He approached the open bay, staying close to the shut loading-dock doors and careful not to bump into them. He knew they’d rattle if he did. When he reached the corner of the open bay door, he peered around the corner.

Three men, Chinese, sat at a folding card table, talking in normal voices and playing a game with plastic tiles. Dominoes, maybe, Jack told himself. More likely mah-jongg—hugely popular in Asia.

One of them, the oldest—with short-cropped silver hair and broad, sloping shoulders—puffed on a thick cigar wedged in his square jaw. The air was clouded with blue smoke.

The table was located in front of a line of pallets, each stacked six feet high with boxes of DVD players wrapped in thick cellophane. One of the pallets had been torn open, and several of the boxes were stacked on the floor. Each box was big enough to hold several DVD players. One of them had been opened, and a unit removed from its packaging and tossed on the floor. Next to them, an electric lift table extended halfway up.

What’s going on here? Jack rubbed his face, frustrated. It didn’t make any sense. Had he gotten the address wrong? Or was this just a goat rope?

Damn it.

He decided to head back home to regroup. He’d turned to leave when he heard a shout.

“Hey! Hey!”

Jack saw Cigar Man smiling and waving him over, his face shrouded in tendrils of smoke. The other two men turned around. They were younger—one was in his thirties, the other about Jack’s age. They smiled, too.

Cigar Man shouted something to Jack in Chinese, then turned back to the card table, studying the tiles in front of him. Probably something along the lines of Join us in the game.

Jack felt the weight of the crescent wrench tucked at his waist. He was glad he hadn’t pulled it out like a weapon. If he turned and ran, these guys might call the cops, mistaking him for a thief. Better to come on in and play dumb.

Jack stepped out of the storm and into the warehouse, shaking off the rain from his jacket onto the concrete floor as one of the men shouted, “Mah-jongg!” Jack glanced up. The thirty-something guy punched his fists in the air in victory as the older man laughed and the younger one cursed.

Jack approached the table and saw the familiar tiles. He’d had a Taiwanese girlfriend in college who’d taught him the game—along with a few other things. The Cigar Man blew another plume of smoke as he and the others swiftly turned the tiles facedown. Fond memories of midnight mah-jongg games in the dorm flooded his mind. He wasn’t very good at it, but it was a lot of fun, especially when he was drinking PBRs. He’d played the game a hundred times if he played it once.