Sternway locked the Camaro and joined me. A stretch of lamplight from the street lay across the middle of the yard, revealing him clearly as he passed through it. The disinterest he'd conveyed outside Martial America was gone. Now he reminded me of a lit fuse, primed with secret excitement sparking toward detonation.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"It doesn't have a name. That's why we couldn't meet here." He drew me into motion behind him.

"You might not have been able to find it. And they wouldn't let you in without me."

I wasn't at all surprised.

Almost hurrying now, he approached a door in one of the side walls.

This door was metal, heavy as a lid, with a closed shutter at the level of his face. He knocked crisply three times, raising a muted echo from the frame. After a heartbeat or two, the shutter clattered open. From the small window, light and cigarette smoke spilled outward.

Framed in the opening, a blunt face with what appeared to be dragon's claws tattooed around the eyes glared at us. The eyes focused on Sternway and dropped slightly in recognition. Then they shifted to me.

"Friend of mine," Sternway volunteered insincerely.

A voice like a gravel sifter issued from the door.

"He carrying?"

Sternway glanced at me and nodded.

"Looks like it."

"Tell him to leave it."

The shutter crashed shut.

My friend considered me as if he expected me to comply automatically.

Until then I hadn't realized that he knew I had a weapon. When I frowned, he said in a casual tone, "Put your gun in the van, Brew. They won't let you in with it." He looked almost happy.

"You don't want to argue with the bouncers here."

The hell I didn't. From inside the door I heard muffled sounds like screams. He might as well have asked me to walk into a fire fight unarmed.

I wasn't sure I knew how to face trouble without the .45.

Unfortunately I couldn't imagine an alternative that didn't involve turning my back and driving away. After a moment's hesitation, I shrugged, returned to the Plymouth, and stashed my gun in its holster under the seat. There I hesitated again. In some other life, I would've called Ginny for backup, but that wasn't an option now.

Instead I took the phone out of my jacket and slipped it into a pants pocket. Leaving my jacket on the seat, I relocked the van and strode back toward Sternway.

Even then the night air felt too warm to be natural. The surrounding walls seemed to retain something more than the sun's heat.

Sternway nodded his approval and immediately repeated his knock. This time the shutter stayed closed. But the door scraped outward, pushed by a hand the size of a Christmas fruitcake.

At once the shrouded din inside resolved itself into shouts of encouragement, scorn, and exertion, combined with the flat thud of blows. Behind the stink of cigarettes and cheap cigars, the athletic odor sharpened.

In the doorway a man with a recidivist's skull, bulging forearms, and at least fifty pounds he didn't need acknowledged Sternway, but didn't step out of our way. Instead he studied me. He wore a black muscle shirt and torn jeans held up by a length of heavy chain. From the neckline of his shirt protruded the tattooed head of a Chinese-style dragon with scaled forelegs that reached up along his neck and face until the claws circled his eyes. Chewing tobacco stained his lips a sickly red.

Deliberately he scowled at my pants.

Swallowing stomach acid, I suggested politely, "Make up your mind, asshole. I can get sneered at anywhere. I don't need to stand here for your benefit."

He ignored me. To Sternway he said, "Left pocket."

There was a distinct bulge in the left pocket of my pants.

"Cell phone," Sternway answered cheerfully.

The bouncer shifted his wad.

"You know the rules. He calls the cops, you're both history."

Heavily he retreated from the doorway to let us in.

Sternway practically bounded over the threshold. I followed with less enthusiasm.

As I passed him, the bouncer said, gravel-on-metal, "Watch your back, motherfucker."

I smiled.

"Don't worry about me. I'm already impressed. I

didn't know it was possible to say 'motherfucker' without moving your lips."

Apparently he didn't care whether I was impressed or not. Dismissing me with a contemptuous snort, he turned away to slam the door. It clanged shut like the door of a cell.

When I was sure he didn't mean to watch my back for me, I went after Sternway.

He paused to let me catch up. Then he warned me softly, "I hope you're as tough as you talk, Brew. If you keep that up, you'll have to prove it."

I wanted to laugh in his face. Less than twenty-four hours after Muy Estobal shot me, I'd killed him with nothing but my arms and my weight.

Thugs like that bouncer didn't scare me. I'd been defending myself in Puerta del Sol's rat hole bars, derelict parks, and littered alleys for years. Under pressure I've been known to throw filing cabinets around like paperweights.

On the other hand, my chest still felt tender where Parker Neill had poked me. And I couldn't pretend, even to myself, that I'd regained all my strength. Hell, my torn guts hadn't really stopped bothering me until a few days ago.

And I knew what beatings felt like. I'd taken my share.

Instead of laughing, I told Sternway, "I'll try to keep my mouth shut."

He nodded and turned away.

A doorway to the left let us into a corridor with lockers lining one wall. Roughly half of them were locked. The rest may've been empty.

The force of a falling body somewhere ahead made their doors rattle.

Sternway stopped at a combination lock halfway down the row, dialed the locker open, and took out sparring gear foam hand- and foot-pads, a mouthpiece, a protective cup. I'd seen similar equipment everywhere at the tournament.

Shit, I thought. It's a fight club. What fun.

He meant to show me that he deserved respect by pounding the by-products out of a roomful of drunken brawlers.