Neon Dragon by John Dobbyn Page A

the middle of the night. Alone.”
    â€œI didn’t pick the time, Harry. And maybe I’m not alone.”
    I forced a goofy smile and stepped out into the street. I was walking, but I was listening hard. My heart came down out of my throat when I heard Harry’s footsteps catching up.

7
    HARRY SAID NOTHING. I could tell by the set of his chin that the wrong word from me could break the momentum, and any word was the wrong word.
    He took the lead as we passed five doorways. The sixth was chipped and grimy and hung at an angle that only time and neglect could effect. The glass was caked with decades of pollution. There was not a clue as to what was on the other side. That would not ordinarily raise the hair on the back of my neck, but that combined with Harry’s gripping the doorknob for the duration of an interminable deep breath gave me the galloping creeps.
    When he was mentally set, Harry stiffened his posture, gave me a nod, and pushed open the door. I could see that it led to a hallway the width of the door and just as decrepit. Straight ahead about ten feet the rutted floor bent upward in a flight of well-worn wooden stairs. The light inside was dimmer than the neon glare in the street. Harry held the door open for a second and looked back.
    We caught sight of them at almost the same moment. Three of the young stone faces I had seen in the window of the coffee shop on the corner were moving down the sidewalk in our direction. Harry gave me a “you couldn’t listen” look. There are times, however, when the only way to retreat is to go forward. We moved inside and closed the door.
    About the time we hit the first step, I looked up to see the top landing consumed with the bulk of the first Chinese I’d ever seen who topped six feet four and a conservative two hundred fifty pounds. Whatever notion I had of making it past the top of the stairs died in a lump that I couldn’t swallow.
    Harry never lost a beat. He trudged up the stairs as if he were coming home from a day’s work. I felt a cold draft from behind and turned around. The three faces glared up at us from the bottom of the steps behind us. They were well under twenty, and closer to the Chinese proportions I expected, but the bulges under their coats in the neighborhood of their right arm sockets kept me close to Harry’s heels where the odds were better.
    I stuck, in fact, close enough to Harry to be able to whisper.
    â€œYou were always a friend, Harry, but right now you’re my life insurance.”
    Harry’s eyes never left the top of the stairs, but I could hear the whisper.
    â€œIt’s the other way, Michael. You’re
my
life insurance.”
    I neither understood that nor found it comforting.
    Harry kept climbing. I took it that the ploy was bluff, rather than fight or even cut and run. Considering that they had us boxed in like a runner between first and second base, it was the only option that might possibly not involve suffering.
    I think I jumped when a burst of guttural Chinese came out of the hulk at the top of the stairs. Harry took three more steps without acknowledging the temper tantrum. He was two steps from the top, and close enough to make it possible for one swipe of the side of beef our host used for a right arm to send us both to the bottom of the stairs. Fortunately, he chose to listen instead.
    Harry’s nose came up to about his navel. To his credit, Harry never succumbed to the indignity of looking up. His voice was calm, deliberate, and pure business.
    I couldn’t imagine what he was saying in his native tongue. Thethree of us seemed to hang in suspended animation. I saw those lethal arms poised for a strike that would have decapitated Harry and sent me halfway to Chelsea. I said a few words to the Lord and braced for whatever came in my direction.
    When Harry finished, there was a pause for a few electric seconds that seemed longer than the bar examination while King