Arslan stepped into the back room of the Huanghou Qu Lianhua safe house, the scent of rubbing alcohol and engine oil following him like everywhere in this place. The hallway was dead quiet, save for the faint sound of a refrigerator storing some medicine.
Arslan reached into his pocket and pulled out the blood-smeared burner he had snatched off one of Vito's dock hitters earlier that night. The casing was sticky, but the phone was working fine. He dialed Vincent's number from memory and held the phone to his ear.
The line buzzed four times before Vincent picked up the phone. "I already told you, Milo, screaming at me won't make the money appear any faster," Vincent said, his voice dry and smelling of scotch even through the speaker.
"It's me," Arslan said flatly. A heavy silence filled the line. The sound of a glass resting against the table echoed on Vincent's end, followed by the soft click of an office door swinging shut.
