Jeremy Chen said. It was the next morning. We were in the restaurant at the Chinatown Holiday Inn. He examined his gold cigarette lighter and tossed me a menu. “You want any of this shit?” He leaned back, a sleek, good-looking guy, medium height, chunky, with tough thighs like a body builder. Tight black jeans. A black turtleneck, a fleece shirt. And silk thermals. In the cold, he always wore silk thermals, he told me. Tossed over the back of his chair was a white jacket. A Coco Katz, he said. It must have cost five hundred bucks. For a guy with his macho posturing, only Chen’s mouth was wrong. It was a tight round mouth with plump lips, a mouth shaped like an asshole. Literally. “Art, you listening? This girl did not buy it from the blade. She was fucking strangled first. Piano wire,” said Chen. Then he waved at a waitress. “Where’s my fucking coffee?” “What are we talking about here?” “You tell me.” He held out a red and gold box of Dunhills. “I thought we were talking about Dawn Tae.
