Dragon Day

Copyright © 2015 by Lisa Brackmann

 

All rights reserved.

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brackmann, Lisa.

Dragon day / Lisa Brackmann.

ISBN 978-1-61695-345-4

eISBN 978-1-61695-346-1

I. Title.

PS3602.R333D73 2015

813'.6—dc23 2015001857

Printed in the United States of America

10
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

also by lisa brackmann

 

Rock Paper Tiger

Getaway

Hour of the Rat

 

 

 

To my mom, Dorothy Carol Brackmann Galante,
who taught me to love books, baseball, politics and cats,
and has the best laugh I have ever heard.

 

 

★

Dragons and China.
It's the biggest fucking cliché. If you ever go looking for books about China, you know how many of them have “dragon” in the title? Like all of them, practically.

Thing is, dragons are a big deal in China. The emperor's symbol was a dragon. Dragons are all kinds of good luck, and super powerful. They can control weather, especially the kind that involves water. Your village keep flooding? Maybe you pissed off the local river dragon. Dragons can hide among clouds, disguise themselves as worms, or grow as big as mountains. Out of the twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac, Dragon is the one you most want your kid to be. Dragon babies are attractive, smart, natural leaders, bring good fortune to the family. Yeah, I know all the other animals are supposed to have positive characteristics, but come on. You're telling me you'd choose to be a Sheep over a Dragon?

Me, I'm a Rat. Obviously I'm not winning any zodiac beauty contest. Sure, they say we're clever survivors, and that's useful, I guess. It's true I've survived some pretty crazy shit.

On the other hand, if I'm so clever, why do I keep walking into it?

If you believe in any of this Chinese astrology, it's way more complicated than just the animal year you were born in. There's an animal for your birth month, for your birthday, for the hour you're born, and there's all this other stuff having to do with the four elements—or maybe it's five—and stems and pillars, and I have no idea what any of that means.

All these things have to do with your luck, or lack of it, and what kind of person you are. Because it's not like every single baby born in a Dragon year turns out to be smart, good-looking, and destined to rule, right?

So maybe you're born in a Dragon year but on a Sheep day.

And maybe some of those Sheep have Dragons inside.

Chapter One

★

I'm eyeing the
bottle of vintage Moutai on the table and wondering if it would be unforgivably rude of me to pour myself another shot.

I don't even like Moutai. But Sidney Cao singing “Feelings”? I definitely need something.

We've finished the Château Mouton Rothschild (“Genuine one,” Sidney promised), and there's nothing else left on the table to drink except Pepsi.

“Feelings . . . nothing more than . . . feelings . . .”

I'm sitting in a private room in what I'm told is one of the three most expensive karaoke bars in Shanghai. The weird thing is, it's not in a super-upscale neighborhood like the Bund or Nanjing Road, the French Concession or the riverfront in Pudong. Instead it's this area west of the Shanghai train station that looks pretty typical: grey high-rises, broad streets choked with traffic and torn up by subway construction, nothing green in sight except for the occasional strange paint job. Vendors selling socks and DVDs and steamed buns crowd the sidewalks, along with bicycles and electric scooters.

This place though, outside, it's a façade pretending to be marble that's slathered with neon, fiberglass columns, and turrets surrounding tall, fake-bronze doors. The cars double-parked in the street are Beemers, Mercedes, Ferraris, a Rolls, and a Bentley. On the inside there's a huge lobby four stories high that you have to go through a metal detector to enter, and when you do, you're surrounded by the fronts of fake buildings, like a movie set of a European village, all painted white, and everywhere you look, there are gilded planters and gold chandeliers, Plexiglas kiosks advertising luxury goods, giant ornate mirrors, and the kind of fussy carved furniture that belongs in a Three Musketeers movie with dudes wearing long powdered wigs, except instead of being white like it usually is, the furniture's painted peacock blue and neon green.

Also grand pianos. There are several in the cavernous lobby, black Steinways, sitting beneath a painted sky hanging four stories up that gradually changes from sunny blue with popcorn clouds to a garish red sunset.

No pianists, though. Maybe the pianos are just for decoration.

Our private room is pretty cozy, with fake Renaissance paintings on the red-flocked walls, which I have to say do not go very well with the peacock blue and neon green Musketeers furniture. But whatever.

I'm sitting next to Lucy Wu on one of the couches. Lucy, my sometime partner in the art business, owns a Shanghai gallery, and she dresses the part. She wears crazy designer stuff a lot, but tonight she's outdone herself outfitwise. It's this short, sleeveless, white dress with daisy-shaped cutouts and a halo of wispy white ostrich feathers, paired with red leather boots. Her shiny black hair is cut in this blunt anime style, and she's wearing bright scarlet lipstick, thick mascara, and eyeliner like on a cartoon Cleopatra.

“Feeeeelings . . . Oh, oh, oh, feeeelings
 . . .
”

“One more chorus,” she says to me, all the while keeping a big smile on her face.

Sidney really can't sing. I mean, I can't sing either, but I'm not the one standing up there with the microphone. So far this evening, Sidney has regaled us with “Yueliao Daibiao Wode Xin” (“The Moon Represents My Heart”), “Home on the Range,” and “Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman”—“Cultural Revolution favorite!” he explains with a big laugh.

I'm just about to reach for the Moutai
when the song ends. Lucy smiles, showing her perfect tiny teeth, and claps. I smile and nod and clap.

Vicky Huang, the fourth member of our party, sits straight backed, not smiling, because this is serious stuff apparently, and she's staring up at Sidney and applauding like she's witnessing the Second Coming.

Sidney beams and approaches our little group of couches, microphone in hand. As he does, our very own private waitress, dressed in a French maid's outfit, emerges from the shadows of the back wall, where she'd blended in like one of the paintings.

Smiling, without saying a word, she refills the tiny crystal flutes reserved for the Moutai.

“Ganbei!”
Sidney says, raising his glass.

“Oh, thank God,” Lucy Wu murmurs in my ear.

I lift my glass. We clink. And Lucy, who is about the size of an anorexic hobbit, downs hers in a single
“Ganbei.”

I don't do as well. I know this is expensive stuff and prized in China, but it's about 110 proof and tastes like sweet and sour paint thinner, with maybe a dash of soy sauce. The Moutai catches in my throat, and I cough.

“Now, Ellie, I think it is
your
turn!” I look up, and there's Sidney holding the microphone in his outstretched hand.

“Oh, no, that's okay,” I say. “I'm . . . you know, I can't really sing.”

“Everyone can sing! You only must express what's in your heart!”

Believe me, buddy, you don't want to know.

“I . . . uh, my throat's kind of sore.”

“Then you should have more Moutai!” He doesn't even need to raise his hand. He merely flexes his fingers, and the waitress rushes over to refill our glasses.

“Just sing something!” Lucy hisses in my ear.

“Why don't
you
sing something?” I hiss back.

“Because he asked
you
.”

“What shall you sing, Ellie?” Sidney asks.

I really don't want to sing. But a good rule of thumb? Don't piss off Chinese billionaires.

Especially don't piss off Sidney Cao.

I mean, it's not like he
seems
scary. He's wearing his usual golf shirt, slacks, and ugly designer belt, this sixtyish guy with prominent cheekbones, a bony nose, and crooked teeth. Which he could obviously fix if he wanted to. But he doesn't seem to care.

“I . . . um, where's the book? I'll take a look.”

The waitress quickly fetches the Big Book of Karaoke Tunes, a red leather binder with an embossed gold crest on it, some kind of made-up coat of arms. I start flipping through it. I have no freakin' clue what to sing. “My Heart Will Go On”? I don't think so.

“While you decide, I will sing,” Vicky Huang announces. She rises.

I think of Vicky as Sidney's enforcer. I doubt that she'd actually break my kneecaps, but she'd know who to call. Like the dude in the nice suit standing sentry by the door. There's nothing about him that sticks in your head. He's just this slightly taller-than-average Chinese guy with a thick neck and a crew cut.

Vicky, on the other hand, stands out. She's wearing an outfit that might look cute on a young, thin, twenty-something girl: brown leather hot pants over black leggings and a tight, fuzzy pink sweater. On a middle-aged, chubby woman with a cloud of teased, dyed black hair sporting red highlights, not so much.

Sidney hands her the mike like he's passing a loaded gun. I drink my Moutai, which I've decided is not so bad, at least situationally.

She takes her place in front of the giant flat-screen karaoke monitor. Stands there with this deadly serious expression, like she's facing a firing squad or has otherwise found Jesus.

The music begins. Swells. Building up to something big. On the screen there are random nature scenes and a young couple sitting on bright green grass, staring at each other, holding hands. Cartoon hearts drift up into the pixelated sky.

Vicky Huang opens her mouth, and out comes,
“The hills are aliiiive . . . with the sound of muuuusic . . .”

What I wasn't expecting: Vicky Huang can actually sing.

Sidney claps wildly.

Lucky me, Vicky gets on a roll and sings four songs, and by the time she's done, Sidney's ready to bounce. This whole long night, he hasn't said one word about why he wanted me and Lucy to meet him in Shanghai for karaoke, but that's the way business gets done here a lot of the time.

When we gather in the lobby, next to a Lucite display advertising Rolex, the fake sky is black, with a full moon and clusters of stars. A jazz combo plays around one of the grand pianos, a song that would be kind of mellow if it weren't amplified to the point of distortion.

“Thank you for the lovely evening,” Lucy says to Sidney. “Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you while you're in Shanghai.”

“Of course, of course! We will talk. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Vicky Huang consults her iPad. “Two
p.m.
” It is not a suggestion.

Lucy doesn't miss a beat. “I believe I'm available.” She turns to me. “Ellie?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” I mean, what else am I going to do, other than try to score soup dumplings? Which sounds like a great idea, actually.

I'm the one who hooked up Lucy and Sidney. And even though Lucy thanks me for the connection, I feel a little queasy about it. Because I like Lucy a lot. We work together. She's a friend. And getting involved with Sidney is a really mixed bag.

“Shall we meet at the gallery?” Lucy asks. “I have a show up now with an emerging artist who may interest you.”

“Of course, of course.” Sidney sounds distracted. “Vicky will arrange.”

Sidney Cao, in addition to being a ruthless billionaire guy, is seriously obsessed with collecting art. He has a collection that blows a lot of museums out of the water. Everything from Vermeer to Warhol. More recently he's gotten into contemporary Chinese art, which is how our paths happened to cross. I manage the works of an important contemporary artist: Zhang Jianli, my friend Lao Zhang. “Lao” means old, which he's not; he's maybe forty, but it's also a term of respect and friendship.

A lot of people respect Lao Zhang.

My ending up as his representative was kind of an accident, and though I've come around to thinking that the art gig isn't bad in theory, some of the complications—drinking tea with Domestic Security, karaoke marathons with a homicidal billionaire—are starting to wear on me.

Okay, maybe “homicidal” isn't fair. Maybe he just told his muscle to do whatever it takes to arrange a meeting with me to discuss Lao Zhang's art a couple of months ago, and what it happened to take was . . . well, killing people. Stuff happens, right?

Besides, I'd probably be dead if he hadn't. I was in the middle of some serious shit at the time, and the people his men killed weren't exactly my friends.

“Can I drop you at your hotel?” Lucy asks me. She drives a cute MINI Cooper.

“That'd be great.” I'm staying at my usual Shanghai rack, this funky, sprawling nineteenth-century hotel at the north end of the Bund. It's getting kind of pricey, over seventy bucks a night, but I have this thing where I get comfortable someplace and that takes the edge off the ol' PTSD hypervigilance, especially in a city as crazy big as Shanghai. This hotel, I know where it is, how to get there, I know the menus at their bar and café, even a couple of the staff, who recognize me when I check in. I feel, if not exactly safe, safer.

“Ellie, do you still have time tonight?” Sidney asks. Suddenly. “For a night
cap
?” Emphasis on “cap.” He giggles. As if he's nervous.

Sidney, nervous? I've never seen
that
before.

I'm not liking this at all. And I'm past ready to go to my familiar hotel and burrow under my queen-size comforter.

Don't piss off the billionaire.

“I, uh . . . Sure.”

★ ★ ★

We end up at some club over in Pudong, driven there in Sidney's Bentley, the driver a rent-a-thug I don't recognize, the plain-wrap bodyguard riding shotgun. The club is in the penthouse of a crazy high-rise that looks sort of like a giant bottle opener, on the bank of the Huangpu River. Floor-to-ceiling windows a couple stories tall. A huge aquarium that takes up an entire back wall, containing a pair of sea turtles, a stingray, and a hammerhead shark. I guess they all get along.

Sidney and I sit in a high-backed, private booth up against one of the windows overlooking the river. I have to admit it's a pretty cool view, the old, restored European buildings on the Bund, science-fiction skyscrapers lurking behind them like invaders from another planet, obscured by mist. Boats tool up and down the river.

The whole time on the ride over here, Sidney made small talk—about his museum plans, about art he wants to buy. Whatever it is he wants to talk to me about isn't something he's willing to bring up in the backseat of his Bentley. Apparently it has to wait for another overpriced drink in some pretentious hangout for assholes with too much money.

“What can I get you for drink, Ellie?” Sidney asks.

“Whatever you're having,” I say, and immediately regret it. Because what if it's more Moutai?

Instead the waitress, a drop-dead-gorgeous woman wearing a skintight black dress, brings us this fancy cut-glass bottle of liquor the color of bloody amber. She pours two glasses—snifters, I guess they're called—about a quarter full.