Then I appealed directly to Hong. “Sifu, if anything happens to the chops, whose voice will defend your honor to the police? Whose but mine? They’ll assume you had something to do with it. They’ll have to. Distrust is their job.
“But I’m responsible for security here now. The safety of the chops is my problem. And if I fail to protect them, then I’m responsible for discovering the truth about what happened to them.
“That’s called honor where I come from.
“You don’t have any reason to resent me,” I finished. “The simple fact that I’m here protects you. My presence gives you face.”
Which, as I was acutely aware, was only one way to look at it. Naturally T’ang had a different perspective.
Bitter as bile, he demanded, “Do you wish my master to believe that those gwailo Sternway and Lacone hired you as a sign of their respect? He is not such a fool. He—”
“Enough, Wen,” Sifu Hong interrupted softly. His gaze never left mine. No expression touched his flat features. “This country is not China. Here men may perform work without sharing the purposes of their masters.”
On my own behalf, I explained, “I don’t work for Sternway sensei. I work for Mr. Lacone. He’s in the profit business. He wouldn’t do anything to insult you. He doesn’t want to lose a respected school”—a paying lessee—“like Traditional Wing Chun. And he certainly doesn’t want anything to happen to the chops. That would damage his plans for Martial America.”
After that I couldn’t think of any way to make myself clearer, so I shut up.
T’ang shifted restively behind my shoulder, but didn’t say any more.
His master studied me for a moment longer. Then he nodded crisply, like an acknowledgment.
“Mr. Axbrewder,” he announced, “I have heard you. We will not speak of this again. Events will reveal their meaning as they unfold.”
In other words, I was dismissed. He was willing to suspend judgment, at least temporarily. Maybe he expected me to count my blessings and just go away.
Fortunately he didn’t stop there. “While you remain in the service of Mr. Lacone,” he continued, “you are welcome here. If you wish our assistance, if you desire to learn more of Wing Chun, or if you require any knowledge that is ours to share, please name your need to T’ang Wen.”
Before I could open my mouth to thank him, he turned away. The weak light from the doorway made his short grey hair look like an iron skullcap, ascetic and impregnable. He might’ve been walking off a battlefield as he stepped into his apartment and closed the door, leaving me with T’ang.
Apparently he’d just given me face.
At any rate, he’d accepted my protestations. But I didn’t grasp why they’d been necessary in the first place.
T’ang cleared his throat. He sounded uncomfortable doing it, but when I turned to look at him his face was shrouded in shadow, his reactions hidden.
“Are you content, Mr. Axbrewder? I will do what I can to satisfy you.”
The words suggested more than one meaning. What kind of satisfaction did he have in mind?
“I’ll think of something,” I muttered. Then I winced at my own gracelessness. Trying to make amends, I admitted, “This is all new to me. I’m a little baffled at the moment.”
T’ang stood in silence, apparently waiting for me to frame a question. But I didn’t speak.
Even taking into account my ignorance of China, and of Chinese psychology, I couldn’t get my head around the idea that my presence was an insult. As far as I could tell, he and Hong had reached that conclusion from another dimension, bypassing ordinary reality altogether.
It must’ve come from somewhere.
I wanted an explanation. But I didn’t know how to ask for it politely. Stalling, I indicated the lighted hall beyond the conference room and started in that direction. T’ang joined me smoothly.
I didn’t say anything until I could see better. When he’d closed the conference room door, I studied his face for a moment, looking for remnants of hostility, but I didn’t find any.
Maybe now I could stop worrying that he might hit me.
“I do have a couple of questions,” I told him while my muscles loosened. “Is Traditional Wing Chun a new school? Have you always been located here?”
“No, Mr. Axbrewder.” Now T’ang sounded like the man I’d talked to at the tournament, accessible and at ease. He’d already taken Hong’s attitude to heart. “My master came to this country from Hong Kong twenty years ago. For a time he visited other Wing Chun masters in various cities, considering possibilities. When he had determined that Carner was suitable, he opened his doors to students.”
Which must’ve been long before Lacone started dreaming about Martial America.
“As he prospered,” T’ang went on, “he invited more and more of his family to join him from Hong Kong and China. My paternal grandfather was my master’s uncle by marriage. My parents were among the first to accept my master’s invitation, and I began study with him fifteen years ago.”
Presumably Sternway was still fuming on the sidewalk, so I started toward the stairs. I wouldn’t exactly grieve over it if he got fed up and left. On the other hand, he might have an answer for questions I didn’t know how to ask T’ang. What he’d told me outside no longer seemed adequate.
As Tang accompanied me, I observed, “After that many years, Sifu Hong must’ve been pretty well established. What made him decide to move into this building?”
That was as close as I could get to what I really wanted to know.
The subject didn’t produce any discomfort. “Sternway sensei is widely known,” T’ang answered calmly. “Association with him is beneficial. In addition, my master considers that the goals of the IAMA, and of Martial America, are worthy. He believes the time for exclusiveness in the martial arts has passed, and he favors open cooperation among the many styles for the benefit of all.
“Also”—from the head of the stairs T’ang gestured toward the dojos below us—“the facilities are excellent.
“When Sternway sensei asked the martial artists of Carner to consider this location, my master was the first to agree.” Pride showed in his voice. “I was given the honor of signing the first lease in his name.”
Which sure didn’t make it sound like T’ang or Hong distrusted Lacone. Something must’ve changed relatively recently.
T’ang and I descended the stairs. To keep him talking while I tried to think of a different approach, I asked, “How long was Traditional Wing Chun alone here?”
An innocent question, I would’ve said. But apparently I’d plucked an unexpected nerve. T’ang stopped so abruptly that my momentum carried me a couple of steps past him before I could turn to find out what was wrong.
His eyes were almost level with mine. Their silver hinted at incandescence.
“We were not,” he pronounced distinctly. “When Nakahatchi sensei learned that my master had agreed, he signed a lease with an earlier date of occupation.”
I blinked. “Nakahatchi was already here when you moved in?”
“Yes,” T’ang stated. “He had been uncertain of his own decision. But when he learned of my master’s, he made arrangements to place himself first.”
“Why bother? What’s the point?”
T’ang shrugged disdainfully. “He is Japanese. The Japanese seek precedence over the Chinese in all things.”
Oh, good. More racial stereotyping. Just what we needed.
I wanted to retort, Gosh, are you sure? Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with Hong. Maybe Nakahatchi’s previous lease just expired before yours and he had to move earlier.
Maybe you’re just a narrow-minded little bigot, and everything you say is horseshit.
But I knew myself too well. Once I got started, I probably wouldn’t stop until everyone in the damn building knew how I felt. I was supposed to be polite here. Martial America needed less hostility, not more.
Practically biting my tongue, I moved on dow
n the stairs and headed for the front door. T’ang followed a few paces behind me.
Nevertheless I had no intention of letting good manners interfere with my other priorities. When we reached the door, I put my back to it and confronted T’ang. Without transition, I asked, “Did you know the man who was killed at the tournament? Bernie Appelwait?”
That touched no nerves at all. T’ang looked mildly surprised, but I didn’t pick up the slightest vibration of unease as he replied, “His death is disturbing and shameful, Mr. Axbrewder. My master hopes that his killer will be apprehended quickly. We both knew him by name, and we saw him in the course of his duties during Sternway sensei’s tournaments. But I have never spoken with him, and my master has made no mention of such a conversation.”
“You don’t have any students related to him? You didn’t consult him about security at your former dojo?”
Perplexity tightened on T’ang’s brows. “Indeed no.”
“Is it possible,” I went on, “that Sifu Hong might’ve had dealings with him you wouldn’t know about?” Trying to be polite, I didn’t mention things like loan sharks.
T’ang shook his head. “Mr. Axbrewder, Hong Fei-Tung is my sifu. I do not ask such questions. But I do not believe it is possible. My duties include all business transactions for Traditional Wing Chun. About my master’s personal concerns I know nothing.
“However”—he smiled delicately—“we are Chinese. We need no assistance in matters of money.”
Oh, well. I hadn’t actually expected anything as farfetched and simple as a direct connection between Bernie and this school or the chops. But I had to check.
That left Lacone. And Nakahatchi.
With visions of Sternway’s indignation dancing like sugar plums in my head, I thanked T’ang Wen, told him that I’d get in touch if I needed anything else, and let myself out.
I found HRH waiting right where I’d left him. His white shirt caught so much sunlight that it seemed to blur around him, enclosing him like flame. Expecting trouble, I braced myself for another flare of his exasperated condescension.
But he almost knocked me off stride with a lukewarm smile. “How did it go?” he asked in a tone of polite disinterest. He didn’t sound impatient—and certainly not angry. I couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses.
What the hell—? I stared at him. “Fine.”
He nodded like he hadn’t expected anything else. “That’s good.” Then he added, “While you were inside, I talked to Master Soon and Soke Gravel, so you’re covered there. You can introduce yourself whenever you have time, but they know why you’re here now. I’m sure they’ll cooperate with you.”
I had the vague impression that I’d left my mouth open. For a moment I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Sternway said evenly, “we’re done for today. Unless you have more questions?”
In self-defense I put on my own sunglasses and tried to kick my brain back into motion. With an effort, I admitted, “There’s still a lot I don’t understand about martial artists. And martial arts schools.” Grabbing the first detail that occurred to me, I asked, “Do T’ang and Komatori really handle all the business for their schools?”
Sternway nodded. “I believe so, yes. It’s a traditional arrangement. The highest ranking student takes care of the practical side of running a school, freeing the master to concentrate on higher matters. I may have mentioned that Sue Rasmussen fills the same role for me.”
“That’s it?” I insisted. “Tradition?”
He smiled coldly. “As I say, it’s a traditional arrangement. But naturally common sense prevails. If the senior student isn’t capable—” He shrugged. “As it happens, both Mr. T’ang and Mr. Komatori are more fully acclimated to this country than their masters. Wen’s family moved here from Hong Kong when he was quite young. And Hideo was born in the US, although I think his parents are still Japanese citizens.”
I considered that briefly. “Then I guess I need to talk to either Komatori or Rasmussen.”
“Why?” Sternway may’ve been genuinely curious.
“Apparently,” I explained, “Hong feels insulted by the fact that Nakahatchi moved into Martial America ahead of him. I’d like to know why Nakahatchi did that.”
Just how deep did the friction between Essential Shotokan and Traditional Wing Chun run?
“I can’t help you.” Sternway’s interest seemed to dissipate. “Sue handles the leases. That’s one of the services the IAMA offers its members. I wasn’t involved.”
Which was another detail that didn’t seem to fit. He wasn’t mad at me for going back into Traditional Wing Chun without him. And he didn’t know about Hong’s history with Nakahatchi. Considering all the things he did know—
For a heartbeat or two I tried to look like I accepted his answer. Then I changed the subject.
“You mentioned T’ang’s family. He told me that Sifu Hong has been inviting his relatives to join him here for years. Do you happen to know how many of them he has in Carner?”
All at once Sternway resumed his majesty. A muscle in his cheek gave his mouth a condescending twist.
“Sifu Hong isn’t a gossip, Brew,” he replied, unnecessarily patient. “He doesn’t chat with me about such things. But the last rumor I heard put the number around fifty.”
I gaped behind my sunglasses. Fifty—That would make one hell of a support system for a man who wanted to steal and hide a set of antique Wing Chun chops. Stories about triads flared through my head, Hong Kong gangs as bloody-minded as the Russian Mafia, with just as much reach.
If Hong didn’t actually have all the honor I’d given him credit for—
Ah, shit. This damn job was getting messier by the hour.
Sternway gazed at me, blank as a sphinx. “Are we done here?”
I jerked back into focus on him. “Just one more question.” My voice was harsher than I intended. “You expected trouble from Hong. Earlier you said you wanted to introduce me so that you ‘could defuse his distrust.’ But why would he distrust any of us? It can’t have anything to do with me personally. He doesn’t know me. He must have a problem of some kind with you. Or Mr. Lacone.
“If you actually want me to do my job, you’d better tell me what’s really going on here.”
For a moment HRH seemed to study me behind his sunglasses. Then he barked a humorless laugh. “No, Brew. This isn’t another anthill. This time you’re scuffing your shoes on bare dirt.
“Haven’t you learned anything about the tensions that inevitably exist between martial arts styles? Are you completely ignorant of Japanese and Chinese history? In one form or another, they’ve been at war with each other for centuries. Despite vastly superior numbers, China has usually lost. What do you think it means to Sifu Hong that a traditional enemy, a traditionally victorious enemy, holds a precious piece of his own heritage?
“You disappoint me, do you know that? You should be able to understand that Sifu Hong doesn’t distrust me or Mr. Lacone or the IAMA. He distrusts and resents Nakahatchi sensei.”
That, apparently, was his final word on the subject. He turned away without saying goodbye and headed for the parking lot. The way he moved, fluid and fatal, made me think of nitroglycerin flowing downhill.
I probably should’ve believed him. Hell, I was just as ignorant as he accused me of being.
But I didn’t. Instead I felt like he’d granted me a small epiphany, an intuitive glimpse into the heart of a city I didn’t understand. Suddenly I saw how Carner’s night dwellers flourished in a place so full of light. Sunglasses. They carried pieces of darkness with them everywhere.
I didn’t believe Anson Sternway for a variety of reasons. He wasn’t pissed off after I’d kept him waiting so long. He was sure that Hong resented Nakahatchi, but he claimed he didn’t know anything about their personal history.
And he kept so much of himself hidden.
16
For a while I stood where I was, a
sking myself, What would Ginny do? What would any smart person do? But nothing dramatic occurred to me, so I just did what came naturally.
Leaving Malaysian Fighting Arts and Tae Kwon Do Academy for tomorrow—despite Master Soon’s curious absence during Bernie’s murder—I went back to my rented Plymouth, fired it up, and cranked the AC as high as it would go. While the air cooled, I used my cell phone to call information and get Bernie’s home number and address.
The address turned out to be an apartment building of some kind. When I tried the number, no one answered. Which wasn’t a surprise—he’d given me the distinct impression that he lived alone. And the cops had had plenty of time to finish with the place. After five rings a phone machine delivered an announcement in Bernie’s querulous voice, but I didn’t leave a message.
Instead I dug out my map.
I found his address maybe five miles diagonally across Carner from Martial America, in a small neighborhood where all the streets had kitsch-cowboy names like Quirt, Rowel, Stirrup, and Lariat. It sounded like the kind of blue-collar neighborhood people chose when they couldn’t afford anything better. I planned a route, then kicked the Plymouth into gear.
Once I was out of the parking lot, I dialed the number I’d been given for Alex Lacone.
It must’ve been his private line—he answered it himself. I could hear him beaming as he said, “Lacone here. I don’t recognize your caller ID.”
“Axbrewder, Mr. Lacone. I picked up a cell phone this morning so we could keep in touch.”
“Brew.” His tone shifted to a warmer channel. “How’s it going? Did Anson take care of everything for you? Are those chops safely tucked away?”
I leaned into the blast from the AC, still trying to cool down. “Everything’s fine so far.” I hadn’t asked him to call me Brew. He must’ve picked it up from Sternway. Or Deborah. “Mr. Sternway gave me this number and your skeleton key. The chops have been delivered to Essential Shotokan. I’ve had a tour of the building, and paid a visit to Sifu Hong. Tomorrow I’ll drop in on Master Soon and Soke Gravel.”