Mrs. Chan owned the building where Matt Cadd had his office. Yearly, he renewed his lease. The ritual was the same: smoke Luckies, drink gunpowder, play mah jongg.
Then she would consult the I Ching, and divine his future.
"Ting," she said, "great progress and success."
Fat chance, he thought.
Fifty stalks of yarrow.
Son of Bleah
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