Chapter 8: The Paper Tiger's Teeth

The press room smelled of stale coffee, burnt toast, and the particular desperation of people who had chosen to write about the world instead of living in it. Fong Siu-Bak stood at the back, dripping onto the linoleum, watching the clock tick past the hour Wu the Cheap had promised. The journalist was late, and Siu-Bak had begun to entertain the pleasant fantasy of drowning him in the harbor—a gen...