Dzinski made his way up the stairs, keeping to the sides of each sagging step, to the third floor. The boarding house manager gave him a key, and said Waddil was likely in his room, never left before noon. The hall smelt of cheap noodles and cheaper wine, cigarettes and sweat. Radios blurted behind the thin walls.
He found the room and slid the key in the lock.
Movement from the left. Dzinski ducked, the club catching his shoulder. He spun, left arm arcing up, landing under the other’s chin. Another quick right and Waddil dropped to the threadbare carpet.