No wonder the damn place didn't have a name. It had to be illegal.

Especially if people put money on the bouts and I was sure they did, knowing Sternway. Even more so if it served booze.

He gave me a sharp glance to gauge my reaction, then stowed his wallet and keys in the locker. When he'd kicked his moccasins in as well, he replaced the lock and spun the dial.

Lithe and quick, he continued along the corridor. Past the row of lockers, he pushed open the door to what must've been a changing room, judging by the concentrations of Tiger Balm and battered weariness in the air.

"Restrooms here if you need them," he informed me as he went in.

I shook my head. Instead of following, I moved forward to take a look at what I was getting into.

After half a dozen paces, the corridor reached a room with decor like a black hole, large enough to house a popular dance club and bar. At once the noise seemed to swell like a mushroom cloud, enhanced by the hard linoleum floor and cinderblock walls. Through a haze of smoke that obscured the ceiling, I saw maybe as many as fifty tables crowded around all four sides of a raised boxing ring, complete with ropes and corner poles. Streaks and splotches that looked like old blood decorated the canvas.

At the moment the ring was empty.

Small groups of men occasionally accompanied by women occupied folding chairs at most of the tables. Some of the women looked like they were trolling for muscular companionship. The rest had apparently come to cheer on their husbands, boyfriends, or pimps.

Ashtrays and drinks, mostly beer, littered the table tops but the room didn't sport a bar, and at first I didn't see where the booze came from. Then off to my right an unmarked door with no knob or handle swung open, and a couple of waitresses came in wearing what looked like the cast-off remains of can-can costumes. They carried trays packed to the rims with bottles, glasses, and cans. For a second I wondered how they re-opened the door from this side, but then I noticed a hasp on the inside of the door hinged to extend past the frame. That prevented the door from closing completely.

Clever, I muttered to myself. A bar pretending it was separate from the fight club supplied the booze. Shut the door, snap on a padlock, and tell the cops you don't have anything to do with what's on the other side. And of course the patrons of the fight club would claim that they brought all their drinks with them.

Nothing illegal there. The cops couldn't prove otherwise unless they staged an undercover raid. Which might get a little risky without guns, considering the fight club's clientele.

I scanned the room for a couple of minutes, forming an impression of the men at the tables. Some of them had the bulging stocky look of ex-pugs and prizefighter wannabes. Others carried leaner frames and sleeker muscles that reminded me of the black belts I'd seen spar at the tournament. A certain number had obviously come just to watch and bet. They were too full of beer, or otherwise larded with dissipation, to be mistaken for fighters themselves. And a small handful, almost dapper compared to the rest of the crowd, had the characteristic air, at once avid and detached, of bookies and punters, here to set odds, back favorites, meet bets, and generally stir money around the room so that plenty of it ended up in their pockets.

Four bouncers circulated between the tables, usually in the general vicinity of the waitresses just making sure the patrons didn't stiff anyone. Like the thug at the front door, a couple of them wore thick chains somewhere handy. The others apparently relied on bulk, threatening faces, and a manly indifference to pain to make them effective.

In the far corner, a steel door sealed the room, imitating a fire exit.

After a moment, I decided that it had to be a second, maybe more private, entrance. There weren't enough cars in the parking lot to account for all the people here.

From where I stood, I didn't see anyone who looked familiar, from the tournament or anywhere else. Maybe Sternway was an exception maybe most karate-ka didn't play this game. Or maybe they were just more choosy about where they played it.

For a moment or two, I felt positively cheerful. Inside these walls if nowhere else in Garner I knew exactly what was going on.

Before long Sternway arrived at my shoulder. He wore his footpads, carried his gloves and mouthpiece. From there he moved into the crowd and took a chair at an empty table close to the ring. As soon as I joined him, he leaned forward.

"Works like this," he told me in a primed whisper.

"Challenger gets into the ring. Anybody who wants to. Guy who won the last bout gets first chance to accept. If he refuses, somebody else can accept. Again, anybody.

"No rules, no time limit. Gear optional. Bout's over when one of them surrenders. Or can't get up."

"No rules?" I stared at him.

"You mean biting is OK?"

He grinned sharply.

"If you can get away with it."

I'd never seen him grin before. It made him look feral. Predatory as a polecat.

In one smooth motion, he left the table. After a quick pause with one of the punters, he headed for the ring, flowing easily between the ropes. At once a halfhearted shout of recognition went up from the room, a mixture of leaden cheers and groans. Obviously most of the crowd knew him. And, just as obviously, some of them weren't glad to see him.

I watched with a sort of bemused dismay as he pulled on and secured his hand-pads, waiting for an opponent. The sonofabitch was serious. He wanted me to shiver in my little booties whenever I looked at him, purportedly so that I'd understand why men like Nakahatchi, Hong, and Soon let him tell them what to do, and he didn't care who he beat up to achieve his desired effect.

His eagerness suggested that he was in no danger of getting beat up himself.

Apparently the former "victor" refused Sternway's challenge. For a minute or two he gazed around the room, looking for candidates. Then a chair behind me scraped the floor, and a man headed for the ring. He was naked to the waist, and in the clouded light he looked like he'd been spit out by a rock crusher and glued back together again. He moved with the lumbering inevitability of a landslide, but as far as I could tell his only real qualifications seemed to be arms the size of axletrees and enough scar tissue to deaden the impact of a piled river.

He didn't have gloves, foot-gear, or a mouthpiece. Maybe he didn't even wear a cup.

A couple of dozen people shouted approval when he climbed into the ring. While he faced the crowd and turned in a circle to let everyone get a look at him, activity flurried briefly around the bookies and punters. The little I could overhear suggested that the impromptu book was against him,

Sternway would have to earn his money the hard way.

A waitress with a wasted syphilitic face arrived to ask me what I wanted. Instead of telling the truth, I ordered a club soda. She took my money disdainfully, didn't offer me any change.

When the betting subsided, Sternway and his opponent squared off.

In spite of myself, I was impressed not for the first time with Sternway's dangerous ease. He couldn't have looked more relaxed without falling asleep, but instead of slumping he seemed to lift, grow lighter, until his feet hardly touched the canvas. In contrast, the other man looked solid enough, dense enough, to leave dents with every step.

Hoarse cheers spattered around the room as scar-tissue-and-rocks started forward.

He didn't get far. In the middle of his second stride, Sternway lunged into a punch so fast that I hardly saw it hit. Then somehow the same motion carried Sternway into the air for a flying kick that rocked his opponent's head. A second later he was out of range again, floating as if he hadn't moved at all.

His feral grin seemed to fill his whole face.

But the scarred man wasn't discouraged. Maybe Sternway's pads softened the blows. Shaking his head to clear it, he charged headlong at the IAMA director.

That much force would've driven a Volkswagen into the ropes, but Sternway stepped aside. As his opponent went by, he flicked an elbow casually at the bigger man's shoulder. The blow looked as light as a kiss, but it snatched a roar of pain or frustration from the big man.

He started to turn like he wanted to charge again. Sternway stopped him with a kick on the top of his calf that collapsed him to his knees.

Before he could try to stand, or even get his hands up, Sternway hit him three times in the face, blows as loud as shots. Then Sternway drifted happily back out of range.

To my chagrin, I realized that I'd been holding my breath. Almost involuntarily I identified with the scarred man. He fought the way I did. I wanted him to shrug off his hurts and keep going.

If he landed one punch, he'd knock the damn joy off Stern-way's face.

Obediently he regained his feet and went back to work.

This time, however, he didn't charge. Instead he advanced more cautiously, looking for a chance to grab or strike. For a while he and Sternway circled each other like dogs in the preliminary stages of a dominance contest.

Then a look of calculation came into Sternway's eyes, hinting at a pre-planned attack. In the process he offered his opponent an opening I could've hit from where I sat.

Thinking, Don't do it, that's what he wants, I watched the bigger man go for the opening with a roundhouse hard enough to powder cinderblocks.

Again Sternway shifted out of the way. All according to plan. While the punch extended the bigger man's arm, Sternway flicked another elbow at the exposed shoulder.