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.
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
No problem. At least until the next time, he thinks.
Shall we get down to business? I want to get this taken care of