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plowman’s neck. The chain was a part of his street costume, and the stout neck went with beefy shoulders and well-toned biceps. A solid two hundred ten pounds on a six-foot frame gave me an inch in height but handed him a twenty-pound weight advantage. His face was flat, sun-darkened, and Asian. I couldn’t place the country.
    “Who were you visiting?”
    His right eye twitched. “None of your business.”
    Homeboy’s cap wasn’t set at a cocky angle or even the subtle in-the-know tilt that broadcast attitude. His shirt and pants still bore their original shop newness. Not the clean and cool look street punks often sported but an hour-off-the-store-shelf look most sought to erase as soon as they walked out the door with their purchase. If he was street, I was the Little Mermaid.
    “Nice guy that I am, I want to believe you, but if you can’t give me a name, we’re going to have a hard time.”
    “One last time—it’s none of your business.”
    “But it is. You were talking to my daughter.”
    “Fuck you,” he said, and turned away.
    Bottom line was he was lurking in our hallway, near my door, near my daughter. For that alone I wanted him whipped and cowed. I wanted to give him plenty to think about before he set foot in our apartment block again.
    “Not so fast.”
    When I reached for him a second time, he pivoted on his left foot with the same elegant fluidity, then his right hand shot out at my throat. A martial arts move. Inches away from crushing my larynx, I batted the hand away with an arm sweep.
    I followed with a punch to his chin. Once he committed to blocking it, I clubbed him on his blind side, a brutal street move he wouldn’t expect. Martial arts without street works on the mats, but in the realworld it can get you killed. Combine the two, however, and you owned a forceful edge if your instincts were good. Something my dad clued me in to when I began lessons in Tokyo.
    The blow staggered him but his recovery was alarmingly swift. He countered with a foot-and-hand maneuver that wasn’t karate or judo and nearly lost me an eye.
    I backed off. “Stay away from my house, scumbag.”
    “You’re in over your head, asshole. Walk away now and I’ll let you live.”
    My ears perked up. A faint foreign intonation edged his last remark. Not Chinese or Malay or the choppier Korean. Japanese.
    Which meant he was neither thief nor pedophile. He was in my building for me. My Japan connections ran deep—right up to last night’s crime scene.
    “What do you want?” I said.
    “I want you gone. Or mangled.”
    “That’s not going to happen.”
    I heard the rip of Velcro. The next moment metal glittered in his right hand.
    A knife.
    Alarm tripped down my spine and adrenaline flooded my system. I hate steel. It’s the favored weapon of sleaze. Homeboy’s blade was double-edged and serrated on one side, with custom-molded finger grooves on the handle that spoke of special fighting skills. A serrated edge does more than slice—it chews you up without mercy.
    I dropped into a semicrouch, my limbs loose, my shoulders hunched, my eyes locked on the cutter. Homeboy circled to his right and feigned a stab. Fear brushed the back of my neck. Master the fear, you might live. Discount it, you die fast. I’d seen it on the streets a dozen times.
    I glided away from his feint, looping around in the opposite direction, watching the weapon and his feet.
    My assailant’s lips twisted in a grin. “What’s the matter? Not so talkative now?”
    Eyes glued to the metal, I ignored the taunt. Didn’t return the sneer. Didn’t toss back my own barb.
    And that one act of single-minded concentration saved my life.
    He was counting on an answer. Had I given into the temptation, I’d be dead.
    Jenny’s China guy snapped his wrist as I circled away and the weapon flew from his right palm to his left and ended up far too close to where I was headed. I’d never seen the move before. Or anything like it. It was as if the