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 over-compensate 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 I'd only 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. Nakahat-chi 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 Garner, 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 Rasmus-sen, Master of Ceremonies, Ned Gage, Director of Referees and a handful of pajamas with impenetrable names like Hideo Ko-ma tori Sifu Hong Fei-Tung, Master Song Duk Soon, and Sake 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 then 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 one 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-sem."

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 stetmed back to reioin 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."