“Can I help you, sir!” The words aren’t shouted, but there’s enough acid in them to burn holes in my eardrums.
I turn quick, make a fist. I’m not about to haul off and belt Bowl Haircut in the mouth, but I can’t help instinct. Instead of violence, I force a smile.
“Help?” I say. “Oh, well, now that you mention it, I do have a question. How is your English?”
Bowl Haircut is looking at me through the thick round lenses on his horn rim eyeglasses.
“My English is excellent,” he says, like I’ve insulted him merely at the suggestion of it being not so excellent.
For a brief second or two, I consider asking him about the room behind this room, which he by now realizes I’m aware of. The fact that he was so quick to pounce on me for my discovery, combined with his angry demea
