Hour of the Rat (18 page)

“Oh, are you hurt?” she asks. “Do you need help?”

I manage a smile. “I’m fine. Thank you.” I gesture toward the cooler. “But I’ll take two bottles of beer.”

She insists on carrying the beer and my spare crutch up to my room, which is on the third floor. “Did you have an accident?” she asks. “Do you need a doctor?”

“A small accident. I already saw a doctor. Thank you.”

Truth is, once I hang the Do Not Disturb sign on my door, lock it, and gingerly position myself on the bed, which is your basic cheap Chinese-hotel “Is this a mattress or a sheet of plywood covered by a polyester pad and a sheet?” kind of deal, I realize that I feel pretty crappy. I mean, I’m used to my leg hurting. It hurts a lot of the time. But this is on a different level, the kind of pain I felt years ago, when the injury was fresh. And my chest hurts, too, and my throat, and the insides of my nostrils, like everything’s been rubbed with sandpaper and bleach. And I wonder, how the fuck do people live in that
place? People like Wa Keung and Mei Yee and Moudzu? How do they get up every day and do what they have to do? How does a kid like Moudzu believe he’s going to become the next Steve fucking Jobs?

I crack open a beer and I drink, thinking sometimes it’s better not to know how the world really works. The less you know, the more you can pretend that you have a shot of beating the odds.

I lift up my bottle of Kingway beer. “Go Peach Computers!”

That makes me laugh. I laugh and laugh, and then I pound a few more slugs of beer. I’d open the other bottle, but it’s all the way over on the desk by the TV, and I don’t think I can go that far.

At some point I manage to put the empty bottle down on the pressboard nightstand and turn off the light.

I
SLEEP PRETTY CRAPPY
most of the night, the pain in my leg waking me up when I stay too long in one position, until finally I take another Percocet at around 5:00
A
.
M
., and that knocks me out for a while.

Until my phone goes off. The default ringtone I use for unknown callers is, System of a Down’s “Hypnotize.”

I fumble around for my phone. I feel like someone’s dropped a skip loader of cement on me. “
Wei?
” I manage.

“Ellie McEnroe?” A woman, clipped, forceful.

“Yes?”

“This is Vicky Huang, representing Sidney Cao. Have you returned to Beijing?”

“I, uh …” Something about the sharp edge of her voice penetrates the haze in my skull, and then I remember. It’s the woman fronting for the supposed billionaire who wants to buy some of Lao Zhang’s work.

“No,” I say, “not yet.”

“Do you have a date for returning?”

“It’s complicated. Look, Ms. Huang—”

“Mr. Cao is very patient man. If we can only schedule this talk, that will satisfy him for present time.”

I stare at my phone. It’s possible I’m misinterpreting due to a Percocet hangover, no coffee, and Vicky Huang’s English as a Second Language lack of nuance, but I feel like she’s about to order someone to come and break my kneecaps if I don’t cooperate.

Which is ridiculous, right? We’re talking about
art
here.

“Vicky. Look. I keep trying to tell you, I can’t sell you any of Zhang Jianli’s art right now. I mean, nothing you say to me is going to make a difference.”

“Why?” she demands. “Why can’t you sell to us?”

“I can’t sell to
anybody
.” My heart’s pounding from a rush of anger. Get a grip, I tell myself. You can’t tell her the truth—make something up. “We’re reorganizing. The … the business structure. We can’t sell anything till that’s done, and we get a … a new business license.”

“What is your time frame for this? Mr. Cao is a powerful man. He can aid you in securing any necessary permits.”

Sweet cartwheeling Jesus, this woman is like the fucking Terminator.

I open my mouth to tell her to kindly fuck off, and then I stop. So much stuff happens in China because of
guanxi—
personal connections. If this guy really is a big-deal billionaire, maybe he has some pull. I mean, I doubt he can call up the DSD and tell them to lay off, but who knows? It might not be a bad idea to hear what he has to say. Or to at least not piss him off.

“I very much would like to talk to Mr. Cao,” I say. “But I had a small accident, so I have to rest for a few more days.”

When in doubt, play the
xiuxi
card. Rest! It’s like the catch-all excuse in China—no matter what kind of deep shit you’re in, just say you need a rest and, weirdly, people will often leave you alone.

“I am sorry to hear,” she says, not sounding particularly
sorry. “Where will you be resting? Perhaps we can arrange a meeting.”

“Yangshuo,” I say without thinking. I mean, I have to say
something
, and it’s not like I can explain a vacation in Shantou, or in scenic Guiyu.

“Ah, yes. Very beautiful.” The slightest of pauses, and I think I hear the clicking of fingers on a keyboard. “Perhaps in two days?”

“I’m not sure about that. Let me call you when I … when I’ve had a chance to rest.”

The clicking stops. “Three days is also a possibility.”

“Okay. Right. I’ll call you. Really.”

Oh, man.

S
O HERE
’
S MY DILEMMA
: What do I do now?

I’ve told Vicky that I’m in Yangshuo, which of course I’m not. So should I go back there? Or should I stay far away? Maybe get my ass back to Beijing. Because I don’t know who Vicky Huang and Sidney Cao really are. They could be … I don’t know, DSD informers. Or crazy art stalkers. I mean, who knows?

I slowly haul my gimpy ass out of bed, and man, do I feel like shit. My leg is killing me, and my hip hurts on the other side, and my back, too, probably because I’ve been walking funny. I heat up some water in the little electric kettle, rip open a Starbucks VIA. I suck that down, and then I make another one.

Okay, I think, okay. I am sort of awake. My head doesn’t hurt too much. I can handle this. Or at least think it through.

I boot up my battered laptop, log on to the hotel’s free Internet, and start searching for Sidney Cao.

It takes me a while, and I find a lot of irrelevant crap, but there’s a Sidney Cao based in Anhui who started a company called Happy Village Ltd that does something involving
chemical products. And yeah, he’s loaded. In addition to his business, he’s built shopping malls, housing developments, and he’s cited in a Web magazine devoted to “the business of luxury and culture in China” as having recently begun to collect Chinese art, both ancient and modern, in a big way. Art and Bordeaux wines.

That’s got to be my guy.

I check Vicky Huang’s emails, and sure enough the domain is happyvillageltd.cn.

Okay, he’s for real, then. So what makes the most sense?

I mull it over.

I don’t think I have to worry about him if I decide to go to Yangshuo. He seems legitimate. But I could also just go back to Beijing and arrange a meeting from there. It’s not like I’m obligated to go to Yangshuo.

But that’s where a part of me still wants to go. Because I haven’t completed the mission yet: Operation Find Jason. I know a little more than I did, or at least I think that I do. I know that Jason was interested in New Century Seeds and that there’s something pretty shady about them.

The rice will still grow, no matter what
.

Maybe I can use that information to find out more from his friends in Yangshuo.

Even as I think this, there’s another part of me that’s going,
You fucking idiot
. You’re not going to find out anything, and what’s the point anyway? Whatever the problem is, you’re not going to be able to fix it.

But there’s the idea that I can give Dog an answer. That I can give
myself
an answer. You know, figure things out. Solve the mystery. The End.

Yeah, right.

I ’
M NOT CRAZY ABOUT
it, but I decide to fly to Guilin. It costs more, but my leg hurts a lot, and I’m not feeling all that great in general, and I just want to get there. So I buy a ticket, rise up at stupid o’clock the next day to catch the one plane from Shantou to Guilin, and I get into Guilin around nine-thirty in the
A
.
M
. I stagger around the airport with my daypack and my duffel and my crutches and find the bus that goes into Guilin proper. Take that to the train station and find the bus to Yangshuo. I do all this in a fog of hurt and narcotics and lack of sleep. None of it feels real, except for the shooting pain every time I step on my bad foot.

“This sucks,” I mutter as I rest my head against the window of the Yangshuo bus. I stretch my leg out as much as I can. At least no one claims the seat next to me, and I doze a bit as the bus bumps along down the road to Yangshuo. I don’t even open my eyes when the driver lays on the horn and swerves around whatever car or taxi or
tuolaji
might be in his path.

I
GET INTO
Y
ANGSHUO
about noon. I check into my hotel, which is tucked in an alley off Xi Jie. It’s a backpacker dive called Maggie’s Guesthouse. The lobby is a jumble of mismatched furniture, old travel and music posters, kids sprawled out working on their laptops. I picked it because it’s close to the Gecko, and I don’t want to walk far in the shape I’m in.

Yeah, I plan on going back there. Yeah, it’s probably a stupid idea. But that guy Erik knows something, I’m sure he does. And so does Sparrow, who might even be a better target. She was nicer anyway.

But I’m too tired to go there right now. I ache all over, and my leg feels swollen against the compression bandage. I should take a look at it, I guess, but I don’t want to. Instead I have a Percocet and stretch out on the hard bed. I swallow a couple of
aspirin, too, for the inflammation. I stare at the ceiling, at the water stains and peeling paint and think,
Seriously, what the fuck are you doing?

Attacked twice, in two different cities. All of Jason’s friends, if they really are his friends, acting like they’re in some mafia and took a vow of silence, treating me like I’m some kind of cop or something.

What is there about this situation that I’m missing? Aside from Jason?

Then I think: Jason.

I’ve researched the seed companies. I’ve researched Sidney Cao and Vicky Huang. The person I haven’t checked out is Jason.

I start Googling. And it doesn’t take me long to find out just how FUBAR the situation really is.

I
T
’
S ABOUT
10:00
P
.
M
. in San Diego. If that’s past anybody’s bedtime, too fucking bad. Because if I have to make an actual phone call, I will.

Somebody’s
up, though—Dog’s Skype icon is green.

Sure enough, when I ring, he picks up right away. Like he’s been sitting by the computer waiting.

His face lights up when he sees me.

“Hey, Baby Doc! You got … you got news?”

“I’m working on it. Listen, is Natalie around?”

That gets him worried. His forehead wrinkles, his eyes squeeze shut for a second, his lips draw back before he can get the words out. “You can … tell me.”

“Look, as far as I know, Jason’s fine. This is something I gotta talk to Natalie about.”

He frowns. Then bellows, “Hey, Nat!”

I wait for Natalie to sit in the computer chair, adjust the
earbuds. She smiles at me, showing her slightly crooked teeth. She looks exhausted, but maybe that’s from the blue glow of the computer screen.

“Hi, Ellie,” she starts. “Doug said—”

I cut her off. “So you left out a few things.”

Her eyes dart to one side, then back to me. “It’s complicated,” she says.

“Really? Complicated? Like, the part where Jason’s an ecoterrorist?”