The Man Who Fought Alone

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  I hardly heard the ovation he received. Astonishment left me practically deaf. I felt like I’d just witnessed the birth of a religion—the moment when violence was transfigured by skill and devotion into something ineffable, almost sublime.

  Minutes seemed to pass before I noticed Ned gazing at me with a question in his eyes.

  Involuntarily I reached out and braced myself on his shoulder. “I think,” I mumbled while I turned my back on the ring, “I need to sit down.”

  “Don’t you want to see who wins?”

  I shook my head. Still leaning on him, I retreated to the back of the dais. There I seated myself heavily and dropped my legs over the edge.

  “Brew?” Ned asked. “You all right?”

  “Yes.” I sighed. “No.” Then I made an effort to pull myself together. “I just realized something.”

  Ned sat down companionably beside me. “I know what you mean. Sifu Hong is amazing.”

  I shook my head again. “Something else.” Of course Hong was amazing. But I’d been gripped by a perception that resembled ecstasy, a moment of intuition so acute that it might as well have been metaphysical.

  “Like what?”

  I took a deep breath and held it until the pressure grew strong enough to steady me. Then I let it out. When it was all gone, and my lungs were clear, I told him, “I haven’t been taking those chops seriously enough. They’re worth killing for.”

  They were the Body of Christ, priceless to true believers everywhere. Entire crusades had been fought for less.

  If they were genuine.

  Ned frowned. “And you got that from watching Sifu Hong?”

  I tried to explain. “I thought they were just antiques. Worth only what collectors decide to pay. But that kata—” Words couldn’t convey what I’d seen. “They aren’t antiques. They’re religious icons. The kind of thing people venerate.”

  And kill for. Bernie was dead because of them.

  Someone else would be next. The killer wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted.

  Ned laughed. “Then there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll be done here by midnight. After that the chops aren’t your problem.”

  Sure, I thought. Not my problem.

  The killing had already begun. That made it my problem.

  Grimacing, I replied dishonestly, “And I say, thank God. Otherwise I’d feel morally bound to give myself an ulcer.”

  I wanted to deflect him from the truth. If I didn’t, he might get in the killer’s way somehow. I didn’t want his blood on my conscience.

  A minute later, Sue Rasmussen announced the Masters’ Kata Champion. Soon won, with Gravel second and Hong third. Apparently prejudice against the soft styles was alive and well at the IAMA World Championships.

  “Judges.” Ned dismissed the results with the back of his hand. “Go figure.” Then he told me privately, “But I was right about one thing. I saw the scores before you turned away. Nakahatchi sensei gave his best marks to Sifu Hong.”

  Somehow I wasn’t surprised. Nakahatchi may’ve been trying to keep himself alive.

  Ned went back to his duties, but I stayed put for a while, feeling dazed and essentially stupid. Eventually, however, I summoned the will to resume my own responsibilities. I didn’t think the chops were in any immediate danger, so I went looking for an opportunity to talk to someone from Essential Shotokan.

  Trying not to be obvious about it, I made an oblique approach to the spot where Nakahatchi had set up his enclave. He sat a bit above me, surrounded by students. The dullness in his eyes made him appear to slump even though his actual posture was erect. Once again his thin hair and the lines beside his mouth gave me the impression that his face was war torn in some way, strewn with the casualties of an old conflict. Despite my need for information, I felt suddenly reluctant to approach him.

  I was still reeling from the effects of the Masters’ katas.

  Fortunately I recognized one of his people, Hideo Komatori. We’d been introduced Friday morning. That gave me an opening.

  “Mr. Komatori.” Unsure of the real thing, I produced an ersatz bow. “Axbrewder. We met briefly on Friday.”

  Like his sensei, he wore white canvas, but his black belt showed less wear. As he stood to return my bow, I saw that he was considerably taller than Nakahatchi—which still left him a hand shorter than I was. I couldn’t tell his age. Mid-thirties ? To my eye, Asian faces disguised their years. He carried himself with the lightness I’d learned to expect from serious martial artists, back straight, hands ready. But he smiled like he was sincerely willing to talk to me.

  Stepping down from the risers, he shook my hand. “Mr. Axbrewder. You’re well? You enjoy the tournament?”

  Until he stood right in front of me, I didn’t notice the scar that ran from his forehead down through his left eyebrow into his cheek. It was so old and pale that I could only make it out when the light caught it.

  “It’s a job,” I answered. “That changes how I look at it.” Then I asked, “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  He opened his hands as if to show that they held nothing. “You’ve spoken to others far more advanced than I. What remains that I might answer?”

  Observant fellow. Like Nakahatchi, he knew why I was here.

  “Part of my job,” I replied, “is to protect your display. I’d like to understand what makes it so important.” I had no idea what Nakahatchi’s agenda might be. “As you say, I’ve talked to several people. But they all have their own perspectives. How do you see the situation?”

  From his seat Nakahatchi watched me as if he were too Zen to shoo off a cockroach, never mind squash the pest.

  Komatori looked politely quizzical. “You want to understand the significance of the chops to Nakahatchi sensei?”

  “That, too,” I admitted. “But I’d also like to know how he got them in the first place. And I’m curious how he plans to guard them after the tournament.”

  Which wasn’t any of my business, but I didn’t care.

  “Axbrewder-san”—apparently san came more naturally to him than mister—“you’ll understand that the chops were put in my master’s care quite recently. Indeed, we’re concerned about their safety. Perhaps you’ll consent to advise us?”

  Involuntarily I smiled. He couldn’t have told me to keep my nose out of Essential Shotokan’s affairs more courteously if he’d asked Miss Manners to translate for him.

  I didn’t try to match him. Cheerfully rude, I countered, “Not without getting paid for it.” Then I conceded, still smiling, “I mean, I couldn’t say anything useful unless I analyzed your security, saw where you’re planning to keep the display, and knew how much you can afford to spend on improvements.”

  By tomorrow I’d be off the payroll. And I had other things to do.

  Komatori withdrew the question with exquisite grace. “As you say.”

  I wasn’t accustomed to dealing with manners like his. “Still,” I observed, trying not to lose my way, “you’ve been thinking about your security. You must anticipate trouble.”

  He treated me to a sample of Asian inscrutability. “It’s always wise to consider trouble.”

  “Sure. But you must be worried about something specific. Break-ins? General burglary?” If so, it was Lacone’s problem—and Watchdog’s—not Nakahatchi’s. As long as the chops had been adequately insured. “Or don’t you trust your neighbors?”

  Lacone had told me that Soon’s Tae Kwon Do Academy, Gravel’s Malaysian Fighting Arts, and Hong’s Traditional Wing Chun occupied Martial America alongside Essential Shotokan. He’d mentioned two or three other schools, but they hadn’t moved in yet.

  “Axbrewder-san,” Komatori replied, “is this your first experience among martial artists?” He indicated the tournament with a discreet gesture.

  I nodded.

  “Yet you must be aware,” he went on, “that Western cultures differ from Eastern in many ways. For example, they understand honor differently.


  “You’re an honorable man.” Giving me the benefit of the doubt. “Nakahatchi sensei is honorable as well. Would you prefer death to dishonesty? There West and East may be similar. But would you prefer death to disrespect?”

  He let his question hang delicately in the air.

  That was too subtle. “Humor me, Mr. Komatori. I’m Western. Assume I don’t understand.”

  His tone hinted at a sigh. “To a man like my master, your question is disrespectful. To answer it would be dishonorable.”

  In other words, he wouldn’t say anything that might sound critical of another school.

  “Thanks,” I growled. “Now I get it. I think.”

  “As you say,” he responded, “your duties don’t require you to consider these matters.”

  The infernally courteous sonofabitch may’ve been making excuses for me.

  If I didn’t get something concrete from him soon, I’d have to tear my hair. Groping for a crack in his demeanor, I tried a different approach.

  “Maybe this will help me understand. Why didn’t your sensei compete in the Masters’ Kata? Was that about honor too?”

  Or was it just public relations? Maybe Nakahatchi thought that sitting in judgment on the event would do more to promote his school than trying to win it.

  But if Komatori’s demeanor had any cracks, that sure as hell wasn’t one of them. “Indeed so,” he answered smoothly. “Competitions test individual excellence. My master wanted to express his respect for those who chose to test themselves.

  “Yet competition holds no true place in the study of the martial arts. Funakoshi sensei, the founder of Shotokan, once wrote, ‘The ultimate aim of the art of karate lies not in victory or defeat, but in the perfection of the character of its participants.’” As if that settled the matter, Komatori concluded. “My master has no need to test his excellence.”

  Nakahatchi gazed down on us with the detached and benevolent sorrow of a santo. Apparently he was too busy becoming perfect to take the risks Hong and Soon did.

  So much martial piety got on my nerves. Maybe I was just too Western—or grubby—to understand all these refinements. I considered my options for a moment. But I found that I couldn’t just walk away, so I girded up my loins, as a guy I knew used to say, and made one more attempt.

  “There’s something else I’d like to ask you, if you don’t consider it disrespectful. How does your sensei happen to own those chops?”

  How did a Japanese karate-ka in the US gain possession of what might well be a Chinese national treasure?

  I hoped that Komatori might squirm a bit, but he didn’t. “A common misconception, Axbrewder-san,” he assured me. “My master doesn’t own the chops. He holds them in trust.

  “Less than a month ago, he visited his own sensei, Mato Hakatani, in Japan. When he returned, he brought the chops here. They were placed in his care by Hakatani sensei, who purchased them many years ago from a perhaps disreputable dealer in Chinese antiquities.” Komatori’s manner conveyed refined distaste. “Since he purchased them, Hakatani sensei has been troubled in his mind. They were sold as genuine, but at a price much below their apparent worth. What’s to be done with them? What’s the course of honor?

  “If genuine, they’re of inestimable value to the Wing Chun schools of China. To make a gift of them would be fitting. But there are many Wing Chun schools, many traditions. Which should Hakatani sensei choose? He doesn’t wish to slight any style or tradition.

  “Also there’s the problem of governments. They’re inclined to claim such gifts as national treasures. The intended recipients might never see them.”

  Komatori paused briefly, then added, “And if they aren’t genuine—Making a gift of them might be considered as an insult.”

  I thought he was chewing more than he could bite off. But he didn’t ask my opinion, and I didn’t offer it. Instead I suggested, “Surely you can authenticate them somehow? That would solve at least one of your problems.”

  He nodded. “That’s why Hakatani sensei wanted the chops brought here. Of course, the necessary expertise is available in both China and Japan. But Hakatani sensei feared that any Chinese”—for an instant Komatori’s tone suggested discomfort—“or Japanese authority might be tainted by self-interest. Personal or national gain might inspire a false judgment. In this country, my master may find an authority whose assessment supports confidence.”

  It was my turn to nod, so I did. Antiques appraisers weren’t thick on the ground, but they weren’t exactly scarce either. In Carner, the Land of Recreational Income, there had to be a few who could date the chops accurately—and wouldn’t give a shit about their status as icons.

  But Komatori hadn’t finished. “In addition,” he said, “Hakatani sensei is elderly. He no longer feels able to guard the chops effectively. As a mark of esteem, he gave them to Nakahatchi sensei.

  “Finally, Hakatani sensei believes that if the chops are genuine, they’re too precious to be held privately. Such a treasure must be shared. In Carner, karate-ka from coast to coast will be able to see the display.”

  I understood the sentiment, but I wasn’t persuaded. “Maybe so. But the more people you let in, the greater the risks.

  “Which means,” I added sharply, “your teacher is in deep shit if anything happens.”

  Again Komatori didn’t hesitate. Instead he replied with another display of inscrutability, “If the chops were lost, and my master could not recover them, he would end his life.”

  That sounded like craziness to me, honor exaggerated to the point of fanaticism. Nevertheless it fit the intuitive picture I’d picked up from Sifu Hong’s kata. Under the right circumstances, there was no limit to the amount of blood those chops might cost.

  If I heard much more of this, I’d go crazy myself. “Well, thanks, Mr. Komatori,” I muttered. “I’ll let you go now. I’ve taken too much of your time.”

  He made a deprecating gesture. “Please, Axbrewder-san. Your interest honors us.”

  Nakahatchi nodded as if in assent. Giving us his blessing.

  That did it. I positively could not stomach so much courtesy. Leaning toward Hideo confidentially, I asked, “Then tell me one more thing. How did you come by that scar?”

  Like it was any of my business.

  But he still refused to take anything I said amiss. “A training accident,” he answered. His smile hinted at self-mockery. “When I was younger.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You train with live blades?”

  I’d spent my life surrounded by people who took things amiss.

  He shrugged gently. “Only when the student suffers from arrogance.”

  In other words, his benign and insufferable teacher had taught him a lesson that nearly cost him an eye.

  Charming. I was so impressed I wanted to retch.

  As I walked away, I itched to wash my hands of this tournament, the IAMA, and all martial artists. I was wasting my time here. I wanted to go after Bernie’s killer. That crime, at least, I could hope to understand. Intuitively, irrationally, I believed that it was linked to the chops. But I also believed that it had nothing to do with Nakahatchi’s and Komatori’s refined notions of honor and politeness.

  Regardless of what I wanted, however, I still had a job to do. The tournament continued to trudge along, doling out trophies like communion wafers, and I was being paid to act diligent until all of the IAMA’s elect had received their validation.

  Too fed up to watch any more events, I spent my time chewing on the question of how I proposed to track down the heavyset man.

  My only connection to Bernie’s killer.

  Unfortunately I was in Carner, not Puerta del Sol—entirely out of my element. I didn’t know the city, hadn’t spent years among the lost men and women who frequented Carner’s shadows and angles and alleys. Those benighted souls almost certainly knew what was really going on. At home I could’ve found the drop just by asking around. Here I had no idea who to approach.

  Much as I ha
ted the prospect, I’d need Marshal’s help. Or Detective Moy’s.

  To pacify my chagrin, I left the tournament to go look at Moy’s mug shot. With no success. An hour and a half later, I was back. Apparently no one had missed me.

  Time passed. Events ended. Trophies were awarded. New events began. And eventually Sue Rasmussen announced a supper break, during which the IAMA functionaries would clear the floor for Fumio Demura’s demonstration. The Grand Championships would follow when the rings had been reset.

  I considered taking the opportunity to call Marshal, but I decided against it. He might not appreciate hearing from me on a Sunday evening, when—I couldn’t help thinking this—he was probably alone with Ginny. And he might not be able to answer my questions until Monday anyway. So I ate a quick meal in the coffee shop, braced myself to endure five or six more wasted hours, and went back to the tournament hall.

  By then the night-shift Security team was on duty. I spent a few minutes talking with The Luxury’s Deputy Chief of Security, pretending to find out what he wanted me to do, but really just determining where and when I could pick up my paycheck. Then I moved up onto the dais to watch Demura and his students on the off chance that I might see something I understood.

  As usual, the demonstration started late.

  And it started without me. While Rasmussen proclaimed the presence of the famous teacher, much-published author, and noted Hollywood fight choreographer and stunt double Fumio Demura sensei, Alex Lacone arrived, trailing Sammy Posten like a dinghy in his wake. Broadcasting enthusiasm on all bandwidths, he practically bounded up to the dais, consulted briefly with Anson Sternway, then beckoned for me.

  “Mr. Axbrewder,” he boomed. “Just the man I want to see.”

  Rasmussen covered her mike and asked him to lower his voice. Somehow she contrived to sound pleasant about it, despite her disaffection for me.