The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “I suppose one of us had better.” Without transition my grip turned slick on the wheel. I could hardly hold onto the phone. “Otherwise I might drive into a pole.”

  She laughed again. “Flatterer.”

  I swallowed at the sudden lump of desire in my throat. “But you’re right, it’s business.

  “Has Watchdog decided to get the chops appraised?”

  “If you can call what corporations do ‘deciding,’” she told me, “yes. The home offices still aren’t willing to rely on a local appraisal. Their expert will fly out from New York next week as scheduled. But they agree that getting a temporary evaluation here might be a good idea.

  “Sammy talked them into it. Those crooks at the tournament really spooked him. He’s convinced himself that more of them are lining up on the sidewalk.” I pictured her rolling her eyes. “He can be pretty hysterical, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, but he knows how to play company politics. I’ll bring Carliss Swilley out to Martial America around eleven this morning, if that suits you.” Politely she added, “I’ve already called Essential Shotokan.”

  I checked my watch automatically. “Eleven is fine. Any excuse to see you before this evening works for me.” I hesitated, then forged ahead. “I’ve got an idea I want to try.”

  As soon as I said it, I felt like I’d stepped off a cliff. Suddenly I’d committed myself to intuitions I couldn’t name, possibilities I didn’t want to face.

  But Deborah didn’t know that. “Does Martial America have a restroom we can lock?” She sounded like she was licking her lips.

  “It’s not that kind of idea.” I wedged the phone at my ear with my shoulder, scrubbed both palms on my pants. “I thought it might be interesting to ask Sifu Hong’s opinion of the chops.”

  She took a moment to change gears. “Is he an authority?”

  “Probably not in the way you mean.” I continued falling. “But he’s a moral authority. If I can tell him that Watchdog Insurance and Alex Lacone value his opinion, it might relax his hostility a bit.” Certainly it might make my job easier by defusing some of his personal distrust. “And who knows? It may give Posten ammunition to use on your home offices.”

  Deborah paused to consider the idea. After a few seconds, she answered slowly, “Brew, I have to be sure I understand what you’re asking.” She sounded dubious. “Do you want us to offer Sifu Hong an appraiser’s fee? Because if you do—”

  “No,” I put in, “nothing that official. I just want to be able to tell him that I speak for Watchdog as well as Lacone when I ask for his cooperation.”

  Lacone wouldn’t object. Anything to keep the peace.

  “Oh, that’s no problem.” Her relief was evident. “You can use my name. And Sammy’s. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get huffy about it. The homes offices won’t complain. Since they aren’t excited about the idea of a local appraisal, even a temporary one, they’ll welcome a second opinion. If the two don’t match, they can feel smug about insisting on their own expert. And if Sifu Hong agrees with Mr. Swilley, that only strengthens Watchdog’s position.”

  She didn’t add, In case something happens to the chops this week. She didn’t need to. Instead she said, “Don’t worry about Mr. Swilley. I’ll smooth his feathers before we arrive.”

  “Deborah Messenger, you’re a sweetheart.” The danger that Swilley might take offense hadn’t occurred to me. “On top of being the sexiest lady I’ve met in many a long year.”

  In a throaty whisper, she told me, “Check the restrooms.” Then she hung up before I had a chance to make a fool of myself by dropping the phone.

  Damn. The van’s AC couldn’t push out enough cold air to keep me from sweating. What was I getting myself into? Last night I’d liked the idea of consulting Hong. Now without warning it scared the crap out of me.

  Deborah’s attitude, her incomprehensible eagerness, no longer worried me. I couldn’t think about it. Somewhere in the back of my head, a small voice whimpered wordlessly, like an illiterate mute trying to warn against imminent violence.

  I did not trust my instincts. Not this time. Not without some kind of evidence to back them up. The back of my head had leaped out over an abyss, and I couldn’t see the other side.

  Until I understood what my nerves wanted to tell me, I couldn’t do anything except fall—and pray that I latched onto something solid enough to stop me before I smeared my body all over the rocks at the bottom.

  Trembling, I forced myself to check the street signs, confirm that I wasn’t lost. Take it a step at a time. What else could I do? When my forehead finally stopped dripping, I dug out the listings I’d acquired from directory assistance. Take it—Carefully I dialed the number for Essential Shotokan .

  It rang until I was about to give up. Then a male voice answered, “Essential Shotokan. I am Hideo Komatori.”

  “Mr. Komatori.” I couldn’t account for all this good luck with phone calls. “It’s Brew. Good morning.”

  “Brew-san. Please excuse my delay. I was meditating.” Underneath his usual reserve, Komatori sounded pleasantly considerate. “It is indeed a good morning.

  “How may I be of service?”

  “I was hoping—”

  Abruptly I stomped on the brake to avoid a Corvette convertible veering recklessly into my lane. In his muscle shirt and shorts, the driver had the cut look of a professional poster boy. His hair kept him too busy to bother steering.

  Somehow I avoided swearing into the phone.

  “Sorry,” I told Komatori. “Bad driver.” The guy had enough hair to get tangled in it when he moved his hands. “I was hoping I could speak to Nakahatchi sensei.”

  “I’m sorry, Brew-san,” Komatori answered. “My master doesn’t use telephones. I’m sure he’ll speak with you in person, if you wish. Or could I speak with him on your behalf?”

  I almost climbed the back of the’vette before I realized what I was doing. “He doesn’t use telephones?”

  Komatori laughed politely. “I’m afraid not. He distrusts the modem world in many of its forms. In particular, he believes that telephones allow men to avoid responsibility for their words and actions. He may be right. I’ve often thought that we all lie more easily over the phone than in person. Don’t you agree?”

  Deliberately I receded from the poster boy. “But he lets you give him messages?”

  “He doesn’t hold me accountable for their content.”

  “Well,” I said after a moment, “I’ll take your advice on this one. I think you’ve already had a call from Deborah Messenger? Watchdog Insurance?”

  “Indeed,” Hideo replied promptly. “She mentioned a Mr. Carliss Swilley, who has been retained to authenticate the chops. My master knows nothing of this Mr. Swilley, but of course he has no objection. For various reasons, he’s deeply concerned to determine whether or not the chops are genuine. He’s been troubled on this point, and he welcomes anyone who might resolve the matter.”

  I nodded at the phone, then remembered that Komatori couldn’t see me. “I’m glad to hear it.” Then I plunged on, still falling. “Do you think he’d object to letting Sifu Hong inspect the chops? Should I ask him in person?”

  Again Komatori gave a reserved laugh. “Ordinarily I shouldn’t speak for my master. It isn’t considered proper. But in this case, I know his thoughts. He would be honored by a visit from Sifu Hong, for that purpose or any other. I’m not betraying a confidence, Brew-san, when I say that he would have invited Sifu Hong himself, but to do so seemed indelicate.”

  “‘Indelicate’?” Feeling confused, I checked my map again. I was definitely getting lost somewhere.

  “Sifu Hong has made his anger evident. Naturally it must be respected. To invite him here might be seen as an attempt to placate him. That would be an affront.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “Ah, but if the invitation comes from you, Brew-san,” Komatori pronounced, “the problem evaporates. It grants Sifu Hong face, it allows this dojo to show respect for an
esteemed master, and it preserves Nakahatchi sensei’s stature, so that he may offer Sifu Hong courtesy rather than placation.”

  Mentally I threw up my hands. It was clear that “good manners” to men like Komatori and T’ang, Nakahatchi and Hong, meant something entirely different than they did to Marshal—something deeper, more definitive. I couldn’t claim that I understood it.

  “Maybe,” I said reluctantly. “Maybe not. Sifu Hong has at least one grievance that won’t go away just because the invitation comes from me.”

  Hideo waited while I dredged up what T’ang told me yesterday.

  “There’s no graceful way to say this,” I went on. “I guess it has to do with face. Apparently Sifu Hong believes that Nakahatchi sensei upstaged him. Traditional Wing Chun signed the first lease with Martial America, but Essential Shotokan moved in first. Sifu Hong seems to think your sensei did that deliberately. To eclipse him in some way.”

  Feeling too awkward to frame a direct question, I shut up.

  I couldn’t read Komatori’s silence. Maybe I’d insulted him. Or maybe he was just considering his answer.

  After a long moment, he replied, “Perhaps I can understand how Sifu Hong might have received that impression. There’s no tradition of personal communication between masters. Schools such as ours have always kept to themselves.

  “But I can tell you plainly, Brew-san, that Sifu Hong is mistaken about this. Like his school, ours once occupied another location in Carner. My master didn’t want to move. We’d been there for several years, and he felt a loyalty to the owner. When the time came to renew our lease, however, we learned that his loyalty wasn’t reciprocated. The owner raised our rent considerably, more than we could afford, and we needed to find a new location rather quickly. Mr. Lacone offered us favorable terms and immediate availability.

  “In retrospect,” Komatori admitted, “it seems unfortunate that we moved in before Traditional Wing Chun.” Then he added, “But I assure you—and you can assure Sifu Hong—that my master’s decision was entirely pragmatic. It had nothing to do with a desire for precedence. We didn’t learn that Sifu Hong had signed the first lease until both schools were in place.”

  “You mean Mr. Sternway didn’t mention it?” I asked more sharply than I intended. I would’ve expected Sternway to use every argument he could muster on Lacone’s behalf, including school loyalty and national pride.

  But Hideo didn’t hesitate. “Indeed not,” he stated firmly. “That would have been indelicate.”

  And Sternway knew how much Nakahatchi valued delicacy? Maybe he did.

  “Then how did you find out?” I pursued. “Since there’s no ‘tradition of personal communication.’”

  Now Komatori paused. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I believe Ms. Rasmussen mentioned it. We consult often. But”—his tone conveyed a smile—“I’m not confident of my memory.”

  Good ol’ Sue Rasmussen. That gave me another reason to talk to her. I mean, aside from the fact that she hated me.

  “What do you consult about?”

  Komatori had his answer ready. “Insurance and liability. Leases. Publicity. Tournaments and seminars. She and I talk to each other at least twice a month.”

  Which made sense. The same was probably true for T’ang Wen. Still another reason to give her a call. Someone must’ve planted the idea that I’d been hired because Lacone and Watchdog didn’t trust Hong.

  “All right,” I sighed. “I’ll deal with that when I talk to Sifu Hong. But I think you’ve given me what I need. Thanks.”

  “I hope I’ve been of service.” Hideo sounded sincere. “My master desires to relieve the tensions between our schools.”

  “Well—” I thought for a moment. “Assuming I can talk Sifu Hong into this, does eleven suit you? Since we’re all concerned about face, I don’t know who should get precedence, Mr. Swilley or Sifu Hong. I’d rather deliver them together.”

  “That will be fine.” Komatori’s tone conveyed confidence.

  So now all I had to do was convince Hong, and my fall would be complete. I didn’t understand that either.

  Where was the danger? My guts churned with an almost metaphysical alarm, as if I’d put someone at risk, someone I ought to protect. But who?

  “Brew-san?” the phone asked my silence. Apparently I’d been distracted longer than I realized.

  “Sorry again,” I murmured while I dredged my attention back to the present.

  “Another bad driver?”

  “Unfortunately no,” I admitted. “The back of my brain has been trying to tell me something, but I can’t seem to hear it.”

  “Do you meditate?” Komatori inquired. “Perhaps your receptiveness is cluttered in some way. To still your mind is to hear yourself more clearly.”

  I made an effort to dismiss the notion without sounding dismissive. “I’m sure you’re right.” I already knew my receptiveness was cluttered. “But until I have time to still my mind, there’s another question you might be able to answer for me.”

  “Certainly.”

  I checked my bearings quickly, then asked, “Have you, or Nakahatchi sensei, or Essential Shotokan ever had any kind of contact with the security guard who was killed on Saturday?”

  “‘Contact,’ Brew-san?” Komatori countered. “What do you mean? My master and I have been introduced to him at the tournaments. Perhaps some of our students also knew him by name. Is that what you wish to know?”

  “Not really. I was thinking more of contact outside the hotel. Was he ever a student of yours? Did he ever do any security work for you on the side? Arrange loans—or help pay them off? For you or any of your students?”

  Komatori fell silent long enough to make me think that my cell phone had lost the connection. Then he said quietly, “You bewilder me, Brew-san. I don’t understand why you ask these questions.” Then he added more firmly, “However, I’m sure that your reasons are excellent.

  “Naturally I can’t speak for the private lives of our students. But to the best of my knowledge, none of us has had any contact with the unfortunate Mr. Appelwait outside the hotel. Certainly my master and I haven’t.”

  And that was the truth, at least as far as I was concerned. Nothing about him set off any alarms in my head. If I needed to, I was prepared to gamble on his honesty.

  In any case, I’d already given up on the far-fetched notion that Bernie’s death had anything to do with Bernie himself. He hadn’t brought it on himself through past indiscretions or unfortunate connections. He was dead, purely and simply, because he’d caught someone in that men’s room who considered his identity worth murder to protect.

  So I told Komatori again, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to confuse you. There’s just something about Bernie’s death that doesn’t make sense. I’ve been groping for any information I can get about his life. Who he knew. Who he did business with. What kind of business it was. Just in case,” I finished with a shrug that nearly made me drop the phone, “the cops miss anything.”

  “Ah.” Hideo’s sigh seemed to convey more comprehension than he was entitled to. “I respect your concern. If any other questions occur to you, please ask them.”

  “I will.” He could count on that, anyway.

  When we’d agreed to meet on the ground floor of Essential Shotokan a few minutes before 11:00, we hung up.

  I didn’t need to check my watch. The clock outside a nearby bank told me that the time was about 9:30. I had either a lot more time than I needed or nowhere near enough, depending on how Hong reacted. Since I still didn’t know why the idea of asking him to evaluate the chops scared me, I took a couple of deep breaths and dialed the number for Traditional Wing Chun.

  As it happened, directory assistance had a listing for Hong Fei-Tung, but I didn’t want to call him directly. I’d be in a stronger position if I played by his rules, made an appointment through T’ang Wen.

  My luck with phone calls held. T’ang answered after the third ring.

  His rese
rve as he greeted me had a different quality than Komatori’s, an instructed feel—the sound of a student acting on his teacher’s wishes instead of his own. When I asked if Sifu Hong might be willing to talk to me in, say, fifteen minutes, he replied that he’d have to consult with his master. Then he put the phone down and left me hanging for almost two miles.

  I wasn’t more than ten blocks from Martial America when T’ang returned with the information that Sifu Hong had graciously consented to see me. Since I couldn’t grasp Komatori’s distinction between “courtesy” and “placation,” I thanked T’ang with more enthusiasm than I actually felt, on the theory that it was better for a gwailo to sound too humble than not humble enough. Then I concentrated on trying to control the inarticulate clatter of panic in the back of my head.

  Damn it. What was the problem here? Why did my guts believe that I’d just made a mistake which would haunt me for years?

  Hideo had suggested meditation. As soon as I’d wheeled the van into one of Martial America’s abundant parking spaces, I tried to do just that. Close my eyes behind my sunglasses, relax into the background mutter of the Plymouth’s engine, empty the stale alarm from the pit of my stomach. Unclutter my “receptiveness.” The thought of involving Hong with the chops frightened me for some reason, an intuitive reason. I needed to know what it was. Otherwise I’d have to ignore it. In rational terms, Ginny’s suggestion made perfect sense.

  Was I putting Hong at risk in some way that I couldn’t imagine? Was that possible?

  What could threaten a man who knew as much about fighting as Hong did?

  No answers occurred to me. Instead of opening a door to the back of my head, my efforts simply made me sweat. Apparently meditation wasn’t something you could just jump into on the spur of moment. Or maybe I didn’t have a meditative personality.

  In disgust, I turned off the van, locked it, and headed toward Traditional Wing Chun.

  The dojo’s ornamental door was open, but all the lights were off, and I didn’t find anyone on the ground floor. Since manners were so important here, I didn’t go upstairs unescorted. Instead I did my best to look patient while I waited for someone to greet me.