Dragon Day (15 page)

“He was at the party?”

“No.”

She hesitates. I can't tell what she's thinking. It's hard to see her face.

“Come in,” she finally says.

It's a little cubicle with white walls. The floor space is almost entirely taken up by a couple of twin mat
tresses. There's a pole running above our heads from one side of the room to the other that's hung with clothing, a couple of salvaged shelves piled with shampoo and cosmetics, stacks of magazines, some folded T-shirts, a laptop, and an electric kettle, the plug for that stuck into a power strip plugged into an extension cord that runs up to the single ceiling light. There's stuff on the walls, a plastic poster-size slick ad for Lancôme cosmetics that looks like it came from a subway station, the
face of a beautiful woman holding up a tiny bottle like it's got a genie inside. A picture of Rain, the Korean pop star, next to a mountain landscape that looks familiar but that I can't place.

“Huangshan,” she explains. “We both come from Anhui. Do you know Huangshan?”

“I've never been there, but I've heard of it,” I say.

“Most beautiful mountain in all of China. You know the saying in China: ‘Once you visit Huangshan, you would not want to visit any other mountain.'”

“I did not know that,” I say.

John and I sit on one of the mattresses while she makes tea. “Juliet is my English name,” she tells us. She has one, even though she doesn't speak more than a few words of the language. “I saw the movie with Lai'angnaiduo Dicapuliao.
Luomiou yu Zhuliye
.”

It takes me a minute. “Oh. Leonardo DiCaprio.
Romeo and Juliet,
” I say in English.

She nods vigorously, smiles a little. “So romantic.” She hands me a glass with some loose leaves floating on top. “Be careful,” she tells me. “Hot.” It is, almost too hot to hold. “But I think I'll change my name soon.”

“Why?”

She shrugs as she hands John his tea. “It is a silly idea. Dying like that for love.”

Finally she sits on the mattress across from us. “So Junyi's belonging, what is it?”

I squirm a little. The glass really is hot. I put it on the floor in front of me.

“Her identity card,” John says. “So we want to give it to her personally.”

It's a good lie. They use that card, the
shenfenzheng
, for all kinds of things in China. Buying train tickets. Opening a bank account. Applying for a job.

Juliet nods, staring at the floating leaves in her glass. She twists it around in her hands, which I notice are reddened and chapped. “I don't know where she is,” she says at last. “She hasn't come home since that night. I call her phone, I call her work, I call her friends. No one has seen her.”

I get that horrible, collapsing feeling in my gut. Because I'm pretty sure that
I've
seen her since that night. A picture of her anyway.

“Did you contact the police?” John asks.

Juliet snorts. “The police? What for? We don't have Beijing
hukou
,
why would they want to help us? Anyway, the police are useless.”

John blushes a little. I doubt Juliet would notice, but I do.

“But if she is missing
. . .
” he says, almost gently.

Then Juliet starts to cry. I hate it when people cry. I never know what to do.

“We are friends from Anhui,” she says between sobs. “We came
to Beijing together to make money. I don't know what to do.”

John reaches out and pats her on the shoulder. “I am sorry,” he says. “But you must go to the police. Tell them she is missing. I know a detective. You can go to see him.”

Juliet looks up. Her face, like her hands, is red and blotchy. Her body is suddenly tense, like she might bolt, or maybe attack. Fight or flight. I can't tell which.

“Why do you care?” Her voice shakes, and I'm not sure how much is anger and how much is fear. We could be anyone, and maybe we're not here to help. “What do you really want?”

“Justice,” John says.

“She called me from that party. She said if she worked late, she had a chance to make more money.”

I guess Juliet believed him. But then, John's pretty convincing when he wants to be.

Maybe he even means it.

“When she said this, how did she sound?” John asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Angry? Happy? Scared?”

Juliet frowns a little, pursing her lips. “Just
. . .
normal. She said she was tired. But she was happy to have a chance to make more money. This is why we came to Beijing. To make money.”

John nods. “I understand. This company she works for. Do you know anything about it?”

“Just that they like pretty girls.” She shrugs. “Junyi is very pretty. Not like me. I could never work there.”

They were all pretty girls, the ones working at that party.

“How long has
she
worked there?”

“Not long. Maybe
. . .
two months.”

“Does she like it?”

Juliet snorts. “She likes the money. Much more than her last job. She says maybe we can get a better apartment soon, because the money is good.”

“Has she worked late before?” I ask. Because I'm wondering what that might have involved.

“Only once.”

I hesitate, because I really don't know how to put this. And while my Chinese has gotten pretty decent when it comes to the basics of talking to people, I don't exactly have much skill in the way of nuance.

“What did she say, after that first time?” I ask. “Did she tell you about it?”

“No,” Juliet mumbles, rubbing her roughened hands, not meeting my eyes. “I already went to sleep.”

“Huh.”

Her head snaps up. “Anyway, what does it matter? Why are you asking all these questions?”

“I told you,” John says. “I have a friend who is a detective.”

She stares at him. I'm not sure if she's buying it. “You came to bring her identity card. You can leave it with me.”

John shakes his head. “Since she is missing, it must go to the police.”

Her eyes are tearing up again.

“Here.” He produces his wallet, pulls out a business card. Looks like the same card he gave me once, the one for his supposed company, “Bright Spring Enterprises,” where his name's Zhou Zheng'an.

I'm pretty sure it's not a real business either.

He holds out his card to her. “You can call me if you want. I will tell you what the police say.”

She doesn't take the card. She squeezes her eyes shut, like she doesn't want to see it.

I get it, I think. If she calls him, maybe she's going to hear something she doesn't want to hear.

“If there's news, you want to tell her parents, don't you?” he asks softly.

Finally she nods and takes the card.

“So what do you think? The catering company has ‘girls selling smiles' after hours?”

He's been quiet during the ride back to Gulou. Distracted.

“Maybe so. Or maybe someone just has this expectation.”

“Yeah, could be,” I say, thinking of Milk Lady, a little detail I have not told John about. I mean, for all that the guy is great in the sack, in a freaky kind of way, he's got a moralizing streak a mile wide, plus he seems to have a bug up his ass about rich people in general, the Caos in particular.

“What now?” I ask.

“I thought you want to go back to Gulou.”

“No, I mean
. . .
Okay, so we think we know who the dead girl is. What happens next?”

“Hmmm.” His forehead wrinkles. “We can tell Inspector Zou. But maybe we can wait a little while.” His eyes get that dark look again, the one that kind of scares me. “I think I want to meet these Caos first.”

I slump back in the seat. This is not going to end well, I'm pretty sure.

Chapter Twelve

★

Dinner with the
Caos is at a place called Tea.

I checked it out online. From the photos the place looks so perfectly elegant and minimal that it makes my teeth hurt. And according to an article on CNN, it's one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.

“You sure you want to go, John? What if you end up with the bill? They give you that kind of expense account?”

John pauses in the middle of straightening his tie and shoots me a glare.

We're in my apartment. John's in the bathroom, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. He's wearing a suit—something I've never seen him wear before—and though I'm no expert, I'm pretty sure he, or somebody, spent some money on it: a kind of silvery grey that drapes just so over a perfect white shirt. He's put a styling gel in his hair that makes him look like some kind of movie star for the teen-idol set. I have to say he looks pretty good. Way better than a guy who's hanging out with me should look. I mean, shouldn't he be with some cute, perfect, dainty Chinese girl? What's he doing with a train wreck like me?

Probably spying, I remind myself.

Mimi sits there half on his feet, staring up at him with a look of utter adoration. She's always loved John.

I thought dogs were supposed to be loyal.

John smoothes his coat and turns to me. Looks me up and down. I'm wearing one of my Vicky Huang outfits.

“That is nice,” he says. “Though why do you never wear a dress? I think you will look pretty.”

I want to smack him. Instead I shrug. “Busted-up leg, not so pretty. Look, can we just get out of here and go to this fucking dinner?”

Mimi thumps her tail. Like she thinks we're going for a walk. I lean over and ruffle the scruff around her neck. “Sorry, pup. I know you're not getting enough walks. Tomorrow, I promise.”

Assuming I don't get arrested.

Tea is in a
hutong
area just north of the Forbidden City, close to the National Art Museum and Jingshan Park. Not all that far from where I live, but the traffic sucked, and there was an accident on Di'anmen, and by the time we get close, my leg's hurting and I'm twitching like a meth head, feeling like the longer we sit in this car, the more of a big fat target I am, and even though I tell myself, That's stupid—it's not getting blown up you need to worry about right now, I can't help it.

I thought I was getting better.

“Are you feeling sick?” John asks.

I shake my head. “No. Just don't like sitting in a car in traffic, that's all.”

“Almost there.”

We get off the main street finally. Turn down a little lane lined by old grey walls with red doors, peaked roofs coyly hiding behind them, revealing just a glance, and I catch a glimpse of the bright moon through a tree—I don't know what it's called, one of those trees you see everywhere here with the narrow limbs and tangles of thin twigs that stretch toward the sky, like they're trying to break through the smog and the bullshit to nourish themselves somehow—and it hits me like a wave, how in spite of how ugly this city is, sometimes it's still beautiful.

We pull up in front of a grey wall. A uniformed valet swoops in and takes John's keys.

I heave myself out of the car. Pain arcs up my wobbling leg, and I'm suddenly light-headed. I stare up at the sky, blinking, looking for the moon through the smog. The streetlamps light up the dust, making the air seem to sparkle, like somebody threw yellow glitter into the sky.

“Are you all right?” I feel John's steadying hand on my arm. And I'm remembering the night we met, how he tricked me. I was dizzy that night, too, walking with him. I remind myself why that was. What he did.

I pull my arm away. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Yili
. . .
”

I turn to face him. He looks confused, he looks concerned, he looks like he actually gives a shit. But hey, I've been wrong about that before.

“What?”

“We can just go home if you like.” He sounds so earnest saying this. So honest.

“Yeah? And then what? I get arrested for killing some girl I don't think I ever even met?”

“I can take care of it. You don't need to—”

“I
do
need to,” I snap. “I need to take care of myself. I need to
. . .
” I get hit by another wave of dizziness. Swamped. I steady myself against the wall. “Let's just go to this dinner, okay?”

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A panic attack. It's like I used to get, when I wouldn't leave the house, when I'd freak out in the supermarket, or in a car, or . . . well, anyplace. But I'm better. I've been handling things. Look at what I've done the last two years. Look at the shit that got thrown at me. I survived it, right?

Why is this happening now?

There's a double red door with brass studs. A red wood beam threshold. We step across it. On the other side is a broad courtyard and, across it, what looks like a small, Tibetan-style temple: ornate upturned roof with scalloped yellow tiles, red screens and walls and columns. Pillars of light rise at even intervals, like they're another row of columns holding the place up.

It's your head that's doing this, I tell myself. There's nothing wrong right now. I'm not going to get blown up. It's just a feeling. Like what the army shrink used to say:
Feelings are transient. You let yourself feel them, observe what they are, let them go.

“Just because I feel this way now doesn't mean I'll always feel this way,” I mutter.

“Ni shuo?”

“Nothing,” I tell John. “Nothing important.”

There's a flagstone path leading up to the temple, lit here and there by lanterns on iron posts. A little stone bridge that arches over an artificial stream. And finally, as we walk up a couple of broad steps that lead to the entrance, a bronze sign with a cutout character lit from behind:
茶
.

Tea.

I sure hope they have booze.

Yeah, the whole place
is gorgeous and expensive: ancient wood, hand-crafted furniture, mood lighting, a Buddha statue here and there, perfectly placed paintings—calligraphy mostly. The patrons also look like money. It's quiet, unlike most Chinese restaurants, the kind I go to anyway, with some traditional music plinking in the background.

The hostess leads us to a private room.

A low, round table. Seated at its head are Tiantian and Mrs. Tiantian, Dao Ming. Tiantian's wearing another expensive jacket with a mandarin collar that doesn't quite fit right over his dumpy frame, Dao Ming some Gucci/Pucci/whatever dress. She smiles tightly in my general direction, which I guess is an improvement over calling me a bitch. To their left sits the older guy from the party with the sad eyes and the sharp suit, the one who led Dao Ming out when she had her little meltdown. I can't remember his name. She called him “Uncle,” I think.

To the right, Meimei. Tonight her hair is loose instead of slicked back, and she's wearing a silk outfit, an embroidered red robe and flowing pants, that looks like something from a Chinese historical soap opera. “Oh,” she says, “you've brought a friend.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I . . . uh, mentioned it to Vicky when she called to set this up. That John would be coming. This is John. Zhou Zheng'an.”

John steps forward.
“Hen gaoxing renshi nimen.”
Very pleased to meet you all. Which I'm pretty sure he's not.

I look at him, and he has a smile on his face and a sort of glitter in his dark eyes.

Strike that, he's probably really looking forward to opening up a whole can of whoop-ass on one or more Caos.

Speaking of, no sign of Gugu.

Tiantian makes a sweeping gesture at the empty chairs across from him.
“Qing zuo.”
Please sit. “I have ordered some special tea to start our dinner.”

Oh, great. Fucking tea.

We sit. I try to turn the grimace on my face that comes from the pain in my leg as I get down on that low chair into a smile.

I'm next to Meimei. John's next to me. There are two more empty chairs to his left.

Introductions are made. John smiles and nods politely. The last to introduce himself is Uncle.

“Yang Junmin,” he says.

There's the slightest flicker of recognition on John's face, quickly covered up by a polite smile.

“John's a consultant,” I say.

John nods vigorously. “Yes.”

“Really?” Meimei says. “On what kinds of projects?” She seems amused.

“Various kinds. I work with relevant government departments. To help obtain necessary permissions.”

At that, Uncle Yang's eyes narrow, and I hear this tiny snort. And I get this sudden flash: Celine at the party, telling me how Dao Ming is
hong er dai,
“second-generation red.”

And this guy is her “uncle.”

There were all kinds of government officials at that party, I'm pretty sure.

I get that creepy-crawly feeling, like a spider's walking up my spine.

What are the odds that this guy's someone pretty high up?

Meanwhile John's continuing his earnest, slightly clueless routine. It doesn't fool me anymore, but objectively it's a pretty good act.

“I think this project, it is very exciting,” he says. “And a way to make China shine on the world stage.”

Tiantian leans forward. He likes this idea, I can tell. “In what way?”

“There are many valuable and important works in your father's collection. If you can build a first-class museum for them, it can help show China is a world cultural power.”

Tiantian slowly nods. “Though it is better to emphasize Chinese works. Chinese traditions. Create a showcase for our own culture.”

So is Tiantian actually interested in the museum project? And is that a good thing? Because it's not like I actually want to
do
any of this.

“That's a good idea,” I say. “But first we need to deal with the collection that's already there. Right?”

“Of course.”

“Is the tea coming?” Dao Ming asks abruptly.

Dao Ming has her forehead resting on three tense fingers, her thumb tucked under her cheekbone. Her fingers are long and skinny and white, like ivory.

Uncle Yang nods. “Yes. Just wait a moment.” He lifts a hand.
“Fuwuyuan.”
It's funny, he hardly raises his voice. But immediately a waitress hustles into our private room.
“Women xianzai yao he cha.”

We want to drink our tea now.

The tea is all fancy. It's Tieguanyin, which I'm pretty sure is Chinese for “really fucking expensive.”

“Name means ‘Iron Goddess of Mercy,'” the waitress explains to me in English. “Is one of very best oolong tea.”

She goes through this whole big production: First we have
to look at the tea and say how pretty it is and how nice it smells. I mostly nod and leave that to the others. Then she puts the tea in a pot and “rinses” it with hot water that she pours out of a brass kettle with a long, skinny spout. She pours from a couple feet
off the table, so the water splashes everywhere. This is normal, I guess. Then she pours it into our cups, but we're not supposed to drink that. She pours more hot water into the teapot, this time from a normal height. Our cups get emptied onto the outside of the teapot. Finally she pours the tea into these tiny porcelain cups: not to drink, to smell. And you're supposed to put your larger, drinking teacup over that to capture the smell.

“Long feng cheng xiang,”
Tiantian says, intoning this with his eyes half closed like it's some kind of blessing.

“This means ‘dragon and phoenix in fortunate union,'” the waitress explains.

Somebody bring me a beer.

Well, okay, for tea it tastes pretty good. Kind of smoky and smooth in a way that rolls off my tongue and slides down my throat.

“The purpose of tea ceremony is to encourage relaxation. And pleasant discussion.” Tiantian wags his finger at me. “It does not matter in a teahouse who is rich and who is poor. All can speak frankly together.”

I'd be on the “poor” end of this equation. Thanks for rubbing my nose in it, asshole.

“Huh,” I say. “That's very interesting.”

A sudden movement from Dao Ming catches my eye. She's tossing back her cup of tea like it's a shot of tequila. “We should order,” she says in Tiantian's general direction. “Otherwise we could wait for Gugu all night.”

“We can wait a while longer. The Tieguanyin is good for several more pots.”

“Our guests are hungry,” she hisses.