The desk was fine oak, the chair rich leather and orthopedic looking. Master Kwon was standing near a corner. He held a putter in his hands and wore a splendidly tailored suit. His face brightened when he saw Myron, and the two men embraced.

When they broke apart, Master Kwon said, "You better?"

"Better," Myron agreed.

The old man smiled and grabbed his own lapel. "Armani," he said.

"I thought so," Myron said.

"You like?"

"Very nice."

Satisfied, Master Kwon said, "Go."

Win and Myron bowed deeply. Once in the dojang, they fell into their customary roles: Win led and Myron followed. They started with meditation. Win loved meditating, as we already graphically witnessed. He sat in the lotus position, palms tilted up, hands resting on knees, back straight, tongue folded against the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose, forcing the air down, letting his abdomen do all the work. Myron tried to duplicate--had been trying for years--but he had never quite gotten the hang of it. His mind, even during less chaotic times, wandered. His bad knee tightened. He got fidgety.

They cut down the stretching to only ten minutes. Again Win was effortless, executing splits and toe touches and deep bends with ease, his bones and joints as flexible as a politician's voting record. Myron had never been a naturally limber guy. When he was training seriously, he could touch his toes and complete a hurdle stretch with little problem. But just then, that felt like a long time ago.

"I'm already sore," Myron said through a grunt.

Win tilted his head. "Odd."

"What?"

"That's precisely what my date said last night."

"You weren't kidding before," Myron said. "You really are another Red Buttons."

They did a little sparring, and Myron immediately realized how out of shape he was. Sparring is the most tiring activity in the world. Don't believe it? Find a punching bag and pretend-box with it for one three-minute round. Just a bag that can't fight back. Try it, just one round. You'll see.

When Esperanza came in, the sparring mercifully ceased and Myron grabbed his knees, sucking wind. He bowed to Win, threw a towel over his shoulder, grabbed some Evian. Esperanza folded her arms and waited. A group of students walked past the door, saw Esperanza, did a double take.

Esperanza handed Myron a sheet of paper. "The birth certificate of Davis Taylor ne Dennis Lex."

"Lex," Myron repeated. "As in...?"

"Yep."

Myron scanned the photocopy. According to the document, Dennis Lex would be thirty-seven years old. His father was listed as one Raymond Lex, his mother as Maureen Lehman Lex. Born in East Hampton, New York.

Myron handed it to Win.

"They had another child?"

"Apparently so," Esperanza said.

Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged.

"He must have died young," Win said.

"If he did," Esperanza said, "I can't find it anywhere. There's no death certificate."

"No one in the family ever mentioned another child?" Myron asked Win.

"No one," Win said.