Nature of the Game by James Grady Page A

Nick; thought, But you already know that .
    Jud shut off the van. “Let’s see how my pen works.”
    At the building’s entrance, he told Nick, “You get this door. Don’t do your shit on the street if you don’t have to.”
    Even Nick knew the frontdoor lock was simple. He led Jud down the hall. Deliberately didn’t check his locked mailbox in the foyer’s yellow stucco wall. Climbed the stairs to his second-story rear apartment and double-locked blue door.
    â€œHold this, will you?” Jud handed him the red nylon gym bag. Zipped closed. It weighed about ten pounds. A passport, a résumé. The pen was metamorphosing in Jud’s hand.
    â€œTime me,” said Jud. He slid a pick into the lock.
    By the sweep of Nick’s second hand, thirty-three seconds later came a faint click. Jud grinned.
    â€œDon’t stop the clock,” he said. “Not till it’s over.”
    The knob lock took Jud fifteen seconds. He opened the door.
    â€œWelcome home,” said Jud.
    Nick’s bowels turned cold.
    â€œNice,” said Jud, standing in the tiled living room, his eyes scanning the museum prints, the stereo and albums, crammed bookcases, and thrift-store furniture. “Your office back there?” Jud walked toward the kitchen, looked in the room with its desk and typewriter, stacks of books and paper.
    â€œYes,” said Nick. He could make it out the door before Jud could reach him. If he had to run.
    Jud ignored the dining room and kitchen, came back to the living room. He pointed to a doorway opposite the entrance.
    â€œYour bedroom?” he asked.
    Nick didn’t reply.
    A newly arrived British edition of Flight of the Wolf lay on the couch. The jacket was identical to the American edition. Jud grinned at the author’s picture, held it up for Nick to see.
    â€œLooks just like you,” he said of the photo Janey had snapped one Michigan December morn. “No wonder I knew who you were.
    â€œIt says,” continued Jud, “you studied karate and judo.”
    â€œTrue,” said Nick, who’d regretted telling that to the publisher as soon as he saw the book jacket.
    â€œTae kwon do?” said Jud, putting down the book.
    Nick took a step back. Kept his eyes on Jud, put the nylon gym bag on the floor. “Yes. Some shudo kan.”
    â€œHow far did you get?”
    â€œNot far.” Two years of judo. Two years of karate. It’d been a year since he’d been in a dojo. He tried to relax, wait.
    â€œTae kwon do isn’t bad,” said Jud. Six feet separated them. “Dogmatic and linear, but okay. I’m a China kinda guy, Southern Shaolin, mix in other disciplines. Let me show you.”
    He slipped off his shoes and socks.
    You’re still in charge , Nick told himself. He slipped off his shoes and socks, pushed away some of the furniture.
    â€œGet in your fighting stance.”
    All Nick needed to do was raise his hands.
    Outweighs me by seventy, eighty pounds , thought Nick. Can’t all be fat, can’t all be slow .
    Can’t all be great, either. If, thought Nick, you win or you die .
    â€œI’ll do straight Shaolin, let you see that,” said Jud. “We’ll take it easy. Don’t worry.”
    Like in the dojo, thought Nick. Nothing to fear. Three-quarters speed. No contact. Pulled punches. To learn. For fun.
    Jud stood still, arms at his sides.
    â€œGo ahead,” he told Nick. “Take your best shots.”
    Nick snap-kicked toward Jud’s stomach, half feint, and Jud wasn’t there. Nick punched for the chest to draw out Jud’s block; did so and snapped back his fist, chopped with his left to block a back fist that turned into a parry knocking his chop away. Nick countered with another right punch.
    The bear grabbed it, pulled. Jud’s right foot thumped into Nick’s chest, then Jud sank into a squat and hooked his right leg behind Nick’s, swept