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 non representational 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.