Dragon Day (10 page)

“Right.”

Sidney's family is from Anhui Province, and when Tiantian speaks, unlike Meimei and Gugu, I can still hear the Anhui in his accent. He's older than the other two by nearly a decade, I'm guessing. I figure Tiantian, being the eldest, was probably raised in Anhui, way before Sidney built his ghost city, Xingfu Cun, maybe even before Sidney made his billions.

What's the draw for Tiantian in Beijing, aside from traditional courtyard architecture?

I look around the room, at the guys in polo shirts and plain dark suits, and think,
Party members
. Officials. Somebody has to be in the capital to represent the family. Tiantian's the eldest. Of course that would fall to him.

“I like it a lot,” I say, remembering that I should be making small talk.

“Yes. Beijing is still a culture center. Traditional Chinese culture.” He shoots an unsubtle look at Meimei. “Not like Shanghai.”

Meimei chuckles. “Shanghai is more modern. And clean.” She looks around the room, at all the guys in suits and polo shirts, and smiles. “It's too dirty here.”

The
xiaojie
has returned with the special red wine and some glasses on a tray. Tiantian nods and points at me. She trots over and holds out the bottle, like she's highlighting a product in a commercial. I'm supposed to pay attention to it, I guess.

So I do. Make a show of studying the label, which looks like your typical snooty French wine label, with a little castle engraving on it and a name that starts with “Château.” Except it's from Ningxia.

“Wow, Chinese,” I say.

“Yes. It is good quality. We can do this as well as France.”

Meimei rolls her eyes. “Not yet. Maybe someday.”

“Zhen, zhen!”
Tiantian snaps at the serving girl.

She hastily hands me a glass and pours me a taste.

I do the sniff-and-swirl because I've seen Harrison do it enough times, and I'm trying to be polite, though about all I usually get out of it is, “Hey, smells like wine.”

I taste, and it's not bad. But I've drunk enough of the good stuff thanks to Harrison and Sidney that I've had better.

“Very good,” I say.

“You see?” Tiantian shoots a glare at Meimei. “You just prefer Western things because they are Western.”

“And you just prefer Chinese things because they are Chinese.” With that, Meimei slips off the arm of the couch and springs to her feet, like some androgynous little ninja. “I will go find Gugu. So we can discuss this museum.”

“Great,” I say. “Looking forward to it.” I take a gulp of wine, in the interest of further politeness.

Tiantian leans forward. His face is flushed, probably from the wine. “So you have seen my father's collection.”

“Yes. It's amazing.” Which is one response that I don't have to fake. I mean, the dude has van Goghs in his basement.

“Huh.” Tiantian tosses back a gulp of his special wine. The serving girl hastily refills his glass. “Some of it I like. Some of it I think is nonsense.”

“Well, you know, it's . . . um, all about how you respond to a piece. If you don't like it, that's okay.”

Tiantian frowns. “I don't like it because it is
nonsense
,” he says, jabbing a finger at me.

I don't think he's loaded, not the way Gugu was at the club, but he's had enough to drink where maybe he's letting his inner asshole off the leash. Or maybe he's always like this.

“Okay, but by international standards everything he has is, uh
. . .
”

I can't think of how to put it without sounding insulting, not in Chinese, not in English.

“Significant,” I finally manage.

“Significant.” Tiantian snorts. “It's nonsense. My opinion is this modern Chinese so-called art is worst of all.”

“Oh. What makes you say that?” Because contemporary Chinese art is fetching a metric crap ton of money in the international market, and increasingly in the domestic one, too. I figure if nothing else, Tiantian would appreciate a good investment.

“It simply copies decadent Western notions. It ignores Chinese traditions, or it mocks them.”

“You don't think maybe some of them use Chinese traditions to comment on modern circumstances?”

Hey, I've learned
something
after doing this art gig for over a year.

Tiantian stares at me, and for a moment I have the weirdest feeling, like he's just going to lose his shit right there, spring out of the chair and try to beat the crap out of me.

But he doesn't do that. Instead he leans back, and it's like somebody's flipped a switch—he's all relaxed and jolly, the good host.

Maybe I was just imagining it.

“Perhaps. Perhaps my problem is simply that I prefer China's traditions to the modern circumstances.” He turns to the serving girl.
“Kuai nalai hai yi bei putaojiu.”
Quick, fetch another bottle of wine.

Yeah, and if it weren't for China's “modern circumstances,” you wouldn't be a
fu er dai
sitting here in however many million dollars' worth of Beijing real estate, asshat, I think, but I figure I'd better not say that.

Instead I sip the wine I've got and wonder when I can get the fuck out of here. Go home and pet my dog.

That's when the pissed-off woman from the restroom strides in, the one in the black sheath dress and designer heels. Her head swivels around, and she takes me in, sitting at Tiantian's left.

“Is this another one of your
biaozi
?” she says in a low, cold voice.

“Hey,” I say, because though I may be a bitch, I'm sure as shit not
Tiantian's
bitch.

“Ta shi wo babade huoban,”
he snaps at her. My father's business associate.

“Really.” She takes a step back from him and turns to me. Stares me up and down, her eyes glittering. “You don't look like a businesswoman.”

“I represent artists,” I say. I wonder if she's on something, or ill. Aside from the crazy eyes and weird paranoid hostility, she's pale and sweaty, and one of her hands is trembling.

“Artists.” A snort. “I won't put up with this anymore,” she says, in a voice loud enough to catch the attention of a man in a dark suit chatting up one of the polo-shirt guys. He turns and stares. Sixtyish, with hound-dog cheeks, baggy eyes, and a frozen smile.

“Bie xiashuo,”
Tiantian says in a low voice, with a forced smile of his own. Stop speaking nonsense.

The man in the dark suit takes a few easy steps toward our circle. In control. “Dao Ming, are you feeling all right?” he asks. “You look a little uncomfortable.”

Crazy Lady, Dao Ming—Mrs. Tiantian, I presume—stops in her tracks. Blinks a few times. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I'm not feeling well, Uncle Yang. Forgive me.”

Uncle Yang offers Dao Ming his arm. “Let's go, so you can have a rest.
Xiuxi yixia.
”

Dao Ming nods, the glittery fury in her eyes giving way to clouds of exhaustion. She rests her hand on his and allows herself to be led off.

“My wife has an illness,” Tiantian says after she's out of sight. “Please don't take any of her nonsense to heart.”

“No worries,” I say. I sip from my glass. “This is great wine.” Because that's the only thing I can think of to say. It's like I'm in this beautiful house, surrounded by all this money and all this nice stuff, and I have this weird sense that there's some kind of black hole in the center of it all, pulling us toward it.

“I can't find Gugu.” Meimei has returned, her steampunk lenses flipped down.

“You called him?” Tiantian snaps.

“Dangran.”
Of course.

“Did you ask Marsh?” I say. “His American friend?”

Because I might as well work the mission, right? The real mission. Find out what I can about Marsh Brody. Even though I don't know what I should do about what I might find out.

Meimei shakes her head. “Didn't see him either.” She's not giving me anything. No real reaction. I can't tell if she's acting or if she just doesn't have an opinion.

“Oh. Maybe they went someplace else. The two of them.”

“Maybe.” She turns to Tiantian. “Why don't we have this meeting later? When it's more convenient. Maybe go out for dinner, just the four of us.” She turns to me. “What do you think?”

“I think
. . .
that sounds great.” Because if it means I can go home now, I'm all for it. I'm getting that twitchy feeling again, like I did when I went out to the club for Gugu's party, like something bad is going to happen, and I don't want to be here when it does.

“Okay.” Meimei pulls out her iPhone. “I will arrange something.”

“Great.” I take a last slug of wine. “Thanks so much for your hospitality,” I say to Tiantian. “I really appreciate it.”

He nods, not looking at me, distracted. I guess I would be, too, if I were him.

“Okay, then.” I brace myself on the arm of the chair and push myself to my feet. My bad leg cramps up, and the pain that shoots through it is enough to make me gasp. I hide that as best I can. I don't want to show weakness in front of these people. That's how I've tried to operate since I got blown up. Don't show them the soft spot where they can hurt you.

Though who knows? Maybe I'm better off if they think I'm weak. Harmless. Because it doesn't matter how strong I might be. These guys still have all the power.

I get a business card from my little card case and hold it out to Tiantian. “My card,” I say.

Now he does look up. Takes my card with both hands and pretends to study it.

“I hope we keep in touch,” I say.

“Yes, yes,” he says. “That will be a pleasure.” He manages that fishhook smile and lays my card on the end table.

It's still too warm out in the courtyard, but there's a breeze and it's outside, away from all that weird-ass shit. I stand there by the
erhu
combo for a minute, take a few deep breaths, and sip the remains of my wine, thinking, What the fuck was all that, and do I really want to know?

Much as I hate to admit it, I'm feeling like John was right—I don't want to be anywhere near any of these people. But what are my options for getting away from them? How do I tell Sidney Cao that I don't want to have anything to do with him, his kids, or his museum? I mean, I tried saying no to Sidney before and ended up with his hired killers stalking me. Though I also did get a few free rides in his fancy private jet. I kind of liked that part.

You can't think that way, McEnroe, I tell myself. You gotta figure out how to disentangle yourself from this guy. Without totally pissing him off.

“Still here.”

I flinch and try to cover it. Marsh. He stands too close to me, as usual, close enough so that I catch the scent of scotch on his breath.

“Yeah,” I say. “I was waiting on Gugu. We were supposed to have a meeting, but he never showed.” I shrug and take the last slug of my wine. “I'm heading out now.”

“He's around.” Marsh gestures toward the east house. “I'll take you.”

“That's okay,” I say, maybe too quickly. “We're going to reschedule.”

“You don't want to pay your respects? Wouldn't be too polite, to come to the party and not say hello.”

He's got that shit-eating grin on his face, and I know this is some kind of setup, some kind of joke he wants to play on me, or worse.

I shrug again. “Yeah, well, sometimes that's just the way it goes. I'm sure he'll understand.”

I start to pull away. Marsh taps my shoulder. Lightly.

“Hey,” he says.

I turn. He's staring at me with a kind of confounded expression. “Are you afraid of me?” he asks. Like it's a real question.

“No,” I say. It's possible I sound defensive. “I just . . . uh, I need to get home.”

He lifts his hands. “Look, I'm not gonna rape you or whatever it is you're worried about. I just thought you wanted to see Gugu, and he'd probably like to say hello to you, too. But if that's not something you want to do, hey, fine with me.”

He might as well have said,
I double-dare you.

I hesitate, but only for a moment. Because I don't want this guy to think he has any power over me.

“Okay,” I say. “I just can't take too long. It's getting late, and my dog needs a walk.”

I figure we're only walking over to the east house. There's a limited amount of trouble I can get into between here and there, right? I'll just keep him ahead of me, and watch my back.