"It won't happen again."

Unless the chops disappeared. Then I wouldn't give a shit about Watchdog's professional confidentiality.

For a few minutes, we lapsed into ordinary conversation. What did I think of the tournament? Did she enjoy it? How much did I know about the martial arts? Had she ever studied one? But we were just postponing the real issue. I couldn't mistake the undercurrent of intensity in her voice or my own plain yearning.

Finally she leaned forward and took hold of my hand. Her fingers felt cool and enticing on my overheated skin.

"Brew," she breathed quietly, "there's a reason I asked if you're involved with anyone. I think you know what it is. I'd like you to spend the night with me. I don't know you very well, but so far I really like you. And I'm feeling enough chemistry to set the hotel on fire."

She didn't lack the courage to say what she wanted, I had to give her that. Most of my life I'd been too scared to try it.

With an effort, I shook my head.

"I'd like nothing better. But I can't." Just saying the words left me hoarse.

"Not tonight. I don't know where I stand with my partner. My former partner. That takes precedence. We were together for a lot of years."

I squeezed Deborah's fingers, then withdrew my hand.

"I wouldn't feel right with you while things with her aren't clear."

There I forced myself to stop. If I'd gone on, I might've started to wail. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt the way I did with her. And I wanted it. I wanted more. Turning my back on it cut into me like a bereavement.

She didn't hide her disappointment. But she didn't turn it against me either. And she didn't try to change my mind. Instead she simply smiled her regret.

"I understand," she murmured.

"It's always better to keep things clean."

Before I could think of a response, she signaled for the check. Then while we waited she proceeded to put on a display of self-possession that took my breath away. Instead of the stilted courtesy I expected from her, she covered my losses with a flow of light conversation and easy smiles. In its own way, her air of relaxation was as convincing as Sternway's and vastly more desirable. I almost believed that she hadn't taken my refusal personally.

When she'd paid the check, and we stood up to leave, she touched my cheek lightly, like a promise that there were no hard feelings.

I still didn't know whether she'd told me the truth about herself.

The idea that maybe she hadn't made me want to weep.

Eight.

Deborah and I parted company in the lobby. She left the hotel going home, she said. I went back to the tournament. When I checked in with Bernie, he made a labored reference to speed or maybe it was quickies but I hardly heard him. Deprivation of all kinds had caught up with me, and I couldn't shake the impression that I'd wandered into the wrong hall. Or the wrong life.

In my absence, the whole composition of the occasion had changed. The floor had been cleared of chairs, spectators, and contestants, of competition. Maybe they'd been rolled up like rugs and stashed away.

Nevertheless the gallery held more people than it had all day, and every foot of space around the walls was crowded, standing room only.

An air of anticipation rode the heat upward, accumulating against the ceiling. I felt like I'd blundered into an amphitheater where lions were scheduled to devour every available Christian.

By coincidence I'd arrived in time for the Bill "Superfoot" Wallace demonstration. Judging by the barrage of applause, Sue Rasmussen must've just finished introducing him. Below her, a lean, bandy-legged man took the floor and announced that he and his "opponent" were about to engage in "a battle to the death."

On cue, the audience roared with laughter. Everyone but me knew what to expect.

I suppose I should've been entertained. Or at least impressed. Wallace was fast and flexible enough to amaze sheetrock. He used only one leg which was probably why they didn't call him "Superfeet" but he fired kicks with it like rounds from a chain gun. His hapless opponent didn't stand a chance.

In my condition, however, I didn't appreciate the show. Half the time I couldn't even see it. I lacked the moral energy. So I Just stood there, glazed positively ceramic, until he was done.

Afterward Rasmussen went into a spiel about all the wonderful events in store over the next two days. Anticipating confusion while so many people surged for the exits, I aimed myself at the chops. But Bernie stopped me.

"You're done, Axbrewder," he buzzed harmlessly.

"I haven't seen anybody look this wrecked since the last time I used a mirror. Get some sleep. We can handle it from here." Then he snapped, "Be on time tomorrow." Apparently he didn't want me to think he'd gotten soft.

I think I thanked him. At the time, I wasn't sure. He was right, I didn't have anything left. Saying no to Deborah had used me up.

Changing directions, I let the crowd carry me out into the lobby toward Registration, where I picked up the key for a room on Security's account.

The room itself was more generic everything, but I didn't care. I only needed a bed big enough to hold me. As soon as I turned off the lights, the whole world shut down, and I slept like a cadaver.

The next morning, the phone jangled me awake in a rush of panic. Phones do that to me sometimes. I'd let Ginny down somehow, and she was trying to get in touch with me. But it was just my wake-up call.

Nevertheless the jangle left me with a sour lump in the pit of my stomach. Pressure throbbed dully in my temples, hinting at disaster.

If something went wrong today, it would probably turn out to be my fault.

Until I reached the shower I forgot that Ginny didn't even know where I was. Unless Marshall told her But that, as they say, didn't bear contemplation, so I declined to contemplate it.

Fortunately The Luxury offered an amenity I hadn't noticed the night before an in-room coffee maker. While it perked, I faced the bathroom mirror stoically and pointed a sandblaster at the fatigue encrusted on my features. My guts hardly hurt at all, and under the bandages my wound was clean, but I swallowed the last of my antibiotics anyway and washed them down with coffee. Then, wishing I owned another suit, a clean one, I got dressed.

I also wished I had my .45. My only weapon was Security's cell phone, and it didn't have enough heft to reassure me.

Oh, well. When I'd consumed every drop of coffee in sight, I left the room and caught an elevator for the lobby.

I was early, so Bernie assigned me to help some of his men carry Nakahatchi's display case from the Manager's safe room, where it'd been stashed overnight, back out to its designated place in the tournament hall. My guts objected, but they didn't give me any real trouble. That was progress. A few days ago I wouldn't have been able to lift my share of the load.

By the time we'd set up the case, Anson Sternway arrived with his entourage Sue Rasmussen, Ned Gage, and Parker Neill, plus Sammy Posten, Master Song Duk Soon, Sake Bob Gravel, Hideo Komatori, and the navy blazers who ran registration. I didn't know what brought Soon and Gravel here so early, but Komatori plainly wanted to check on Nakahatchi's antiques. Posten concentrated on looking important.

Sternway greeted Security and me with a nod, but didn't say anything.

After that Bernie arranged the rest of his troops. Once the registration crew had their paperwork ready, they helped Gage and Neill reset chairs and sign-poles for the rings. Rasmussen erected placards listing the day's events.

My sense of premonition refused to go away. While I strolled along the walls waiting for Bernie, I made a discreet attempt to imitate the poised and easy way the IAMA blazers moved, trying to distract my attention from possible crises. I didn't want to develop expectations, preconceptions, which might get in my way when something actually happened. Nothing hampers intuition like deciding in advance what it's supposed to do.

During the night, the AC had been set on "hard freeze," and now the hall felt like a meat locker. I was tempted to hunch my shoulders and blow on my fingers. But the place would heat up soon enough, so I tried to enjoy the chill while it lasted.

When my boss appeared, I quit faking relaxation and crossed the floor to talk to him.

He scowled at me.

"Axbrewder." With his men in place, he was temporarily at loose ends himself.

"You needed the sleep. Today you look like you might live."

I tried to thank him, just in case I'd forgotten last night, but he waved it off.