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and carefully enunciated sentences. He talked as if he enjoyed the way words felt as they came out. "The Dean tells me that you are an accomplished Orientalist. Sit down."
    The president tended to talk at you, not with you. The sentences came out in tight little clusters, abruptly. They had more to do with some weird internal dialogue he was having in there than with anything occurring on the outside.
    I shook hands, nodded at my Oriental expertise, and sat down.
    Domanova picked up some papers and gave them a quick glance. "A decent university degree," he mused. "Some articles in minor scholarly journals, two books, with one forthcoming."
    He looked up as if he was thinking, "you have been teaching for us for how long?"
    He knew the answer as well as I did. It was right there in front of him. "Three years, sir."
    "Three years." He smirked. "With our illustrious historians."
    "Yes."
    He got a bit more animated then, putting both hands flat on the slab in front of him and looking at me intently. "They are a total embarrassment, Burke. I wonder you can tolerate them."
    What do you say to something like this? That adjuncts are on the bottom of the university food chain and that down there you get acclimated to a great deal of murk? I just sat there.
    He shot back in his chair. If I did that in my office, I would go flying backward and end up on the floor. The president's chair was made of sterner stuff, however. Leather, with those tasteful little studs along the edges of the seams.
    "So," he said finally, indicating the snappy repartee was about over, "I assume Dean Ceppaglia has described the nature of the assignment?"
    "You need someone with expertise in the martial arts and Japanese culture to develop some descriptive material for an art exhibit being run by a potential donor. I don't see a problem, sir."
    "Yes." Something shutter like flickered in Domanova's eyes. "You understand that remuneration will be arranged with the client and not the university?" I nodded, but I don't think he was even watching for the prompt. The presidential close was coming. "Fine. My secretary will provide you with the name of the individual. Good day."
    And just like that, it was over. He shot back into his seat and whirled away to gaze out the window. Like posing for a portrait: Brooding Intellectual Surveys His Domain. The afternoon sun lit up his craggy face and the shoulders of his expensive suit. For a university president, he had an awful lot of dandruff.
    The name in the file I got from the president's office was Robert Akkadian. The martial arts universe is not that large, so I had heard of him. Akkadian, or Bobby Kay as he was known on the street, had been an early promoter on the New Ifork karate tournament scene. He saw the business potential in the arts. Over twenty or so years he had gradually gotten his fingers into every piece of the martial arts pie he could. He was doing pretty well by now. I was surprised that he was rubbing elbows with Domanova, given his semi sleazy origins.
    Then again, as the Chinese say, money has no smell.
    Akkadian had gone upscale, with an office in Manhattan that was part of his Samurai House art gallery. I strode through the glass doors off the street and entered the lobby. It featured an eight-foot waterfall splashing down a black rock face. The waterworks bifurcated the lobby into two halves one devoted to the gallery and the other to offices. I wandered over to the right to the office suite area. It was sedate, with muted tans and greens, bleached wood wainscoting, and appropriately innocuous prints that Westerners would think of as vaguely Asian in character. The receptionist was blonde, with that shiny, brittle look you get from spending too much time worrying about how well your cheekbones are showing. She gave me a smile, though, and ushered me into Akkadian's office.
    Bobby had a horsey face and a mane of longish hair that looked like it was dyed to match the expensive camel-hair jacket he was