Lacking any better ideas, I went back to the dais and concentrated on well, on concentrating.

By degrees the rhythms of the tournament had become easier to read. The competition was continuous, but individual rings conducted events at their own pace. From my elevated perspective, the mass of karate-ka and spectators seemed to seethe from place to place as the rings filled and emptied. The ranks of trophies shrank slowly, but the great majority of them, including all the biggest ones, remained where they stood. Fresh as flowers in dew, Sue Rasmussen worked her microphone with relentless enthusiasm. The chops attracted a certain amount of desultory activity, but it didn't amount to much. Masters like Nakahatchi, Hong, Soon, and Gravel counseled or ignored their students.

Others emulated Nelson Brick's style of exhortation.

Anson Sternway wandered around the hall like a man with nothing to do, disappearing and reappearing on a schedule all his own, while Parker and Ned smothered disturbances. Some of the time, Sammy Posten shadowed the IAMA Director, but mostly he watched over the chops with an air of ineffectual vigilance. Apparently Alex Lacone had left the hotel. He must've heard the call of money somewhere else.

Gradually I began to see the tournament as something almost physiological, a form of life. I didn't understand it, but I could feel its pulse and respiration, sense its muscles gather and release.

If trouble developed, I'd know it.

And somehow the AC held its own against the heat. That helped.

Deborah Messenger had said 6:30, so I didn't start watching the doors until 5:15. And I didn't actually hold my breath until a little before six. By the time she arrived, I was so focused that I spotted her immediately.

As soon as she caught sight of me, she waved. In a fog of enchantment, as it were, I evaporated from the dais and condensed beside her.

"Mr. Axbrewder." She welcomed me with a smile.

"I hope this means we're still on for dinner."

Pretending composure, I replied, "Not unless you stop calling me Mr.

Axbrewder." Had I said that before? I couldn't remember.

"Makes me sound like your uncle. I prefer Brew."

"So do I," she admitted. Mock-sternly, she added, "And don't let me catch you calling me Ms. Messenger. At least not to my face. Deb is much better."

I made a show of trying it out.

"Deb? Deb?" Then I shook my head.

"I'm sorry. I need more syllables. Deb is too diminutive." As far as I was concerned, she didn't have a diminutive bone in her body.

"Might as well be an acronym. Would you mind Deborah?"

She laughed.

"An acronym? For what?"

I shrugged with pleasure.

"Who knows?

"Daughter of an Emasculated Bastard'? I've never met your father.

"Dreary Eternal Boredom'? No, that doesn't fit.

"Designed by the Eugenics Board'? Now there's a possibility."

"Enough!" Laughing harder, she waved her hands to stop me.

"If you keep this up, I'll lose my professional credibility. Nobody buys insurance from a woman who laughs too much.

"Come on." She gestured me toward the door.

"If you insist on charming me off my feet, at least do it in the coffee shop so I can hear you better."

Charming her? Me? I wanted to look around, see who she meant. But I wasn't buying insurance from her. I was buying risk.

"Lead on," I told her gallantly.

"I'll join you as soon as I tell Mr. Appelwait where I'm going."

She already knew that I worked for The Luxury.

Smiling over her shoulder, she moved to the doors. I took about two seconds to catch Bernie's eye and signal my intentions. Then I rejoined her so fast you'd have thought I was pouncing. Unsteadily I accompanied her to the coffee shop.

The place was still generic, but she made it look tawdry as well. The plastic flowers brandished their artificiality over wilted tablecloths, spotted tumblers, stained flatware, and a ratty carpet bestrewn, as you might say, with crumbs. The neat freak inside me squirmed. I wanted to leave the hotel, go somewhere nicer, but I couldn't afford to stay away from my job that long.

Manfully I set my distaste aside.

Her shining eyes and warm smile made it easy. Under her influence, I forgot all about cleanliness.

For a while I was so befuddled by hormones and longing that I hardly noticed what we did. We must've ordered some food, because eventually we ate something. And she must've asked me a lot of questions, because otherwise why was I talking so much? But none of it caught my attention. Fog filled my head. What was she doing here? That's what I wanted to know an alcoholic's question. What did she have to gain?

We'd been there for half an hour before I achieved the surprising realization that my fist was wrapped around a cup of coffee while she drank red wine. Alcohol usually shouts at me as soon as it enters the room. The fact that I hadn't actually noticed its presence for so long hit me hard enough to shake my brain out of its trance.

She'd been quizzing me about my background. How had I become a private investigator? Why was I in a temporary job like tournament security?

Did I enjoy it? What sort of work did I do best? If her manner hadn't been so personal, she could've been conducting an interview.

But one of her questions was, "Are you involved with anyone, Brew?"

Apparently this wasn't a job interview.

That sharpened my attention in a hurry.

"I guess it depends on what you mean by 'involved." I had a partner for years. And we were definitely involved. But that's changed. We became" I shrugged awkwardly "less involved a while ago. And just recently she stopped calling me her partner. I still haven't figured out where I stand with that."

Her lips seemed to moisten themselves.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really." That was honest, anyway.

"I'd much rather find out whether you're involved with anyone."

She gave me a glistening smile.

"Let me think. I had dinner with Sammy once, about a year ago. And Alex you've met Alex

Lacone, haven't you? he propositions me whenever we have a minute alone. Does that count?"