by Anton Gully
Hong Po never bothered to knock, but then he never had to. I always knew it was him by the way he climbed the stairs to my second floor office, exhibiting all the grace of a refrigerator.
He just about remembered to turn the handle before opening the door, and was right in front of my desk in three brutal strides.
“Ten grand,” he said, slapping a plain white envelope on top of the crossword I was cross-hatching. Without another word he turned on his heel, left my office and lumbered back down the stairs. He didn't even shut the door behind him.
I waited until the big Scotsman's steps had quietened down to a soft earthquake before I opened the envelope and slid out the contents. Immediately I laid my eyes on the photograph I got grabbed by that giddy sensation I experience when I imagine being able to afford to eat.
I counted half way to three before grabbing my phone and dialing the number. I wasn't surprised when Reyes answered, but he made the mistake of getting right into telling me my business and how I was doing it all wrong.
“Button your yap-hole, flunky,” I said, being as diplomatic as the situation demanded. “Arrange a meeting for me with your boss. Oh and be sure to bring twenty thousand dollars to make me feel special. That's right... tell Mr. Selleck I've found his mustache.”