Night Moves

concentrated on your own form.'

Michaels flushed, nodded, said, 'Sorry, Guru.'

Steward nodded, smiled, and moved along to watch other students.

Good thing this wasn't sitting Zen exercise, or he'd have gotten whacked with a stick, Michaels thought. He refocused on his moves, but he felt awkward. He'd only been doing this a few months, and much of it still seemed counterintuitive and unnatural.

After about fifteen minutes of djurus, Stewart called a halt and took questions. Even though his students were doing different forms than Michaels had been doing, he heard a couple of things about stepping in balance and keeping his hips corked that Toni had stressed.

'All right, then. Let's work on combinations,' Stewart said. 'Toni? Let me use you.'

Toni offered Stewart a quick bow. The hand position was slightly different than the bow Stewart returned. Toni's right fist was held in front of her chest, suppinated, the left hand cupping it from the side; the knuckles on Stewart's fist faced into his cupping hand.

'A right punch, please, here.' He touched the tip of his nose.

Toni stepped in and shot a fast right punch. If it had connected, it would have surely broken his nose. He slapped her arm with both hands, fired an elbow at her ribs, twisted, stepped, punched at her ribs again, then swept her front foot out and upended her. He caught her around the chest with one arm before she fell. 'Okay?'

'Yes.'

'Again please, slowly.'

Toni repeated her attack, and Stewart did the block-elbow-punch, sweep combination again, and kept her from falling with an arm around her chest.

Right across her breasts, Michaels noted with a small feeling of irritation. Was that really necessary? Toni could fall without hurting herself, he'd seen her hit a hard floor and come up like a rubber ball. This floor had mats all over it.

Toni grinned at Stewart, and the expression was one of pure joy. Michaels had seen that look a few times, usually right after a sexual climax — his or hers.

He did not like seeing the look now.

He mentally chided himself: Get a brain, boy! This is a martial arts class! He's not copping a feel, he's demonstrating a way to beat the crap out of somebody stupid enough to attack him!

Yeah, well, okay.

'Any questions?'

Michaels decided he had one. 'Why didn't you hit her in the face instead of the ribs?'

Stewart smiled — as did most of the class. Michaels caught it, but didn't say anything. Stewart caught his look, though.

'Sorry, Mr. Michaels, but I've been telling the class that you can do all the damage you need to an attacker most of the time with body shots. The Indonesians seldom go for the face; the biggest headhunters are… westerners.'

Michaels nodded. But that pause before 'westerners' told him that Stewart had started to say something else, and Michaels would bet dollars to pennies that the something else was Americans.

'All right, pair up and let's try it. Toni, give me a hand watching?'

Toni said, 'Yes, Guru.'

Michaels found himself standing across from a skinny kid with a short crew cut and a pair of nose rings who looked to be about seventeen. The kid said, 'Giles Patrick.'

'Alex Michaels.'

'Want to defend first?'

'Sure,' Michaels said.

The kid stepped toward him in slow motion, his punch floating toward Michaels at about an eighth speed.

Michaels blocked, got the elbow in, then stalled. What came next?

'Left punch to the ribs, here,' the kid said.

'Right, right. Let me try it again.'

The kid launched his molasses attack again, and Michaels got the block, elbow, and punch in, but when he tried the sweep, he was off balance and the kid's foot stayed on the floor.

'Got to square your hips,' the kid said, 'Twist in, shoulders and hips facing the same way.'

'Right.'

'One more?'

'Sure.'

This time, Michaels got all four of the moves, and the kid went down with the sweep. All right! He felt pretty good about that.

Toni moved to stand next to him. 'Looked pretty good, Alex, but when you block the punch, do it more upward, like so. Giles?'

The kid grinned and came at Toni, and this time he put some speed into the move.

Toni moved easily, deflected the punch upward, giving herself plenty of room for the elbow into the armpit.

'Thanks, Toni.'

He caught a hint of a frown from her, but she nodded and moved to watch the next pair of students.

Frowning? For what? Calling her Toni?

'Okay if I give it a try?' Giles said.

'Uh, sure.'

Michaels set himself and attacked. The kid did a one-two-three-four, and Michaels hit the mat, hard. He came up fast.

'You all right, Mr. Michaels?'

'Yeah, fine. And call me Alex.' Bad enough he was getting his butt kicked; he didn't need to feel like somebody's grandfather.

He set himself for another attack. It was good to burn some tension off and all, but so far, he couldn't say this class was the most fun he'd ever had. Not at all.

Lord Goswell stood in front of the big seascape that had decorated the east wall of the Smaller Room of his club for as long as he'd been coming here. It was a large oil, eight feet tall by twelve feet wide, done in actinic, watery blues and grays, a wave-tossed sailing ship in the eye of an electrical storm, lightning illuminating the frantic sailors trying to keep the wooden vessel afloat. Very dramatic, what, and almost a photographic realism. He swirled the ice around in his nearly empty gin and tonic glass and was rewarded by the appearance of Paddington and his tray. 'Another, milord?'

'Why not? Tell me, do we know who painted this?'

'Yes, milord. It was painted by Jeffery Hawkesworth, in, I believe, 1872.'

'It's quite good. A painter I should know?'

'No, milord. He was one of the few civilians killed by the Zulu in South Africa at Rorke's Drift, in 1879. He painted but a handful of canvases. The club came by this some years after he died, a legacy from his brother, Sir William Hawkesworth, who was knighted by Her Majesty Queen Victoria for services in India.'

Goswell nodded. 'Interesting.'

'Shall I fetch your drink now, milord?'

'I don't suppose you'd consider quitting the club and going into service with me?'

'You do me a great honor, milord, but I should have to decline. It wouldn't be proper.'

'No, of course not. Carry on.'

He watched the servant leave. Drat. You couldn't buy that kind of loyalty. A pity. Bought loyalty was generally worth less than you paid for it.

Paddington returned, bearing another perfectly frosted glass upon his tray.

'There's a telephone call for you, milord.' There was a mobile telephone on the tray next to the glass.