Dim Sum

I go with the police men to a room, like a tea room, run with red lacquered carts and men bowing to me. The waiters smoke in the doorway downstairs, here they will not pass you, and will stop moving as you pass them. A three hundred pound Samoan orders for us, nodding or waving things away, and little wet & woven boxes pile up around us. Everything is wrapped, hidden in folded damp pastry. A fellow leans back and scratches himself, guns peeking out. The sugar trolley is also red, shiny, also with bells, but it has a clear glass belly lit up with pink lights.