Hour of the Rat

by Lisa Brackmann

  “I … It’s Beijing. It’s … it’s my neighborhood. It’s safe.”

  “Sure, if you aren’t in the middle of some dangerous fucking shit. You’re gonna play in this playground, you’d better learn the rules. Unless you got a death wish or something.”

  The two of us stand there for a moment, listening to Buzz Cut’s quiet snores.

  “What are you gonna do with him?” I ask.

  “I dunno. Probably just leave him here. It’s not like he can bitch and get me fired.”

  “But … he said he was gonna kill you.”

  “Let him try.”

  Seeing Carter standing there, I’m thinking that in a battle of the badasses, I would not bet against him.

  “He’s got his people. I’ve got mine. And he was out of line.” Carter shrugs. “Let’s get out of here.”

  WE GO TO A little hutong bar I know run by these Mongolian brothers. My throat hurts from being choked and all, and I could use a beer. It’s a cool place, and one of the brothers has a couple of cats he adopted who live there. They like to sleep on top of the crooked bookcases and climb the tree in the middle of the tiny courtyard. Tonight it’s not too crowded. We sit in a corner against the wall, curtained off by a battered wooden screen.

  “You need to stop drinking so much,” Carter tells me, pounding his shot of tequila.

  I laugh. “Yeah. Right.” I’m drinking Harbin beer.

  “Hey, I’m not the one who’s on everybody’s shit list. That would be you.”

  He doesn’t even know the half of it.

  I don’t think.

  “So why’d you help me?” I ask.

  “We had a deal,” he says, not looking at me. “If you’re gonna horse-trade, you need to be an honest actor. Which that dick was not.” He chugs his Erdinger and laughs. “Nice having an excuse to leave him in a gutter.”

  There’s more to it than that, I’m pretty sure.

  I study him. He’s close to my mom’s age, maybe a little younger. I never thought about that before, about what kind of life he has when he isn’t being a corporate spy/thug.

  “Oh, man, don’t tell me I remind you of your daughter or something.”

  He draws back. His face twists like he’s smelled something bad. “My daughter is a straight-A student in college,” he says, sounding pissed.

  “Okay, okay. So not that.”

  He leans back in his chair. Crosses his arms above his belly. Smiles a little. “More like this crazy Polish girlfriend I had in Estonia. Into vodka and meth. Fucking nuts.”

  I hope he’s joking. Because of the many places I do not wish to go, this would be high on my list.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve outgrown that kind of shit. So should you.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I drink my beer. Pet the black-and-white cat when she winds around my legs.

  “What happens if I go to the press?” I finally ask.

  “How the fuck should I know? Probably nothing. But hey, you wanna try, I’m not gonna stop you.”

  I get us another round of beers and a couple shots for Carter. We drink for a while.

  “It might help,” Carter mutters.

  “What?”

  “Getting the story out there. Embarrassing Eos. You’re already in their sights. You go public, you might get too hot for them to touch.” He drinks some more. Seems to consider. “Or …”

  “Or what?”

  “You make your own deal. Tell them you won’t go to the press, if they leave you alone. If anything happens to you, the information gets released. You know. Preemptive blackmail.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  He shrugs. “Depends on what you want.”

  I think about it. Think about Jason, and Sparrow and Kang Li. Moudzu and Peach Computers. Then I think about the utility of saving my own ass.

  “You know what?” Carter says suddenly. He rests his elbows on the table and leans forward. Like he’s about to share a big secret.

  “I don’t want my daughter and her kids, if she has them, eating that GMO shit.” He slams his shot. “What kind of a world are we leaving for them anyway?”

  I’m pretty sure he’s drunker than I am.

  “I don’t know.”

  His voice drops to a whisper. “My daughter’s pre-med.”

  “That’s really cool,” I say.

  I STAGGER HOME.

  This time when I fumble for my keys, a dog starts barking from inside, toenails scraping against the metal door.

  My mom opens the door before I can get my key in the second lock.

  “Oh!” She breaks into a smile. Reaches out to hug me. I just kind of stand there. The dog dances around her legs barking.

  “Calm down, Mimi!” my mom says, grabbing the dog’s collar. Her hair’s frizzed out, and she’s wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that she must have gotten in Yangshuo, a yin-yang symbol against those freaky mountains.

  “Mimi?”

  “That’s your friend John’s name for her.”

  I step inside. See Andy sitting on the couch in front of the TV, blinking blearily. He, too, is wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.

  “We were watching a movie,” my mom explains. “I guess we fell asleep.”

  “It’s pretty late.”

  “Ni hao, Ellie,” Andy says. “Your vacation was good?”

  “A blast.”

  “Blast?”

  “Hen hao wanr.” A lot of fun.

  The dog nuzzles my free hand.

  “Hey, you remember me, dog?” She sits and thumps her tail. “I guess you do.”

  She looks good. Her coat shiny and clean. “John had her groomed,” Mom explains. “He’s been back to visit her. I think he’s attached.” She grins slyly. “Maybe not just to Mimi.”

  I roll my eyes, scratch the dog behind her ears, the ruff of fur around her neck. Feel the collar. Leather, good quality, with a brass buckle and studs.

  “John says you can change her name if you like. He just needed one to register her here in Beijing.” She smiles. “He wanted to take care of that for you.”

  “Right.”

  Knowing John, I’ll bet he microchipped her.

  Andy slowly rises from the couch. Stretches and yawns. “I let you two sleep now.” He passes by my mom, taking a moment to smile at her. My mom smiles back, and I think she’s blushing.

  He pauses by the door. Clasps his hands together and bobs his head in my direction. “Welcome home, Ellie. Have a good rest.”

  This strikes me as pretty funny.

  I LIE IN BED, and tired and drunk as I am, I don’t fall asleep right away. I feel Buzz Cut’s arm against my throat, and my shoulder’s throbbing. Another injury to add to the tally.

  It’ll heal, I tell myself. And I don’t know, maybe it was worth it.

  I completed the mission. I didn’t wimp out. Maybe I didn’t accomplish much. I didn’t exactly talk Jason into coming home. But at least I can let Dog know he’s okay.

  And I’m thinking maybe I will go to the press. I know a couple of reporters. Harrison probably knows more.

  I’ll have to think hard about what I want to tell them. How much I want to put myself in the story.

  As little as possible, I decide. It’s Jason who needs to be the story, not me.

  And yeah, maybe it won’t do any good. Jason and me, Moudzu, Sparrow—we’re all pretty far down on the food chain compared to who we’re up against. Just grunts in some generals’ wars.

  Worker bees. Ha-ha.

  But I think about what John said to me once. About how it’s hard to change things. About how most of us can only do something small. But how, if enough of us try, maybe we can connect all those small things together.

  Do something great.

  Or who knows? Maybe not. But I might as well try. What else am I going to do?

  Tell the Great Community, I think. Let them know what’s going on. They can spread the word, too.

  I hear scratching at the door.
A low whine.

  “Really, dog?” I mutter. She scratches again. “All right, all right.” I switch on the nightstand light and shuffle over to the door.

  Mimi sits there, staring up at me, her gold-flecked eyes wide. Her tail starts to thump.

  “Okay. You can come in.”

  I limp back to bed. The moment I’m in it, the dog scrambles up. “Seriously? Come on. This is my bed, not yours.”

  She snuggles against my side. Nuzzles my hand. I swear she’s being cute on purpose.

  “We’re not going to make a habit of this, right?” I scratch behind her ears, under her jaw, around her neck. My hand feels the brass tag, which has gotten tucked under the collar. I straighten it out. Then pull it around so I can read it.

  On one side it says MIMI, followed by a telephone number—my iPhone. On the other side, two Chinese characters:

  Pronounced mi mi. Meaning “secret.”

  I start laughing. I can’t help it.

  With Lao Zhang coming back, I’m not sure how long the secret will hold. But it’s one I can keep, for now.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are so many people that I need to thank for Hour of the Rat that I really don’t know where to start.

  So, in no particular order:

  The folks at Soho Press—publisher Bronwen Hruska, Mark Doten, Paul Oliver, Meredith Barnes, Rudy Martinez, Janine Agro, Simona Blat, Rachel Kowal, and in particular, my editor, Juliet Grames. I am extremely fortunate to be working with a group of innovative, ethical, and passionate people who care very deeply about the books they put out and the authors who write them. Plus, they are just plain fun to hang out with. That goes for Soho authors as well. A more convivial bunch of writers you won’t find anywhere. The Soho Criminals, guys. It’s on. I’m buying that bass ukulele.

  The Random House sales team, whose smarts, enthusiasm, and mad bowling skills are greatly appreciated!

  My many writer friends, the people I can go to who understand exactly what I’m celebrating or freaking out about. The Wombats, the Purgies, Pitizens, and a special shout-out to the Fiction Writers Co-op, a group whose combined knowledge, experience, generosity and talent continues to astound me. My fellow Sisters and Misters in Crime, SoCal and NorCal, and the SoCal and NorCal chapters of Mystery Writers of America. And, especially, Noir at the Bar Los Angeles—what a fantastic community of writers and readers!

  Maryelizabeth Hart and the crew at Mysterious Galaxy San Diego and Redondo Beach. While I’m at it, a sincere “thank you!” to the independent bookstores of America. Thank you for being here, for fighting the good fight and for providing a much needed “third space” where we can come together as a culture and as a community.

  Librarians—you, too! Libraries were where I learned to love books. You enrich our society immeasurably, providing invaluable community resources at a time when communities really need you.

  Writer friends who especially helped me with this book: Dana Fredsti, Bryn Greenwood, and Jenny Brown. THANK YOU! (That’s in caps because I’m shouting it from the rooftops.)

  China friends—you guys keep me coming to Beijing in spite of the air that’s trying to kill me. Your help with Mandarin and other research questions was invaluable. Plus, thanks for all the dumplings! Si Fuzhen, Dave Lyons, Kate Ba, Brendan O’Kane, Jeremiah Jenne, Yajun Zhang, Allison Corser, thank you. Tim Smith, my “brother,” thank you twice.

  My Los Angeles crew, who helped me through a pretty tough time in my life: Jim Bickhart, Joe Touch and Gail Schlicht, Holly and Mick West, John Amussen and Drea Bailey, Pete Sloman, David McCallen, and especially Ebbins Harris.

  Tim Hallinan, I’ll see you at the Novel Café.

  Ryan McLaughlin, my web designer, who’s always so much fun to work with and approaches each new tweak with enthusiasm and creativity.

  Kerrin Hands—I keep winning the cover lottery—again, I score!

  Ben Lucas, Tommaso Fiacchino, I love a business that has introduced me to great folks like you.

  Jane Johnson, we will have those margaritas! Thank you for your support and your belief in me as a writer.

  Pilar Perez, for the margaritas and for providing a wonderful writing refuge in a beautiful place.

  Jennifer Hubbard—for sparkly purple you know what.

  Jon Hofferman, Mimi Freedman—for Buffy nights.

  Billy Brackenridge, for Rafanelli and sushi. But not together.

  Dana Fredsti (again) and David Fitzgerald, for general moral support.

  Bill, Carol, Chris, and Merrilyn Galante—for general awesomeness.

  Richard Burger, whose very thorough reads of the manuscript picked up all kinds of things, China facts, language, misplaced periods—thank you so very much. Also, for all the fun we’ve had while traveling together. Western Guizhou calls. Soon, my friend. Very soon …

  Nathan Bransford, for the rice-farming info, and for believing in me in the first place.

  Debra Baumann, my go-to for information and fact-checking about GMOs and other agricultural subjects—thank you for your sharing your knowledge and passion, and for the wonderful work you’re doing in your secure undisclosed location somewhere in California …

  The fine folks at Curtis Brown: Brianne Sperber, Stuart Waterman, Kerry D’Agostino, Holly Frederick, Dave Barbor, Ginger Clark, and most especially, Katherine Fausset, for your patience, support, good humor, and friendship. It’s such a pleasure working with you.