I've been groping for any information I can get about his life. Who he knew. Who he did business with. What kind of business it was. Just in case," I finished with a shrug that nearly made me drop the phone, "the cops miss anything."

"Ah." Hideo's sigh seemed to convey more comprehension than he was entitled to.

"I respect your concern. If any other questions occur to you, please ask them."

"I will." He could count on that, anyway.

When we'd agreed to meet on the ground floor of Essential Shotokan a few minutes before 11:00, we hung up.

I didn't need to check my watch. The clock outside a nearby bank told me that the time was about 9:30. I had either a lot more time than I needed or nowhere near enough, depending on how Hong reacted. Since I still didn't know why the idea of asking him to evaluate the chops scared me, I took a couple of deep breaths and dialed the number for Traditional Wing Chun.

As it happened, directory assistance had a listing for Hong Fei-Tung, but I didn't want to call him directly. I'd be in a stronger position if I played by his rules, made an appointment through T'ang Wen.

My luck with phone calls held. T'ang answered after the third ring.

His reserve as he greeted me had a different quality than Ko-ma tori an instructed feel the sound of a student acting on his teacher's wishes instead of his own. When I asked if Sifu Hong might be willing to talk to me in, say, fifteen minutes, he replied that he'd have to consult with his master. Then he put the phone down and left me hanging for almost two miles.

I wasn't more than ten blocks from Martial America when T'ang returned with the information that Sifu Hong had graciously consented to see me.

Since I couldn't grasp Komatori's distinction between "courtesy" and "placation," I thanked T'ang with more enthusiasm than I actually felt, on the theory that it was better for a gwailo to sound too humble than not humble enough. Then I concentrated on trying to control the inarticulate clatter of panic in the back of my head.

Damn it. What was the problem here? Why did my guts believe that I'd just made a mistake which would haunt me for years?

Hideo had suggested meditation. As soon as I'd wheeled the van into one of Martial America's abundant parking spaces, I tried to do just that. Close my eyes behind my sunglasses, relax into the background mutter of the Plymouth's engine, empty the stale alarm from the pit of my stomach. Unclutter my "receptiveness." The thought of involving Hong with the chops frightened me for some reason, an intuitive reason.

I needed to know what it was. Otherwise I'd have to ignore it. In rational terms, Ginny's suggestion made perfect sense.

Was I putting Hong at risk in some way that I couldn't imagine? Was that possible?

What could threaten a man who knew as much about fighting as Hong did?

No answers occurred to me. Instead of opening a door to the back of my head, my efforts simply made me sweat. Apparently meditation wasn't something you could just jump into on the spur of moment. Or maybe I didn't have a meditative personality.

In disgust, I turned off the van, locked it, and headed toward Traditional Wing Chun.

The dojo's ornamental door was open, but all the lights were off, and I didn't find anyone on the ground floor. Since manners were so important here, I didn't go upstairs unescorted. Instead I did my best to look patient while I waited for someone to greet me.

T'ang kept me standing there for a few minutes long enough to make his delay obvious, but not enough to justify a complaint. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he gave me a bow just on the polite side of brusque.

"Mr. Axbrewder." I thought I heard veiled anger. The silver in his eyes had the whetted look of a fighting blade.

"Your desire to speak with my master again surprises me. He has shown you great condescension. Are you not satisfied?"

Something had changed since yesterday. T'ang had had the better part of a day to gnaw on his own ego. Maybe he now resented his master's comparative open-mindedness with me.

Or maybe not. Maybe he had a new problem.

Under other circumstances, I would've said something snotty to provoke him, just to gauge his reaction. Snot being my stock-in-trade and all.

But today I had too much at stake.

With a bow of my own, I replied as blandly as I could, "I want to ask Sifu Hong a favor, Mr. T'ang. He's in a position to give me some real help, if he's so inclined. His generosity yesterday makes me hope that he'll agree."

"Generosity" was such a nice word for it, I thought, compared to "condescension."

Unfortunately I'd already lost the courtesy competition. T'ang's air of umbrage intensified as he demanded, "And what is this 'favor'?"

Then I had it I knew what his problem was. I'd committed a breach of dojo etiquette. Yesterday Hong had instructed me, if you wish our assistance, please name your need to T'ang Wen. But I hadn't complied.

I'd been so concerned with my fears that I'd forgotten Hong's restrictions.

In other words, I was now denying T'ang Wen face.

And I couldn't think of a way to back down gracefully, not without sacrificing my own face. Nevertheless I had to soften the insult somehow. If I didn't, there would never be peace in Martial America.

I spread my hands.

"Forgive me, Mr. T'ang." I didn't have to fake the chagrin in my tone.

"Naturally" ha!

"I remember that Sifu Hong told me to speak with you. But my proposal touches on his honor, and I wouldn't consider myself honorable if I spoke of it with anyone else.

"There's another matter, however," I added before he could react, "that I should leave with you. I'm sure you'll bring it to Sifu Hong's attention more appropriately than I could."

If that didn't mollify him, I didn't know what else to try.

T'ang lowered his eyes, masking irritation. But I hadn't left him any useful recourse. After a moment he said like a sigh, "Name this matter, Mr. Axbrewder."

Almost sighing myself, I told him, "I talked to Mr. Komatori about the timing of Essential Shotokan's lease. He said, first, that Nakahatchi sensei moved in when he did because he was being forced out by his previous landlord, and, second, that he didn't learn your master had signed the first lease until after both schools were in place."

I didn't point out the obvious conclusion. If T'ang couldn't see it for himself, I was wasting my breath.

"Do you believe this?" he retorted suspiciously.

"Why would he lie?" I countered.

"Nakahatchi sensei has the reputation of an honorable man. And Mr.

Komatori says that Sternway sensei" deliberately I emphasized Sternway's martial stature "never mentioned Sifu Hong's business or decisions when he persuaded Nakahatchi sensei to move here. Isn't Stern-way sensei also an honorable man?"

Again I hadn't left T'ang any recourse. He couldn't argue without insulting Sternway and so far I hadn't met one martial artist who would've gone that far.

For a moment he studied my midsection as if he imagined the pleasure of punching me, maybe rupturing an organ or two. Then he conceded without any particular grace, "As you say. I will convey this to my master at a suitable time."

"Thank you, Mr. T'ang," I said firmly. Still on my best behavior.

Then, remembering something else Komatori said, I went on, "Before we go upstairs, may I ask you a question?"

T'ang lifted his head. The silver in his eyes had lost its edge, which apparently indicated that he'd recovered his self-possession. Only a slight frown complicated his expression.

"My master instructed that you should ask me if you have any questions."

Like a man picking his way through a minefield, I began, "Yesterday you seemed to think that I'd been hired to protect the chops from someone in Traditional Wing Chun. The idea upset me which is my only excuse for reacting so rudely.