Without her I felt just about as childish as Sternway thought I was.
But I had nothing else to work with, so I paid attention while my guide showed me the rest of the fire escape route. When I’d followed him down the ladder to the ground level, I discovered four more fire doors there, one for each school, and an open corridor in a corner of the well that presumably led out of the building.
With my master key, I unlocked Essential Shotokan’s door and found that it opened into a room lined with lockers, obviously one of the changing rooms Sternway had mentioned earlier. Like locker rooms everywhere, it smelled damply of sweat, anxiety, Tiger Balm, and rotting jockstraps. Men’s or women’s, I couldn’t tell. According to Ginny, they both smelled the same.
Satisfied, I let the door swing shut, and Sternway took me to the exit along a corridor lit by a couple more floodlamps. Fortunately the air here was a bit cooler. If I’d stayed in the utility well much longer, I might’ve started to drip skin.
Right angles to accommodate the design of the dojos on either side blocked the view ahead, but the corridor tended generally toward one of the corners of the building, and in a moment we reached the exit, which turned out to be a small room built into the intersection of this building and the next one. Heavy glass doors with bar-latches gave us an exit on either side. Sternway chose the door away from the parking lot, and we stepped out into the glare of Carner’s afternoon.
I felt a wash of relief, like I’d escaped being boiled for dinner by cannibals. Despite the pressure of the sun, some of my sweat started to evaporate, cooling my overheated emotions. I practically staggered with a kind of giddiness as I confirmed that my key worked on the glass door.
Sternway watched until I was finished. Moisture darkened his shirt under his arms, but other than that he hardly looked damp at all. Maybe he’d reached 8th dan in Shorin-ryu by being so tough that he almost didn’t need to sweat.
“What do you think?” he asked when I’d put the key away.
I was still off balance. “About what?”
He studied me without blinking. “Are the chops safe?”
I wiped my face dry with both hands. “Not unless you confiscate every set of lock picks in the city.” Maybe I hadn’t escaped after all. Maybe I was just being cooled off to garnish a salad. “And not if there’s a fire.”
An entire team of rock climbers couldn’t get the display case down that ladder. Not without rope.
Sternway didn’t glance away. “What will you tell Mr. Lacone?”
Apparently he always called the developer “Mr. Lacone.” Maybe he worshipped Lacone’s money.
I treated my tour guide to a false grin. “I’ll have to think about it.” I wasn’t about to tell him what I really had in mind, so I mentioned something that was too obvious to miss. “At the very least, I’ll want him to install a heavy bolt on the inside of that conference room door. Or I’ll advise Nakahatchi to do it.”
Sternway gave an almost subliminal shrug. Without comment he moved off along the side of the building we’d just left.
I dug out my sunglasses and followed dutifully.
Almost immediately we reached the entrance to Traditional Wing Chun. Under the shelter of its awning, I found that it’d been customized to resemble the portal of a Chinese temple. It had a heavy red door and frame, with a gracefully curved red lintel and brass door handles in the shape of a circle. Stamped or molded into the brass was an image that reminded me vaguely of one of the chops—a stylized figure holding a long staff over its head, apparently levitating.
Sternway pulled the door open and went inside.
I joined him, grateful to get back into the air-conditioning.
The main dojo to my right was in use. T’ang Wen, the man who’d talked to me about ch’uan fa the other day, stood in the middle of the floor, leading half a dozen barefoot men and women in silk pajamas through a sequence of movements as rigidly stylized and implausible as kabuki theater. Nevertheless T’ang and his class focused on the pattern as if it were a matter of life and death. None of them seemed aware of our arrival.
“We’ll wait until they’re done.” Sternway kept his voice low, apparently out of respect for training-in-progress.
That was fine with me. I needed to cool down anyway.
The pattern took another minute or two to complete. Then T’ang bowed to his students, his left hand cupped over his right fist in front of him—a different bow than the one Sternway used. At once he beckoned a student to take his place, and left them to practice while he came to greet us.
In the doorway he and Sternway bowed at each other. “Sternway sensei,” he said quietly. “You honor us. How may I serve you?”
Despite the lines on his face and the sharpness of his features, I couldn’t read his expression. He was a man who smiled easily, however, and he wasn’t smiling now. The silver chips in his eyes seemed to concentrate on Sternway like hints of distrust.
“Mr. T’ang,” Sternway replied. “I believe you’ve met Mr. Axbrewder?”
He must’ve noticed us together on Saturday, before Bernie was killed.
“Indeed.” T’ang turned to me and offered his hand. “Mr. Axbrewder.” While we shook, he smiled. “Have you come to learn more of Wing Chun? New students are welcome at any time, although I suggest one of our beginning classes. Training such as this”—he indicated the group behind him—“is difficult without an introduction to the movements and their meaning.”
This seemed like a particularly good time to practice my manners, so I said, “Not right away, thanks. Maybe later. Mr. Sternway is just showing me around Martial America.”
T’ang Wen’s face revealed nothing.
“That’s right,” Sternway put in. “Mr. Axbrewder has been hired to improve security for the building. I’d like to present him to Sifu Hong.”
Something in T’ang’s eyes withdrew, dulling their silver edge, but his tone remained bland. “Sifu Hong is upstairs,” he answered. “If you will excuse me, I will see if he may be disturbed.”
“Certainly,” Anson replied with his usual lack of warmth. “Thank you.”
T’ang bowed again, stepped past us into the hallway, and moved smoothly up the stairs out of sight.
Sternway had already explained some of the undercurrents here. Probably no one at Traditional Wing Chun would welcome what I was doing for Watchdog and Martial America—and for Nakahatchi.
While we waited, HRH glanced around briefly, making sure he wouldn’t be overheard. Then he remarked, “The Chinese are too flamboyant.” He seemed to think that he was answering a question I hadn’t known how to ask. “Half of what you see in kung fu is just for show. Wing Chun isn’t a bad style, but even here”—he indicated the dojo—“there’s too much posturing.”
He also considered Tae Kwon Do a toy martial art. Apparently he was just full of respect for his fellow martial artists.
“They’ve had a lot of time to work on it,” I objected mildly. Centuries, in fact, if what I’d been told was accurate. “They must think it’s good for something.”
I wanted to see how far he’d go.
“It’s intended to distract and intimidate,” Sternway replied. “To defeat an opponent mentally as well as physically. Rather like a gorilla beating its chest.” He gave me a cold smile. “But chest-beating only works against another gorilla.” Then he added pedantically—just in case I’d missed the point—“The most common criticism of Wing Chun is that it isn’t effective against other, more direct styles.”
Apparently he was willing to go pretty far.
T’ang Wen spent more time upstairs than I expected. If all he had to do was tell Hong we were here, he’d have gotten a response faster from the Oracle at Delphi. Nevertheless Sternway didn’t show any impatience, so I kept mine to myself.
Finally T’ang came down the stairs. Alone. A frown he didn’t try to disguise gripped his features—and he was definitely a man who took frowning seriously.
Nevertheless I ha
d to admire his relaxation. The silver in his irises gave his stare a flaying edge, but his shoulders and arms stayed loose, perfectly at ease.
“Mr. Sternway,” he announced softly, “my master is disturbed that you would insult us in this way.”
My eyebrows jumped involuntarily. Insult—? But Sternway’s poise didn’t flicker. Like commenting on the weather, he replied, “This saddens me, Mr. T’ang. Sifu Hong holds my deepest respect, and I meant no offense. How may I make amends?”
“Insult?” I asked aloud. “What insult?”
They both ignored me. Still softly, T’ang told Sternway, “Take this man from here.” He flicked a hand toward me. “While he remains, the offense grows.”
I opened my mouth to object—I wanted to know how I’d suddenly become the enemy—but Sternway spoke first.
“I would prefer,” he stated, “to account for my actions to Sifu Hong in person.”
“My master does not wish to hear any justification.” T’ang’s frown turned the lines of his face to bone. “For myself, I ask you to comply before the insult becomes unpardonable.”
“Oh, come off it,” I put in. “I haven’t even begun to insult you. Don’t treat me like I’m not here. If I’ve done something to offend your ‘master,’ tell me what it is. I’ll account for—”
So quickly that I didn’t even see him move, T’ang flung a blow at my face. His fist stopped a quarter of an inch from my nose and hung there, motionless, as if the air had frozen solid around it. I could’ve counted the hairs on the backs of his fingers—
Before I could blink, the fist disappeared, slapped down by Sternway’s palm.
He and Tang faced each other as if neither of them had twitched a muscle.
“We’ll comply,” Sternway said quietly. “I’ll return later to speak of this with Sifu Hong.”
Forcing myself to breathe, I took a step back, out of range. “Like hell we will.” If T’ang swung at me again, I wanted to see it coming. “I’m here to do a job. I’ve been hired by the owner of the building, which he has the right to do. I’m being paid good money to help protect those chops, and I’m not going to back down because of some ‘insult’ I don’t understand.”
At last T’ang faced me. The silver in his eyes seemed to cut right into me. Softly, venomously, he said, “You were hired to protect the chops from us.”
Wearing his indignation like a fright mask, he wheeled away and reentered the dojo. While I stared after him, he resumed teaching his class. When his students yelled with him, they sounded livid, enraged by his ire.
I turned on Sternway. “Did you expect that?” Hong’s reaction—and T’ang’s—hadn’t surprised him. And he hadn’t asked for an explanation.
“Outside, Axbrewder.” He took hold of my arm, tugged at me to move.
I ripped out of his grip. “I said—”
He interrupted me. “What do you think you gain by making the situation worse? Is this another anthill? Will it help you do your job?”
Without giving me a chance to answer, he strode out of the building. Dissociating himself from me—
Damn right I gained something. Protect the chops from us. I hadn’t known Hong thought that way. But I needed more.
I caught up with Sternway on the sidewalk. I couldn’t see his eyes—he’d already put on his sunglasses—but his manner revealed nothing. He might’ve been waiting for me to use the bathroom.
“All right.” I couldn’t keep the tension out of my voice. “I’m outside.” Carner’s hard glare attacked my vision. Heat seemed to drum inside my skull. “Answer the question. Did you expect that?”
Did you set me up?
“No.” His tone might as well have been a mask. He hid everything behind it. “I was trying to prevent it.
“I knew it could happen,” he went on. “And I was sure it would if I left you to handle Sifu Hong on your own. Your way of talking to people—” He shrugged. “I’d hoped that I might be able to defuse his distrust before it gathered strength.”
“Well, you were wrong,” I snorted. “So what do you think I should do now?” Did he imagine that I could do my job without being accepted by the people who used the building? “I’d like to hear any other good ideas you’ve got.”
“It’s simple.” HRH sounded entirely unperturbed. “We’ll finish visiting the other schools. Then you can go do whatever it is you do, and I’ll return here to pour oil on the waters. I’m sure I can persuade Sifu Hong to be more reasonable.”
I paused for a moment, considering my options. Then I said, “No,” and headed back into Traditional Wing Chun.
He barked my name after me, but I ignored it. Security for Martial America was my job, not his. And I was tired of trailing along behind him like an overgrown puppy.
Inside the big red door, I didn’t hang around for T’ang Wen to notice me. Instead I went straight for the stairs and strode up them two at a time. By the time I’d climbed halfway, I heard my name again, this time from T’ang, but I didn’t stop.
So far Traditional Wing Chun was laid out exactly like Essential Shotokan. At the top of the stairs I doubled back toward the door of the conference room. It was shut, but not locked.
In the conference room, unfortunately, I had to guess which of the apartments Hong occupied. Nameplates on the doors would’ve come in handy, but there weren’t any. And since the lights were off, the only illumination came from the open door behind me. What I could see of the carpet looked equally worn in front of both apartments.
T’ang Wen solved the problem by catching up with me before I risked flipping a coin. I feared that he’d hit me, so I spun around before he got close enough, pointing one finger straight at his face as if I thought I could stop him with it.
“Keep your distance.” I suppressed as much of my tension as I could. “I’m sure you can tear me apart with one arm in a sling.” Actually I would’ve liked to see him try, but right then didn’t seem like a good time for a testosterone contest. “But I’m not here to cause trouble.”
With the light behind him, shadows hid his expression. I couldn’t tell anything from his face. Nevertheless he took me seriously enough to stop moving. “Mr. Axbrewder,” he informed me heavily, “you are trouble.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Instead I said, “There’s been a misunderstanding. I want to clear it up.” I groped quickly for the right phrase, then finished, “I’m here to give Sifu Hong face.”
“You?” T’ang’s voice was poised like his body, ready to attack, but waiting. “You are Western, cultureless and uncouth. What do you know of face?”
Good question. I wondered if he realized just how good. Maybe he could see Ginny and Bernie and my dead brother in my eyes. Maybe he could smell old booze in my sweat—
“I know enough,” I told him. “Enough to understand that I need to talk to Sifu Hong in person.”
“Then speak to me, gwailo,” he countered. “Give me face. I will convey your thoughts to my master.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t work that way. I can’t correct the problem with you. You aren’t the one who’s been insulted.”
Maybe I was. I didn’t know what gwailo meant.
“We will hear him, Wen,” Hong Fei-Tung said at my back. He’d opened his door and entered the conference room so quietly that I hadn’t heard him. Hell, I hadn’t even felt his presence in the air. “Then I will determine whether his words have merit.”
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard a touch of reprimand in the sifu’s tone.
Without hesitation or protest, T’ang Wen bowed to his master, left hand over right fist, and withdrew a step.
I turned toward Hong.
Dim light from the doorway fell on his face, making it look like terra cotta worn smooth and flat by time. He couldn’t have gazed at me more impassively without being dead, but his eyes granted me a warning glimpse of the intensity I’d seen in him outside The Luxury, when he’d taken his first look at the chops.
I didn
’t need Sternway or even T’ang to tell me that I had to be careful now. Very careful. I’d already struck a spark from T’ang. From Hong I might get the full conflagration.
“Sifu Hong.” My breath caught high up in my chest. My nerves remembered how they’d felt when Parker Neill had poked me. I mimed one of Sternway’s bows while I tried to make my diaphragm work.
He didn’t bow back. Within his silk robe his body remained unnaturally still. Not even respiration stirred the fabric.
With as much ease as I could muster, I began, “You’ll have to forgive me. As Mr. T’ang just remarked, I’m Western. I don’t know all the appropriate forms and courtesies. No matter what I do or say now, I’m going to seem crude.”
Deliberately I refrained from pointing out that he should be used to it by now. He’d been living here long enough. He must know how to get along with us uncultured, couthless Occidentals.
“I don’t have any personal experience with this,” I continued abruptly, “but I’m told that as a school Traditional Wing Chun is widely respected. As the school’s sifu, you’re held in high esteem. Everyone I’ve talked to says so,” even Anson Sternway in his ungiving fashion, “and I have no reason to doubt them. You’re regarded as a man of honor.”
At my shoulder, T’ang breathed harshly, “To say so is to suggest that the opposite is possible.”
I ignored him to concentrate on Hong. “Mr. Lacone and Sternway sensei haven’t insulted you by hiring me to protect the chops. They hired me to give you face.”
“You speak,” T’ang put in, “but you say nothing. Sternway and others believe my master will attempt to reclaim the chops. They will call it theft, although the chops are rightfully Chinese. You are the hand of their distrust. You oppose my master for an action he has not committed and does not contemplate.”
This time I answered T’ang. “Now you’re insulting me.” But I kept my eyes fixed on Hong. “Do you think I have no honor?
“Your master is an honorable man. Of course he won’t do anything dishonorable. But the police don’t understand honor. They understand greed. And national pride.” Never mind bigotry. “Not honor.”