Dragon Day

by Lisa Brackmann

  Zou crooks his fingers at Chen, who makes a show of shuffling through the manila folder before he gets out another piece of paper and hands it over to his boss.

  Zou studies it for a moment, then looks at me. Lays the paper on the table and slides it across.

  That’s when I realize: This is his hole card. Because the Xeroxed image on this piece of paper is a business card.

  My business card.

  I feel myself flush and then chill as I break out in a sweat.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s mine.”

  Zou eyes me like he’s monitoring every twitch, every drop of sweat. “Do you have something else to say now?”

  “Yeah. Where’d you get it?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Asshole. I feel a little rush of anger. It almost feels good, that surge of chemicals, and suddenly I can focus again. “Actually? I don’t usually ask people questions when I already know the answer.”

  “Ah.” Zou allows himself a small grin. He points at the photo of the dead girl. “This card was on her body. In her pocket. So you can see why we want to talk with you.”

  I don’t feel anything right away. Just blank. Like any thoughts I had just got sucked out of my head.

  What I say is, “Makes sense.”

  I pick up the photo of the dead girl. Study it again. If I know her, I don’t know her well, not well enough to make up for how the swelling and bruises and busted nose have distorted her features.

  “I really don’t recognize her,” I finally say. “Maybe she’s someone I’ve met, but the way her face looks now, I just can’t tell.”

  “Then how can she have your card?”

  “I don’t know. Look, I give my card to a lot of people. At galleries and openings and parties. She could be someone who was interested in an artist I represent. I have no idea.”

  I push the photo back toward Zou. “Are you going to tell me who she is?” I ask.

  “Ah.” Zou straightens up. Has another sip of beer, like this is a happy social occasion. “You see, this is also why we want to talk to you. We don’t know. She has no purse. No … no zhengming.”

  No identification.

  Nothing but my card.

  Now my heart’s pounding, and I’m thinking, It’s a setup, it has to be, but who—and why?

  Marsh. Or maybe Tiantian. Someone at that party.

  Okay, McEnroe, slow down, I tell myself. You can’t just assume that.

  “Can you tell me when she died?” I ask.

  “Why you wish to know?”

  He’s still smiling, but the way he says it isn’t friendly. Like I have no business asking and it’s suspicious that I’m doing so.

  “Because she’s dead and my card was in her pocket,” I snap back. “So maybe she got my card not too long before she died. It might help me narrow it down.”

  Or she’d stuck it in her jeans or whatever she was wearing, forgot about it, and it was still there when she put them on again.

  I push that thought aside.

  Zou draws in a deep breath. Crosses his arms over his chest and pats his elbow with an audible slap.

  “Sometime last night or early this morning. We still wait for … the study.” He uncrosses his arms to sip more beer. “Some workers find her out near Sixth Ring Road. In some … some trash. This big trash mountain by an old village they …” His forehead wrinkles. He can’t come up with the word. “Very embarrassing,” he mutters. “My English.”

  “Your English is very good,” I say automatically.

  What I’m thinking is, She died last night or this morning.

  Ding, ding, ding—we have a winner.

  Meanwhile Zou’s tapping something on his phone. A dictionary, I’m guessing. I have one on mine. “Demolish,” he says with emphasis.

  But Marsh wasn’t the only one at that party who had my card. I’d given one to Gugu and to Meimei and … did I give one to Tiantian? Yeah, I think I did, right as I was leaving.

  All three of the Caos. If I tell Zou that …

  What’s Sidney going to do if I tell a cop about his kids?

  I think some more, back to the night of Gugu’s party. I handed them out to that girl, the blogger, to Celine, and to her friend Rhinestone-Cap Girl—Betty.

  Could the dead girl be one of them?

  I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.

  “Does this give you any idea?” Zou asks.

  A few too many, I’m thinking, but I don’t say that.

  What I say is this: “I was at a party last night. I don’t think I gave my card to anyone there, though.”

  It’s only a small lie.

  Along with a big omission.

  “A party. How late you stay?”

  “Mmmm, about midnight?”

  “And there are people from party to … to …” He checks his phone dictionary again. “Verify this?”

  I shrug. “Sure.” I hope.

  “Who?”

  Oh, shit. But there’s no way around it. If I don’t say where I was, Zou’s going to have an even bigger hard-on for me.

  “The name of the host is Cao Tiantian,” I say. “I can give you the address.”

  Lucky me, I don’t end up handcuffed in the backseat of a squad car or in some unmarked sedan with a bag over my head. Instead I pour out the rest of the beer, like a good hostess, and Zou finishes his glass. Then he stands. Sergeant Chen rises with him.

  “If you can think of something to help us, please call me.” Zou reaches into his little man bag, pulls out a card case, and gets a card. Hands it to me with both hands.

  I make a show of examining it. Chinese on one side, English on the other.

  Chief Inspector Zou Qiushi.

  I wonder if he had these made himself or if this is the Beijing PSB’s attempt to be all hip and modern?

  “I will,” I tell him. Who knows, I actually might.

  I look at the Chinese on the back of the card. I still don’t read as much as I speak, but I’m getting better.

  “Qiushi—you know the meaning of this name?” Zou asks suddenly.

  “I, uh …” Dumbshit, I say to myself. Way to show you know the language. Well, that and the Chinese dictionaries in the bookcase.

  He probably already knew anyway.

  “Seek truth, right?” I say.

  He beams and nods. “Yes. And you say qiushi a different way, can mean ‘jail cell.’” His smile broadens. “I like this name of mine.”

  I’ve just told a Beijing homicide detective he should check out the people at Tiantian’s party. What’s going to happen when Sidney finds out? I don’t think he’s going to be happy.

  The idea pops into my head I could just tell Sidney that Marsh is a bad element, and whatever ends up happening because of that … well, all I did was tell Sidney, right?

  But I can’t. Marsh might not have anything to do with it, and I’m not going to have that on my head. Anyway, even if he does, would Marsh’s getting whacked by Sidney solve my problem? Because even though I haven’t been arrested, I can’t assume I’m off Zou’s suspect list. I’m pretty sure the PSB would love to pin this on a decadent foreigner.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, and I go to the fridge and get another beer. I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t—I mean, I’m already a little buzzed, and it’s barely lunchtime, and I’m having a hard time thinking this through as it is.

  Oh well.

  I open up the bedroom door, beer in hand, and Mimi trots out, still on alert, eyes wide open, ears pricked forward.

  “They’re gone,” I tell her. “Let’s go sit on the couch. You can help me figure this out.”

  I pour out a little glass of beer and sip, and I think about what makes the most sense for me to do.

  Okay, actually? The most sensible thing would be to just hit the eject button on this country.

  To leave China.

  Except where would I go? It’s not like I can expect a warm welcome in the good US of A.

  I sink back agai
nst the couch cushions and pat the seat next to me. “Come here, Mimi,” I say.

  She clambers up in that stiff-legged way dogs have.

  If Marsh did do it, I could go to Sidney and suggest that rather than having his rent-a-goons kill him, Sidney use his money and influence to make sure Marsh gets arrested. That could work. It would get me out of trouble, right?

  But what if Marsh didn’t do it? What if this has nothing to do with the Caos at all?

  Then what could I do that might be productive but that probably wouldn’t get someone else killed or falsely thrown in prison?

  Okay, I think. Okay. I gave cards to Gugu, and Meimei, and maybe Tiantian. Marsh. Celine and Betty.

  There’s a dead girl.

  So candidates for Dead Girl that I gave my card to would be Celine, Betty, and Meimei.

  Therefore first order of business would be find out if any of them are dead.

  I refill my little beer glass, kind of proud of myself for figuring this out so logically and all.

  I lift up the glass. And it suddenly occurs to me I can’t do this right now. I need to stay frosty. I’ve got stuff to do.

  I take one final sip of beer and put the glass on the coffee table.

  ★ ★ ★

  Meimei first, because I don’t have to reach too far to come up with a reason to call her.

  She picks up after about five rings. “Wei?”

  “Cao Meimei, ni hao. Shi …”

  “Of course I know you are Ellie McEnroe,” she says with a hint of amusement. “This is why I answered the call.”

  That’s a good thing. I guess.

  On the other hand, she’s a Cao, and who knows what she’s after?

  Well, she’s not dead anyway.

  “Did you enjoy the party?” she asks.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

  She laughs. “Oh, I forgot. My brother’s wife was very rude to you. But you shouldn’t care too much. She is crazy.”

  “Good to know,” I say.

  “You are calling about our dinner?”

  “Yes,” I say, relieved, thinking, Cool, I didn’t even have to bring it up. “Because I need to go out of town maybe, and I wanted to make sure that we scheduled something first.”

  “I see.” A pause. “Let me talk to my brothers. I think we can arrange something soon. Then you can go out of town if you like.”

  That went well. I think.

  Next Celine.

  Unlike Meimei, she doesn’t seem to recognize me. So I continue with the introduction: “I’m Ellie McEnroe. We met at Gugu’s party.”

  “Ah!” I can picture her wide-eyed smile on the other end. “The family friend of the Caos.”

  The way she says that, I’m pretty sure she’s mocking me. I want to tell her, Hey, so not my choice to be a Cao family friend. The Caos make me nervous. But I don’t say any of that.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your website,” I say.

  “My website? Oh, you like it?”

  “I haven’t seen it yet. That’s why I’m calling. I have an artist who’s interested in … a collaborative project that involves, uh … the impact of social media on … discourse centered on female sexuality.” Whatever. “And I thought she’d be interested in your website. But I lost your card.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “That first part, that was … yidianr buqingchu.” A little unclear. “You mean some kind of artwork?”

  “Yeah, sure. Maybe. It’s more … research to … to inform the work.”

  “Okay.” I’m guessing she’s still yidianr buqingchu about the whole thing. Which, given that I’m just spouting bullshit jargon I pulled off the top of my head from a bunch of different art magazines, is not too surprising. “So you want my website’s address?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. I can text to you.” I can hear her long nails tapping on the screen of her phone. “Funny, though,” she adds.

  “What?”

  “You have my phone number. But you say you lost my card.”

  Oh, well, shit. She’s not dumb. “Yeah. I put your number in my phone. I must have gotten interrupted, because I didn’t put in the address of the website, and now I don’t know what happened to the card.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  I’m not sure whether she buys this or not, but I don’t really care, because she’s not dead, and that’s all I need to know.

  “Do you have Betty’s number?” I ask.

  “Betty?” I don’t think I’m imagining the suspicion in that one word. Why would I want to call Betty? I don’t have a good explanation. But one thing I’ve figured out lately. Sometimes if you just act like you’re entitled to something, you’ll get it.

  “Yeah. We talked about getting together for coffee. But I forgot to ask for her number.”

  There’s a silence on the other end, and I can picture her again, maybe taking a moment to light one of those Panda cigarettes while she considers what to do.

  “Sure. I can text to you.”

  “Thanks. Looking forward to checking out your website.”

  “I think maybe some topics I write about might interest you,” she says. “I hope you have a look.”

  “I definitely will,” I say. “Thanks again.”

  We disconnect.

  I’m thinking about what I should say to Betty, if she isn’t dead, when the bamboo chime on my phone announces an incoming text.

  From Celine. It says, LETTERSFROMTHEDEEPYELLOWSEA.COM. Celine’s website.

  Huh. Not a .cn address. I wonder if her site’s hosted outside of China? Makes sense if she’s posting anything even a little sensitive. I really should check it out.

  While I’m looking at that, another text. A cell-phone number, with the name in caps: BETTY.

  I’ve really got nothing to say to Betty. I barely said two words to her, and she didn’t seem to like me much. But does it even matter what I say? The only thing I care about is whether she’s alive or not.

  So I touch the number on Celine’s text until the phone starts ringing.

  “Wei?” Her voice sounds small. Shaky.

  “Ni hao, shi Betty ma?”

  “Ni shi shei?” Who are you? And I realize what that note in her voice is: fear. She’s scared.

  “Duibuqi. Wo buxihuan mafan ni.” Sorry. I don’t want to bother you. “It’s Ellie. Ellie McEnroe. We met at Gugu’s party.”

  If I thought this was going to calm her down, it pretty much does the opposite.

  “Why are you calling me?” There’s a ragged edge to her voice now, like she’s barely holding it together.

  I almost hang up, because I don’t know what to say. I should have thought of something. Should’ve planned it better. But I wasn’t expecting this.

  “I … uh, sorry. Just, I … I’ll call you later. It’s not important.”

  And then I do hang up.

  So here’s what I know.

  Meimei, Celine, Betty, not dead. Betty’s scared. If that really was Betty. I barely talked to her at Gugu’s party.

  That’s about it.

  I sip the very strong cup of coffee I made. Think it through, McEnroe. Think it through.

  How does this help me?

  It doesn’t, I conclude. Not really. None of the women I gave my card to who were at Tiantian’s party are dead, assuming I just talked to the real Betty. The dead woman could be someone else who was at that party—shit, maybe even Milk Lady—and I have no way of knowing. Or she could be someone who wasn’t at the party at all.

  I already told Inspector Zou where I was last night. If I tell him more than that, like who I gave my cards to, there’s going to be Cao-related blowback. Count on it. Bad enough I had to tell him about Tiantian’s party.

  Maybe once he finds out who he’s dealing with, he’ll lay off. You don’t want to go after people like the Caos. Not unless you’ve got your own powerful backers who want to see them brought low.

  It would be a hell of a lot more convenient to go after someone like me. Nev
er mind that I had nothing to do with it. Forget that I have absolutely no motive or that I don’t even know who the girl is. They could just make some shit up. Close the case, wipe their hands, and that’s that.

  Is there any kind of bone that I could throw Zou that isn’t going to get me in even deeper?

  I could tell him about Betty, or whoever it was who answered Betty’s phone. She was scared of something.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. Because I don’t want to sic the cops on Betty. I don’t know what her connection to the Caos is, other than that she hangs out with Gugu. She could be another fu er dai or hong er dai for all I know, with her own powerful guanxi.

  So what do I do?

  I could call John.

  I slump back against the couch. I call John, what’s he going to say?

  That I should have listened to him. I should’ve stayed away from the Caos.

  Like I really had a choice.

  What happens when somebody connects the dots? When Inspector Zou finds out I’m in deep shit with the DSD? Because he will find out, sooner or later. And watch me go from person of interest to the perfect scapegoat.

  Pompadour Bureaucrat would be the happiest little totalitarian ever.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ★

  “DON’T SAY IT.”

  John grimaces. It’s as if holding back his “I told you so” is physically painful.

  “Okay, you know that chengyu? That proverb? The one about how once you’re riding on a tiger, it’s really hard to get off?”

  “Qi hu nan xia,” John mutters.

  “Yeah. That’s where I am with the Caos.”

  John halts in his tracks, and he just can’t contain himself anymore. “But why you get on tiger in the first place?” He’s punching the air with his fist as he says this.

  We’re wandering around the Yuanmingyuan, the Old Summer Palace, which he picked because it seemed like a good place to meet where neither of us would attract much attention, its being a tourist destination and all, but a low-key one. And it’s not that crowded today, but this isn’t exactly turning out to be a discreet conversation, which is what we’re supposed to be having right now.

  I didn’t give him a blow-by-blow. Just, this girl turned up dead yesterday morning with my card on her body. And oh, yeah, whose party it was that I went to the night before last.