THE MAN WHO FOUGHT ALONE Thread

For discussion about Stephen R. Donaldson's other works, Reed Stephens, group meetings, elohimfests, SRD sightings, and more.

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Post by Dragonlily »

It hasn't been two years yet, Jem. No reason to worry. :wink:
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Post by balon! »

:edit because I don't remember finishing that book ever:
Last edited by balon! on Thu Oct 18, 2007 6:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Avatar wrote:But then, the answers provided by your imagination are not only sometimes best, but have the added advantage of being unable to be wrong.
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Post by drew »

I'm about half way through..and I'm loving it.

Although I haven't read all the Reed's...I've only read 'Risked and now 'Alone.

Man, that Anson Sternaway is a GD prick!!! He's worse than Nick Ssucorsco or Sherrif Lyton any day of the week
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Post by Usivius »

:lol:
I agree. In fact I loved the character so much, I made an RPG version of him for an antagonist in my campaign...

;)
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Post by drew »

Usivius wrote:I agree. In fact I loved the character so much, I made an RPG version of him for an antagonist in my campaign...
WOW...and I thought I was a nerd! ;)
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Post by balon! »

I just tried attempt number three to get past the fourty or so page mark. Couldn't do it.

I'll try again next year. :)
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Post by Dragonlily »

It gets continually better throughout the book, Balon. Bear with the guy. He's been seriously ill for years.
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Post by balon! »

I actually didn't mind Brew. I dunno, I guess it was the writing style. It just didn't strike me.

It wasn't bad per se, it just wasn't good either.

I'll probably whip it out again in a monthor so. :)
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Post by Cord Hurn »

I finished this book about a couple of weeks ago, bringing the total number of Stephen R. Donaldson books I have read up to 23. This was the most enjoyable to read of the four Brew mysteries. Brew may be ill at ease on his own without Ginny, but he seems stronger for slowly letting go of his dependency on her and on alcohol. Made it more enjoyable to read, as he seems more focused on his duties, which includes watching for theft at a martial arts convention in the town of Carner. Carner is where he and Ginny have relocated to escape the environs of el Senor, who still wants Brew dead for killing his henchman Muy Estobal. Brew got this job with help from an old friend of Ginny's named Marshal Viviter--though Brew has been a bit feisty with Viviter because he thinks Viviter is Ginny's new lover. The following scene is when potentially valuable artifacts are brought into the convention center of the hotel where Brew's new boss, Bernie Appelwait, runs security. The martial arts convention is being run by the International Association of Martial Arts (IAMA), directed by one Anson Sternway.

One of the suits seemed to be holding court for his assembled vassals. He was Marshal's height, but leaner, and maybe ten years older, judging by the lines of authority on his face and the distinguished mix of grey in his black hair. He seemed perfectly relaxed--he didn't even use his hands when he talked. But something about his carriage reminded me of C-4, passive and malleable until you stuck in a detonator. His pale eyes moved constantly, but without urgency, as if he searched for something that he didn't need to find in a hurry.

Once I'd noticed his resemblance to an explosive, I caught hints of the same thing around him. A fair number of the suits and pajamas stood with a kind of concussive ease, as if behind their calm they were already in motion. Apparently my preconceptions needed adjustment. Joke or not, these men and women took the martial arts seriously enough to spend years training.

Outside this hall, in the world I understood, no one except a predator stood like that.

Despite the arctic conditions, a trickle of sweat slid down the small of my back. Explosives made me nervous. Filling my lungs, I took another crack at relaxation.

The man holding court acknowledged Bernie with a nod as we approached. "Mr. Appelwait. Glad you could join us. We're ready. As soon as Nakahatchi sensei arrives, we can get started."

His voice was flat, studiously devoid of inflection, implying nothing. But the angle of his gaze suggested scorn.

Bernie cleared his throat. "We're ready, too, Mr. Sternway." Making an effort to be polite--in his own way. Then he added, "You wanted to meet the private investigator I hired."

"Yes, certainly," Sternway responded. "We should all meet him. We want to avoid confusion if any problems develop."

He'd hardly said six sentences, but already his lack of expression bothered me. I wanted to poke him in the ribs, just to get a reaction. I didn't like the sensation that he sneered at me simply because I couldn't stand the way he did.

"Good idea." Brusquely, Bernie introduced me.

Sternway and I shook hands. His grip was firm and dry--and oddly threatening, like a fist full of blasting caps. The easy balanced way he reached out and then withdrew made me feel like I'd been put together out of Tinker Toys.

Bernie's voice sharpened sardonically as he went on, "This is Mr. Postal. From Watchdog Insurance. And Ms. Messenger."

Two of the business suits not wearing IAMA patches stepped forward, and the man took my hand. He was short and baby-faced, with the kind of muscles you get when you overcompensate in the gym for the fact that you have to look up at everyone.

"Sammy Posten, Mr. Axbrewder." He had a twerp's voice, no question about it, but until he pronounced his name--Posten--I didn't realize that Bernie had been mocking him. "Watchdog Senior Security Adviser. I hope you're as good as Marshal Viviter says you are. There's a lot at stake here."

I wanted to tell him that Viviter had a wild imagination, but I didn't get the chance.

"Or there will be," the woman at his shoulder put in, "when the chops arrive." Without apparent effort, she displaced him to commandeer my hand. "I'm Deborah Messenger, Mr. Axbrewder."

An isolated part of my brain wondered, Chops? but I ignored it. The radiance of her smile evaporated every other thought in my head.

If only I'd seen her picture, I wouldn't have called her beautiful--or even pretty. But in person none of that mattered. The lines of her sleek black suit, particularly the plunge at her neck and the brevity of her skirt, called attention to the way her body swelled and dwindled in all the right places. And above that her face seemed positively luminescent, with gleaming lips, soft cheeks, auburn hair, and lustrous brown eyes.

Suddenly I didn't feel tired anymore.

Scrambling for any excuse to keep her hand, I asked thickly, "If he's Senior Security Adviser, does that make you Junior?"

She laughed in a low voice, just for me. "No. It makes me a Security Associate."

Her smile resembled a grin of conquest.

Reluctantly I opened my fingers, let her touch trail away. "And just how much is at stake?"

"We aren't sure," she answered, still privately. "Mr. Nakahatchi insured the chops for two hundred thousand dollars, but that's low. The real value may be quite a bit more. This situation came up too suddenly for an adequate appraisal."

In a sports town like Carner, experts on Chinese antiques were probably rare. Still, two hundred thousand bucks sounded like real money to me. Real enough to explain Watchdog's anxiety, anyway.

Slowly normal activity wandered back into my head.

Just in time. Sternway didn't seem to be in the mood for digressions. He took charge again.

"Mr. Viviter did recommend you, however, Mr. Axbrewder. And you've satisfied Mr. Appelwait. Let's continue."

Still in no rush, he introduced me to three business suits with headsets--Parker Neill, Tournament Coordinator, Sue Rasmussen, Master of Ceremonies, Ned Gage, Director of Referees--and a handful of pajamas with impenetrable names like Hideo Komatori, Sifu Hong Fei-Tung, Master Song Duk Soon, and Soke Bob Gravel. Apparently "sifu" and "soke" were titles, like "master" and "sensei". Some of them bowed, others shook my hand, but none of them took any real notice of me. I guess I didn't look dangerous enough.

Where was Ginny when I needed her?

Next Sternway turned to other matters, pulling his court around him. Sammy Posten joined them, although the courtiers ignored him. Deborah Messenger lingered near Bernie and me.

Just having her close made my back teeth hurt, and my palms itched like they were starting to grow fur. But I was supposed to be working, so I tried to stifle my hormones. Instead of drooling on her jacket, I asked Bernie, "What're 'chops'?"

Before he could reply, his walkie-talkie chirped. He took it off his belt, listened, said, "We're on our way," and put it back. "That's what they call the artifacts," he growled under his breath. "Ridiculous name." Then he headed for Sternway's court.

"Mr. Sternway, Mr. Nakahatchi is out in the parking lot."

"Good." Sternway looked at his Tournament Coordinator. "We'll open the doors as soon as the display and security are in place." A small gesture of one hand broke up his meeting.

As if on cue, all the suits except Posten and Bernie's men turned to the head table, along with most of the pajamas. Only Hideo Komatori and Sifu Hong Fei-Tung--one canvas, one silk--joined Sternway's entourage as he drew Bernie with him toward the lobby.

I tagged along, partly because I was pretending to be a dignitary, but mostly because Deborah Messenger did the same.

"A chop, she told me, "is like a small block print." She had a gift for talking to me as if no one else existed. "You ink one side and press it to a piece of paper to print something, usually an Oriental character--an ideogram or kanji. These are carved out of ivory. Instead of traditional characters, they print"--she shrugged delicately--"pictures of martial arts.

"I don't know much about Chinese antiques," she finished, "but the workmanship is exquisite."

I would've asked her more questions, just to keep her talking, but by them we'd reached the doors, and the crowds outside made conversation impossible.

With Bernie clearing the way, Sternway led us through the lobby to the Luxury's formal entrance. Under the portico, we were awaited by a shambling old Dodge station wagon surrounded by white canvas pajamas.

At first glance, I had no idea which of them might be Nakahatchi sensei. They were all men, they all wore black belts, and half of them were Asian. But then Hideo Komatori cleared up the matter by approaching an older man whose belt had been worn almost to tatters and bowing deeply. At once, everyone else bowed back, and the older man murmured, "Hideo-san."

Next Nakahatchi and Sternway bowed to each other. After that, the rest of Nakahatchi's people started unloading a long display case from the Dodge while Bernie positioned his guards and Posten bustled around getting in everyone's way.

Deborah Messenger consulted briefly with Bernie, nodded approval at what he told her, and stepped back to rejoin me.

As the case came into sight, Sifu Hong Fei-Tung made a small hissing noise like a curse.

I studied him as unobtrusively as I could. Apparently he was Chinese--unlike Hideo Komatori and Nakahatchi. And Bernie had already suggested that displaying these chops publicly might have undercurrents I couldn't evaluate. Still, the intensity of the Sifu's reaction surprised me.

His face and eyes and nose, even his mouth, seemed flat, like he ironed them every morning--unmarked by age or pain, although grey spattered his eyebrows and brush-cut hair. And he didn't move a muscle. Nevertheless I could see anger steaming off his whole body. Inside his silk, he remained quiet, untouched. Yet his anger radiated enough heat to fry bacon.

Sternway must've heard him, too. The IAMA director turned a look like a warning on Hong Fei-Tung, threatening as a fuse. His eerie relaxation matched the Sifu's. If anyone lit a match, they were both going to go off.

Nakahatchi gazed into the distance placidly, apparently unaware of his surroundings.

The Sifu didn't back down. In a viscous acidic tone, he pronounced softly, "Forgeries. The true chops are lost."

At that, Nakahatchi's students clenched like they'd been stung. Their sensei may've been oblivious, but they weren't. Without warning, their indignation crowded the portico.

Nakahatchi wasn't oblivious, however. Still placidly, he intervened by turning to Hong Fei-Tung. With his eyes lowered humbly, he gave the Sifu a deep bow.

He might've been forty-five or fifty, short and compact, with sparse hair and a hint of dullness like fatigue or premature aging in his eyes. His features had more definition than Hong's, but they remained distinctly Asian. The only lines in his face were two deep seams on either side of his mouth that looked like trenches in a battlefield, cut to carry out an old war.

"Forgive my presumption, Sifu Hong." His voice was more guttural than Hong's. If he hadn't spoken mildly, the contrast would've made him seem crude, almost brutish. "I cannot aspire to your understanding of these matters. To us the chops are precious, and we revere the wisdom they contain. They have been entrusted to my care. It is my wish to share them as openly as I may, without dishonoring them--or my responsibility for them."

Hong Fei-Tung snorted disdainfully. "They belong to China. They are dishonored in Japanese hands."

That was an insult. It must've been--even I felt it. Ominously the students set their case down and gathered in a clench around their sensei. But Nakahatchi didn't rise to the offense.

"That," he answered quietly, "is a matter which I must respectfully defer to my masters."

"Sifu Hong," Sternway put in, ''we've had these discussions before. They can't be resolved here. Nakahatchi sensei wishes to share the chops in a spirit of martial brotherhood. For the present, that's enough."

When Hong moved, I shifted toward him. If he wanted to start a fight, I meant to stop him.

For the moment, at least, I'd forgotten all about the pain in my stomach.

But Sifu Hong surprised me by aiming an elaborate bow into the air between Sternway and Nakahatchi--a flourish that seemed to involve a couple of steps and several complex arm movements.

"Sternway sensei." His tone hadn't changed. "Nakahatchi sensei. I mean no personal disrespect. These questions will be considered at another time."

No personal disrespect, my ass. If Hong had been any angrier, he would've spit in both their faces.

Nevertheless Sternway and Nakahatchi bowed back like completing an arcane ritual. Giving each other "face", maybe. By degrees Nakahatchi's people relaxed. Talking softly, they went back to their case.

Bernie must've seen me move. He met my gaze and nodded. Apparently he approved.

Sammy Posten looked around in confusion, palpably clueless. Smiling, Deborah Messenger moved away to exchange a few words with Nakahatchi--compliments, I assumed.

Then the case slid the rest of the way out of the Dodge, and I got my first glimpse of the chops.

I couldn't see what the fuss was about. The case was polished black mahogany with a glass lid, and shaped like a coffin for some odd reason, but larger, maybe five feet by eight. It must've held a hundred or more chops--yellowed blocks of ivory nestled in precise rows on a cushion of screaming scarlet brocade. Each one was about as thick as my two thumbs, and intricately carved, but they still conveyed nothing to me. I would've had an easier time placing a value on the elephants that supplied the ivory.

While Nakahatchi's people shouldered the case, Deborah joined me again. Before her smile could send me back into shock, I asked in a whisper, "What the hell was that about?"

"I'm not entirely sure," she admitted. Then she explained, "The question of what they're worth isn't simple. Even a forgery that good could be precious, for the craftsmanship alone. But unfortunately the issue here is more than just the difference between, say, a nineteenth-century knock-off and an eighteenth-century original. The content, the information carved on the chops, also matters. I'm told that the originals reveal something important about the martial arts. Something with authority. If the chops are forgeries, the information isn't authentic.

"In theory, a forgery could have been made anywhere, at any time--and belong to anyone. But if the chops are originals, they're a Chinese national treasure."'

That didn't quite answer my question. I persisted. "But if they're fake, what does it matter who owns them? Why is Hong in such a snit?"

She shrugged. "Who knows?" I loved watching her shrug. "You'll have to ask Mr. Sternway. I don't understand the politics involved."

At last the case was ready to move. Solemn as a cortege, with Sternway and Nakahatchi in the lead, hotel security on both sides, and Bernie bringing up the rear, the display climbed the portico steps. As the lobby doors slid aside, a gust of colder air welcomed the procession into The Luxury Hotel and Convention Center.

Sternway put his hand on my arm and pulled me to his side for a moment. The instant he touched me, my guts remembered the path of Estobal's slug, and I wanted to break Sternway's fingers. But Marshal had advised me to be polite, so I didn't slap the hand away. Instead I matched Sternway's stride.

He didn't glance at me. "If those two decide to go at each other," he warned softly, "don't get in the way. They'll eat you alive."

Oh, really? Two short middle-aged guys in pajamas didn't exactly terrify me. But it probably would've been rude to say so. Obliquely, I remarked, "I've survived worse."

He flicked me with a look that said, No, you haven't, then let me go.

I was starting to enjoy all this respect. If the situation didn't improve soon, I might tell Marshal to go to hell. Resume my normal charming demeanor. Fuck the job.

Right, I snarled back. And then what?

For maybe the third time already, I wasted a breath ordering myself to relax.


Good descriptive writing of tension building up in the story. I'll have more to comment on this book later!


[Edited for typos]
Last edited by Cord Hurn on Sat Mar 28, 2015 12:59 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Post by aliantha »

And of Mick's sardonic point of view, too. :) I forgot that he doesn't know anything about martial arts. I should re-read this one.
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Post by Cord Hurn »

Thanks for your response, aliantha! I think Brew's ignorance and dismissiveness towards the martial arts makes his journey even more poignant and entertaining in this book--it gives him even more to learn! :D
But at times Brew is sarcastic enough about the value of the martial arts, as he is written here, to make SRD put in a disclaimer that he respects the arts and that the opinions voiced are solely the character's opinions. (In other words, Brew really lays his disdain on thick at times.) But I still think that only makes this book more fun!
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Brew's boss Bernie gets killed trying to confront a collector of pickpocketed goods in one of The Luxury hotel's restrooms. Brew feels there's something strange about a thief risking a murder charge to escape. When the martial arts tournament is over, developer Alex Lacone hires Brew to watch over his complex of martial arts schools elsewhere in Carner (Hong's school and Nakahatchi's school reside there) to continue watching over the chops. The investigation of Bernie's death is officially being handled by Detective Edgar Moy, but Brew starts an investigation of his own.
The chops had been in Bernie's car when he was killed. Lacone had mentioned Bernie's name to his business associates. As connections went, those weren't just remote, they were bloody intangible. Which left me pretty much right where I'd started--clueless. If I didn't find something useful at Bernie's apartment, I'd have a hell of a time tracing his killer.

Unless the killer cut his way through more innocent bystanders to reach the chops--A man who didn't mind hacking down a frail old security guard wouldn't stop until he got what he really wanted.

Involuntarily I shuddered, and my guts squirmed. For a moment or two, sweat blurred my vision, despite the Plymouth's AC. If this kept up, I'd find myself in the kind of black funk that positively begged for booze.

Luckily I hadn't missed any turns. By now rush hour had clogged itself down to a thin trickle, but that made spotting street signs easy. Stoplights and hostile drivers clotted my route, but eventually I reached Bernie's neighborhood.

His apartment turned out to be upstairs in a brick four-plex on a block full of identical buildings with narrow strips of lawn like dog runs between them and exactly one unconvincing sycamore in each front yard. Some of the flower beds against the walls showed more care than others, but they all seemed to hold the identical gardenias and peonies. On the inside, Bernie's building sported carpeting Astroturf, designed to hide dirt and stains, and planters occupied by forlorn plastic pam fronds. It was well lit, however, like the rest of Carner, with uncompromising fluorescent bulbs partially humanized by frosted shades.

A staircase took me up to a landing with a numbered steel door on each side. I knocked on Bernie's--just in case the cop, a relative, or some fiduciary friend happened to be there--but there was no answer. When I hadn't heard anything for a minute or so, I jimmied the door and let myself in.

Someone had left a light on in the living room. With my back to the door, I glanced around. The living room ran half the length of the building, but that didn't make it large. And it was crowded with furnishings--a couple of spavined bookcases, an old pre-remote TV, a cracked Naugahyde recliner, a couch with defeated springs, a sturdy little workbench littered with tools and glue, and four assorted end tables, all set around an ersatz Oriental rug. The whole space including the rug looked neglected, abandoned to depression and dust--with the exception of the framed photographs on the walls, and the wine bottles and jugs of various sizes carefully positioned on their sides in delicate stands on every available surface.

Bottles and jugs with wooden sailing ships inside them. I counted eighteen.

The photographs were all of the same woman, middle-aged, tending to fat, with nondescript hair, a wide forehead, small brown eyes too far apart--and a smile so utterly and entirely seraphic that it wrung my heart. It beamed like a blessing out of every frame, warming everything she saw.

I knew intuitively who she was, without a scrap of actual identification. Bernie's wife. Dead for a number of years now, if the condition of the rug were any indication.

Every day he'd worked his twelve-hour shift at The Luxury. And every night he'd taken refuge here under her loving gaze, meticulously building ships in bottles because she was gone and he was alone.

I found more in the kitchen, some jaunty, others trudging against forgotten winds. And more in the bedroom. Even in the bathroom. Ships in bottles and pictures of his wife were the only decorations he'd cared to have around him.

I had a lump in my throat I couldn't swallow as I started searching his apartment.

If the cops had been here ahead of me, they were neat as hell about it. I didn't find any disturbed dust to indicate that some thing had been moved, any of the usual scrap of police investigations in the wastebaskets. Which meant that whoever had the job of putting Bernie's "affairs" in order and disposing of his "effects" hadn't been here yet. Maybe he'd died intestate, so uncared-for that the residue of his life would just sit here until his landlord evicted it.

In the end, I didn't have to do much searching. I found everything that interested me, including his address book, neatly organized in a filing cabinet in one of the bedroom closets. Everything except a will. But that didn't mean much. The cops might've taken it to deliver to some lawyer or agency.

Assuming the cops had been here, they must've copied what they wanted out of his address book. That made my job easier, but I still didn't like it. It suggested that Edgar Moy wasn't taking this investigation very seriously.

A quick scan of Bernie's financial records didn't supply any surprises. I was no CPA, but the numbers looked about right for a man who'd worked steadily and spent very little--no unexplained infusions of cash, no unidentified expenditures. Rent aside, his biggest monthly expense was payment to a nursing home.The address book made my eyes ache when I looked at it. It was relatively empty compared to others I'd seen, and every blank space seemed to describe a life of emotional poverty. It gave me the number for the nursing home, however, along with a collection of other numbers, some self-explanatory, others just labeled with the names of people I didn't know.

My stomach complained to remind me that I hadn't eaten for a while, but I figured its objections were mostly an excuse to stop what I was doing, so I ignored it. Feeling like an intruder, I helped myself to a tall glass from one of the kitchen cabinets and filled it with water. Then I sat down on the couch--the recliner was so obviously his that I didn't want to violate it--and started to make phone calls.

Talking to the nursing home turned out to be the worst of the lot. Bernie's sister, Maureen Appelwait, lived there, alone in the world except for her link with her brother, supported by him while she drifted in and out of Alzheimer's, and no one had told her that he was dead. I caught her between lucidity and confusion, apparently, trying to go in both directions at once, and my news didn't help. She cried some, forgot what I'd told her a few times, demanded details I loathed giving her. But in the gaps she revealed a little bit about his life.

He was her only brother. They had a sister, Florence, who's passed away five years ago--or was it three? Eight? One night while she slept her heart had simply stopped. His wife, Alyse--Maureen spelled and pronounced it for me, "ah-LEASE"--died fifteen years ago, killed by a misdiagnosed kidney cancer. He was devastated, just devastated. The three women had been such friends, Florence and Maureen never married, Alyse couldn't have children, they and poor Bernie had given each other the only family they had, and what was the name of that nice doctor who told her she was doing fine, just fine? Was it yesterday? Or maybe when she moved into the nursing home?

I listened to her for half an hour. Not once did she ask what would happen to her without Bernie to pay the bills. If she had, I couldn't have answered.

After I hung up, I gulped down the glass of water. Then I got off the couch, located Bernie's vacuum cleaner--a wheezy upright nearly as old as I was--and cleaned the hell out of the rug. I didn't stop until I could push a damp finger down into the nap and not pick up anything.

By then evening had become full dark outside. Night stained the windows black, and shadows leaked in past the shades, or under the front door, until they filled the apartment, crowding it with questions. Trying to keep Bernie's loneliness at bay, I switched on more lights and went back to work.

Fortunately the rest of my calls were easier. There were a few that I wanted to postpone because I had no legal standing--a law office, a bank, an insurance agency, The Luxury's day-shift manager. For a wonder, I managed to catch most of the others at home. The majority worked for The Luxury, primarily on Bernie's shift. Two were neighbors. The ones left over turned out to be either acquaintances of Bernie's--the kind of acquaintances you share a beer with occasionally and don't tell anything personal--or friends of Alyse's.

One way or another, they all told the same story. Bernie Appelwait was exactly what he looked like, an aging security guard grown isolated and short-tempered since the death of his dear wife. He could've retired a while back, rested on his pension, but he wanted to keep busy. Since he did good work, The Luxury let him stay.

Alyse's friends made tsk-ing sounds, emitted little gusts of sympathy and sadness, but they didn't have anything new to add. And what you might loosely call Bernie's drinking buddies contributed even less. Mostly they were just surprised to hear that it was possible for a hotel security guard to get killed on the job.

After a couple of hours continuously on the phone, I'd learned nothing that helped me do anything except fume. The picture emerging under Alyse's poignant gaze was pretty much the one I'd expected--and dreaded.

Bernie hadn't been killed because he was Bernie Appelwait. Or even because he was The Luxury's Chief of Security. He'd been killed because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

To that extent, it was a senseless crime. And senseless crimes were always the hardest to solve. Always. They lacked the motivation that linked killer and victim in simpler murders. Like a drive-by shooting, they revealed a great deal about the killer, and very little about the victim.

Typically killers like that escaped clean unless they left an eyewitness or some definitive circumstantial evidence behind.

Nevertheless I was sure that Bernie's death could be explained. My nerves insisted on it, and I believed them.

He'd died because he could identify his killer. And, somehow, because of the chops.

On that happy note, I probably should've relocked the apartment and driven away. Found myself something to eat on the off chance that raising my blood sugar would lift my mood. But the sheer effort which Bernie had put into his ship building seemed to require more of me. And from her pictures Alyse smiled glowingly, like a woman sure in her heart that I wouldn't let her down.
Yes, good Kevin's Watch readers, that is a rather sad passage to quote. :sob: But I like the metaphor of the shadows crowding with questions. I like the backstory that makes Bernie so much more real. I like the explanation for why Bernie's case would have extra incentive for Brew to solve it: incentive beyond personal feeling, incentive born of a desire to solve a traditionally tough kind of murder case. And I like the unexpected inspiration for Brew to succeed coming from Alyse's smile and from evidence of Bernie's care and effort.
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Brew isn't really fighting all alone in this story; it just feels that way to him. Ginny shows up in the story now and again (when I least expected it), and at one point gives a valuable suggestion. Following that suggestion, Brew defuses tensions between Nakahatch's Shotokan and Hong's Wing Chun schools by inviting Hong to examine the chops. This works because it allows Nakahatchi and Hong to meet and take tea, allowing Nakahatchi to honor Hong and allow both sides to save "face". After this, Brew has a phone conversation with someone he knows is setting him up for trouble between the schools, and comes back to the complex in a sour mood. He's already having problems because this troublemaker has so stirred opinion that another school in the complex, headed by Master Soon, has already challenged him to a fight based on hearsay against Brew. So Brew is not in a pleased mood when Nakahatchi's pupil Hideo Komatori comes to tell him that Nakahatchi would like him to go up into an exercise room (dojo) to "evaluate his character". Feeling he really hasn't time for this, Brew ascends some stairs and walks through a library before seeing the sword-decorated shrine of the dojo.

Sihan Nakahatchi knelt there. He'd replaced his elaborate tea-ceremony garb with a white gi cinched by a black belt so worn that it'd frayed white. He kneel the way Catholics in Puerta del Sol did, straight up from the knees. Instead he'd lowered himself onto his heels with his feet extended under him. A small curl of incense rose past his swords and his bowed head. The air held a faint tinge of sandalwood, so delicate that I almost missed it.

Since I didn't know what else to do, I stayed where I was, watching him from the entryway. But then I caught an ambiguous flash of intuition. Before I could question it, I bent down to take off my shoes. Leaving them in the library, I stepped onto the hardwood in my socks.

That may've been a signal of some kind. Or a clue. At once Nakahatchi lifted from his knees as lightly as smoke and turned toward me. Like he'd been watching to see how I entered the dojo.

He bowed in my direction, hands at his sides. When I'd bowed back, he beckoned me to join him in the middle of the room.

Up close he looked a bit less sorrowful than he had earlier, and his eyes were brighter, as if someone had rubbed a layer of tarnish off his gaze. I couldn't imagine that he felt better knowing his insurance rates were about to erupt like Krakatoa. Something else must've happened to ease his settled distress, reduce the rub of a worry that had galled him for a long time.

"Mr. Axbrewder." The lines at the corner of his mouth deepened--he almost smiled. "Your presence in my small dojo pleases me. I am much in your debt. Your invitation to Sifu Hong has lifted a burden from my spirit."

I was tempted to shuffle my feet and mumble, Aw, shucks. A side effect of being so pissed off, I suppose. The anger blowing through my head urged me to insult his thanks by mocking it.

Instead, I muttered, "Just doing my job. We'll all be better off with a little less tension around here."

He didn't reply to that. "I have observed your actions with interest, Mr. Axbrewder," he went on as if I hadn't spoken. "Now I wish to teach you. You will spar with me, please."
I gaped at him--I couldn't help it. Spar with him? He wasn't serious. He may've been a great martial artist, but this was ridiculous. For one thing, he was hardly two thirds my size. If I sat on him, he'd never get up again. And for another, he had more than a decade on me. Occasionally his air of unrelieved mourning made me feel almost young.

And I'd just backed down from a fight at Soon's school, despite a hell of a lot more provocation.

"Sensei--" I groped for a response. "You flatter me." Or maybe he insulted me. I wasn't sure there was any difference. "They asked if I wanted to study with them. At Sifu Hong's school. Yesterday." I must've sounded like an idiot. "I turned them down. I've got a job to do. I don't have time to study a martial art."

Nakahatchi dismissed all that. It seemed to run off him like water. ["i]Sifu[/i] Hong is a great master," he stated as if that answered my objections. "But Wing Chun is not for you. For you, Shotokan is best."

"Well, now," I replied, procrastinating shamelessly, "I'm not sure about that." I needed time to think. "What I've seen of Wing Chun looks pretty impressive. And--"

You're too short. You're too old.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek to make myself shut up.

"Much of Wing Chun is oblique," he said. Explaining something he thought I needed to understand. "Its purposes are likewise oblique. Shotokan is direct. For you, to be direct is necessary."

As if I needed the benefit of his wisdom on that point.

Exasperated now, and too angry to be polite about it, I countered, "Listen to me, Mr.--"

With no warning at all--no flick o his eye, no catch in his breathing, no hint of intensification--he stepped toward me.

The room whirled, and I found myself on my hands and knees. The hardwood in front of my face had a long grain like flowing veins. It seemed full of remembered sunlight, too warm for ordinary wood. The lines between the boards looked deep enough to reach the center of the world, the center of reality. Shock paralyzed my solar plexus. That's how I knew he'd hit me. I certainly hadn't picked up any other clues. Until the room stopped moving I couldn't imagine how he's swept me off my feet.

When I finally raised my head, I saw him standing several feet away--far enough for safety, too far to threaten me. if I wanted to get up.

The paralysis in my chest eased. My lungs sucked small gusts of air. A distant roar in my ears sounded like advancing rage, a tornado gathering its forces on the horizon.

Unsteadily I pushed my legs under me and stood up.

Trembling, I went back to the place where I'd left my shoes, emptied my pants pockets into the pockets of my jacket, did the same with pens and notes from my shirt pocket, then pulled my jacket off and dropped it beside my shoes. I undid the straps of my shoulder holster, set the .45 on top of my jacket. Despite the way my knees shook, I crouched down to strip off my socks.

Ginny'd have my hide for this. If we were still partners.

If I still cared.

The roaring grew louder. It filled my head. Anything that might've objected to what I was doing couldn't make itself heard. I'd already had all the cowardice I could bear. While that wind tore through the room nothing else mattered.

Deliberately I walked back into the center of the dojo. The center of the world. Toward Nakahatchi.

Evaluate my character? Mine? I wasn't the one who wanted to steal those chops. I hadn't killed Bernie.

Tremors mounted through me, hints of crisis.

He stood ready for me, waiting. This time he assumed what he seemed to consider a sparring stance, left foot forward, left hand open near the level of his chin, right fist relaxed on his hip. Somehow he conveyed the impression that he floated a fraction of an inch off the hardwood, impervious to such mundane concerns as gravity and mass.

Well, fine. Just stand there. If he wanted direct, I'd show him direct.

Timing it in stride, riding the storm, I wheeled a punch at his head hard enough to stagger a lamp post.

Except that my bicep found the point of his elbow before my fist reached his head. A shredding pain like the path of a bullet ripped at my arm while Nakahatchi cross-stepped past me. His right hand touched my groin. I felt his fingers skim my crotch before they reached the underside of my thigh, but I couldn't do anything about it, it was happening too fast, lightning strikes of pain had burned their way through the gale inside my head, when he pinched the nerve center of my hamstring a cattle prod went off in my thigh, and all my muscles spasmed, flinging me backward across his hip. If he hadn't caught me at the last second, slowed my fall, I would've landed like a load of cinder blocks.

A warning. Komatori had warned me. Nakahatchi had just warned me twice. Evaluate my character. My damaged bicep wailed along the wind. The back of my thigh felt like the kiss of a high-tension line.

Rolling through the rest of the fall, I staggered upright. For some peculiar reason, my chest strained for air as if I'd just run the mile. Nakahatchi seemed to stand at a slight angle. Or, no, it was the floor tilting--

Hell, even Parker Neill had warned me Sternway had practically jumped up and down on my head about it.

Barely audible through the howl in my ears, Nakahatchi announced, "It was written by Gichin Funakoshi sensei, 'If your hand goes forth, withhold your anger. If your anger goes forth, withhold your hand.'"

All right. If that's the way he wanted to play. I'd show him what "goes forth" really meant.
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Somehow while reading this, it felt like I just knew that Brew is going to have his thinking adjusted by Nakahatchi, so that made it amusing to read Brew talking about how he's going to show a martial arts master what matters in fighting. Brew has been fighting his own way for so long that he's close to being convinced that only being bigger or having a gun is what matters (of course those things count, but they don't always decide things). In a way, Brew still sees the martial arts as a ceremonial pretense of fighting. Boy, is he about to find out differently! :P
I went at him again, exactly the same as before. If you didn't count the weakness in one arm, or the involuntary hitch in my opposite leg. Or the fact that I couldn't tell the difference between rage and pain. This time, however, I didn't try to punch him. Instead I swung up a kick from the pit of my stomach, aiming to punt the little shit out of the stadium.

He slid aside effortlessly. I missed so hard that I would've smashed down onto my back if my pinched leg hadn't collapsed under, me, pitching me forward.

Somehow I caught myself on my arms. The jolt rocked through me hard. If I'd stopped to notice, I might've realized that I'd dislocated a shoulder or two, or maybe a kneecap. But I didn't, and apparently I hadn't. The slam of the impact and the wind seemed to bounce me back onto my feet, and I could still stay there, so in some sense I must've been OK.

Nakahatchi had resumed his floating stance, one hand raised and ready. I could barely breathe, but he didn't show any sign of strain--or even exertion.

That was about to change. I'd already suffered enough beatings to last me forever. But I'd also delivered a fair number of them. There were still thugs in Puerta del Sol--enforcers, extortion muscle, bodyguards, and such--who couldn't look at me without flinching. And I hadn't let a little thing like a bullet through my guts stop me from putting Muy Estobal out of everyone's misery.

Evaluate my character, fuck.

Ignoring my sore bicep and hamstrung thigh, my bruised knees and shocked shoulders and stunned respiration, I attacked again.

More cautiously this time. More slowly. And straighter. I didn't try to swing a roundhouse, or bring up a kick. That sure as hell hadn't worked. Instead I concentrated on jabs. And careful footwork, so that he couldn't turn my momentum against me. Jab jab jab. A quick step in. Jab cross jab. Another step.

Also I kept my eyes on his, studying them for hints. He'd counterattack soon. When he did, I wanted to see it coming.

He didn't meet my stare. Instead he kept his gaze focused on the middle of my abdomen. For the first few flurries, he seemed content to black and retreat, block and retreat. His blocks were so effortless, so nearly gentle, that I couldn't figure out why I hadn't hit him yet. No matter how hard I punched, he merely patted my fist or my forearm with one hand or the other and stepped back. None of my blows reached him.

Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker's man.

Jab jab. Jabjabjab. I could not get inside his defenses.

Nevertheless I didn't consider surrender. My inner tornado consumed me. That blast demanded release. Clearly I wouldn't get a real chance to hit him until he stopped retreating, so I used my attacks to steer him toward one of the walls.

If he couldn't back up, I'd connect sooner or later. Or come close enough to get my hands on him. Then I'd have him. Hell, all I had to do was fall on the sonofabitch--

That might've worked, but he didn't stand still for it. Just when I thought I'd trapped him, and my desire to finally land a punch had become fire in my veins, he turned one of his patty-cake blocks into a sweep and stepped aside.

Behind me.

Inspired by pain and gales, I wheeled in the opposite direction, all the way around, and lunged after him.

He must've sensed what I was about to do, felt it before I moved. By the time I dove at him, he'd already retreated two steps, three--

--out of reach.

Almost out of reach.
NOW I'm going to teach him a lesson or two, thinks reliably cynical Mr. Ax-Brew. But right here and now, he hasn't a clue. 8O
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By stretching out headlong, and making no effort to keep my feet under me, I managed to grab the hem of his gi just above his sternum before the rest of me dropped to my knees.

Now, I thought through the roar, now he was mine. From here on it was just muscle, and he didn't stand a chance. If he believed that he could force me to let go by simply hitting me, he was about to learn an important lesson.

Only I was wrong. Again. He didn't hit me. While I scrambled to gain my feet, straining for leverage so that I could use my bulk, he calmly set the ball of his thumb into the hollow where my collarbones met. And pushed.

His thumb dug in. Damn, it dug in. He was going to strangle me. Crush my trachea. Already I couldn't breathe. Or see. Blackness stormed through my head, effacing everything else.

And it hurt. The nerve center in the supersternal notch has links throughout the torso. My brother taught me that, Rick Axbrewder, Richard, he'd learned it while he was with the Special Forces. The brother I'd shot to death in drunken negligence.

With my free hand, I hacked at Nakahatchi's arm. He stopped me somehow. Suffocating around the pressure of his thumb, I hardly registered other sensations. Had he taken hold of one of my fingers? Was he bending it backward? Did the agony of it pull me harder onto his thumb?

I clung to his gi anyway. Fuck him. In fact, fuck him with a crowbar. He couldn't make me let go. No t just by hurting me. Not me. I knew things about pain that would make him howl at the moon if I happened to mention them.

He made me let go.

An autonomic desperation compelled me. Just when I'd decided to hang on until he killed me or lost his nerve, I snapped. Releasing my hold, I wrenched sideway to twist my throat off his thumb, then frantically heaved myself upward, up and forward, over his tearing grasp on my finger.
His finger lock helped me go. My legs pitched at the ceiling, and I plunged face first at the floor.

Broke my neck, crushed two or three vertebrae, severed my spinal cord. Or would have, if he hadn't caught me again. Anchoring me in the air until my legs finished their arc, he lowered my shoulders to the hardwood. Actually lowered them. Only my heels landed hard.

If I were lucky, I thought, stupid with shock, I'd shattered bones, and I'd never walk again. Then I wouldn't have to go on humiliating myself like this.

But I didn't stop. After a couple of seconds--or a couple of minutes--I rolled onto my side, then over to my chest. Pulled my knees under me.

Gasping for breath, I shifted my weight back onto my feet.

The pain made me gasp. My heels felt like they'd been hacked apart. Serrated agony sliced all along my nerves into my brain. Nevertheless I could stand. My feet held me.

Nothing else did. The windows and the floor and Nakahatchi all existed in dimensions of their own, drifting on trajectories that made no sense in relation to each other. Air shuddered in and out of my lungs, but it didn't help. There wasn't enough oxygen in all the world to turn me back into the man I was.

Somehow I didn't fall over.

While the room went off in all directions like hurled water, something in my head found its center. A place where no wind blew. An imponderable stillness cupped the dojo, humbling me when I didn't know how to humble myself.

Soon I could hear again. First the declining racket of my heart, the edged urgency of my breathing. Then the ambiance of the room, the shrouded complaint of traffic outside, the small splash of sweat dripping from my face to the hardwood. The faint deified susurrus as Nakahatchi shifted his feet.

Well, hell. Maybe he didn't actually float after all.

My face felt strange. For a few moments I couldn't figure out why. Then I realized that I was grinning. I couldn't help it.

My list of hurts was too long to count, so I didn't bother. Instead I dragged my fists up in front of me, flexed my knees a bit, and took two or three fractured steps forward. When I was close enough to talk without raising my voice, I panted hoarsely, "You said you wanted to teach me. I'm ready to learn now."

I went on grinning.

For all I knew, grinning at your instructor was an insult. But he didn't look offended. And his didn't resume his fighting stance. With his hands at his sides, he bowed deeply. Then he announced, "We are done, Axbrewder-san. We will spar no more today."

"No, please." Straightening my legs, mainly because I didn't have the strength to keep them flexed, I opened my hands like an appeal. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get in the right frame of mind. I wasn't angry at you. I just needed a target. But I'm ready now."

I'd never been more sincere in my life. Whatever his secret was, I needed it. Badly.

"No." He shook his head gravely.
I honor your courage. And I will teach you. But first you must learn this. Pain is a means to an end, but it must never become the end. Today you believe you are ready because your pain has become greater than your anger, yet you are not defeated by it. That is important, Axbrewder-san. It is necessary. But you will not be ready indeed until your pain has become separate from your anger."

Again he bowed.

This time I did the same. I didn't think I had much choice. And he'd called me "Axbrewder-san". That counted for something.

Now he smiled. For a moment the old sorrow on his face lost its immediacy. "I will leave you," he said quietly. "You may remain or depart, as you wish. Return tomorrow at the same time."

With the kind of dignity you can only get from real mastery, he walked to the edge of the floor, bowed to the dojo and his shrine, then crossed the library and disappeared down the stairs.

Apparently he trusted me alone in his sanctum.

Separate from your anger.

I almost understood him.

I was at first frustrated that Nakahatchi wanted Brew to spar with him. For one thing, it seems an illogical way to repay a favor. And for another, when you consider Brew's recovering from being beaten the previous night and has Deborah Messenger wanting him to be energetic for their hot date the coming night, this all smacks of lousy timing on sensei Nakahatchi's part. For a third thing, Brew has lots, lots more things to worry about at this point in the story without going out of his way to collect more injuries.

But this is all cool, it turns out, because Brew gains a discipline here that allows him to persevere in his pursuit of justice. I felt this turned out nicely, in the way that it proved to be useful. I'll try to say no more about that, because I don't want to use spoiler tagging if it's not absolutely necessary. 8)

[Edited for typo corrections]
Last edited by Cord Hurn on Mon Apr 13, 2015 11:36 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Post by Cord Hurn »

Speaking of the end, without giving away how the mystery turned out, I want to comment on the understanding Ginny and Brew reach, by saying it's a great healing moment. Here Brew is once again warming a hospital bed after the action's over.
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.[...]

"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 as a lover. Then I lost you as a partner. It never occurred to me that I hadn't lost you as a friend."
Having followed these two characters through the course of four books I've just read consecutively, I'm finding this emotionally profound, in a satisfying way. And it's so great that not only is the air cleared at last between Ginny and Brew, but Brew also learns to forgive himself for his brother's death, with Ginny's encouragement. Brew's character tastes redemption at last. If SRD doesn't wish to write further Man Who books, this would be a fine stopping point for the character. (On the other hand, a Brew liberated from his self-judgments might turn out to be an incredibly dynamic protagonist for another mystery book.)

As I've said, this is the best in the series! :beer:
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Post by Cord Hurn »

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.

A heartwarming way to wrap it up, and I never saw it coming. Very nice. :mrgreen:
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Post by Iolanthe »

What a coincidence Cord Hurn. I also just finished reading the Man Who books for the 2nd time. I do really like these. I'm not particularly interested in martial arts, but somehow SRD still made me want to read all those details. I do wish he would write a 5th. And I even managed to put up with all the swearing. :twisted:
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Post by Cord Hurn »

Thank you for your reply, Iolanthe! I agree that the Man Who books are worth reading, though at first I had to emotionally adjust to the idea that this is Donaldson writing entirely in a "real world" setting, and the more-frequent cursing was something I had to get used to, as well. I agree the The Man Who Fought Alone made the martial arts more interesting to me, though I haven't followed it much at all in real life. But here it seemed to really add spice to the story!

(And yes, I think I would really enjoy a fifth Man Who book.) :thumbsup:
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Post by Dragonlily »

Cord, thank you for all the long quotes. I enjoyed rereading them.
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