I wasn’t asking her to violate professional confidentiality. As she’d said, we were on the same side. Basically.
“Funny you should ask,” she replied like it wasn’t funny at all. “I was thinking about that earlier. I guess,” she explained, “Bernie’s death upset me more than I realized.”
I started to say that I knew what she meant, but she went on, “There’s nothing in our computer about him other than the reports he filed for The Luxury on security issues and claims. Our records go back fifteen years, which is as long as we’ve been in business. In that time, he never had a policy with us, he wasn’t used as a reference, his name doesn’t show up on any other reports. And that includes our work with Martial America and the IAMA.
“So the short answer is no, he didn’t have any dealings with Watchdog.”
For some reason I wasn’t surprised. Those chops had begun to haunt me. “How about Lacone?” I asked without much hope. “Sternway? Nakahatchi?”
Deborah sighed. “I wouldn’t know. I could always ask Alex, of course.” She didn’t try to hide her distaste. “He’d like it if I wanted something from him. But we don’t usually talk to Mr. Sternway. Sue Rasmussen handles insurance for the IAMA. And we’re in roughly the same position with Mr. Nakahatchi. We provide his liability coverage, but Mr. Komatori takes care of it for him.”
Damn. I missed Puerta del Sol. At home I would’ve known exactly who to approach for information. Spend a couple of hours trolling dark bars and wasted shelters, buy cautious drinks for grizzled and weary Chicanos, Mestizos, Indians, ruined former Anglos—dealers in seamy knowledge—and I would’ve learned everything I needed about Bernie’s private life. If he’d had one.
But not here. Here I’d have to do it the hard way.
Which wasn’t Deborah’s problem. “Oh, well,” I responded regretfully. “So much for that idea. Don’t worry about it. I should get plenty of chances to talk to Lacone and everyone else in the next few days.”
She changed gears so fast that I nearly dropped the phone. “I don’t mind,” she drawled. “Alex probably won’t tell me anything useful unless I let him fondle me. But that might be fun. I’ll just imagine your reaction. I can see you now, gnashing your teeth while he slides his hands into my blouse—”
“Stop it!” I croaked. “You’ll cause a pile-up. I’m driving badly enough as it is.”
She gave me the throaty laugh that made me want to tear her clothes off. Somehow I kept the Subaru on the road.
For a couple of minutes we chatted about other things. I had about a dozen questions I wanted to pursue, most of which could be summed up in one. Why me? But I was already lost in a tangle of freeways, and every mile I drove threatened to make the problem worse. I needed to get out my map, regain my bearings.
Manfully I said goodbye and hung up the phone.
My ear burned for twenty minutes afterward.
14
Once I’d figured out where I was, I decided I had time for one more chore, so I tacked and hauled my way back to Acme Cars Cheap, where I exchanged the Subaru for a battered Plymouth van with no back seats, an industrial-strength air conditioner, and almost enough leg room. When the air in the Plymouth had finally cooled enough to dry my skin, I located the nearest fast-food joint—a Burger Boutique, forsooth—ate a quick meal, and returned to The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center.
I arrived twenty minutes early, but Anson Sternway appeared less than five minutes later, wearing his usual lack of expression.
He’d traded in his dignitary clothes, including the blazer, for casual grey slacks and a white cotton shirt with long sleeves, but he still moved like an ambulatory vial of nitroglycerin. Neither of us offered to shake hands. We’d already done that.
Just being polite, I asked, “What brings you here?” Since nothing I said ever made an impression on him anyway, I tried a leaden joke. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”
He didn’t react. Maybe he didn’t get it. “Mr. Lacone can’t be here,” he told me flatly. “He has other commitments, so he asked me to show you around Martial America.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Do you run this kind of errand for him often?” I would’ve assumed that the Director of the IAMA had better things to do.
He shrugged slightly. “I’m on retainer with Martial America. Mr. Lacone pays for my time.” Then he added, “He’d like a call from you this afternoon.” Effortlessly he produced a business card and handed it to me. “You can use his private line. He wants your assessment of Martial America’s security.”
Marshal had already warned me twice, so I didn’t ask, Is there anything you won’t do for a few bucks? Instead I said, “Thanks,” and pocketed the card.
We waited together in silence for a while. HRH seemed too superior for small talk. I had plenty of new questions for him, but I wasn’t sure that I could get through them before Essential Shotokan’s people arrived.
Sure enough, a few minutes later Hideo Komatori and three other men parked their run-down Dodge station wagon under the portico. If I hadn’t talked to him yesterday, I might not’ve recognized him. He seemed like an entirely different person in a lightweight seersucker suit, sky blue shirt, and bolo tie. Through the glass of the main doors, he only reminded me of himself by his upright posture and easy carriage.
Once he entered the lobby, of course, I could see his scar.
His companions also wore suits that looked too warm—not to mention formal—for Carner’s climate. Two of them were young, hardly more than teenagers. The third was considerably older, maybe forty-five. They all walked selfconsciously erect, too aware of being emissaries for Essential Shotokan to match Komatori’s air of comfort.
He was the only Asian among them—and the only one who wasn’t sweating. Apparently the Dodge sported Subaru-quality AC.
From a distance of ten feet, they paused to bow carefully to Sternway. His bow in return probably should’ve looked casual, but by comparison it seemed negligent. However, it didn’t bother Komatori. Amiably he moved closer to shake Sternway’s hand. His companions stayed where they were.
“Komatori-san.” Sternway’s greeting sounded marginally warmer than the one he’d given me.
“Sternway sensei,” Komatori answered respectfully. “You honor us.”
Sternway spread his hands. “The honor is mine. I’m pleased to help Mr. Axbrewder protect Nakahatchi sensei’s treasure.”
On cue Komatori turned to me, bowed, and offered his hand. “Axbrewder-san. I’m relieved by your involvement. Now the chops will be safe. Please tell us how we may assist you.”
I shook his hand easily enough. “Call me Brew. ‘Axbrewder-san’ takes too long.” But after that I had to scramble to get up to speed. All this politeness left me behind.
Fortunately Komatori gave me a moment to think by introducing the men with him—all students of Nakahatchi’s. They bowed fulsomely to Sternway, took turns shaking my hand. By then I was ready.
“There won’t be any trouble,” I said to Komatori, projecting confidence with all my might, “but we’ve got three cars, so we can take an extra precaution. We’ll load the display into your wagon. Mr. Sternway can lead us to Martial America. You’ll follow him, I’ll follow you.
“That’s overkill, I know.” I wasn’t even a little bit worried about an attempt on the chops in broad daylight. “But we might as well get in the habit of being careful.”
I couldn’t read Sternway’s expression, but he agreed with a nod. Komatori acted duly respectful, and the students seemed gratified that their responsibility for these priceless artifacts was being taken so seriously. Together we swung into action, in a manner of speaking.
After I’d signed out the display from the hotel manager’s safe room, transferring liability from The Luxury to Martial America and Nakahatchi, Komatori and his men loaded it reverently into the Dodge. Sternway brought his car, a middle-aged Camaro with more muscle than brains, around to the portico and took the lead. When I had the Plymouth
in position, we headed out.
Sternway led us in a stately procession. If we’d had our headlights on, you would’ve thought we’d missed the turnoff for a funeral. What we were doing seemed at once grave and ludicrous, packed with significance to the people involved, and more than a bit overwrought from any other perspective. Rather like the tournament in that respect. Or the martial arts themselves.
For forty-five minutes or so we wandered through an indistinguishable assortment of Carner’s schools, stadiums, athletic supply warehouses, shopping centers, playing fields, and suburbs, all of which looked like they’d been cloned from various sections of Indianapolis. I felt profoundly lost, despite my map. I needed shadows, darkness, buildings undermined by age, streets pocked with use like smallpox—a city inhabited by loneliness, secrets, and disrepair. A city where Bernie’s death made sense. Even sunglasses couldn’t protect me from so much newness and light.
Unfortunately I had to cope anyway.
Alex Lacone’s “dream” sat on a lot big enough to hold a couple of Puerta del Sol’s high schools. From a distance it resembled a suite of professional buildings designed for doctors and dentists. I wouldn’t have recognized our destination if a mall-style marquee lettered in hubris hadn’t proclaimed:
Martial America
National Center for the Martial Arts
You couldn’t miss the exaggeration. Despite the size of the lot, there were only two buildings. The rest of the area stood empty, unfinished. Half of it hadn’t even been paved.
Nevertheless Lacone had put up a good front. Strips of lawn punctuated by young sycamore trees and glistening with recent water edged the lot on all sides. When the trees grew a bit bigger, they’d help disguise the limitations of the development. In the meantime, the marquee positively shone with self-confidence, and light poles like spires marked the boundaries of the pavement.
The square buildings themselves didn’t exactly dominate the horizon—they were only three stories high—but they made a striking impression. For one thing, their concrete walls were so white they must’ve been polished like teeth twice a week. And in so much eye-straining white the tinted glass of the long double display windows on the ground level and the smaller windows above looked deep and dark, almost black—as inviting as shadows, or as forbidding. In addition, the levels of the buildings were offset from each other so that the second story extended in one direction and the third in another. And they didn’t sit squarely on their side of the lot. Instead they’d been placed at angles so that they met and mated at one corner of each ground floor but not at the upper levels.
One advantage of their orientation, I saw as I followed Sternway and the Dodge into the parking lot, was that it diminished the prominence of any particular side. A square setting would’ve favored the sides that happened to face the street and the parking lot. But as they were, Lacone could at least pretend to touchy martial arts egos that all his locations were equally desirable.
This mattered because each side housed a different school. A sign over the display windows on the left wall of the nearer building announced Essential Shotokan, with Master Soon’s Tae Kwon Do Academy on the right. An identical sign identified Malaysian Fighting Arts in the next building.
Twenty or thirty other cars occupied the lot, but the sheer size of the space made them look like they’d been abandoned. I wasn’t convinced that even Carner could supply enough schools and students to make Lacone’s “dream” come alive.
Bracing myself, I climbed out into the heat to join Sternway and Komatori.
“Here it is,” Sternway told me unnecessarily. Despite his unrevealing demeanor, I thought I detected a note of complacency in his voice.
Encouraging him to talk, I asked, “Whose idea was it to angle the buildings like this?” I wanted him in a forthcoming mood.
“Mine,” he admitted. “But most of my suggestions involved the dojos themselves.”
Then he directed my attention to the unfinished lot. “Mr. Lacone’s plans include at least four more buildings like these, two or more on each side, with a tournament facility, museum, and stores in the center.”
Lacone had described a hall-of fame-style museum and a complete education center, repository, and promotional outfit . Plus a variety of martial arts suppliers.
And all of it white enough to blind a solar astronomer.
“As you can see,” Sternway continued, “he has a long way to go. But he has the space and the enthusiasm, and I believe he can raise the money. If he attracts enough prominent schools, that will call attention to the development.
“In turn, Martial America’s success will benefit the martial arts all across the country.” HRH sounded like he was reading this speech off a particularly dull brochure. “Carner will become a Mecca for masters and students everywhere.”
Just for something to say, I remarked, “He’s ambitious.”
Sternway regarded me through a pair of mirrored sunglasses that hid his eyes. “Every man worth knowing is.”
That was debatable, as they say, but I didn’t bother. I was sweating again—I wanted to get out of the sun.
Fortunately the students had already opened the back of the station wagon to off-load the display. Hideo Komatori joined them, and they raised the case between them as if it were sacred—or full of gelignite. Sternway and I followed them almost respectfully as they approached Essential Shotokan .
Its only entrance stood under an awning between the long dark windows. The heavy oak door had been carved with symbols and kanji which probably conveyed meaning to martial artists, but which told me nothing. Komatori produced a key, and I held the door open while we went in.
I found myself facing a stairway to the second floor in a hallway which ran back toward the center of the building. Both the stairs and the hall sported beige indoor/outdoor carpeting that absorbed sound. On either side, wide entryways like portals supplied access to large rooms.
Immediately Sternway started to act like a tour guide.
“On this level all the buildings have the same layout. To the right is the main dojo.” That room went all the way to the far wall of building, and was roughly half as deep as it was long. “Notice the raised hardwood floor and the mirrors.”
I could hardly help noticing. Even under fluorescent lights the floor seemed to glow, polished by hours of bare feet and care. Reflecting in the floor-length mirrors, which covered every foot of wall not already taken up by windows or doors, that glow appeared to fill the entire room.
“Hardwood is the best training surface,” Sternway explained, “because it flexes slightly, gives a bit of cushioning. Of course,” he remarked by the way, “when Gracie Brothers Jujitsu moves in, their floor will be covered with wrestling mats.” Then he resumed his lecture. “The mirrors help students watch and correct their own techniques.
“No one is here now because Essential Shotokan doesn’t hold classes during the early afternoon.” He seemed sure of his facts without consulting Komatori. “Nakahatchi sensei teaches advanced seminars in the morning. But from 4:00 until 10:00 the dojo will be in use almost continuously.”
When I’d seen enough—which took me about four seconds—HRH beckoned me to consider the room on the left. “This dojo,” he told me like I couldn’t have guessed on my own, “is primarily for equipment training.”
It also had a hardwood floor, but instead of mirrors its walls were lined with heavy bags, speed bags, uppercut bags, stretching and weight machines, thick vertical wooden boards with padding at their ends—makiwara, Sternway called them—and rows of shelves for focus mitts and a bewildering variety of other pads.
“Bathrooms and changing rooms are at the end of this hallway. The door at the back of each dojo leads there.”
Komatori and his students waited patiently through all this. Which wasn’t easy—that display was heavy. As soon as Sternway paused, I asked Hideo where the chops would be kept.
A nod of his head indicated the stairs. “You will see, Brew-
san.” Apparently that was as close as he could come to calling me Brew.
Starting upward, Sternway continued his practiced spiel. While he talked, he rubbed absently at his left forearm.
“The second floor has a large room that can be used for lectures or meetings, or for screening videos. There are also two apartments for masters or students who wish to live here. Nakahatchi sensei and Komatori-san both do.”
“What about the other masters?” I meant Gravel, Hong, and Soon.
“Master Soon and Sifu Hong live in their dojos. Soke Gravel has his own home, so two of his senior students use his apartments.”
We reached the top of the stairs and turned right to move in the opposite direction. On the left, another stairway continued upward. Ahead was another door, a smaller version of the one that faced the outside world. It wasn’t locked. Sternway swung it open without knocking and led the rest of us through.
This was obviously the conference room. Instead of windows, it had the kind of indirect lights that put people at ease, blond veneer paneling designed to look expensive, and a warmer rendition of the ground floor carpet. But it didn’t contain any tables, lecterns, or video screens. Wooden folding chairs lined along the walls were the only furniture. In the center of each side wall, another carved door interrupted those lines.
Komatori and his helpers carted the case into the center of the room, folded out its legs, and set it carefully upright. The older student straightened his back with a muffled groan, but his younger companions did their best to pretend that they could’ve carried the display all day.
“You’re going to keep the chops here?” I asked Komatori. The idea didn’t exactly lift my heart.
He must’ve heard the doubt in my voice. “Yes, Brew-san. Is this not a proper place?”
“It’s the best spot available,” Sternway put in promptly. I guess he wasn’t interested in my qualms. “It’s easily accessible. The chops are an important historical resource, and Nakahatchi sensei doesn’t want to conceal them. But it’s only open when the school holds classes. Everyone in the dojos can keep watch.”
The Man Who Fought Alone Page 23