This can’t possibly be where I’m supposed to pay out the life force I collected from Mrs. Riley. It’s not just the stink of recently expelled vomit from a junkie passed out in the alley. Or the fact that I’m on the east side of Los Angeles, the low rent district of the metropolitan basin, well past the hour for any legal business. The address Candy gave me points to an industrial warehouse buried deep in the sticky smog that coats everything at ground level. The building’s not even four stories tall. And high potential payoffs like Mr. Brodsky, the CEO of Brodsky Electronics, usually live well above the cancer-inducing air that pools at the impoverished feet of the city. I knock on the metal door, shaking loose a few slivers of rust and hoping someone will answer quickly. I want to confirm I’m in the wrong spot and get out. The dull thuds only disturb the junkie, who rolls out of the spot of hazy street light. The building is deathly silent, a monolith of gray, windowless concrete.
