The restaurant is right next to the company building, close enough that we walk there instead of driving.
It's one of those upscale places that tries too hard to look casual, exposed brick and Edison bulbs and a menu written on a chalkboard like that makes it authentic.
Wuchen Ming is already there when we arrive, sitting at a table near the back with a glass of wine in front of him.
He looks up as we approach and smiles.
"Ah, finally," he says, tone light and pleasant. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about this old man."
"Traffic," Bael replies smoothly, pulling out a chair.
"In the elevator?"
"You'd be surprised."
I bow a little, then sit down across from Uncle Ming, trying to arrange my face into something polite and neutral.
He's watching me with that same smile, the one that doesn't reach his eyes, and I can feel the calculation behind it like a physical weight.
