Ghosts of Chinatown Read Online Free PDF

theory into practice. Yes, Jasmine, it’s been awhile. Long enough to transform myself into a lethal weapon.”  
    She karate chops Liang’s desk, breaking it into pieces. Some of the flying debris knocks the erhu to the floor. “Piece of junk.”

Chapter 8
    Once upon a time the Ho Inn was the place to be in Chinatown. It’s one of those weird yin-yang kind of places that combines East and West—even the name is like that. Ho in Chinese means “good” and to call this place an “inn” is like hyperbole times ten. While in the old days, cops, politicians and every Chinese person in town came to eat good, cheap Chinese food, nowadays with the demise of Chinatown, the Ho Inn is just a dump that no one goes to anymore. You can’t call this place “retro” because “retro” implies some kind of “cool.” This place is just a dump.
    However, there is a certain weird segment of humanity that still haunts joints like this. Guys like Cam who get some kind of perverted delight by spending time in a rundown room with dilapidated furnishings, cheap booze and even cheaper patrons. Harlan Kwan, a massive, tattooed Chinese guy in his twenties with a white Mohawk, looks like someone you definitely don’t want to get into an argument with and stands behind a Formica bar counter, scowling as Cam and Todd enter.
    Cam gives the pockmarked Chinese bartender a high five. “Hey, amigo, how’s life?”
    Harlan grabs a few glasses. “Life is totally chill and the biz is even better now that you’re here.” He starts pulling draft beers into a dozen glasses. “Shut up, sit down and drink. Brews for a bender.”
    “Don’t need to be told twice.” Cam points to Todd. “This fine gentleman is Todd, aka Piano Man.”
    Harlan spits on the floor. “Piano is for pussies and sissies.”
    Cam and Todd grab a table as the lowlife bartender plops the first of what will be many pints in front of them. “Drink fast. I got bills to pay.”
    “Ever the charmer, Harlan. Love you too.” Harlan eases his brewski down his throat, smiling amusedly at Todd.
    Todd looks around the room, noticing the cracks in the mirror behind the bar, a cockroach scampering along the floor and the distinct odor of old frying oil that has been re-used for way too long. He’s a lousy liar. “Nice place.”
    “There’s only one rule in this place,” Harlan snarls, looking Todd square in the eye. “This is a no BS zone.”
    “Got it. This place is a shithole.”
    “But it’s a very good shithole. I been coming here since university days.” Cam chugs a beer and smacks his lips. “In college I did a double major—booze and women. Scored high and often. What about you, Piano Man?”
    “Me? Piano at the Beijing Academy.” Todd knocks his beer back even quicker than Cam.
    “Whoa, man. You go to China for sizzling Szechuan sweeties, not boring Beethoven. How’d you wind up there?”
    “Parents divorced. Mom slaved to give me music lessons. Couldn’t afford to go to Europe, New York or Toronto. Rejection letters a foot thick. So I googled and found that Beijing was looking to increase its international profile and sent off an application. China called, I answered. Full scholarship.”
    Cam nods in approval. “Nice. An all-expense-paid trip to the land of cheap Tsingtao and fine, foxy Asian ladies wanting to raise the ‘international profiles’ of some North American stud. Why would you leave paradise?”
    Todd reaches into Cam’s shirt pocket, pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He inhales deeply. “A problem came up. Woman problems.”
    “Oh for chrissake, playboy Piano Man. I thought you’re gonna say something important like you tried to sell dope to a Communist Party official or defaced a Chairman Mao poster. Women are not problems. They are solutions. Use ’em and lose ’em.”
    Harlan plops more beers onto the table. “Then abuse them.”
    Cam motions for Harlan to join them. “You’re one nasty SOB, Harlan. Nasty, nasty.
    “I