Year of the Tiger (25 page)

‘So, how do you know these guys?’ I have to ask.

‘I do some server work for them,’ Chuckie mumbles. ‘But I play my own game,’ he adds defiantly.

Li Ke slouches toward us. ‘How soon you need this?’ he asks.

‘Soon,’ I reply.

‘So, we can put both shifts on it,’ Li Ke says with a shrug. ‘Maybe take three days.’

Shit, I think. Shit, shit, shit. I told the Suits I’d have something for them in four days. This isn’t going to work.

I stare at the young guy Li Ke tapped to work on my job, pounding down a Stalking Tiger Energy Formula, the Chinese equivalent of a Red Bull. In the cubicle next to him, a man sleeps with his head resting on his keyboard, mouth open, snoring as easily as if he were in a luxury suite at a Hilton.

What choice do I have? I’ll just have to stall the Suits, somehow.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘How much?’

I hang out a little while longer with Chuckie and Li Ke and one of the game farmers who’s going to kill monsters for me, a guy named ‘Leopard,’ drinking shots of the whiskey I bought, in an unoccupied cubicle by the back door. All around us, bored, pasty guys kill low-ranking monsters, farming for virtual gold.

‘Hey, Chuckie,’ I say, after I get a little drunk. ‘You’re a good friend for hooking me up with this.’

Chuckie shakes his head. ‘Not so good. I run away and hide.’ He takes a swig of whiskey, then shrugs. ‘I’m just … a dickhead.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I am.’

‘You’re not. Look. You don’t know me that well. I could be a spy, or a foreign splittist, or something.’

He looks at me. ‘Are you?’

‘No,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’m … another dickhead. I mean, a female one. Whatever that is.’

‘What can you do?’ He sounds agitated now. ‘They have all the power. All the money.’

‘Yeah.’ I think about the Suits. I think about Harrison Wang, that huge penthouse suite, the statues and paintings. Must be nice, having that kind of money. Enough to insulate you from some of the bullshit.

Chuckie pours more whiskey into my teacup and then his own. We sit in silence while Leopard and Li Ke play some kind of drinking game with a pair of dice.

‘Hey, Chuckie,’ I say. ‘If I wanna e-mail somebody, and I don’t want them to know where I am, what’s the best way to do that?’ I’m thinking: proxy servers. I’ve used them before when I wanted to surf someplace the Net Nanny doesn’t like, but the ones I know don’t work any more. The Great Firewall finds them, blocks them, then new ones pop up. Like the Chinese government is the little Dutch Kid, and the Firewall’s a leaking dike.

Chuckie thinks for a minute. Then he reaches into his shoulder bag, into one of the compartments, grabs something small, and puts it in my open hand, gently closing my fingers around it.

‘Fuck the authority,’ he whispers gleefully.

After that, Chuckie offers to drive me back to my hotel. I hesitate, because by now I feel like I owe Chuckie big-time, and I don’t want to put him out. Plus, the moped is pretty uncomfortable. But there aren’t any cabs around, and besides, this is the first time since all this shit started happening that I haven’t felt alone, and all of a sudden I realize that I don’t want that to end.

Fuck the authority!

Chuckie seems to be in a similar mood, because he’s singing this cheesy Communist Youth anthem I recognize at the top of his lungs as we swing too wide around a corner; the back tire skids a little, but we don’t fall, and we are both laughing our asses off, and for whatever reason I start singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ and we both laugh at that too.

‘No, no, wait, I got a better one!’ I manage between giggles. ‘Welcome to the Hotel California!’

‘Such a nice surprise –’ Chuckie sings.

‘For your alibis!’

Finally we pull up in front of the Good Fortune Guest House.

I swing my bad leg over the rear tire, clutching Chuckie’s shoulders for support.

As my foot touches the ground, the air around us turns blue-white.

Headlights.

I blink. Make out a car parked just up the block, nearly hidden behind its high-beam curtain.

‘Ellie, get back on!’ Chuckie whispers. ‘Let’s go!’

‘No,’ I say before I can stop myself. Because it’s not fair for Chuckie to get dragged into my shit. Because the two of us on a moped can’t outrun a car.

Because the only chance I have right now is to get back in the Game, and I can’t do that without Chuckie.

The car doesn’t move.

‘Take care of Little Mountain Tiger for me,’ I say. ‘It’s really important.’

Chuckie hesitates. ‘This isn’t right,’ he whispers.

‘It’s okay. Come on, I’m a foreigner. Worst thing that could happen is they kick me out of the country.’

Or it’s the Suits, and then I don’t know what the worst thing that could happen is.

I steady myself. Chuckie’s still sitting there on his moped, the engine firing like a badly tuned lawn mower.

‘Just don’t go home tonight, okay?’ I say, my voice cracking. ‘Go someplace else for a couple days.’

I think, that’s what Lao Zhang said to me, and it didn’t do me much good.

Walk away. Walk away now.

That’s what I do.

Behind me, I hear the moped stutter, rumble, and recede.

I am bathed in light as I walk into the Good Fortune Guest House.

Inside, sitting on the gray upholstered couch, are two Chinese men in suits. One short, one tall. Neither of them wears a tie.

The shorter one rises.

‘Ellie Cooper?’

I nod.

‘If you could come with us.’ He smiles. ‘Just to have some tea.’

Trey’s contract was up a couple of months after he got home from his second deployment. I thought he’d re-up. If anyone was a lifer, I figured it was Trey. Because he believed in it all.

But then one night I came out from our spare bedroom, where I’d been hanging out online, like I did all day, every day. Trey was sitting on the couch watching TV, a cable news report about this mosque in Samarra, the golden one that got blown up. It was a Shiite mosque, a particularly sacred one that held the bones of these prophets or something. After this mosque got blown up, that was when things really went to shit, as if they hadn’t gone to shit enough already.

And Trey – I guess Trey knew what the consequences of this were likely to be. Because he just sat there, glassy-eyed, clutching a beer in one hand, staring at the footage of the mosque, of what it had looked like before, golden domes against a bluebird sky, of what it looked like now, collapsed piles of gray cement, the gold vanished like it was some kind of illusion, one of those fairy tales where the treasure is nothing but straw.

‘I’m not going to re-up.’

When he told me, we were in bed. It was one of the few times since I’d gotten blown up that we’d had a good time in the sack. I was feeling okay, and Trey, he was so pissed off that he wasn’t obsessing about how I was poor damaged little me; we were just going at it like we used to, all desperate and energetic, and for once I could forget about how fucked up things were; it was just me and him and his smell and the hairs circling his nipples that I gathered up with my tongue and the beard that burned my cheek like some kind of sandstorm.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘So, what do you want to do?’

Trey flopped onto his back. Clasped his hands behind his head.

‘I’ve gotten offers from some private contractors. The pay’s three times as much as what I’m making in the Army.’

I don’t know why it bothered me. What difference did it make, really? But I couldn’t help it: I thought of Kyle. Thought of him snickering while Greif flashed her tit at the PUCs. Remembered how he stood so close to me, his breath in my ear.

‘You sure you want to do that?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘Work’s not that different. Money’s a lot better. It’d be good for us.’

What he didn’t say was that since the Army’d settled my disability claim and I no longer got active duty pay, I wasn’t bringing in much money. Kind of hard to work when you can barely bring yourself to leave the apartment.

‘I could do more,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure if I actually could. ‘I mean, if you want to stay in. I was thinking, I could go to school, do that physician’s assistant program. P.A.’s make pretty good money. It’s just a few years. We could manage till then. So you wouldn’t have to, if you don’t want to.’

‘That’s not it.’

Trey stared up at the ceiling. ‘There’s just no point, you know? The whole thing’s fubar.’

‘But … wouldn’t you still have to go back?’

‘Yeah. But at least I’ll be making bank.’

I think there was another reason too. Contractors got away with shit you could never pull in the Army. Maybe Trey thought, if he had to do stuff like he did in the Admin Core, why not have some protection?

Why not get paid?

Trey took the gig with GSC. I’d never heard of them before they hired Trey. They keep a low profile, not like Halliburton or Blackwater. But GSC’s connected. I’m pretty sure, though of course no one will come right out and say it, that the CIA uses GSC as a cover. Or that at least GSC is a CIA asset. Nothing official. But still. Look at Trey. Trey worked in Military Intelligence as an interrogator, ‘liaising’ with the locals. Isn’t that why GSC hired him?

After Iraq, Trey went to Kabul. After Kabul, Baku; after Baku, Bishkek. I stayed home. Too rough for fragile li’l me, according to Trey. I don’t really know what he did during those times. He could have been fucking around all along, and I wouldn’t have known. He came back for two weeks three times a year, and every fifth quarter he was rotated to headquarters in Houston, our new home. Where I knew nobody.

What did I do? I stayed in our nice new condominium, bought with GSC’s money and what was left of my settlement, with our plasma TV and our high-speed Internet. I drank beer, I watched TV and DVDs from Netflix, and I surfed the Net. Checked my e-mail over and over, hoping for a message from one of my buddies.

It’s not like I was housebound. I did go out sometimes.

One of the times Trey was home, I even went to a party.

Early one evening, as I sat in front of the computer, I saw Trey walk by carrying a dress shirt in a dry-cleaning bag.

I followed him into the bedroom. ‘Where are you going?’

‘PSOI reception tonight. At the Hilton. I told you about it.’

‘You did?’ He might have.

‘Yeah. Drinks and rubber chicken. The usual.’

I watched him undress, step into the shower. He still looked good.

‘You want me to come along?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’ He sounded surprised, standing behind the dimpled, steamed-up glass. ‘A lot of the other wives’ll be there. Some nice girls.’

Right, I thought, picturing a lot of big hair, gold jewelry, and gleaming teeth. I knew I wouldn’t fit in.

But Trey was my husband, and as much as I felt like I was a kid playing house, dressing up in somebody else’s castoff grownup clothes, I thought maybe if I acted the part a little better, I’d learn how to do it for real.

The party was at a banquet room – white tablecloths, gold-flocked wallpaper, champagne fountains, banners welcoming the Peace and Stability Operations Industry Association to Houston.

For the first part of the evening, we were supposed to mingle. Mingling was not one of my strong points. I hung back on Trey’s arm while he introduced me to a bunch of guys with buzz cuts and women with names like Tiffany and Madison.

After a while, Trey ran into a buddy of his –’Hey, Ellie, you remember Franklin, from the base?’ – and ten minutes into their rehash of old missions, I slipped away to find another margarita.

I liked it better in the back, by the bar. I could look out over the gold-flocked room crowded with couples beneath brass chandeliers, let the music and conversation recede to a dull buzz, and drink.

I drank my margarita, and then I ordered another one. I leaned against the wall. I couldn’t see Trey from where I was. Just a blur of sports coats and polo shirts and big hair.

Then, someone in focus. Sharp. Tight. A small, taut woman with short brown hair and a tailored black suit approached the bar. I caught a glimpse of her face before she turned to the bartender: pale, almost luminous in the yellow light of the chandeliers.

That’s different, I thought, before I figured out why I’d even thought it.

She’d always been so tan before.

My heart started pounding. A wash of cold sweat covered me like a shroud.

Okay, I told myself. Okay. Turn and walk away. She hasn’t seen you. You can still get away.

But I didn’t. I froze, like I was paralyzed.

Like I wanted her to see me.

She got her drink and turned. Stopped.

‘Hey, Greif,’ I said.

She blinked.

She still wore glasses, a fancy, rimless pair, but she had on makeup now, which was also different for her. Subdued shades. Classy.

‘Ellie McEnroe?’ she asked slowly.

‘Yeah.’ I straightened up. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘Good,’ she said, with a slight stammer. ‘I’ve been well.’

‘I can tell.’

That suit she wore, so perfectly tailored, good fabric, and those buttery leather boots, an elegant gold necklace and sleek watch – yeah, I could tell.