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gave him hives.
    “And stay out!” he shouted, flipping the door shut with his toe.
    I picked myself up and assessed the damage. Other than for some bruised ribs and a jacket full of splinters, I was unharmed. The same couldn’t be said for my cell phone, which had been in my back pocket. I fished out a few pieces of plastic and some metal innards, extracted the memory chip, and threw the rest in the trash.
    It could have been worse; it could have been my head. And maybe next time it would be. Because it was a little hard to stop doing whatever was pissing Cheung off when I didn’t even know what it was.
    I walked back over and retrieved the guy’s wallet. “You going to tell me what you know?” I asked Fin.
    “It isn’t much,” he said, eyeing the fat sheaf of banknotes peeking out of the natty eel-skin cover. “They call themselves Leaping Tigers, and they’re new. The first of them showed up about a month ago, but they operate out of Chinatown, not here. I heard they pretty much destroyed a couple gangs over there, setting up house. They’re bad news.”
    Tell me something I don’t know, I thought cynically. “And this house would be where?”
    He licked his lips. “You, uh, you gonna need all that?”
    I fanned myself with the fat stack of bills. “I thought you wouldn’t touch Tiger money.” He gave me a limpid look and I sighed. “You’re planning to tell everyone I took it, aren’t you?”
    He looked pained. “You can take care of yourself better than me. And you
did
shoot him.”
    “So give.”
    “I already did. Nobody knows where they hole up during the day. It’s like they just vanish.”
    “You mean nobody wants to know.”
    “That, too. Anyway, they’ve made a big impression pretty damn fast. You’re better off staying away from them.”
    “Yeah. But will they stay away from me?”
    “Just take care, Dory.”
    “I always do.” I fished out a five and tossed the rest on the bar. “Drinks are on him.”
    * * *
    Raymond Lu was a disreputable nightclub owner who had recently become a disreputable snitch. He didn’t have a tiger tat, probably because he wasn’t important enough to deserve one, but his boss just happened to be Lord Cheung. And the last time one of Cheung’s guys had taken a shot at my head, it had been due to my association with Ray.
    His club’s logo had been emblazoned on the matches I’d found in the hit man’s coat, so I decided to see if anything interesting was happening. It wasn’t. Of course, that in itself was interesting.
    The club usually did a pretty good business, despite being wedged between an acupuncturist and a cut-rate electronics store on a backstreet of Chinatown. Not tonight, though. The jazzy neon sign was dark and the usual bouncer-and-rope combo was missing from the front door.
    Instead, a large guy leaned against the dirty bricks, in the process of lighting a cigarette. The glow of the flame into his cupped palm highlighted a familiar craggy face. Zheng-ze, aka Scarface, Cheung’s right-hand vamp and a first-level master with power to burn.
    He and his boss were in the process of challenging for seats on the senate, the ruling body for vamps in North America. From what I’d heard, they’d been doing pretty good. I silently cursed and shifted a little closer to the Dumpster that was providing my cover. The fact that Scarface was standing guard duty cut down my chances of getting in by at least half.
    A moment later, he finished lighting up and relaxed against the wall. And grinned at me. I gave it up and crossed the road.
    “Haven’t you heard that stuff’ll kill you?” I asked as he took a long drag.
    He laughed it back out. “You look like shit,” he told me cheerfully, his eyes on the not-yet-faded bruises under the pancake I’d slathered on before leaving the house. “I heard you got yourself blown up.”
    “You heard wrong.” Although it had been pretty damn close.
    “Good. Once I get the Challenges outta the way, you