Dragon Day (6 page)

“Fuck that,” Gugu pronounces. He holds up his hand for the waiter. “Let Tiantian or Meimei take an interest. I have better things to do.”

Tiantian, the older brother. Meimei, the girl in the middle.

“Like what?” I think to ask.

Gugu shrugs. “Maybe movies.” He leans over and mutters something to Rhinestone-Cap Girl again. She pouts a little. Tilts her head at Sailor Girl, who grabs another glass of wine off the table and brings it to me, pausing a little to execute a sort of bad charm-school curtsy.

I take the glass. “Thank you.”

“I'm Celine.” Now
sh
e tilts her head at Rhinestone-Cap Girl, who has resumed her barnacle duty at Gugu's side. “That is Betty.”

“I'm Ellie.”

“Very happy to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

She giggles. She seems to do that a lot. “This is such an interesting party. Don't you think?”

“I, uh
. . .
yeah.”

“You don't really think so?” Her head's tilted down, and she's looking at me through thick mascaraed eyelashes, a little smile on her face.

“Celine, why are you bothering her?” Gugu snaps.

“She's not bothering me,” I say, because I don't want any trouble and besides, he's being kind of a dick.

“Sometimes Gugu is too polite,” Celine says. “He doesn't really know how to have fun.” She blows a thin stream of cigarette smoke in Gugu's direction.

Okay, maybe she's kind of a bitch, too. But looking at Gugu's sweating face and bored expression, I have to wonder if she's right.

“Movies, huh,” I say to Gugu. “You want to make them?”

“Sure, why not? Culture and soft power are part of the new Five-Year Plan.” He laughs.

Next to him Marsh laughs, too.

The guy I'm supposed to be evaluating for his moral character.

I turn to him. Put on my best fake smile. Which I'm pretty sure isn't very good. “I'm Ellie McEnroe,” I say.

He smiles. “Marsh Brody.” He's got a gunmetal shadow of beard outlining his broad cheeks, shading his jaw. I'm guessing he's the kind of guy who cultivates a two-day stubble.

We shake. His hand lingers. One of his fingers strokes the back of my palm, ever so lightly.

Yeah, that kind of guy.

“You live in Beijing?” he asks.

“Uh-huh. You?”

He tilts his head to one side. “Part-time. I'm back and forth between here and LA.”

“LA. So are you in movies or TV, something like that?”

“Something like that.” He thinks to smile again. “I do a few different things. Mostly I try to connect Western businesses with the right Chinese partners.”

“Oh, yeah.” I smile back. “You're a consultant, right?”

“Right.”

We stare at each other. I get the feeling he's irritated. But it's not like I called him an English teacher.

“Hey,” Gugu says suddenly, his hand flopping open-palmed on one thigh, “let's go somewhere. This is boring.”

Rhinestone-Cap Girl, Betty, rests her head on his shoulder. “But this is your party,” she says with a pout.

Behind her, Celine smiles.

“So? It can go on without me. Marsh, you want to leave, right?”

Marsh nods.

Gugu turns in my direction. “You want to come along?”

“I, uh
. . .
”

Have absolutely no desire to go anywhere with these guys.

“Sure. I just, uh . . . need to go to the restroom.”

Fuck.

I hold my hands under the automatic sink, bow my head, and watch the water circle the drain, and I wonder how I'm going to get out of this. All the alarms I have are pinging, but bugging out has risks, too. Because the last thing I need to do is piss off Sidney. We're friends now. I'm pretty sure I don't want to be on his enemies list.

I exit the bathroom.

Unlike the rest of the club, this part's done in black: black paint and black vinyl. Tiny spotlights guide me back out into the main room. I start to follow them.

“Hey.”

He's come out of the men's room just ahead of me. Marsh.

“Hi,” I say.

He stands there for a second, blocking my way down the hall. “You coming?”

He takes a few steps forward. All of a sudden, he's standing too close, and I back up without thinking about it, trying to get some space. My butt touches the black wall.

“Aren't you with Celine?”

“Define ‘with.'”

Marsh is right in front of me. He stretches out an arm, places his palm flat against the wall, right by my head.

“Why don't you come along? It'll be fun. Promise.”

I can feel his hot breath on my ear. My heart's thumping hard.

“I don't think so,” I say.

“Too bad.” He shrugs and backs off. “Next time.”

Fuck this, I'm going home.

“Yeah,” I say to Gugu, “it's getting a little late for me. I've got some appointments in the morning, and anyway, maybe we can meet in the next couple of days to . . . uh, talk about the museum. See some artists.”

We're standing over by the stripper pole, where Betty, Celine, and a bunch of other girls are dancing to Lady Gaga. They look like kids.

“Sure,” Gugu says with a yawn. “Maybe you can meet my brother and sister.” He snorts. “We can all plan this museum together.”

“Sounds great. I'll give you my card.”

Not like he needs it, I'm pretty sure Vicky Huang would tell him how to get a hold of me. But I do the polite thing anyway: reach into my shoulder bag for my card case, pull out a business card, hold it in both hands, and extend it to Gugu. Maybe it's corny, but why take the chance?

Gugu grasps the card with both of
his
hands. Gives it a cursory glance and places it in the breast pocket of his psychedelic fatigues. So he has
some
manners.

Behind him, Marsh lifts his hand. “Don't I get one?”

Like I want to give this asshole my card.

What difference does it make? I ask myself. If he wants to find me, he will.

I extract another card and give it to him, one-handed. He takes it, smiling, and slips the card into his jeans.

By now Celine and Betty have drifted over. Celine smiles at me. Reaches into her tiny clutch purse and pulls out a gold card case. Extracts a card of her own.

“Here is mine,” she says. She also holds it out with both hands. Almost like she's making fun of the whole ritual. I take it. In the dark light of the club, I can't really see what it says, but it's red, with yellow characters.

“You can look at my website, and my Weibo,” she says. “You know Weibo, right?”

“Sure.” Weibo is like Chinese Twitter.

There's something sly about her smile. “Maybe you can learn more about modern Chinese culture.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”

Whatever.

Now I have to give her a card back, and since I give her one, I figure I'd better offer one to Betty, too.

Betty actually studies it, like you're supposed to, which kind of surprises me, given that she's been kind of bitchy the entire time I've been here. She nods a little awkwardly, the rhinestone ball cap concealing the expression on her face.

By the time I make it back to my apartment, it's past 1:00
a.m.
Mimi slides off her spot on the couch with a thump and trots over to greet me. Somehow she knows when it's me coming in. She never barks. Maybe she can hear my limp.

There's a note from my mom stuck up on the fridge, held there by a magnet with a portrait of Hu Jintao done up like Colonel Sanders, below his face the slogan
prc—i'm lovin' it!

“At Andy's,”
the note says.
“We walked Mimi around midnight. Hope you had a fun evening!”

Oh, yeah, it was a blast.

“On how many levels of bad was that?” I say to Mimi.

She whines softly.

“You want a treat? You been a good dog?”

I grab a hunk of dried beef from a jar in the pantry. I am way too paranoid to buy her any of the premade doggie treats from here—too many food-contamination issues. “Sit!
Zuo!
”

She sits. Holds up one paw like one of those Japanese ceramic cats. “Good girl!” I give her the treat. “Let's go watch some TV, okay?”

First, though, I'm getting out of these clothes. I go into my bedroom and start to undress, and all of a sudden I can't get out of them fast enough.

I throw on some sweats and a T-shirt. Grab a cold beer and a glass and head for the couch.

Maybe I shouldn't have bailed. I didn't really complete the mission. I'm going to have to tell Sidney
something
, but what?

Marsh is trouble, I'm pretty sure, and I guess I can tell Sidney that, but on the other hand, given Sidney, do I want to be responsible for what might happen to Marsh without being
really
sure?

Though I'm sure he's a total douche.

This picture flashes in my head, a Roman-emperor dude like from a cheesy gladiator movie giving the thumbs-down. Then some other pictures, about what happens to people who get in Sidney's way.

The problem is, there are too many bad pictures in my head just waiting to show themselves.

I sit on the couch with my dog next to me, her head resting on my good leg, and I sip my beer. I'm feeling kind of sick, that cold nausea I get deep in my gut when I fuck something up really bad.

Somehow, when Sidney asked me to do this, all I could think about was what he could do for me—or
to
me, depending. I didn't really think about what might happen to Gugu's “bad influence.” I mean, I thought about it in the abstract, a little. But now there's a living, breathing guy in my head. And even if he
is
a scumbag
. . .
do I want to be responsible for that?

First do no harm, right?

You haven't fucked it up yet, I tell myself.

I'll think of something. Play things with Sidney and/or Vicky as best I can. Tell them I don't know enough yet, that I need more time. Maybe I'll actually do some work on this museum project, who knows?

Right now I'm just glad to be home with my dog and a Yanjing Draft.

The evening those guys are having, it's the kind that ends up with somebody running over a migrant vendor with a Ferrari, or with said Ferrari smashed to pieces against a freeway abutment—with or without dead hookers. It's how the
fu er dai
,
the second-generation rich, tend to roll.

Bugging out was the right thing to do.

Chapter Six

★

I'm sitting in
bed with my laptop checking the English-language China gossip sites like I do a lot of mornings, this time with a little more interest than usual, because hey, what if Gugu and Marsh
did
crash a Ferrari into a concrete wall?

But if something went wrong last night, it hasn't made it onto chinaSMACK yet.

I take another sip of strong, black coffee. Not as good as the stuff Harrison served up the other day, which is one of the problems with hanging out around rich people—they always have better stuff than I do.

Or maybe that's
why
I hang out around them.

I glance over at the designer clothes heaped on this armchair that I never actually sit on—it's just where I throw clothes. They're wrinkled, and I can smell the cigarette smoke on them from here. Discarded lizard skins.

I drink more coffee. At least I'm not hungover, just tired and headachy and dry-eyed from all the smoke and the noise and not enough sleep. But I'm still feeling all mature for not doing anything totally stupid last night.

That is, until my iPhone rings.

“Vicky Huang. I have Mr. Sidney Cao for you.”

Fucking great.

“Hello, Ms. Ellie!” Sidney, as usual, sounds weirdly cheerful. Though maybe it isn't weird to be cheerful when you can buy anything you want. “I hope you had a nice evening?”

“Yes. I did. Pretty much.”

“And how was Gugu?” He's still all Mr. Happy, but it's forced this time. Because yeah, actually, you
can't
buy everything.

“He seems . . . I don't know, pretty good.” I mean, what else can I say?
He seems like a bitter, drunk parasite?
Which, you know, might be a little of a pot/kettle scenario, but I'm at least doing no harm, right?

“And you meet this friend of his? This American, Marsh Brody?”

My heart starts pounding. “I did.”

“And what are your thoughts?”

Stay Hippocratic, McEnroe.

“You know, it's a little hard for me to say. It's not like I really got to know him. There wasn't enough time. And it was, kind of
. . .
loud.”

“I see.” He no longer sounds cheerful.

“We're going to meet again,” I say quickly. “To talk about the museum. With Meimei and Tiantian.”

“All three of my children?” I can hear a cautious little happy note under the surprise. And I'm thinking, Oh, shit, I have stepped in it again. I mean, I have no idea what the relationship between the kids is like, except from what Gugu said last night—it sounded like he wasn't close to the other two. Who knows if I can actually get the three of them together to discuss Sidney's art obsession? If Sidney has some kind of fantasy about a family reunion and I don't deliver
. . .

“So this . . . this Marsh Brody. He is interested in art?”

“Yeah. Well, movies, I think.”

“Movies.” He snorts. “Those are not art.”

“Well, you know, some contemporary artists, they've been really influenced by film,” I manage, and I'm not sure where I pulled that little gem from, but it sounds credible, right?

“Maybe, in older days of classics. Now just men in tight underwear and things blowing up.”

“Right.”

“Vicky can help arrange this meeting,” he says, and I can tell I'm being dismissed. “After, you can tell me your impressions.”

“Sure. Great. Looking forward to it.”

Shit.

I flop down on the bed, my laptop balanced on my pelvis, wondering if it's too early for beer.

It's 10:45
a.m.
That's too early.

Out in the kitchen, I hear the scrape and squeak of the steel door opening and Mimi's toenails skittering and dancing on the vinyl kitchen floor, along with an excited little “Woof!”

Must be my mom.

“Well, hello, Mimi! Are you a good dog? Are you a good dog?” Now Mimi's nails are clicking on the floor like a flamenco dancer. Of course she loves my mom, who always gives her scraps from the taco projects.

I lie there a moment longer with my arm over my eyes. I'm so not ready, not for any of this.

But my door's open, so my mom pokes her head in. She's wearing one of her Christian T-shirts, one that says
hot mess without jesus
.

“Hi, hon,” she says. “You want some breakfast?”

“No, that's okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Late night?” She smiles.

I have to push down the rush of anger. I don't know whether she thinks I was out having fun or what, but it's none of her fucking business, and anyway, it wasn't fun.

“Yeah, kind of.” I'm not a great actor, but I've gotten better at faking things the last few years. Mostly by shutting up and nodding a lot.

Lucky for me, sometimes my mom is pretty oblivious. Or she's acting, too. Tell you the truth, I'm not really sure anymore.

“Andy and I were thinking about driving out to Miyun in a little bit. Do you want to come? The weather's supposed to be nice today, and the air's better out there.”

She's looking at me with that same look Mimi gives me sometimes, the liquid eyes asking for something, some kindness, maybe.

Or a treat.

I'm such a shit.

“I'd like to,” I say. “I've got some stuff I gotta do. Maybe if things don't get too busy.”

“Okay. Just let me know. We have some time.” She turns to go, then stops. “You sure you don't want some eggs? I have pork belly.”

“That sounds good,” I finally say. “Thanks.”

After she leaves, I lie there a few more minutes. I tell myself I need to get up. To do something. But what?

I can't sell Lao Zhang's artwork right now, given this whole DSD situation. They're already looking at him for “economic crimes,” tax evasion, something like that—whatever they can use to make a case—and Harrison thinks we'll only compound the problem by continuing to sell his work. Or anyone else's work, for that matter. Because even if it's all about getting Lao Zhang, I'm the one whose name is on the paperwork as “Director of Operations.”

If I can't sell any artwork, I'm not going to be able to afford this apartment much longer. My craptastic disability payment doesn't come close to covering it. And my lease is up in a month. If they raise the rent on me
. . .

There are other jobs I can get, I tell myself. I used to be a bartender. I could do that again. Or, given Harrison's new coffee project, maybe I could be a barista.

That is, if I don't get arrested.

Why am I staying in this country again?

Because there's nothing left for me back in the States. No job for me to do. No future that I can see.

Because for all the enemies I have here, I have plenty there, too.

I finally sit up.

Sure, I'll have some breakfast. Maybe I'll even go to Miyun with Mom and Andy. It would be good for Mimi to get some exercise, to breath some semi-fresh air.

Good for me, too.

Instead what happens is this: First, my phone rings again. “Pressure Drop” by Toots and the Maytals. The ringtone I use for Vicky Huang.

“Tonight you can go to meet Meimei,” she tells me.

“I can?”

“Yes. At seven
p.m.
For dinner. She is in Beijing today. She has favorite place. I send directions.”

“Okay,” I say, figuring it's pointless to argue.

“Expensive.” Vicky nearly hisses the word. “Wear nice things.”

I glance over at the pile of smoke-soaked clothes on my chair. “Will do.”

I fall back onto the bed again. I guess this means I probably don't have time for an outing to Miyun with Mom and Andy. Which on the one hand is a relief.

On the other I kind of wanted to do it. For the clean air and all.

The next thing that happens is I hear the chime that tells me I have incoming email.

Honestly, I don't even want to sit up again. Because it's probably junk mail, or if it's relating to the art business, there's nothing I can do about it anyway.

But I do sit up, because I figure I should take one of my fancy shirts to the laundry and see if they can have it ready for me in time for this fancy dinner with another one of Sidney's insane children. I mean, I have to figure she's insane, based on my experiences with the family so far.

Whatever. As long as she pays the tab.

I'm not expecting the email that's landed in my inbox.

“You Cannot Miss This!”

My heart starts to thud, before I even take it all in.

“This is our Pick of the Year! We don't see this slowing down! We know many of you like momentum!”

Spam, you'd think, right? For some bullshit phony stock. But I've gotten this email before. It's a signal, and I know what it means.

“What do you think?”

My mom hovers near the table, clasping her hands in that way she does when she's nervous.

“Really good.”

She's made these spicy eggs with bits of pork belly, chives, and her homemade pico de gallo, stuffed into something that's a cross between a flatbread like you'd find in Xi'an and a thick corn tortilla.

I'm not lying. In spite of the fact that the last thing on my mind right now is eating, I actually have to stop and savor what she's made, because it's delicious.

“I wish I could find more avocado,” she says. “It would be good with some avocado, don't you think?”

“Everything's good with avocado.” I shovel more into my mouth.

“It's not exactly Mexican food, but it's better than most of what I've had here. I don't understand why you can't find good tacos. I think Chinese people would like tacos.
Andy
likes them.”

“Mmm.” I glance at the clock on the microwave. I need to get going. “So I can't go to Miyun with you guys. Something's come up. A meeting.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Yeah, well, you know. Artists,” I mumble, and I push the rest of the eggs onto my fork with the last piece of flatbread.

“Oh well, I understand.”

“Thing is
. . .
” I look up. She's still standing there with her hands clasped, like she hasn't moved. I can feel my cheeks reddening, and I'm not sure why. “Can you take Mimi with you? You know, so she can get some fresh air?”

I mean, why should I be embarrassed? Mom and Andy love that dog.

“Sure, we could do that.” She frowns a little. “There really aren't a lot of places for dogs in Beijing, are there? You'd think with all the dogs here, they'd have a dog park or two.”

“Yeah, well, the whole pet thing is pretty new. Lots of places in China, they still think of dogs as taco stuffing.”

My mom shudders. “I don't know,” she mutters. “I really do like it here, but
. . .
there're some things I just can't get used to.”

I shrug. I could say the same thing about anywhere.

I take the subway
to the Yonghegong stop and find a coffeehouse south of the Lama Temple, past the gilt-embellished peaked roofs that rise above the red-washed walls. Typical coffee place—menu drawn with multicolored chalk on a blackboard, scarred wood tables, mismatched chairs, curling black-and-white photos of old Beijing and Red Guards stuck up on burlap walls with thumbtacks. The brewed coffee here sucks, so I order an Americano. Get out my new MacBook Air, launch my virtual private network, and open a browser.

The spam stock email was a signal from Lao Zhang, telling me to log on to the Great Community.

No network is safe. Anything on your computer or on the Internet can be accessed. Hacked. I know that. But I at least don't want to make it easy.

I copy the string of numbers from the bottom of the email that look like random computer gibberish, place it into my browser's address bar, put periods in the right places, and hit
enter
.

And find myself on the “Welcome” page of the Great Community.

On a beach, where choppy grey waves crash against the sand, an animation that looks like it was done in brushstrokes. A three-legged dog that barks at an incoming wave. The giant Mao statue, which before was faded and half buried in sand, looks even more battered now, encrusted in barnacles that have climbed up to the top button of its tunic. It's about to fall over, propped up by the outstretched arm holding a Little Red Book. Farther up the beach, one of the Twin Towers
has
toppled. The other one sways in the pixel breeze.