The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  I let my interest carry me casually in her direction. Along the way, I did my level best to look like a dignitary.

  At the doors, the in-rush had slowed. Apparently the crowd wouldn’t reach Big Bang proportions for a while yet. The bleachers were less than a third full.

  Sternway, Sue Rasmussen, Ned Gage, and Parker stood together at the head table, consulting over long sheets of paper. Near them, another blazer—presumably a record-keeper of some kind—sat in front of a laptop. A couple of pajamas in black belts were already “on deck,” warming up with punches that wouldn’t have stopped an angry preschooler and kicks I could’ve done myself—if both my legs had been ripped out of their sockets first. Around the walls, less ostentatious contestants—“karate-ka”?—changed their clothes and stretched.

  I thought I might cross in front of the dais toward Deborah Messenger. But before I got that far, the cluster at the table broke up, leaving Rasmussen alone with one of the microphones. She didn’t look like she was about to use it, however, so I deflected myself in her direction. Presuming on my exalted status, I ascended to the head table. I still needed a lot of general information.

  The Master of Ceremonies was a short blonde with flouncing hair and a scrubbed and open cheerleader’s face. Her confident demeanor suggested that she could chat happily with total strangers during a nuclear holocaust. Nevertheless something about her conveyed the sense that she’d disappeared into her blazer—that Sue Rasmussen in other clothes would be a different person entirely.

  She smiled like a flashbulb as I strolled toward her, but I didn’t take it personally.

  “Time to start, Ms. Rasmussen?” I asked. Just breaking the ice. The dais was the perfect vantage point. I could watch the events as well as the crowd. Once I adjusted to the tournament’s rhythms, the particular ebb and flow of its manufactured tensions, I could spot disturbances from here better than anywhere else.

  Being a dignitary had its advantages.

  Sue Rasmussen shook her head. “Not yet. Registration is still hard at work. I won’t go on duty for another ten or fifteen minutes.”

  I took that as permission to ask her questions. Gesturing out at the hall, I inquired, “This is as busy as it gets?”

  Widening her eyes, she pretended to be shocked. “No way.” Then she lowered her voice. “We don’t usually admit it, but we schedule the less popular events on Friday. Too many people aren’t free until the weekend. So we do kids and color belts, since their parents and instructors are the only ones who pay attention anyway. And all the katame, which—”

  “‘Katame’?” I interrupted.

  “Grappling,” she explained easily. “Some of the best techniques in the world are joint locks and throws, but even at their best they’re hard to see from the stands.

  “Of course”—she laughed politely, her hair bouncing—“if we didn’t have any crowd-pleasers today, no one would come. At least not until the Bill Wallace demonstration this evening. And we need judges. So we’ll do most of the team kumite—sorry, sparring—this afternoon, and finish the color belts before we start the brown belts tomorrow morning.

  “Still,” she admitted, “the real crowds won’t be here until Saturday and Sunday. That’s when we’ll hold the black belt events. And the Masters’.”

  I nodded like I understood. “So team sparring is popular.” Why wasn’t I surprised? Carner seemed to have a bottomless appetite for watching people in pads thump each other. “What else?”

  “Well, the demonstrations, naturally.” As she went on, she sounded more and more like a cheerleader. Maybe she got off on wearing that blazer. “Bill Wallace is famous. They call him ‘Superfoot’—you’ll see why. Benny Urquidez could probably outpoint a tiger. And Demura sensei trains his students beautifully.

  “Then there’s individual sparring. Black belt kata—I mean forms. And the Masters’ divisions. Don’t miss them, they’re really impressive. Kata and kobudo, weapons. And then the finals, the grand championships. You won’t see kata and kumite like that anywhere else. Sunday night this place is going to rock.”

  That sounded like my cue to burst into applause, but I didn’t. Instead I remarked, “I wonder why. What’s it all for?” All this sanitized violence? “Why do you do it?”.

  I guess my cynicism showed. Her manner stiffened. “Don’t dismiss it until you’ve seen it, Mr.—” Her voice trailed off. She’d obviously forgotten my name.

  “Axbrewder,” I supplied.

  “Mr. Axbrewder.” The cheerleader was gone. Now she sounded like an indignant schoolmarm. “This is part of any martial artist’s education. We’ll see an extraordinary display of knowledge and expertise. And competing here brings people as close as possible to testing themselves in real life. We keep it safe, Mr. Axbrewder, but we put on as much pressure as we can. If martial artists don’t know how they react to stress, they can’t learn to deal with it.”

  She was actually better looking when she got pissed off. If she tried to deck me, she might be downright beautiful.

  I kept at her. “You make it sound like altruism, Ms. Rasmussen. Surely that’s not all the IAMA is interested in?”

  The blazer at the laptop flicked a quick glare at me like I’d insulted his mother. Then he turned back to his LCD.

  Rasmussen’s tone froze. “No, of course not.” Apparently she’d just written me off her Christmas list. “We’re also here to promote the martial arts in general, and the IAMA in particular.

  “But,” she insisted, “this isn’t about money.” She said the word like it tasted bad. “Everyone who works here is a volunteer. And I assure you, we wouldn’t do it if it weren’t worth doing for its own sake. The martial arts are good for people, Mr. Axbrewder. If we want to share the benefits, we have to grow.”

  “Excuse me.” Dismissing me, she turned back to her paperwork and the microphone. “We’ll be starting soon. I need to get ready.”

  Some days I could take a hint. “Thanks for your time.” I bowed insincerely. “You’ve been very helpful.” Then I crossed the dais and stepped down to the main floor.

  Under other circumstances, I might’ve asked her, Good for people? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? But at the moment I was more curious about why she sounded defensive when she mentioned money.

  Unfortunately I’d spent too much time talking to her. While I was on the dais, the Watchdog people had disappeared. I couldn’t believe that Posten didn’t plan to attend the tournament. If I was right about him, he’d want to defend the chops with his personal vigilance. But maybe a Security Associate’s job didn’t involve standing around for days while nothing happened. Maybe I wouldn’t see Deborah Messenger again.

  Well, drat She’d caught my interest in ways that I hadn’t felt for a long time.

  But there was nothing I could do about it, so I decided to look for Bernie. I wanted to know what he’d say if I spent most of my time up on the dais, acting exalted. And I could always think of more questions for him.

  I was near Nakahatchi’s chops. Hotel Security had started letting a few people into the display area for a closer look. They all wore pajamas—apparently the competitors took the antiques more seriously than the spectators did. Before I moved away, I heard a man in a white canvas suit and brown belt sneer at the case, “Big deal. It’s still just Wing Chun.”

  “What’s wrong with Wing Chun?” a woman in silk countered sharply. I couldn’t tell what the color of her sash meant.

  “Kung fu,” the canvas snorted. “Soft styles. They’re for girls. You can’t really use them.”

  Soft? I wondered. As opposed to what? Hard?

  The woman didn’t back down. “Says you.”

  The man gave her a nasty grin. “Says the IAMA. Why else do the soft styles have their own divisions? You wimps don’t even compete with the rest of us in kata.” The woman tried to interrupt, but he kept going. “Except in the finals. And the soft stylists always lose.”

  Getting mad, the woman retorted, “That�
�s because the judges don’t know shit about it. It’s so unfair.”

  She had more to say, but I walked off anyway. Parker Neill had already warned me about true believers.

  Against the wall past the edge of the stands, a small group of pajamas crouched in postures that made them look like models for a nonrepresentational sculpture. Other competitors, most of them pretty young, threw out punches and kicks. Some of them squatted or jumped while they struck.

  Involuntarily I rolled my eyes. I suppose it made sense that kids and teenagers did this stuff. Hand-eye coordination, aerobics, the discipline of a specific skill. But surely grown-ups had better uses for their time?

  Without warning I heard a burst of static as Sue Rasmussen turned on her microphone. When the noise in the hall subsided, she started to talk.

  I expected a conventional master-of-ceremonies spiel, so when she proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the IAMA World Championships,” I tuned her out to concentrate on locating Bernie.

  But I shouldn’t have. Suddenly the audience and everyone else stood to attention. When I looked where they faced, I saw Anson Sternway alone in the middle of the tournament floor. In a loud voice, Ms Rasmussen announced something that sounded quaintly like, “Hay sucker dock-cheat, ray,” and the whole crowd—with the exception of Bernie and his guards—bowed to the IAMA director.

  Holding his fists at his sides, Sternway bowed back.

  The next thing I knew, the tournament was underway—and I was feeling foolish. If everyone here thought that Sternway deserved a bow, I should’ve joined in. Acting like a dignitary was part of my job, and I’d already fluffed it.

  At least now I knew where to find Bernie. While competitors and judges scurried to answer Rasmussen’s preliminary instructions, I filtered in my boss’ direction.

  He stood like he was asleep at one of the closed doors. Until I reached him, I wasn’t sure he had his eyes open. Since no one paid any attention to us, I figured I didn’t risk my cover by talking to him, but I kept my voice low anyway.

  “You and Parker Neill should get together. You have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re both bored out of your skulls.”

  Turning his head, Bernie gave me one of his amused glares. “And you aren’t?”

  “I would be,” I said piously, “if I didn’t want to earn my paycheck.”

  Briefly I described the advantages of watching for trouble from the head table. He accepted the idea without much interest.

  “You dignitaries have all the luck,” he muttered. “The rest of us get to stand around the walls for the next three days.”

  “That’s why they pay you the big bucks,” I told him. Then I changed the subject. “I’m still trying to make sense out of all this. I don’t understand the people who run it.”

  I also didn’t understand why Nakahatchi wanted to show off his revered chops here. Was he serious about sharing them? Or was he just trying to rub Hong’s nose in them? Was this whole world that petty? But I didn’t expect Bernie to know the answer.

  As if the reasons for my question were simple, I asked, “What can you tell me about Anson Sternway?”

  I hadn’t forgotten Marshal’s instructions. And Sternway had already pissed me off.

  “Nothing.” Bernie’s jaw snapped shut on the word.

  “Really?” I let my surprise show. “I thought you’ve been dealing with him for years.”

  “I have.” He was all the way mad now, not just faking it on general principles. “But I work for The Luxury. I don’t discuss people who do business with my employer.”

  He faced me so that I could see his anger. “Get it straight, Axbrewder. I told you what I think of the tournament. That’s different. But if The Luxury wants Mr. Sternway’s business, so do I. Anything I might know about him is private.”

  Then he turned away. “On top of that, he signs half your check. I talk to him about you. I don’t talk to you about him.”

  I nodded. I should’ve seen Bernie’s reaction coming. When you pay for hotel security—or a private investigator—you hire loyalty as well as confidentiality. Not to mention diligence, and maybe even good judgment.

  “My mistake,” I told him softly.

  Chewing bile, he snorted, “Damn right.”

  “I know better,” I went on. “I’m just out of my element. Where I come from, people don’t try to deck each other for entertainment.” Maybe I didn’t understand sports at all. “I’m looking for a handle on all this.”

  “That,” he retorted, “is why I haven’t already fired you.” Then he relented a bit. “I can tell you one thing. That woman”—he indicated the head table—“Rasmussen. She’s a lawyer. She handles Mr. Sternway’s negotiations with the hotel. And she plays hardball. Bargain basement rates aren’t enough for her. She wants two or three suites and maybe thirty more rooms comped. Discounts on food. Airport shuttles. We wouldn’t put up with it, but the IAMA sells out the hotel. For the whole weekend. And let me tell you, these people eat.”

  He glanced at me. “Considering what they charge for registration and spectators, they must turn one hell of a profit.”

  My, my, I thought. And the tournament isn’t about money? Curiouser and curiouser.

  I wanted to think about that. I touched Bernie’s shoulder briefly to thank him, then wandered away.

  Around the hall, the tournament was heating up. Events already occupied half the rings, and more were getting ready. Competitors warming up, teachers hectoring their students, and friends helping each other stretch used just about every possible patch of floor, but that didn’t stop the crowd, or even the spectators, from being in constant motion. People shifted in all directions, following Rasmussen’s instructions, or improving their view of particular events, or just working off jitters.

  Meanwhile tension and active bodies accumulated against the chill of the AC. If the hall got warm, the fact that I hadn’t slept would start to cause problems. Vaguely I wondered whether I’d call too much attention to myself by dragging a caffeine IV around behind me.

  From the rings, yells punctuated the general hubbub. They were probably supposed to sound fierce, but the kids’ voices in particular gave me an impression of pain. Being stubborn about it, I ordered myself to relax, and went to take a look.

  Except for the differences in size and rank, all the kids competing in the four rings at the far end of the hall might’ve entered the same event. At each ring, five judges sat holding clipboards while as many as fifteen or twenty kids lined up opposite them. Most of the kids looked lost, but one or two acted like they already understood bloodshed. Parents who should’ve been in the stands squeezed as close as they could get. From the corner, a scorekeeper called out a name, and a kid moved into the center of the ring. Alone, the kid performed a bowing ritual, shouted something Oriental, and went to work.

  Presumably this was kata, forms. The kid moved through a series of steps, turns, kicks, punches, blocks, all obviously choreographed. At intervals one of the movements included a yell. Most of them came out sounding like questions—or pleas for help. After a minute or so, the kid stopped, repeated the bows, and withdrew. The judges held up their clipboards to the scorekeeper. Then another kid was called to compete.

  Trying to understand, I watched most of one event, even though it made me queasy. At first I thought each kid had different choreography. That at least made the katas interesting to compare. But then I saw more and more of the patterns repeated. Apparently the forms were inherited. Traditional. All these kids had been taught to duplicate someone else’s ideas about violence.

  Muttering disgust under my breath, I turned away. As child abuse, this form of competition struck me as more elaborate, but less useful, than ordinary domestic brutality. A kid who got hit at home at least learned what hitting meant, for God’s sake. As far as I could tell, these kids were being taught to act out lies.

  If I wanted to survive this weekend, I’d have to
concentrate on watching adults. Them I could hold responsible for their own illusions.

  As promised, unfortunately, the adults—including a few teenagers—were engaged in grappling, katame. It looked just like wrestling to me, and I couldn’t pretend I cared. Sure, the more you knew about leverage and joints, the better. But every ground-scrabble I’d ever seen or been in eventually came down to muscle and bulk. Here, however, the grapplers had the shit supervised out of them. The center judge and the four corner refs called breaks whenever a competitor drew breath. Then they awarded points arbitrarily, and after a while the scorekeeper announced a winner.

  No question about it, I was having a wonderful time. For a couple of minutes, I drifted into a waking nightmare where I went out on the floor to teach some of these true believers what real pounding was all about.

  Fortunately I was on duty—and this was a job, not a cause. It didn’t have anything to do with me. If I earned my paycheck, I could forget the rest.

  With an effort, I resumed trying to tune in to the tournament so that I could feel its rhythms and interruptions without being distracted by particular events. Let the yells and foolishness of the competitors, and the uncomfortable squirming of the crowd, sink into the background, where I could monitor them automatically instead of trying to evaluate them objectively.

  What I really wanted, however, was someone to talk to. Someone who could explain all this.

  Or Ginny. But that was a separate problem.

  Halfway through the morning, I arrived back at the head table. The heat and the crowd and the yelling climbed along my nerves, and I was starting to feel stupid. Luckily someone had juiced up the AC, and the heat didn’t get any worse.