23
If I’d been a tough Private Detective, a Philip Marlowe type, I would have grabbed hold of Chu, dragged him across the counter, beaten some respect into him, and beaten the information I needed out of him. But violence isn’t my bag. So I turned and left, in a dignified but rather hasty fashion. As I made my exit I found myself wondering if it would help Chu with his manners to have his head stuck fast in a vice for a while. I suspected that it probably would.
When I got home I pored over Jim’s journals, once again trying to find something I might have missed that would lead me to a pile of bodies. My studies were interrupted by a telephone call from my mother. She sounded excited.
“Bradley,” she said. “Your Dad is coming home tomorrow. Isn’t that great news? He’ll be arriving in the
