Free (LB2) Shakespeare's Landlord by Charlaine Harris Page B

Carlton only a beat behind. He was keeping a sharp eye on the man in line next to him, picking up on his cues. I wondered again why he was here. But the class was waiting for my directions, and I extended my right leg, balancing carefully on my left. “Big toe up…and down…” I said. A few minutes later, I was concluding with lunges to alternating sides, my hands extended to the front for balance.
    I bowed to Marshall and ran back to my place.
    “Teacher’s pet,” hissed Raphael out of the side of his mouth. “Late, too.” Raphael and I pretty much alternate leading the stretches. Raphael is a high school math teacher, so I figure karate gives him a chance to blow off steam.
    “First time,” I whispered defensively, and saw his teeth flash in a grin.
    Marshall told us to take a short break, and after a gulp of water from the fountain in the weights room, I strolled over to Carlton. He looked overdone, rather than edible. His face was red and his hair was wet with sweat. I’d never seen him approach tousled, much less disheveled.
    Raphael drifted up behind me before I could say anything to my neighbor, and I introduced them. I consider Raphael a friend, although I never see him outside of class. Now I might get to know Carlton in the same way, after living next door to him for four years. He had apparently rethought something after our prickly conversation.
    “So what made you decide to come to class, Carlton?” Raphael was asking with open curiosity. It was obvious Carlton was no workout buff.
    “I keep Marshall’s books,” Carlton explained, which was news to me. “And I’ve seen Lily heading out for class for four years now, since I bought the house next door to her. She always looks like she is happy to be going. I called Marshall today and he said to give it a shot. What comes next? I barely survived that shigga—whatever.”
    “Next,” said Raphael, with an openly sadistic grin, “comes calisthenics.”
    “More?” Carlton was horrified.
    I looked up at Raphael. We began laughing simultaneously.

    I WAS STILL lacing up my shoes when the last class member left. I’d deliberately dawdled so I could talk to Marshall without asking him to preselect a time, which would have upset the balance of whatever relationship we have.
    “Late tonight,” Marshall commented, folding his gi top carefully and putting it in his gym bag. In his white T-shirt, his arms bare, the warm ivory tinge to his skin was more apparent. Marshall’s grandmother had been Chinese and his grandfather American, he’d told Raphael in my hearing one night. Aside from his skin tone and his straight black hair and dark eyes, it would be hard to tell. He is a little older than I am—about thirty-five, I figure—and only three inches taller. But he is stronger and more dangerous than anyone I’ve met.
    “Police,” I said, by way of explanation.
    “What—about Pardon?” Marshall gave me his attention.
    I shrugged.
    “Something was bothering you tonight,” he said.
    Marshall had never said anything more personal than “Good kick,” or “Keep your hand and wrist in line with your arm,” or “You’ve really worked on those biceps.” Because of our long camaraderie, I felt obliged to answer.
    “A couple of things,” I said slowly. We were sitting on the floor about four feet apart. Marshall had one shoe on and was loosening the laces on the other, and he slipped it on and tied it while I was pulling on my second sock.
    Marshall crossed his legs, wrapping them together in a yoga position, and pushed against the floor with his hands. He was suspended off the floor, his arms and hands taking all his weight. He “walked” over to me like that, and I tried to smile, but I was too uncomfortable with our new situation. We’d never had a personal conversation.
    “So talk,” he said.
    I took as long as I could lacing up my shoe, trying to decide what to say. I looked over at him while he was distracted by the faint sound of