23Smoke snuck up Cecil’s nostrils and seeped into the waterline of his eyes as he stepped into Salon de Ming. The smell of simmering pork dumplings and jasmine fried rice mixed with flowery perfumes from Ami and Pierre Lazard. The Shanghai decor, in deep reds and golds, floated over the glowing lights of New York City’s skyscrapers outside.
It was a glass bar on the top of the sky, a red bubble about to burst if it hit one of the towers surrounding it. This was the edge of luxury.
Cecil felt the sweat pooling around his shirt collar, making him itch. His watch felt heavy on his wrist. Atonal music from Asian stringed instruments came from behind a black curtain. They played as if they were out of tune, a dark medieval clashing of rattling chords.
Anyone in the room could’ve been VD—any
