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of a French imperialist. His teeth had been capped somewhat oddly, too, so that almost all of them were the same length, like piano keys.
    â€œI mean concerning apartment,” Trang explained.
    â€œI made it a long time ago,” Corman told him flatly.
    â€œWhat was decision?”
    â€œI don’t want to buy it.”
    Trang looked mildly hurt. “But Mr. Corman, the insider price is very good,” he said, his eyes sweet, sorrowful, as if he were a good friend trying to prevent Corman from making a disastrous mistake. “And it is very good apartment, as you know.”
    It was a dump with loud radiator pipes and rattling windows, but Corman didn’t feel like going into it. “I just don’t want it,” he said.
    Trang’s face tightened. “Perhaps you have specific problem?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIf you do, it could be repaired,” Trang assured him. “It could all be part of purchasing agreement.”
    â€œI’m not interested,” Corman repeated.
    â€œBut why?” Trang asked. “We could come to arrangement. I am willing to provide financing to insiders.”
    â€œI don’t want to own an apartment,” Corman said firmly.
    â€œAnd that is final?”
    â€œYes.”
    Trang cleared his throat loudly. “Well then,” he said darkly. “I have to bring up other matter.”
    â€œThe rent.”
    â€œI am afraid so.”
    â€œI’ve been a little short recently.”
    â€œShort, yes,” Trang said curtly.
    â€œI’ll get it to you as soon as I can.”
    Trang didn’t look convinced. “The people here, they think I am rich man, that rent does not really matter to me.” He shook his head. “But I have mortgage, you see. It is quite big one, too, as you know from prospectus. I have to pay it, just as you have to pay rent. Every month.”
    Corman nodded, his eyes staring evenly into Trang’s face. It was not an evil face, just flat and faintly yellow with oval eyes and soft, almost purple lips. But there was something behind it, an edginess and brutality that added up to a capacity to do whatever the scheme of things demanded. He looked like the sort of person who was perfectly willing to accept the law of the jungle as the only one there was or ever would be. His body always looked tightly coiled, as if around a low-slung limb, poised to drop, entangle, squeeze.
    â€œYou very smart person,” Trang said. “I am sure you understand about mortgage.”
    â€œI need a little more time.”
    Trang looked at Corman as if he’d asked to sleep with his wife, daily with his twin daughters. “You make it difficult for me, Mr. Corman,” he said flatly. “I am not bad man. People, here, they think I am bad person.”
    Corman said nothing, and his silence seemed to set Trang on edge, stiffen his resolve. His eyes shriveled into two small green dots. “At this point,” he said, “I believe that you are two months in arrears.”
    â€œThat sounds right,” Corman told him.
    â€œOf course, this problem with rent could be figured into purchase price of apartment,” Trang added, now shifting again, becoming more conciliatory. “As discount, you see.”
    Corman shook his head, his eyes still focused on Trang’s face. There was a small birthmark just above his right eyebrow. It was dark pink, and roughly in the shape of a fish. For a moment Corman thought it might be a tattoo, the mark of some murderous Oriental gang of drug runners and assassins to which Trang had once belonged. He wondered if Trang had ever killed a man, slit a throat or bashed in a skull. It was entirely possible, if the rumors were true, and the odd thing was that in America he would never think of such a thing. He would use the law instead, wielding it like a dagger, hurling it at you like a pointed throwing star.
    â€œThe figure is eight hundred and forty-two