The Man Who Fought Alone

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  “He was my sensei.” Parker kept his head down. “Do you know what that means? It means ‘revered teacher.’ I—” He spread his hands helplessly. “I did that. I revered him. He was God, and my father, and Gichin Funakoshi, all rolled into one.”

  “Fine,” I snorted. “Do you know how your ‘revered teacher’ spent his spare time? He went to a fight club. And he didn’t go there to earn any fucking reverence. Instead he got into the ring and made pulp out of anyone stupid enough to face him. And he picked up some easy money betting on himself.

  “That’s how he stayed sharp.”

  At last Parker met my gaze. “Is that true?” He sounded shocked.

  “I went with him Monday night. I saw it.”

  Something in his face lifted. After a moment he said slowly, “I’ve been wondering what to do about his school. I couldn’t imagine taking over for him. But maybe—”

  “Maybe,” I put in, “you’re the best man for the job.” Then I added, “You’re probably the best man to take over the IAMA as well. You already know everyone. They all respect you. And you had the courage to oppose your own sensei when he went crazy. Right now you’ve got enough ‘face’ to start your own hall of fame. If anyone can keep the IAMA going, you can.”

  The challenge suited him. As he considered it, his eyes lost their tarnish. For the first time, I got a chance to see what he looked like when he wasn’t dying of boredom. As he left, I thought he might burst into song.

  Aside from the usual parade of nurses, aides, and technicians, plus the occasional doctor, Ginny was my only other visitor. She came to my room twice, once in the afternoon after the doctors let her go, and again late the next morning. The first time, we concentrated on practical matters—who did what to whom, in which order. Other than that, we left each other alone. I didn’t even try to tell her how I felt about being rescued. The subject was too complicated for morphine.

  Her second visit was different. Behind her bruises, she had something heavy in her eyes. She looked like a woman who’d spent the night in surgery having the features of her life rearranged.

  I owed her more than I could ever hope to repay, so I went first.

  “I have a problem,” I admitted as she sat down in a chair against the far wall. “I can’t find the words to tell you how much your help means to me.

  “Just in the past few days, you found the real connection between Sternway and Hardshorn for me, you put me on the right track about the chops,” by suggesting that Hong evaluate them, “and you saved my life for the umpteenth time.

  “I owe you a desperate apology.”

  She studied me sharply. “For what?”

  “Well”—I faltered momentarily—“for being such an asshole in general.” Then I rallied. “But specifically for the way I reacted when you came to The Luxury.” Meeting her gaze was tough, but I did it. “When you decided to end our partnership, I felt so betrayed and angry that I couldn’t think. First I lost you as a lover. Then I lost you as a partner. It never occurred to me that I hadn’t lost you as a friend.”

  Ginny shook her head. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. God knows I gave you plenty of reason to think that way.”

  Then she stood up and came to the side of the bed so that I could see her swollen face more clearly. The contusion along her jaw made her look like a victim of domestic violence.

  “The truth is—”

  To my amazement, she faltered as well. But she didn’t back down.

  “The truth is,” she began again, “I thought we stopped being friends months ago. After I lost my hand. I felt so damn dependent, and I loathed—I decided we weren’t friends because I didn’t deserve to have any. But I couldn’t admit I felt that way. Even to myself. I couldn’t face it.

  “Even after I started to function again, I still couldn’t face it, so I took it out on you. I decided you were a drunk by nature, even if you never had another drink. Your weakness was permanent. You weren’t worth trusting.”

  She paused to gather her courage, then said, “But it wasn’t permanent. Ever since Estobal put you in the hospital, you’ve been trying to prove yourself to me, earn back my respect. Only you couldn’t. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  I swallowed roughly. “What changed?” I wanted to know what she’d seen in me. But she didn’t answer that.

  Instead she told me, “Marshal.” The edge in her voice sounded like anger or regret. Or both. “Ever since you two met, we’ve been arguing about you.

  “Knowing you, you probably think he’s too successful to be honest. But let me tell you, he’s pretty damn perceptive. And you impressed him. I mean, except for your manners. He is impressed. He’s been telling me for days that I was wrong about you.” Her eyes flared. “He called me a coward. He said I was blaming you for things I didn’t have the courage to face in myself.”

  She glared through me hard enough to crack the wall behind the bed. “He isn’t easy to argue with. And when I made myself look, I started to see what he was talking about.”

  That explained the shift in her attitude when I got home from the fight club Monday night.

  “Hearing from your girlfriend clinched it.” Once she’d finished demolishing the wall, her gaze softened. “You needed help, but you couldn’t ask for it, no matter how much trouble you were in, because I’d made you think I’d sneer at you if you did. When your girlfriend called, she told me almost nothing. I assumed you hadn’t explained anything to her because you didn’t want her to pass it on.”

  “Actually,” I put in uncomfortably, “I didn’t explain it because I didn’t have time. And I hadn’t figured it all out. I was just reacting on instinct.”

  Ginny dismissed my objection. “That’s not the point. The point is, I believed you couldn’t ask me for help because I’ve been so unfair to you.”

  She studied me briefly, then asked, “If you hadn’t been in such a hurry, would you have called me to back you up?”

  I shook my head. She was telling me the truth. She deserved the truth in return.

  “Brew—” Her throat closed. She had to look away for a moment before she could speak again. “I want us to be friends. This”—she indicated her jaw—“is a small price to pay if it means I can ask you for a second chance.”

  Not as a lover. I understood that.

  Or as a partner. Not yet.

  But as a friend—?

  Yes. In fact, hell, yes. No question about it.

  “Ginny.” I reached out with my good hand, took hold of hers. “I’m sorry I’ve made you think you have to ask. I’ve been in pain, and I’ve taken it out on everyone in sight.” Marshal included. “I couldn’t bear the thought that I’d lost you completely,” couldn’t bear that much grief, “so I turned everything into anger.

  “You talk about not deserving any friends. I never believed I deserved you. But ever since I stopped drinking, I have been trying—”

  I couldn’t go on.

  Fortunately I didn’t have to. “I know,” she murmured. “Like you haven’t already proven yourself a hundred times over. You made one drunken mistake, and you’ve punished yourself for it ever since. Satan Himself couldn’t whip you any harder.”

  That was true, too.

  And maybe I’d done it enough. Pain is a means to an end, Nakahatchi sensei had told me, but it must never become the end. Maybe that’s what he meant. Enough was enough. God knows I’d already spent a lifetime of hurt on Richard’s death.

  When the hospital finally let me go, I went back to Bernie’s apartment. I wanted to look Alyse Appelwait in the eye while I said goodbye. And thank you.

  Author’s Note

  I wish to emphasize that this is a work of fiction. I have done everything I can think of to ensure that the general information it contains is accurate. But I have not based any of the characters here on anyone I have ever known, read about, or heard about. Nor do the schools have any “objective correlative” in the real world. A student of Shotokan myself, I have nothing but r
espect for all martial arts and admiration for all true martial artists. The opinions and attitudes expressed by my characters belong exclusively to them.

  In addition, I can state categorically that Fumio Demura sensei, Bill “Superfoot” Wallace, and Benny “the Jet” Urquidez have never attended a martial arts tournament in Carner.

  By Stephen R. Donaldson

  THE CHRONICLES OF

  THOMAS COVENANT, THE UNBELIEVER

  Lord Foul’s Bane

  The Illearth War

  The Power That Preserves

  THE SECOND CHRONICLES OF

  THOMAS COVENANT, THE UNBELIEVER

  The Wounded Land

  The One Tree

  White Gold Wielder

  MORDANT’S NEED

  The Mirror of Her Dreams

  A Man Rides Through

  THE GAP

  The Gap Into Conflict: The Real Story

  The Gap Into Vision: Forbidden Knowledge

  The Gap Into Power: A Dark and Hungry God Arises

  The Gap Into Madness: Chaos and Order

  The Gap Into Ruin: This Day All Gods Die

  SHORT FICTION

  Daughter of Regals and Other Tales

  Reave the Just and Other Tales

  Bernie wasn’t in the wide hallway between the convention facilities and the main hotel. So where the hell was he? He should’ve been back by now. He’d had enough time to corral the drop and cook him breakfast, for God’s sake. Shoving my head inside the security offices, I barked at the guard, “Don’t leave the artifacts alone! No matter what else happens!”

  I shut the door and headed for the lobby as fast as I could go without running. The lobby was practically empty. My pulse kicked into overdrive the instant I saw that Bernie wasn’t there.

  Then where—?

  If I were a smart drop, and I wanted to ditch Bernie without an audience of security cameras, hotel staff, and passersby—

  In a panic I ran for the nearest men’s room. Fumbling instinctively for the .45 I didn’t have, I smacked open the door and charged inside.

  White tile echoed the clash as the door hit the wall and bounced shut behind me. The room was empty. Except for the echoes. And my thudding heart.

  And the legs sticking out under one privacy door.

  Almost gently, I swung the door all the way open.

  Bernie lay sprawled in the stall like he’d been overcome by loneliness, his head on the floor near the commode, one arm draped awkwardly over the toilet paper holder.

  Oh, Bernie. He hadn’t even had time to reach for his walkie-talkie.

  One part of me knelt stunned beside him, nearly unable to breathe, entirely unable to think. He’d been chasing a mere thief, for God’s sake. No ordinary thug with even a hint of experience, never mind common sense, would commit murder over a petty theft.

  But this one had.

  There was nothing ordinary about him. He was a butcher.

  Look for

  THE MAN WHO KILLED HIS BROTHER

  by

  Stephen R. Donaldson

  Now Available!

  Turn the page for a preview

  PART ONE

  Tuesday Night/Wednesday

  Chapter One

  I was sitting at the bar of the Hegira that night when Ginny came in. The barkeep, an ancient sad-eyed patriarch named Jose, had just poured me another drink, and I was having one of those rare moments any serious drunk can tell you about. A piece of real quiet. Jose’s cheeks bristled because he didn’t shave very often, and his apron was dingy because it didn’t get washed very often, and his fingernails had little crescents of grime under them. The glass he poured for me wasn’t all that clean. But the stuff he poured was golden-amber and beautiful, like distilled sunlight, and it made the whole place soothing as sleep—which drunks know how to value because they don’t get much of it.

  It made the dull old fly-brown santos against the wall behind the bottles look like the saints knew what they were doing and it made the drinkers at the tables look peaceful and happy. It made the men playing pool in the back of the room look like they were moving in slow motion, flowing through the air as if it were syrup. It made Jose look wise and patient behind his stubble and his groggy eyes. It was one of those rare moments when everything is in the right place, and there’s a soft gold light shining on it, and you feel like you’re being healed. It never lasts—but you always think it will, if you just stay where you are and don’t stop drinking.

  By the curious logic of the drunk, I felt I’d earned it. After all, I’d been drinking most of the time for several days now, just trying to create that amber glow for myself. So when Ginny walked in the door—when every head in the bar turned to stare at her—I didn’t know which to feel first, surprise or resentment. There wasn’t any doubt she was looking for me.

  I had the right to be surprised. For one thing, she had no business walking into the Hegira like that—especially at night. The Hegira is down in the old part of Puerta del Sol, on Eighth Street between Oak and Maple. Cities are like that. The old parts—where the descendants and countrymen of the founders live—have street names like. “Eighth” and “Oak”. The rich suburbs—half of them built in the last ten years—have flashier names like “Tenochtitlan” and “Montezuma.” And in the old part of town women don’t go into bars at all. When the Chicano and Mestizo and Indian women want their men to come out, they stand on the sidewalk and send in their children.

  As Ginny pushed her way through the door, scanned the room, and came striding over towards me, the quiet buzz of voices stopped. Jose’s eyes went blank and empty—you could tell if she spoke to him he was going to say he didn’t speak English. The men with the pool cues stood very still, as if they were waiting to start a different kind of game.

  But I also had another reason to be surprised. This wasn’t the way Ginny was supposed to come looking for me. She came looking for me often enough—I would’ve probably drunk myself to death by now if she hadn’t been so faithful about it—but this wasn’t the way. We had a system worked out, and she was breaking it.

  What the system did was let me get ready. She didn’t bother me in the morning, when I was taking those first stiff drinks, trying to push the sickness back down my throat where it belonged. She didn’t bother me during the day, when I was drinking slow and steady to control the shakes. She didn’t bother me in the afternoon, when I started to hit the bottle harder because the stuff didn’t seem to be having any effect. She didn’t bother me in the evening, when I went to places like the Hegira looking for amber and comfort. She didn’t bother me when I left whatever bar it was and bought a bottle and wandered away into the night to pay the price.

  No, we had a system.

  When I was ready for her, I knew where to go at night with my bottle. One of the benches in a cheap little park down on Tin Street. It was still in the old part of town, which meant the city didn’t water the grass and the cops didn’t roust drunks who spent the night there. And when the sun came up I’d be sitting on that bench, waiting—just waiting because I was too sick to hope. And then I’d see her walking over to me. She always came from the east—the sun was always behind her, so I couldn’t see her face. She always said, “Brew.” (My name is Mick Axbrewder, but not even my enemies call me Mick.) I always said, “Ginny.” And then she always said, “I need you.”

  That’s when I knew I was going to get sober and go back to work.

  Sometimes I said, “What do you need me for? I’m a drunk.” But that was just a variation. She never gave me a straight answer. I wouldn’t have known what do to with a straight answer.

  So I was surprised when she walked into the Hegira looking for me. But I resented it, too. I was having one of those rare moments, and she took it away from me. And I wasn’t ready.

  But Ginny Fistoulari isn’t the kind of woman who lets things like that stand in her way. She’s tall—about the only time she doesn’t look tall is when I’m standing beside her—and five ye
ars younger than I am, with the kind of lean and ready look about her you see in a good racehorse. Her eyes are the same color gray as the .357 Smith & Wesson she carries in her purse, but other than that you wouldn’t know she’s tough as rivets unless you look at her up close. From a few feet away she’s just an attractive blond with a nice mouth, delicate nostrils, and a perfect chin.

  Up close you can see her nose was broken once—broken the way a nose gets broken when somebody clips it with a crowbar. The clown who did it didn’t live to regret it. She shot him three times in the face. For that the commission almost took away her license. She’s tough the way you have to be tough in order to spend your time getting involved in the messy side of other people’s problems. As a result, she’s reasonably successful. Fistoulari Investigations can afford to refuse surveillance cases and domestic problems, even if it isn’t making her rich.

  Maybe she would’ve made more money if she hadn’t insisted on dragging me back to work every time one of her cases got hard. Maybe in the long run she could’ve had pricier clients if that big goon working for her (me) wasn’t always in trouble with the cops for carrying out investigations without a license. I don’t know. When I was sober, I never asked her why she put up with me. I just did the work. She didn’t have any use for my gratitude.

  But this time I wasn’t grateful. I wasn’t ready. When I saw her striding straight at me as if the Hegira and all its patrons didn’t exist, I wanted to tell her to go to hell. I could see from the way the men watched her that I was never going to be welcome in the Hegira again. And I resented that—a bar where you can get amber and quiet is hard to find. The words were right there in my mind. Go to hell, Ginny Fistoulari.