Excerpt

“Thanks doll.” He got in the elevator and rode it up to the top floor, where Charlie Chan kept his office. Joe adjusted the pistol stuck in the back of his belt under the trenchcoat. He missed his holster. Well, you make do with what you've got.

The elevator doors opened and two sets of arms attached to two very big men pulled him out of it and threw him to the hard wooden floor, face first. Joe grunted as he hit hard, but he didn't cry out, or protest, though it made his stomach hurt more. It wasn't entirely unexpected. They quickly took the pistol out of his belt, and a knife from the ankle sheath in his boot. They even took his shoes off and inspected the soles inside and out. There was a time when they might have found something. Joe could hear Charlie from across the room.

“Evening Joe. I haven't seen you in some time.” His consonants were clipped and precise, with only a hint of his native mandarin.

The thug that had been holding him down while the other searched him let him up. He tugged his boots back on. “Nice to see you too, Charlie. I should come by more often. Missed your hospitality.” He looked up. Charlie wore a suit. A black suit. A nice suit. The kind of suit you wear when you have options. When you can choose a suit for whatever occasion you need one. A suit to impress. A suit to work in. A suit to speak seriously in. That, Joe remembered, was the black suit.

His own clothing, beneath the coat, spoke of hard decisions, perhaps poor decisions. He got up slowly. Charlie gestured towards a chair. “Have a seat Joe.” There was a fire place against the wall, and several comfortable chairs around it. The desk was in the corner of the room, next to a window with a view over the lofts across the street and out across the city. The sun had set. Joe sat down, and Charlie sat across from him.

“So, Joe. What brings you around? Not Cara, I think? I was watching you. She didn't even look at you. I bet that hurts.”

Joe sat, looking at Charlie's legs, his suitcoat, the buttons on his jacket, but not meeting the level gaze that Charlie kept on his face. “Should I be happy that you've come back? Maybe you have the money you owe me? It's not on you though. I'll bet you hid it. You're just teasing me by coming here. You were always smart, Joe.

“You don't look like you've got my money though. No, you don't look that way at all. That's alright though, Joe. I don't mind. See I've always liked you. You and me. We're friends. We used to work together. I'll always remember that. Why, you got me where I am. I have you to thank, for all of this!” He raised his arms up and gestured around, looking up and around, grinning widely. Joe remained silent. Charlie brought his arms down, and his smile died on his face.

“And that Joe, is the ONLY reason you are not dead. The ONLY reason I have not had you dragged out of the filthy hole you live in and had you strangled in the street like a fucking rat. Because that is what I do to people who treat me like you have been treating me. I fucking eat their brains, Joe.” Charlie tugged on his coat arms, straightening the fit of the jacket. A bare hint of a smile returned to his face, a soft grimace. He still did not meet Charlies gaze.

“Well. You have not come here to pay me, and I have graciously not had you killed. So, what can Charlie Chan do for Joe Larson?” He folded his arms.

Joe was silent for another moment, and then spoke, still not looking up at him. “I need some work Charlie.”

“You need some money, is what you mean. And what you really mean, beyond that, well... I know things, Joe, and other people know things, and they talk. I've been hearing some things about you. You've been taking a lot of poppers. And whatever else you find. You've got a habit I hear. You're hooked, and you live in filth. Your friends have given up on you. Some of them actively hate you.”

“I'm just looking for some work,” Joe said, looking up and finally meeting his gaze. There was no hint of anger in his voice. It was flat, unemotional, the low hum of a train from a mile away, going nowhere. They stared at each other for a moment. Nothing moved in the room. Not the two thugs who stood by the door, not Charlie, and not Joe. The fire barely crackled as the two of them stared at each other. Joe grimaced and blinked, clutching his stomach. The poppers were mostly gone, and the pain was returning.

“You've got gut wasps, don't you?” Joe didn't respond. “I've got some work for you. Sure. You know what, I think I've got something that only Joe can do. Tell you what. I'll send Cully round your place. In three days.” He reached into his coat and Joe tensed for just a second, as Charlie pulled out a money clip. “I'm going to place some trust in you. You know why? I feel sorry for you. Here.” He counted five bills out of a neatly folded bundle. “Here's an advance. Five hundred dollars Joe. Get cleaned up. Get yourself a nicer pistol. I couldn't kill my grandmother with that thing Tommy took from you. And take care of those wasps. They'll kill you.” Charlie stood up and walked to a door in the back of the room.

“One thing more Joe. I'm charging you interest on your advance. And I'm going to collect it right now. Just so you don't forget. Be seeing you.” Charlie left the room, and Joe stood up slowly. Tommy grinned and cracked his knuckles as he and the other thug began walking towards him.