Axbrewder.” She welcomed me with a smile. “I hope this means we’re still on for dinner.”
Pretending composure, I replied, “Not unless you stop calling me Mr. Axbrewder.” Had I said that before? I couldn’t remember. “Makes me sound like your uncle. I prefer Brew.”
“So do I,” she admitted. Mock-sternly, she added, “And don’t let me catch you calling me Ms. Messenger. At least not to my face. Deb is much better.”
I made a show of trying it out. “Deb? Deb?” Then I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I need more syllables. Deb is too diminutive.” As far as I was concerned, she didn’t have a diminutive bone in her body. “Might as well be an acronym. Would you mind Deborah?”
She laughed. “An acronym? For what?”
I shrugged with pleasure. “Who knows? ‘Daughter of an Emasculated Bastard’? I’ve never met your father. ‘Dreary Eternal Boredom’? No, that doesn’t fit. ‘Designed by the Eugenics Board’? Now there’s a possibility.”
“Enough!” Laughing harder, she waved her hands to stop me. “If you keep this up, I’ll lose my professional credibility. Nobody buys insurance from a woman who laughs too much.
“Come on.” She gestured me toward the door. “If you insist on charming me off my feet, at least do it in the coffee shop so I can hear you better.”
Charming her? Me? I wanted to look around, see who she meant. But I wasn’t buying insurance from her. I was buying risk. “Lead on,” I told her gallantly. “I’ll join you as soon as I tell Mr. Appelwait where I’m going.”
She already knew that I worked for The Luxury.
Smiling over her shoulder, she moved to the doors. I took about two seconds to catch Bernie’s eye and signal my intentions. Then I rejoined her so fast you’d have thought I was pouncing. Unsteadily I accompanied her to the coffee shop.
The place was still generic, but she made it look tawdry as well. The plastic flowers brandished their artificiality over wilted tablecloths, spotted tumblers, stained flatware, and a ratty carpet bestrewn, as you might say, with crumbs. The neat freak inside me squirmed. I wanted to leave the hotel, go somewhere nicer, but I couldn’t afford to stay away from my job that long.
Manfully I set my distaste aside.
Her shining eyes and warm smile made it easy. Under her influence, I forgot all about cleanliness.
For a while I was so befuddled by hormones and longing that I hardly noticed what we did. We must’ve ordered some food, because eventually we ate something. And she must’ve asked me a lot of questions, because otherwise why was I talking so much? But none of it caught my attention. Fog filled my head. What was she doing here? That’s what I wanted to know—an alcoholic’s question. What did she have to gain?
We’d been there for half an hour before I achieved the surprising realization that my fist was wrapped around a cup of coffee while she drank red wine. Alcohol usually shouts at me as soon as it enters the room. The fact that I hadn’t actually noticed its presence for so long hit me hard enough to shake my brain out of its trance.
She’d been quizzing me about my background. How had I become a private investigator? Why was I in a temporary job like tournament security? Did I enjoy it? What sort of work did I do best? If her manner hadn’t been so personal, she could’ve been conducting an interview.
But one of her questions was, “Are you involved with anyone, Brew?” Apparently this wasn’t a job interview.
That sharpened my attention in a hurry. “I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘involved.’ I had a partner for years. And we were definitely involved. But that’s changed. We became”—I shrugged awkwardly—“less involved a while ago. And just recently she stopped calling me her partner. I still haven’t figured out where I stand with that.”
Her lips seemed to moisten themselves. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” That was honest, anyway. “I’d much rather find out whether you’re involved with anyone.”
She gave me a glistening smile. “Let me think. I had dinner with Sammy once, about a year ago. And Alex—you’ve met Alex Lacone, haven’t you?—he propositions me whenever we have a minute alone. Does that count?”
I dismissed Posten and Lacone. “No one else? I find that hard to believe. I wasn’t actually kidding when I mentioned men lined up around the block.” Her pheromones had practically poleaxed me. Surely they affected other males the same way.
“Thank you.” Accepting the oblique compliment. “I’ll tell you the truth, Brew. I think you’ve been honest with me, and I want to do the same.
“I’m an ambitious woman. If I have my way, I’ll end up running Watchdog Insurance. And—” She hesitated. “Oh, how should I put this? I don’t usually talk about it.” For a moment she studied the tablecloth. When she raised her eyes again, they were full of complex colors.
“Sex works for me,” she said carefully. “I don’t mean I’m ‘sleeping my way to the top.’ But I like sex a lot.
“Oh, it helps me along. The men I want to work with pay more attention because they find me attractive. I’m comfortable with that. But I don’t confuse pleasure and ambition. If I find a man attractive, I keep it to myself unless who he is and what he does are irrelevant to my career. When I’m clear on that point—”
She hesitated again, but for a different reason this time. The smile that spread across her face radiated enough heat to make me sweat. “What can I say? I like men who really are men.
“And I don’t meet many.” Chuckling at the expression on my face, she explained, “I think most of them are afraid of me.
“I don’t mean of me personally,” she added quickly. “I mean of women in general. Or of sex. In public they act like walking erections. But most of them are cowards around women.
“Mr. Sternway is one example,” she mentioned in a private murmur. “He’s a famous martial artist, respected everywhere. But he lets his wife treat him like dirt.” Then she laughed again. “I mean, if you listen to the gossip—which of course I never do.”
I tried to play along. “Me neither. Heaven forfend.” But I couldn’t keep it up. Apparently she thought that I was different somehow. If I let that pass, we’d both regret it.
“But I’m not sure you’re right,” I countered. “I can’t speak for Sternway, so let’s take me as an example. I’m not afraid of women. I’m afraid of myself. Nothing gets inside me faster than a woman I want.” I didn’t try to pretend that I wasn’t talking about her. “I don’t just drape my coat across the mud for a pretty face. I toss in my whole body. And that scares me.
“Maybe,” I suggested, “Sternway has the same problem.”
In response, her gaze shone as if I’d just said something wonderful. “So I was right about you.”
She confused me. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Private Investigator,” she pronounced softly, just for me, “it takes real courage to know what you’re afraid of, and admit it. I don’t mind fear. Everybody is scared. I’m scared myself.” She smiled ruefully. “Or I would be if I were brave enough to tell the truth. But I’m tired of men who hold me responsible.”
Behind her assertion I heard loneliness, a deep well of it hidden away where most people never noticed it.
I knew what that felt like.
Mostly in self-defense, I asked, “Since we’re being this honest, do you mind if I change the subject?” For once my own gracelessness didn’t make me flinch.
“Please do.” She flapped her hands in front of her face. “I was about to blush.”
I wanted to thank her. Effusively. But if I did, I’d forget my question, so I blundered ahead.
“Tell me more about those chops. I’m no expert on insurance. I know just enough to wonder why Watchdog hasn’t insisted on an appraisal. How can you insure them if you don’t know what they’re worth?”
With no apparent strain, Deborah shifted to a more detached tone. Nevertheless her eyes continued to glow.
“You’re right,”
she answered, “we can’t. But we haven’t had time to arrange a formal appraisal. Mr. Nakahatchi brought the chops back from Japan only a few days ago. And he doesn’t have enough documentation on their provenance to authenticate them.
“Purely as a temporary solution, we’ve all agreed on a compromise. Until we can have the chops appraised to Watchdog’s satisfaction, they’re only covered for the current price of the ivory itself. No doubt that undervalues them dramatically. As both exquisite antiques and historical documents, they’re worth far more. But at least this way we can insure them. Otherwise Mr. Nakahatchi would have no coverage at all.”
Obviously this involved Lacone. Nakahatchi’s school was in Martial America, so Lacone couldn’t avoid some of the risk.
“Still, I’m worried,” Deborah went on. “We’ll have our appraisal in a week or so. If the chops turn out to be genuine, Alex’s premiums will rise substantially, and Mr. Nakahatchi’s will go through the roof. I’m sure Mr. Nakahatchi won’t be able to afford his. Even Alex will be in trouble.
“Despite the way he talks about it,” she confided, “he’s stretched to the limit with Martial America. He needs more schools, and much more media attention, to attract the kind of investors who can keep his ‘dream’ afloat.”
Then she finished, “I don’t know how any of us will solve that problem, but I’m working on it. In fact, that’s the subject of the report I wrote this afternoon. I’m trying to design a deal that gives everyone enough protection to keep them going.”
Her answer helped, but I wanted more. Pushing my luck, I asked, “What kind of deal?”
There she pulled back. “I’m sorry, Brew. I can’t tell you that.” Her smile took the edge off her refusal. “Our clients have a right to a certain amount of confidentiality.”
I grinned back. “My mistake.” She was right, of course. “It won’t happen again.”
Unless the chops disappeared. Then I wouldn’t give a shit about Watchdog’s professional confidentiality.
For a few minutes, we lapsed into ordinary conversation. What did I think of the tournament? Did she enjoy it? How much did I know about the martial arts? Had she ever studied one? But we were just postponing the real issue. I couldn’t mistake the undercurrent of intensity in her voice—or my own plain yearning.
Finally she leaned forward and took hold of my hand. Her fingers felt cool and enticing on my overheated skin.
“Brew,” she breathed quietly, “there’s a reason I asked if you’re involved with anyone. I think you know what it is. I’d like you to spend the night with me. I don’t know you very well, but so far I really like you. And I’m feeling enough chemistry to set the hotel on fire.”
She didn’t lack the courage to say what she wanted, I had to give her that. Most of my life I’d been too scared to try it.
With an effort, I shook my head.
“I’d like nothing better. But I can’t.” Just saying the words left me hoarse. “Not tonight. I don’t know where I stand with my partner. My former partner. That takes precedence. We were together for a lot of years.” I squeezed Deborah’s fingers, then withdrew my hand. “I wouldn’t feel right with you while things with her aren’t clear.”
There I forced myself to stop. If I’d gone on, I might’ve started to wail. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt the way I did with her. And I wanted it. I wanted more. Turning my back on it cut into me like a bereavement.
She didn’t hide her disappointment. But she didn’t turn it against me either. And she didn’t try to change my mind. Instead she simply smiled her regret.
“I understand,” she murmured. “It’s always better to keep things clean.”
Before I could think of a response, she signaled for the check. Then while we waited she proceeded to put on a display of self-possession that took my breath away. Instead of the stilted courtesy I expected from her, she covered my losses with a flow of light conversation and easy smiles. In its own way, her air of relaxation was as convincing as Sternway’s—and vastly more desirable. I almost believed that she hadn’t taken my refusal personally.
When she’d paid the check, and we stood up to leave, she touched my cheek lightly, like a promise that there were no hard feelings.
I still didn’t know whether she’d told me the truth about herself.
The idea that maybe she hadn’t made me want to weep.
8
Deborah and I parted company in the lobby. She left the hotel—going home, she said. I went back to the tournament.
When I checked in with Bernie, he made a labored reference to speed—or maybe it was quickies—but I hardly heard him. Deprivation of all kinds had caught up with me, and I couldn’t shake the impression that I’d wandered into the wrong hall. Or the wrong life.
In my absence, the whole composition of the occasion had changed. The floor had been cleared of chairs, spectators, and contestants, of competition. Maybe they’d been rolled up like rugs and stashed away. Nevertheless the gallery held more people than it had all day, and every foot of space around the walls was crowded, standing room only. An air of anticipation rode the heat upward, accumulating against the ceiling. I felt like I’d blundered into an amphitheater where lions were scheduled to devour every available Christian.
By coincidence I’d arrived in time for the Bill “Superfoot” Wallace demonstration. Judging by the barrage of applause, Sue Rasmussen must’ve just finished introducing him. Below her, a lean, bandy-legged man took the floor and announced that he and his “opponent” were about to engage in “a battle to the death.”
On cue, the audience roared with laughter. Everyone but me knew what to expect.
I suppose I should’ve been entertained. Or at least impressed. Wallace was fast and flexible enough to amaze sheetrock. He used only one leg—which was probably why they didn’t call him “Superfeet”—but he fired kicks with it like rounds from a chain gun. His hapless opponent didn’t stand a chance.
In my condition, however, I didn’t appreciate the show. Half the time I couldn’t even see it. I lacked the moral energy. So I just stood there, glazed positively ceramic, until he was done.
Afterward Rasmussen went into a spiel about all the wonderful events in store over the next two days. Anticipating confusion while so many people surged for the exits, I aimed myself at the chops. But Bernie stopped me.
“You’re done, Axbrewder,” he buzzed harmlessly. “I haven’t seen anybody look this wrecked since the last time I used a mirror. Get some sleep. We can handle it from here.” Then he snapped, “Be on time tomorrow.” Apparently he didn’t want me to think he’d gotten soft.
I think I thanked him. At the time, I wasn’t sure. He was right, I didn’t have anything left. Saying no to Deborah had used me up. Changing directions, I let the crowd carry me out into the lobby toward Registration, where I picked up the key for a room on Security’s account.
The room itself was more generic everything, but I didn’t care. I only needed a bed big enough to hold me. As soon as I turned off the lights, the whole world shut down, and I slept like a cadaver.
The next morning, the phone jangled me awake in a rush of panic. Phones do that to me sometimes. I’d let Ginny down somehow, and she was trying to get in touch with me. But it was just my wake-up call.
Nevertheless the jangle left me with a sour lump in the pit of my stomach. Pressure throbbed dully in my temples, hinting at disaster. If something went wrong today, it would probably turn out to be my fault.
Until I reached the shower I forgot that Ginny didn’t even know where I was. Unless Marshall told her—
But that, as they say, didn’t bear contemplation, so I declined to contemplate it.
Fortunately The Luxury offered an amenity I hadn’t noticed the night before—an in-room coffee maker. While it perked, I faced the bathroom mirror stoically and pointed a sandblaster at the fatigue encrusted on my features. My guts hardly hurt at all, and under the bandages my wound was clean, but I swallowed
the last of my antibiotics anyway and washed them down with coffee. Then, wishing I owned another suit, a clean one, I got dressed.
I also wished I had my .45. My only weapon was Security’s cell phone, and it didn’t have enough heft to reassure me.
Oh, well. When I’d consumed every drop of coffee in sight, I left the room and caught an elevator for the lobby.
I was early, so Bernie assigned me to help some of his men carry Nakahatchi’s display case from the Manager’s safe room, where it’d been stashed overnight, back out to its designated place in the tournament hall. My guts objected, but they didn’t give me any real trouble. That was progress. A few days ago I wouldn’t have been able to lift my share of the load.
By the time we’d set up the case, Anson Sternway arrived with his entourage—Sue Rasmussen, Ned Gage, and Parker Neill, plus Sammy Posten, Master Song Duk Soon, Soke Bob Gravel, Hideo Komatori, and the navy blazers who ran registration. I didn’t know what brought Soon and Gravel here so early, but Komatori plainly wanted to check on Nakahatchi’s antiques. Posten concentrated on looking important.
Sternway greeted Security and me with a nod, but didn’t say anything.
After that Bernie arranged the rest of his troops. Once the registration crew had their paperwork ready, they helped Gage and Neill reset chairs and sign-poles for the rings. Rasmussen erected placards listing the day’s events.
My sense of premonition refused to go away. While I strolled along the walls waiting for Bernie, I made a discreet attempt to imitate the poised and easy way the IAMA blazers moved, trying to distract my attention from possible crises. I didn’t want to develop expectations, preconceptions, which might get in my way when something actually happened. Nothing hampers intuition like deciding in advance what it’s supposed to do.
During the night, the AC had been set on “hard freeze,” and now the hall felt like a meat locker. I was tempted to hunch my shoulders and blow on my fingers. But the place would heat up soon enough, so I tried to enjoy the chill while it lasted.
The Man Who Fought Alone Page 12