The Chinaman, ironically, wasn’t Chinese at all. Or even Asian. He was probably the whitest old man I’d ever seen. He’d been a missionary in China when he was a very young man, and now, as a very old man, he was still remembered for that. Of course the missionary aspect was long gone. He was a fixer, a fence, and a broker of information.It was mid-morning by the time I’d gotten down to his antiquities shop on the edge of the Dog Run. It was perfect for him. Low traffic, easy to launder money.He recognized me as soon as I walked in, of course. We’d run into each other before as my people chased missing goods and assorted other crimes.Although, to be honest, we’d never actually managed to catch him at anything serious.“Good Morning Lieutenant Markham. What can I interest you in this morning?Or is this visit in your professional capacity?” The crepe-skinned old man looked at me with enough interest that I felt a little unclean.I walked over to a huge red-lacquered cabinet. There was no. I run back upstairs in just a old pair of sweats I found downstairs. Once again I am taken aback by what the candles have done to the mystery of the house. I call out your name and hear nothing back. I walk through the kitchen and call out with no response, I move to the living room and once again nothing, I walk into the study/bar room and see you sitting in my big leather chair with just a tie on (my favorite one), with your legs on the desk and something that I can't make out going across your chest in the dim light of the candles. I am once again taken aback by seeing such beauty in front of me. You are smiling at me and slowly rubbing your perfectly shaved pussy lips. You stop touching yourself and tell me to lose the sweats and sit in the other chair and just relax, there is a bottle of my favorite scotch on a little table with just the right amount in a glass for me. I sit in the chair, get comfortable and have a sip of scotch feeling the warm liquid coat my throat and warm my.
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