Chapter 2

           ThepaperbackI’dbeenreadingwasbesidemypillow.

           ItwasamysterynovelaboutanAmericandetectivewhoissupposedtobesomesortofexpertontheOrient.IhadmyindexfingerwedgedintoascenewhereallthekeyplayersmeetfordinnerataJapaneserestaurantinNewYork.Thedetective’sclient,anItalian,triestoorderanespressoaftertheirmeal,butthedetectivestopshimcold.HestartsonabouthowatJapaneserestaurants,theybringyougreenteaafterdinner,soyoudon’thavetoorderanything.Thenheveersoffonhowgreenteagoesgreatwithsoysauce,andoh,whyisitthatinIndiatheyspicetheirmilktea?He’sfinallygatheredeveryoneinvolvedinthecaseinoneplace,andhetalksabluestreakabouteverythingbutwhodunit.

           Irubbedmyeyes.

           PassingmyhandovermyshirtIfeltmystomachthroughthecloth.Icouldmakeoutanewlyformedsix-packthathadn’tbeentherehalfayearback.Notraceofanywound,nocharredflesh.Myrightarmwasrightwhereitshouldbe.Goodnewsallaround.Whatacrappydream.

           Imusthavefallenasleepreadingthebook.IshouldhaveknownsomethingwasupwhenMadWargaritastartedstrikingupsmalltalkaboutmysterynovels.AmericanSpecialOperatorswho’dcrossedtheentirePacificOceanjustforatasteofblooddidn’thavetimetoreadthelatestbestseller.Iftheyhadsparetime,they’dprobablyspendittweakingtheirJackets.

           Whatawaytostarttheday.Todaywasgoingtobemyfirstrealtasteofbattle.