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latest, then. Less than two hours to draft an email. That would be some sort of record. C.J.! Mr. Wang is descending the stairs. He wears his vest but the jacket is off and his sleeves rolled up. C.J. recognizes this look, the man is in combat mode, and as a sort of confirmation, he can hear his hard-soled shoes on the steps, slamming down with martial rhythm, one-two, one-two. Without a word C.J. is ushered into Mr. Wang's study. Mr. Wang has a Ph.D. from an Ivy League institution, and his study is perfect in its replication of a university dean's wood-paneled sanctum. A globe of the world the size of a beach ball occupies the center of the room, continents rendered in shimmering crystal, the orb itself composed of the same material that makes up Mr. Wang's safety glass. 
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You doing all right? Mr. Wang has seated himself behind the desk. A single lamp burns on it, and C.J. is reminded of backroom deals in old gangster films. Fine, he replies. New clothes. It's a good look for you. Thank you. C.J. has buttoned up his shirt and tucked what he can of it into his pants. Sorry for being short with you on the phone earlier. I was out of sorts. No problem. At least until the next time, he thinks. Shall we get down to business? I want to get this taken care of tonight.  |
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