Luckily the drive was comparatively easy. Blazing streetlamps, incandescent car dealerships, and halogen-scorched malls notwithstanding, this part of Garner was almost deserted now. Unless they attended some sporting event, the city's regular denizens must've retreated to their homes. No doubt they all yearned for some space where they could actually turn off the lights. As a result, the streets were almost empty, and I hauled into Martial America's parking lot only ten minutes late.

By then I had enough heartburn to power a nuclear submarine, and the effects of Bernie's loneliness had sunk into the marrow of my bones. I was in no danger of letting Sternway talk me into anything.

Lights showed in the upper windows of Essential Shotokan, but the dojo below, like the rest of that building, was dark. Malaysian Fighting Arts' training spaces were apparently still in use, although I didn't hear any yells.

The IAMA director waited for me beside his Camaro, standing with his arms crossed in a pose that would've looked rigid on anyone else. He'd changed his white shirt and slacks for a light grey sweatshirt and warmup pants. On his feet he wore boat moccasins with no socks.

Shadows cast from the nearest light pole concealed his expression.

I parked the Plymouth in line with Sternway's car and got out. Just for a second, the night air felt inexplicably cold. Then stored heat from the concrete pushed the sensation away. Familiar sweat gathered at my temples as I walked toward him.

He nodded a greeting.

"Glad you could make it." His tone might've meant anything.

I peered at him, but even close up I couldn't read his face. He looked as unapproachable as a stone idol.

"Am I overdressed?" I asked.

"You didn't tell me you were going to change."

"It doesn't matter," he replied distantly.

"No one cares." He gestured me toward the Camaro.

"Shall we go?"

I shook my head.

"I'll follow you. That way I can drive myself home afterward." I didn't want to be stuck with him if he decided to do something odd.

"Suit yourself." With an indifferent shrug, he reached for the door of his car.

Suit myself. Fine.

"Just one thing," I put in.

"A question I forgot to ask earlier."

He dropped his hand.

"Yes?"

"I've been wondering. What's the real reason you haven't moved into Martial America? Wouldn't you be in a better position to keep the peace if you were there when trouble started?"

He tilted his head, and a flash from the light pole gleamed in his eyes.

"Possibly." The subject didn't interest him.

"Or I might be caught in the middle. I could lose my leverage with both sides."

"But it might be worth the risk," I insisted.

"Lacone sounds like he's willing to cut quite a deal for you."

Sternway made a small sound like a sigh.

"He's in the business of making money, Brew. Generosity would reduce his income."

Then he appeared to rally his attention.

"In fact," he went on more strongly, "Mr. Lacone has offered me very favorable terms. But there are strings attached. If I stake the future of my school on the success of Martial America, I'll be damaged if his dream fails. In order to protect myself, I'll have to continue working on his behalf whether he pays me for my efforts or not. You could say that I'll be trapped into serving as his consultant and promoter for free.

"I'm better off independent of Martial America."

As he spoke, I felt the kind of satisfaction you get when you find a jigsaw piece that fits. One section of the puzzle he presented came into focus.

Earlier he'd made a sympathetic speech about how the IAMA existed to promote a sense of mutual cooperation, understanding, and support among all the martial arts. And how Martial America had the potential to foster a sense of community which can only benefit the martial arts. At the time, I hadn't known what to make of his professed idealism. Now I did.

It was bullshit. Huckster talk. What he really cared about was getting his hands on Lacone's money.

Without warning I began looking forward to whatever he planned to show me tonight. I wanted to know now he earned respect in the martial arts world. His credibility obviously didn't derive from innate moral authority.

"Fair enough." I grinned at him with my teeth.

"That answers my question.

"I'm ready when you are."

He considered me for a moment longer. His gaze reflected sharp slivers of light like surgical probes. Then in silence he turned back to the Camaro, opened the door, and got in.

I followed his example. A minute later we were on our way, leaving behind the sections of Garner that I'd started to know.

The night sky, rendered featureless by Garner's ubiquitous artificial illumination, didn't help my general disorientation. Before long, however, I developed the vague impression that we were heading approximately downtown.

Marshal's warnings squirmed at the back of my mind. I felt an unexpected impulse to call Ginny, let her know what I was doing. As if we were still partners I needed to get over that somehow.

Sternway led me onto one of the freeways, then off again before I could identify it. We spent a mile or two on Vista Boulevard, a divided street arched over with louring elms. When we left it, we seemed to pass almost immediately into a zone where the city fathers begrudged spending money. Their commitment to excessive lighting remained, but the quality of the illumination shifted, grew colder and more fluorescent, less habitable. Unnatural white lay on the walls of the buildings and the cracked pavement of the sidewalks, turning them the color of desiccated bone. At the corners, shadows deepened and spread, forming swatches and pools of real darkness. Defying Garner's expenditure of electricity, night found its way into the city's unprotected alleys and doorways and gutters. Grit and dispossessed scraps of paper fluttered occasionally in broken gusts of wind.

The streets narrowed as Sternway led me between squat bars, pawn shops, and porn joints that looked like the fallen sections of some larger hulk. Neon signs and advertisements in crass colors flickered over the sidewalks, but most of them had letters or pieces missing, and dirt and neglect dulled the rest.

Without signaling, the Camaro turned left into an alley crowded with shadows that seemed to swallow the Plymouth's beams. Barely able to see, I crept along behind Sternway's tail-lights like a sailor who'd wandered into a Sargasso, walls of storm looming on either side. We passed a series of unlit doors, some broken and gaping, others slumped on their hinges like homeless souls. Then his brake lights flared, and the alley opened into a small parking lot like an abandoned scrap yard.

A dozen or so cars nearly filled the space, but Sternway wedged his Camaro into a gap against one wall. I eased the van in behind him close enough to tap his bumper. This way, I thought grimly, he couldn't abandon me here no matter what happened.

When I stepped out, I smelled refuse, rotted kitchen scraps, piss, and the lingering reek of vomit. But behind those odors hung an unexpected athletic scent, the distinctive scent of sweat, Tiger Balm, and pain.

Despite my disorientation, I felt suddenly that I'd arrived in a world I understood. I couldn't so much as guess what this grubby place had to do with Sternway's famous martial credibility, but I knew beyond doubt that the language spoken here would be furtive and hostile, as familiar as the midnight patois of Puerta del Sol.