The Man Who Fought Alone

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  I’d already seen how karate-ka kept watch, but I didn’t object. Instead I pointed at the ceiling. “What’s up there?”

  Sternway shook his head. “That isn’t a useful option. Mr. Lacone customizes the third floors to suit the needs of individual schools. Some want storage space or more apartments. Others like to add a private dojo, or a martial arts library. Nakahatchi sensei has both, as well as guest quarters for visiting masters. He likes a measure of seclusion. Setting up the display would disrupt the school.”

  Hideo Komatori nodded polite agreement.

  That sounded plausible enough, but I wanted to object anyway. Security would definitely be a problem here. However, I kept it to myself. I worked for Lacone. The inadequacy of Nakahatchi’s arrangements were none of Sternway’s business.

  When I didn’t argue, he finished his disquisition. “As I’ve said, each school determines its own use for the third floors. Master Soon and Sifu Hong have included small equipment and supply stores. Soke Gravel maintains a collection of Malaysian weapons for training. The possibilities are as diverse as the martial arts themselves.”

  I wondered how long he’d been giving this particular pep talk. He delivered it like Holy Writ.

  “And all of this was your idea?”

  “In essence, yes. As I’ve said, Mr. Lacone has no background in the martial arts.”

  I still didn’t understand why Sternway hadn’t moved into Martial America himself. He sure seemed proud of it, despite his flat demeanor. And he certainly could’ve cut a favorable deal with Lacone.

  But I didn’t think that HRH would tell me the truth in front of witnesses, so I changed directions.

  “What about keys?” I asked Komatori. “How many are there? Who has them?”

  Compared to Sternway, Komatori sounded like a model of openness. “When we entered our lease, Brew-san, Mr. Lacone provided two keys. Two more have been made. Nakahatchi sensei retains two for himself and his wife. I’ve been entrusted with one. And Aronson-san”—he indicated the older man behind him—“also has a key. He’s our senior student.”

  I raised my eyebrows involuntarily. Nakahatchi had a wife? He hadn’t struck me as a married man. Too ascetic, maybe. Or too full of sorrow.

  “I assume you’re talking about keys to the front door. What about others? These apartments? The conference room?”

  Komatori frowned as if the question surprised him. “There are none. We haven’t needed them.”

  I stared at him. “You mean to tell me one key opens every door here?”

  He offered another of his delicate shrugs. “And the doors above us as well. In addition, there are the fire exits.”

  They needed a key to use the fire exits? I swallowed a sour laugh. Carner’s building inspectors couldn’t, could not, have approved that. Hell, Watchdog couldn’t have approved it.

  Was this another of Sternway’s bright ideas?

  I didn’t ask that. Instead I demanded, “Which are where?”

  “I’ll show you,” Komatori offered mildly.

  “In a minute.” I definitely wanted to see the fire exits. But I was reluctant to make a production out of it in front of HRH. Still none of his business. And I had a different question for my tour guide.

  “Anson, Mr. Komatori says there are only four keys. But you unlocked the front door. Where did you get yours?”

  He gave me a look that might’ve been veiled contempt. “My apologies. I forgot. This is for you.” He took a heavy Schlage key from his pocket and handed it to me. “It’s a master key for both buildings. Mr. Lacone keeps it for obvious reasons. The terms of the lease allow tenants to re-key any locks they wish, with the exception of the fire exits. In an emergency he must be able to let the fire department or the police inside.”

  Unfortunately that part made sense. Of course Lacone had a master key. Later I’d ask him how many there were. And who had them.

  “Shall we look at the fire exits now?” Sternway went on. “Or would you prefer to see the top floor first?”

  Itching to get rid of him, I responded, “I’ll go upstairs later.” His condescension gave me hives. “And I’m sure Mr. Komatori can show me the fire exits. You must be a busy man, Anson. There’s no need for you to hang around.”

  This time I saw contempt clearly in his eyes. “Mr. Lacone pays for my time. When you’re finished here, I’ll take you around to the other schools.” He tried to sound helpful, but he couldn’t carry it off. “You aren’t known here. An introduction from me may make your job easier.”

  He meant that it might lend me a bit of credibility—which I was prepared to do without. On the other hand, his company would enable me to ask other questions.

  “Thanks,” I murmured with no appreciable sincerity. “That’ll be fine.”

  So Komatori showed us the fire exits. He dismissed his carters, then took Sternway and me back to the head of the stairs from the first floor. There he opened a door in the wall under the upward staircase. I’d taken it for the door of a utility closet when we’d passed it earlier—it had no lock—but it let us into a short corridor running toward the center of the building.

  The corridor ended at an iron fire door with a big red EXIT sign over it and a bar-latch instead of a knob. As soon as I saw it, I understood the keys. It was a self-locking door. Push the bar on this side and it opened. From the other side you needed a key to get in.

  “The latch is wired to an alarm,” Sternway explained, “as well as to the fire department. But it isn’t active while the dojos are in use. At night each school sets its own alarm once the students have left.”

  Well, they were supposed to, anyway. Whether they actually did it or not was another matter.

  Komatori opened the door and bowed us through.

  Beyond the door I found myself on a railed metal catwalk bolted to the unpainted cinderblock wall of a large utility well. The well was a square hole roughly twenty feet on a side that reached from the ground floor of the building to its roof. Conduits and ducts of various sizes growing out of a cluster of boilers, furnaces, air-conditioning units, emergency generators, water mains, and circuit-breaker boxes below me stretched to the ceiling, where the vents continued through a grillwork skylight covering the shaft. At the moment most of the illumination came from the skylight, but permanent floodlamps in all four walls kept the catwalks constantly lit.

  After the relative comfort inside, the utility well felt like a sauna. All that machinery put out enough heat to incubate virus strains, and through the skylight the sun baked the cinderblock walls. Without transition my skin started to ooze sweat. If I had to stay in here long I’d have fungi growing under my arms.

  The catwalk made a circuit of the entire shaft, connecting fire doors in each of the walls. An identical catwalk and doors hung overhead, accessed from the third floor. Diagonally across from me on both sides, ladders surrounded by safety cages provided a way upward as well as down to ground level.

  Komatori let the fire door swing shut behind him. It hit its frame with a solid thunk like the sound of a marble slab dropping into place over a tomb. The catwalk shook slightly, complaining at its bolts.

  Stubbornly officious, Sternway called my attention to the keyhole in the door. “Each school can use its fire exits at will, but they can’t be opened from this side without the appropriate key. This provides security as well as privacy.”

  Well, duh, I thought. Hit me over the head with it, why don’t you. “I take it,” I drawled, “you don’t trust the schools to respect each other’s privacy.”

  Komatori looked faintly shocked, but I wasn’t talking to him.

  Sternway considered me expressionlessly for a moment. Then, instead of answering, he said, “Komatori-san, thank you for your assistance. I’ll show Mr. Axbrewder the rest of the fire escape route. Then we’ll visit the other schools.

  “Please tell Nakahatchi sensei that I honor his willingness to share the chops. I’ll give him any assistance he may need. Also I’m sure Mr. Ax
brewder will have some useful suggestions for the display’s safety.”

  HRH didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say.

  Plainly dismissed, Komatori gave a respectful bow. Sternway replied in kind, and Komatori fished out his key to let himself back into Essential Shotokan. The thud as the door closed raised an empty echo from the walls. The noise gave me the odd impression that I’d gotten myself into more trouble than I could handle.

  With my palm, I wiped a sheet of sweat off my forehead. “That was subtle,” I remarked.

  Sternway snorted. “As subtle as your question, Axbrewder.”

  I’d succeeded in exasperating him at last.

  I replied with a grin like a grimace. “But in my case it’s part of my job. I’m supposed to ask tactless questions, insult people, piss them off. Kick over the anthill and watch what squirms out.” Feeling malicious—he had that effect on me—I added, “You’d be amazed at what I’ve already learned.”

  He studied me from under lowered eyelids. Suddenly I felt that I was in danger. His usual ominous relaxation seemed to concentrate—strain for release like compressed napalm, hungry to erupt in fire. His tension only lasted for a moment, however. He’d changed his mind about something. Or simply lost interest.

  “I doubt it.” His disdain was unmistakable.

  I didn’t realize that I’d been holding my breath until I tried to tell him he hadn’t answered my question. Under my jacket, my shirt stuck to my back.

  Fortunately he repeated it for me. “Do I trust these schools to respect each other’s privacy? Of course. But I don’t trust them to respect each other.”

  Trying to be unobtrusive about it, I let the air out of my lungs and took another deep breath.

  “Historically,” he explained, “martial arts schools attract students and grow by demonstrating their superiority over other schools. In China particularly, that tradition goes back centuries. Often masters would travel great distances to test their skills against other masters with stronger reputations. Battles between schools were not uncommon.”

  Which went a long way toward explaining tournaments.

  “My concern for Martial America is that proximity will make the schools jealous of each other. It will bring out their competitiveness, as well as threatening their secrets. If they try to resolve their differences by fighting, people might be hurt—or possibly killed.”

  I finally started breathing normally again. Sternway seemed to become less and less dangerous as he spoke.

  “And the more schools Martial America draws,” he added, “the worse the danger will become. Especially if they’re as aggressive as, say, Killer Karate.

  “Then, of course”—he allowed himself a sigh—“the problem is exacerbated by the fact that Nakahatchi sensei owns a set of possibly genuine antique Wing Chun chops.

  “This distresses Sifu Hong and his entire school, for obvious reasons. But it also disturbs Master Soon. It draws attention away from his Tae Kwon Do Academy.” Sternway attempted a humorless smile. “You might say that Nakahatchi sensei has up-staged him. He’s indignant about it.”

  He paused briefly, then said, “That presents a problem for me as well as for Martial America. The LAMA exists, among other reasons, to promote a sense of mutual cooperation, understanding, and support among all the martial arts. And Martial America in particular has the potential to foster a sense of community which can only benefit the martial arts.”

  I got the point. “Unless it degenerates into a war zone first,” I muttered sourly.

  He nodded.

  “Sounds like quite a dream,” I commented. To my surprise, I found him more sympathetic when he wasn’t acting like a hereditary monarch—or talking about money. “I’m surprised you got this far with it. How did you manage to convince even four schools to share a location like this?”

  He offered me another unconvincing smile. “It helped that Essential Shotokan and Malaysian Fighting Arts aren’t especially competitive. If I could find a few more schools like them, a few more masters like Nakahatchi sensei and Soke Gravel, Martial America would be further along.”

  That was an excuse, not an answer. I stared at him and waited for more.

  He glanced around the well. “I suppose I could say that I can be eloquent when the occasion warrants. But you might not believe me.” Then he faced me squarely. “On the other hand, you may not believe the truth either.”

  “Try me.” Whatever the “truth” was, I wanted to hear it.

  He considered the question for a few more seconds before he conceded. “Very well.

  “The truth, Brew, is that I have credibility as well as authority in the martial arts. Legitimate eighth-dans aren’t as common as you might think. I’ve been known and honored nationally and internationally for a number of years. And the excellence of my students supports my reputation. Men like Sifu Hong and Master Soon listen to me because I’ve earned their respect. They wish to show that they deserve to stand with me.”

  Now I didn’t find him sympathetic at all. He sounded like an advocate for the Divine Right of Kings. He was HRH Anson Sternway, descended from the mind of God. Therefore less exalted mortals had no choice but to worship at his feet.

  My skepticism must’ve showed on my face. Abruptly Sternway’s manner changed. He leaned toward me almost confidentially. “Tell you what, Brew. Let me take you out to a place I know tonight. Say around ten. I’ll show you how I earned respect.”

  My eyebrows jumped. What was he trying to do, educate me or intimidate me? Either way, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be on the receiving end.

  But Deborah couldn’t see me until tomorrow night, and I didn’t have any other plans—

  Suddenly I missed Ginny. Or missed the way I felt when we worked together. She’d always been the boss, which somehow relieved my inclination to second-guess myself. If I could rely on her for strategy, I could choose my own tactics.

  Stalling for time, I tried to change directions, put the pressure back on Sternway.

  “Tell me something else first,” I countered. “How well did you know Bernie Appelwait?”

  He glared surprise at the question. “I hardly knew him at all.” Hints of irritation leaked past the general flatness of his tone. “We’ve held our World Championships at The Luxury for six years now. We’ve had the same dealings with hotel Security every year. Aside from that, he’s a stranger to me.”

  Inspired, as you might say, by his displeasure, I pursued the issue. “But the IAMA must have security issues occasionally. You didn’t hire Bernie for anything? Ask him to do a job in his spare time? Consult with him?”

  HRH shook his head sharply.

  “Well, did you ever teach him? He probably studied self-defense somewhere.” His flik conveyed that impression. It wasn’t a weapon most people knew about. “How about with you? Or maybe he’s related to one of your students?” Fuming, Sternway tried to interrupt, but I kept going.

  “Or maybe it had to do with money?” I was having fun now. “You talk about how hard it is to make a living in the martial arts. Security people sometimes have connections they don’t talk about on the job.” I was stretching, but I didn’t care. Only the congestion gathering in Sternway’s face mattered to me. “Did you ever need a loan shark? Or protection from a loan shark? You might’ve asked Bernie—”

  He cut me off like a splash of acid. “What do you think, Axbrewder? Say it. Do you think I had something to do with his death?” At his sides, his fingers twitched, eager to form fists. His voice struck echoes off the hard surfaces of the shaft, resonance complicated by concrete and iron. “Do you think I profit from the death of a tired old security guard at a second-rate convention hotel?

  “If you consider me insane, say so. I’ll stop wasting time with you.”

  When he burned like that, as expectant as a blasting cap, his students probably wet themselves. For some reason, however, he didn’t scare me now. Instead I experienced a moment of unadulterated bliss. The sonofab
itch was human after all. I could piss him off.

  Happily I grinned at him. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “I hope so.” He measured me like he was gauging how hard I’d go down. “You’re being absurd. And insulting.”

  I shrugged, still grinning. “Just doing my job.”

  He aimed his ire at me for a moment longer. Then he seemed to think better of it. He turned away, gazed out over the utility well. He still looked like an explosion poised to happen, but gradually the imminence eased out of him.

  Sounding flat again, he pronounced, “Kicking over anthills is a job for children.”

  And just like that my little bliss popped like a soggy firecracker, doused in sweat. Suddenly making him angry stopped being fun. I hadn’t realized that I was so transparent.

  Maybe I owed him a little less intransigence.

  Sighing to myself, I asked, “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Meet?” His frown said, What the hell are you talking about? Obviously he’d forgotten his invitation.

  “You offered to show me how you earned respect.” I tried to sound deferential, but I wasn’t much good at it.

  He nodded. “You’ll come with me.” Apparently he considered that good news. All at once he resumed his usual expressionlessness. “We can meet in the parking lot here.” Almost smiling, he added, “This may help you understand martial artists.”

  Before I could say anything, he asked, “Shall we finish the tour?”

  Since there weren’t any other anthills in sight, I shrugged. “Sure.” Then I let him lead me along the catwalk toward the nearest ladder.

  By then my feet were so damp that I squished when I walked.

  The catwalk complained again as we moved, hinting at the screech of tortured metal. But it didn’t pull loose from the wall or collapse under us. I wasn’t that lucky.

  15

  All in all, it reminded me how dependent I’d become on Ginny. She and I’d balanced each other. When I kicked over anthills, she put the pieces together that made it worthwhile. And when she went to tear out someone’s throat, I kept her in check.