They walked the long, lonely staircase all the way to the ground floor. Petrovitch considered them lucky to arrive unmolested; perhaps Sorenson’s minimal dress and his aura of impotent rage made it appear that the American had already been mugged.

“Where are we going?” Sorenson blinked in the morning light and hugged himself.

“I told you. Breakfast.”

They crossed at the lights and crashed through Wong’s sticky door.

“Hey, Petrovitch. You still owe me for yesterday.” Wong flicked a filthy tea towel at him.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. The Yank’s paying. Two full breakfasts, and coffee, strong as you like.”

Wong folded his arms and regarded Sorenson. “Who this?”

“Just one of my yakuza friends. So, when you’re ready with the coffee?”

“It not enough that you bad man: you now hang out with bad men. Big cars, guns, money. It ends in early grave.” He dragged his finger across his throat.

They looked at each other across the counter, Wong swapping his attention between Petrovitch and Sorenson.

“Breakfast?” ventured Petrovitch. “Or should we go elsewhere?”

“Show me the money,” said Wong.

“Show him the money, Sorenson.”

“What? I guess.” He dug in his pocket for his credit chip and handed it to Wong, who fed it into the reader.

His thunderous expression lightened a little. “Okay, you sit down. No organizing crime in my shop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Petrovitch kicked Sorenson over to the corner table, and chose to sit with his back against the wall and a good view of the door. “Sit your ass down. We’ve got some serious eating to do.”

Sorenson cast a suspicious glance over to the counter where his credit chip remained in the till. “I still don’t understand what we’re doing here.”

“Look. You’ve been up all night, walking the streets—and God only knows how you survived that—and have been running on nervous energy since you realized just how catastrophic the mistake you made is. We’re going to load up on caffeine and long-chain carbohydrates, then I’m going to beat you around the head until your brain restarts. Yeah?”

Sorenson stared at him.

“How old are you?” asked Petrovitch. He swept the tabletop with the palm of his hand and decrumbed it against his thigh. Wong banged down two mugs of coffee and rumbled deep in his throat. “Thanks, Wong. Really, you don’t want to overhear any of this.”

He walked away muttering about bad men.

“Thirty-six,” said Sorenson.

“You’ve been through the draft, yeah?”

“Sure, I served my country. Corps of Engineers. Five years. I made sergeant and got me a chestful of medals, including two Purple Hearts.”

Petrovitch leaned back. “Then grow a pair of yajtza, man.”