"Hard to divide up billions, huh?"

"Indeed. So why are we discussing the Lex clan?"

"Esperanza is going to meet us down at the dojang. She has some information on Davis Taylor. Somehow the Lex family is connected."

Win arched his eyebrow. "The plot doth thicken."

"So tell me a little about them."

"Most of it was in the media. Raymond Lex writes a controversial bestseller called Midnight Confessions. Said bestseller becomes an Oscar-winning blockbuster. Suddenly he goes from obscure junior-college instructor to millionaire. Unlike most of his artistic brethren, he understands business. He invests and amasses private holdings with a substantial yet confidential net worth."

"The papers place it in the billions."

"I won't argue."

"That's a lot of money."

"The way you word things," Win said. "It's like Proust."

"He never wrote another book?"

"No."

"Odd."

"Not really," Win said. "Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell never wrote another book. And at least Lex kept busy. It's hard to build one of the largest privately held corporations and do book signings."

"So now that he's dead, his family is--how to say it?--nuclear Armageddoning?"

"Close enough."

Master Kwon had moved his headquarters and main dojang into the second floor of a building on Twenty-third Street near Broadway. Five rooms--studios really--with hardwood floors, mirrored walls, high-tech sound system, sleek and shiny Nautilus equipment--oh, and some of those rice-paper Oriental scroll-posters. Gave the place a real Old World Asia feel.

Myron and Win slipped into their dobok, a white uniform, and tied their black belts. Myron had been studying tae kwon do and hapkido since Win had first introduced him to them in college, but he hadn't been to a dojang more than five times in the past three years. Win, on the other hand, remained devoutly lethal. Don't tug on Superman's cape, don't spit in the wind, don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger, and you don't mess around with Win. Bah, bah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee.

Master Kwon was in his mid-seventies but could easily pass for two decades younger. Win had met him during his Asian travels when he was fifteen. As near as Myron could tell, Master Kwon had been a high priest or some such thing at a small Buddhist monastery straight out of a Hong Kong revenge flick. When Master Kwon emigrated to the United States, he spoke very little English. Now, some twenty years later, he spoke almost none. As soon as the wise master hit our shores, he opened up a chain of state-of-the-art tae kwon do schools--with Win's financial backing, of course. Once he saw the Karate Kid movies, Master Kwon started playing the old wise man to the hilt. His English disappeared. He started dressing like the Dalai Lama and began every sentence with the words "Confucius say," ignoring the small fact that he was Korean and Confucius was Chinese.

Win and Myron headed to Master Kwon's office. At the entrance, both men bowed deeply.

"Please in," Master Kwon said.