"OK, Brew. I'm Parker. Us functionaries don't stand on ceremony here."

The implication being, of course, that under other circumstances he would've expected more formality.

I plunged in before he could wander away.

"Parker, I've never been to one of these before. I don't really know what to expect."

"Oh, it's pretty simple" he could answer without thinking about it "once you get used to the noise, and the crowding, and the people who block the aisles. The audience is supposed to stay on the bleachers, but we'll spend the whole weekend asking them to leave the tournament floor.

"Events are held in the rings. For kata and kobudo, the judges sit in those chairs." He gestured at the folding chairs at the edge of each ring.

"There are score-keepers. Time-keepers and referees for kumite and katame. Sue announces the events and the winners from the head table.

For the lesser events, we award the trophies right away. The rest we give out Sunday night.

"That area" he pointed at the roped-off space opposite Essential Shotokan's display "is like an 'on-deck circle." Competitors go there before their events to get instructions, have their gear inspected, and do last-minute warmups."

He smiled humorlessly.

"We always run late. But it all gets done eventually."

There were probably fifty questions I could've asked while I had the chance. But I wanted to understand the answers, so I kept it practical.

"Where do the competitors warm up when it isn't the last minute?"

Still on auto-pilot, Neill told me, "They're supposed to find space outside the aisles. Some go out to the lobby which the hotel doesn't like. And a fair number use the corridor outside."

He nodded at the service doors.

"Usually they don't get lost."

That would complicate security, but it wasn't my job to say so. Bernie and The Luxury presumably had an understanding with the IAMA.

Just to keep Parker talking while I thought, I commented, "You must need a hell of a lot of judges. Where do you get them?"

Maybe all his smiles were humorless.

"That's the price black belts pay for their rank." Or maybe he really was bored, despite his responsibilities.

"If they want to compete, or watch their students compete, we expect them to do it. But even they aren't enough. For the kids' events, we use brown belts when we have to."

At least they didn't dragoon spectators. That was a comfort.

"I guess you've done this before," I offered, hoping to touch something a bit more personal. But he just nodded. The marginal attention he'd allowed me began to drift away. It seemed that no one here could think of a reason to take me seriously.

I made one more attempt.

"Forgive my ignorance. I don't mean to sound rude. But I can't help wondering what makes Mr. Sternway so important? Where does he stand in the martial arts world?"

What did he have that made him a match for Nakahatchi and Hong?

Parker Neill turned to look at me.

"Depends on how you approach it," he explained without much interest.

"The IAMA was his idea. A resource for individual schools and karate-ka. It provides access to insurance, advice, advertising, tournaments, seminars. He started it, and he runs it.

"But it wouldn't work if he couldn't command respect. There are hundreds of styles and thousands of schools, and they tend to be pretty self-involved. They're 'true believers," they all think they own a truth no one else understands. If an ordinary businessman tried to launch an organization like the IAMA, he'd be laughed out of town."

Parker's attention wandered again, but he kept on talking.

"Sternway sensei is an eighth-dan in Shorin-Ryu. They don't go any higher than tenth. In fact, he's my sensei. And Sue's." He nodded toward the Director of Referees at the head table.

"An-son Sternway Shorin-Ryu Bushido is one of the biggest schools in

Garner. He proved himself all around the martial arts world for a couple of decades before starting the IAMA. And he's friends with people like Bill Wallace and Fumio Demura.

"The IAMA couldn't exist if Sternway sensei weren't so highly regarded."

I got the picture. I couldn't help noticing, however, that Parker sounded just as bored talking about his sensei as he did explaining the tournament. Sternway may've been the god of Shorin-Ryu whatever that was but he didn't inspire enthusiasm in his Tournament Coordinator.

Maybe, I thought sourly, Parker had been worn down by Stern-way's air of superiority.

Some of the IAMA blazers now moved toward the doors. Presumably they were about to let the hordes in. Neill had work to do, so I let him go.

As far as I knew, Alex Lacone wasn't here.

He was my only hope for another job after this weekend.

Six.

The minute the doors opened, noise poured into the hall. Men, women, and children in pajamas and warmup suits, all jabbering at once, mobbed the IAMA blazers at the registration table while the first influx of spectators tried to choose seats without knowing where the events they were interested in would be held. Before I could decide on a vantage point, the whole space had begun to rumble with tension, expectancy, hopes, stifled fears. The ceiling seemed to settle a few inches, clamping down like the lid of a pressure cooker.

As far as I could tell, no one paid any attention to the display of martial arts antiques.

For the moment, at least, I didn't have anything particular to do. The hall was too self-absorbed to need protection. Even a thief whacked out on crack or angel dust would probably know better than to start poking around until people settled into the tournament and got careless. Assuming Bernie's men would even let someone enter in that condition.

So I concentrated on trying to acclimatize myself. Tune my nerves to the pitch of the noise and the press of the crowd, the clamor of hormones and anticipation. The more familiar I became with it all, the better my chances of spotting trouble.

In my present frame of mind, I had a long way to go. Ginny's absence ached in me like the loss of a limb.

Virtuously practicing my ability to pick details out of the human in-rush, I scanned the hall until I spotted Watchdog's Security Associate, Deborah Messenger. She was talking with Sammy Posten across the rings from me, near the head table and the display although from this distance it looked like he did all the talking, gesturing erratically while he worked himself into a lather over something or other. She listened the way you listen to your commanding officer when you know he's crazy and you plan to disregard his orders as soon as he turns his back.

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-fea"? changed their clothes and stretched.