By R.W. Graves
Copyright © 2011 by R.W. Graves
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Kane Irving, short, the physique of an addicted TV watcher, stared out of the 40th floor window. To the east, the Brooklyn Bridge faded into snowfall. Through the south glass wall he could just see the spire of New York City Hall. The headache had eased but claustrophobia pressed in on him as cigarette smoke filled the air like London fog, settling on the huge conference table like beached flotsam. What the hell was wrong with the AC in this place? These damn chain-smoking Chinese couldn’t be bothered with our rules and laws.