I lean against the metal railing that circles what used to be a decorative pond, or maybe a fountain. It’s hard to tell. The Yuanmingyuan was sacked and burned “by the Anglo-French imperialist forces” in the middle of the nineteenth century, during the Opium Wars, and what’s left is all these big blocks and pillars of granite, the remains of marble bridges and stone boats, almost like the pictures you see of ancient Greek ruins, just the skeletons of something that used to be really grand. Really powerful.
“Listen. I didn’t ask to get involved with the Caos. Sidney came looking for me. And the problem is, I owe him, big time.”
A six-pack of Chinese girls, college age, are posing for pictures around what must have been the centerpiece of the fountain, this giant scallop-shell thing that looks more European than Chinese. They’re cocking their heads to one side, kicking out their feet, making peace signs. They don’t seem too concerned with the outrage committed by the Anglo-French imperialist forces.
“He got me out of a really bad situation,” I say. “And there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to make us even.”
John stands rigidly still, the muscle in his jaw still twitching. Looks down at his sneakers. Black leather Pumas. If they’re fakes, they’re good ones.
He nods, still staring at his shoes. Then he looks up.
“I can help you. I have some ideas,” he says.
“What are you planning on doing?” I cut him off before he can object, before he can tell me to let him handle it. “If you’re going to help me, I need to know.”
A shrug. “Simple. I just go to this Inspector Zou and tell him I have interest in the case. He must tell me his progress. He has no choice but to obey.”
Hearing this makes me feel slightly sick to my stomach. “Then he’ll know I have a DSD problem.”
“Yes. But this way he can just report to me, not my bosses. I can make a suggestion, maybe he should arrest someone else.”
I think about it. The plan’s simple and kind of brilliant in a way: Do an end run around the DSD’s getting involved by being the DSD guy in charge before the bosses find out about the case.
But this is the Cao family we’re talking about, the Caos and their hong er dai connections. With people that powerful, if Zou pursues any of them, if they’re in any way connected to a murder and that gets out, what are the odds that Domestic Security gets a call? Either from the Caos or from one of their enemies?
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I finally say. “This goes wrong, you could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Not if we solve it quickly. Then I am just doing my job.”
“Solve?”
“Find the right one to blame.” His face darkens. “All those Caos, they are all guilty of something.”
Hoo, boy.
It’s possible that I just made things a lot worse.
On the way home, I stop at a dumpling place I like on Andingmen to pick up a late lunch. I get it to go. I don’t feel like eating in the restaurant by myself, and besides, I need to get home to my dog.
This place is popular, and it’s usually crowded, but right now, just after 2:00 P.M., the lunch crowd is gone. I sit on a hard wooden bench by the entrance and wait for my dumplings. A bunch of fuwuyuan eat their lunches at a round, plastic-covered table in the back, kitchen workers in white, waitresses in cheap embroidered jackets, “traditional” style except done in neon shades of pink and yellow and turquoise. A few more lounge around by the drink cooler in the back, yelling at a soccer game on the TV. Chinese soccer is a pretty corrupt business, or so I’m told, and I guess the national team sucks, but they still really get into it.
I shouldn’t have told John. If he starts digging around looking for dirt on the Caos … what are the consequences likely to be? It’s not like I care if he finds out that Tiantian or Meimei or Gugu or even Sidney is a corrupt fuck. I mean, that’s kind of the default setting if you’re fu er dai. It’s more that poking the hornet’s nest isn’t a good idea. Believe me, I know. I’ve done it when I didn’t even know that was what I was sticking my hand into. But John doesn’t have that excuse. He has to know that going after the Caos is asking for a shitstorm. And I know John. He’s a gung-ho mofo. He’s not going to stop until he completes the mission.
Or someone takes him out.
I get my dumplings.
I walk home along Gulou Dongdajie. Normally it’s one of my favorite streets—old-style grey brick buildings, two or three stories high, traditional signboards, funky little boutiques and coffeehouses. Today, though, I’m tempted to flag down a cab. It’s not that far, but my leg’s just killing me. I stop at a little snack stand, buy a bottle of water, crack it open, and take a Percocet, wondering like I do every time I take one lately how the fuck I’m going to manage when I run out of them this time.
I could try a doctor here, I guess. But everyone I’ve ever talked to tells me it’s almost impossible to get an outpatient prescription, and if you can, they’re pretty stingy with the pills and they cost a fortune to boot.
I’m standing in front of a guitar shop. For whatever reason, this stretch of Gulou Dongdajie has a bunch of music stores. You can buy guitars, drums, violins, traditional Chinese instruments, whatever. The whiteboard in the window of this one lists some of the guitars they have to offer, in English (THE NATIONAL STEEL COUNTRY BLUES GUITAR), and below that, also in English, these lines: KEEP ANGER, KEEP REVOLT! FUCK THE WORLD! FUCK THE GOVERNMENT! FUCK THE RED LAND!!!
Rock and roll, dude.
I keep walking.
I pass some fancy-ass private club—I mean, I’m assuming it’s fancy; I’ve never been inside. But it has discreet lighting, a traditional red door trimmed in brass, and a couple of very pretty hostesses standing outside in qipaos, I guess in case any princelings happen to stop by for happy hour.
Nice qipaos, I think. They remind me of the ones I saw at Tiantian’s party: Classy. Expensive.
I think about that house and that party and the kind of money it would take to have that place and throw that little get-together, and all it does is piss me off. Why do assholes rule the world anyway?
And then I think about something else. The serving girls at Tiantian’s party. The ones in the fancy qipaos. There were a lot of them. All young. All pretty.
I wonder if maybe one of them didn’t make it home that night.
Okay, granted, it’s a long shot.
Assuming that the dead girl is connected to Tiantian’s party and the Caos—which my gut tells me is the case, but hey, my gut’s been wrong before—she could have been a chicken girl, a hooker. Or one of the guests. But I figure a guest, someone with money or family connections, that kind of person doesn’t stay unidentified for long.
A fuwuyuan at some kind of high-class catering company? That’s a different story. Because I’m guessing it’s just a dressed-up version of your basic restaurant businesses. A lot of girls from all over China come to Beijing for work. They get hired in a restaurant. Their families are far away. They don’t show up for work one day, the employer may or may not give a shit. She’s moved on to something better, that’s what he might think. Or she’s just moved on.
So how do I find out if I’m right?
“Vicky, hi. It’s Ellie McEnroe.”
“Ellie McEnroe. Do you have report for Mr. Cao?”
I sigh between gritted teeth. Vicky’s like, like … I don’t know, a bloodhound or something, or maybe a leopard. I heard on some nature show that leopards fixate on their prey and you can’t break that focus until said prey is hunted down and killed. Or maybe it’s jaguars. Either way.
“I have dinner with the children soon. Meimei is arranging it.”
“So you report after this dinner?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.” Maybe. “Actually, I was calling about something else. There was a catering company at Tiantian’s party. Yige yinshi fuwu.”
“Yes?”
“I might have to organize an art opening, and this catering compan
y was very good. I wondered if you know someone I could ask for their name?”
“Of course, I have it.” An uncharacteristic chuckle. “You think Tiantian runs his own house?”
Score. This is going better than I hoped. I thought I’d end up with another name, Tiantian’s housekeeper or something like that, or if my luck was really sucking, Dao Ming, Mrs. Tiantian. But I can picture Vicky Huang keeping an eye on things if Sidney’s money is involved.
“Would you mind sending the name to me?”
A hesitation. “This company … is very expensive.”
“I’d like to talk to them. My client might be willing to pay.”
I get the feeling Vicky Huang’s of the “knowledge is power” school and she’s reluctant to part with any of it. Or maybe I’m right, and something happened last night, and she knows about it.
She’s silent for another moment.
“Deng yixia.” Wait a minute. I hear her fingernails tapping, probably on her iPad. “I email it to you.”
The next thing I do is call John.
“I have an idea who the dead girl might be. But you’d be able to find out a lot easier than I could.”
“Okay, good.” He sounds cautious, measured. “So tell me.”
“If I do, I want you to promise me something. That you tell me if I’m right. After you find out but before you go do anything about it.”
“Yili, maybe it’s better—”
“No.” I take in a deep breath. “You’re the one who’s always saying I should trust you. So okay, you want me to trust you? Then do what I’m asking.”
This is it, I think. He’ll turn me down, or he’ll agree, and if he agrees, then all I can do is hope that he keeps his word. Which is no sure thing.
“Okay,” he says. “I will tell you what I find out.”
★ ★ ★
Here’s my thinking. John is in a better position to go to the catering company and get a useful response. All he has to do is show that DSD credential—I mean, assuming he has one in his capacity of undercover nark. And while tracking down the identity of the dead girl is still likely to bring him into the Cao’s kill zone, it might be more surgical than if he just goes after any and all Caos. Maybe the blowback won’t be as bad.
Because I guess I like John, and I’d rather see him not get into trouble.
And if he can actually figure out who this girl is and who killed her, maybe I’ll be off the hook.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
★
HE CALLS ME the next day.
“Can we have lunch?” he asks.
“You found something?”
“Maybe.”
We meet at a Sichuan place out in Haidian, the sort of typical large restaurant that has nothing distinguishing about it: round tables covered by oil-spotted red plastic, beige and faded green decor, blocky radiators and drink refrigerators, the kind of bathroom that you really have to need to use to make yourself use it, and as loud as a football game: shouted conversations, plates dropped on tables, and the clinking of beer bottles. My kind of dive.
Since it’s Haidian, the university district, there’s a bunch of foreigners here, so John and I don’t attract any particular attention. Just a couple of pals out for some mapo dofu and yuxiang rou si.
John waits until we’ve ordered. Rather till he’s ordered. It’s a Chinese-guy thing. Sometimes it’s irritating, but in this case he knows what I like, and he doesn’t bother to ask.
After the fuwuyuan brings our Yanjing Draft beer and some vinegar peanuts with spinach, John reaches into his jacket pocket and gets out his smartphone. Unlocks it and finger-swipes a few times. Then holds it out to me.
I take it. My fingers brush against his, and yeah, I’m still feeling those little electric shocks, and a part of me is thinking maybe we could go someplace after lunch.
Bad idea, McEnroe, I tell myself.
I look at the phone screen.
On it is a photo of a young woman. Almost a mug shot, except she’s smiling. She’s wearing a sort of uniform smock with a plastic badge that has a name and a number on it.
“Her name is Wang Junyi. She worked at Cao Tiantian’s party,” John says. “And she does not come to work the next day. They say maybe she has just left for a better job.”
I shiver a little. I study that smiling face, and it’s a broad smile, one that looks real, and I think, God, I hope you left for a better job.
Please don’t be that dead girl with the bruised, shattered face.
“Did you find out where she lives?” I ask.
He nods.
“Did you go there?” My mouth’s gone dry, and the words catch in my throat. I swallow some beer.
“Not yet.” John looks up at me. There’s something soft about his dark eyes. “I promise you I tell you first.”
Oh, man. My heart’s beating hard. It’s like he’s trying to make me really like him. And it’s maybe even working.
“So … after lunch. Can we go there?”
Because, yeah. I just have to push it.
He closes his eyes and does that little grimace I’ve come to know so well. “Why?” he asks with a sigh.
I shrug. “Just … because.”
The truth is, there’s no real reason I should go at all. I just want to see what he’ll say. Maybe I want to make him mad, I don’t know. So he can turn me down and I can go back to a safe distance, where I don’t have to trust him.
“Okay.” He picks up a mouthful of spinach and peanuts with his chopsticks. “We can make up a story to tell them, I think.”
Well, shit.
Turns out her place isn’t that far from the restaurant. It’s right near the Line 13 qinggui stop for Da Zhong Si, the Big Bell Temple, which John once told me was near his childhood home. I never did find out if that was the truth or not. I did visit the temple once. It’s now a “bell museum.” The front courtyard selling souvenirs: bells and Buddhas, T-shirts, kites, and toys. The temple’s surrounded by a forest of tall, skinny high-rises painted in this color scheme of yellowish cream and brick red that you see everywhere in China, built a couple decades ago and now washed over with grey grime and black soot.
We drive in John’s silver Toyota, down a major road, three lanes each side. Pass this giant … I don’t know what it is. A shopping center? Multistory pink walls and green tubular trim, an entrance resembling part of a mammoth Lego set. The whole building looks like it’s surrounded by scaffolding, some kind of metal latticework to hold up huge signs for products I’ve never heard of.
“You really grew up around here?”
John nods, scanning the road for something, an address maybe. “Different now,” he says. “Used to be farms not far from here. Fields.”
We turn right. A smaller street than the near highway we were just on, only four lanes across. Blocks of high-rises with businesses on the first few floors that face the street. The usual stuff. Electronics and cell-phone stores. Restaurants. Barbershops, some of which are sex joints. All lit up by the afternoon sun, filtered through a yellow-grey haze.
“I liked playing in the fields,” John says suddenly. “We had all kinds of games. Mostly Chinese Red Army against the Japanese devils. Of course the Red Army always wins.”
We turn down an alley. To the left there are steel barriers marking off a small parking lot, I guess for the high-rises in front of and behind it.
“Here,” John says.
He shoehorns the car into half a space by driving the front wheels up onto a curb. We get out.
It looks like a pretty nice complex, actually. A few trees that aren’t dying, a couple of stone benches beneath them in a little quadrangle in the center of a cluster of apartment buildings that look to be twenty or so stories high. The exteriors stained and speckled with black grime and trickles of rust. Closed balconies where the windows are permanently fogged by the pollution. But, you know, nice.
John looks at something on his phone. “This one,” he says, pointing to one of the bui
ldings that fronts the sidewalk.
We go into the lobby. It’s not bad. Finished granite floors, wood-grain wallboard, a little flat-screen TV beaming ads between the brass-trimmed elevators, a couple of decorative plants.
John’s studying the mailboxes that line the wall across from the elevators.
“Looks a little pricey for a fuwuyuan,” I say. “Even one who’s working for a high-class caterer.”
I’m thinking maybe Wang Junyi has a little business on the side.
John nods. Looks at his phone again. “This house number … not here.”
“What do you mean?”
He points at the mailboxes. “All the numbers have floor, then house number. So tenth floor, house number five, is 1005. Her number is 41.”
“Maybe it’s the first floor?”
“No. First floor start with ‘one.’ And no floor has forty-one apartments.”
“Huh.”
I think about what this might mean. Maybe she gave her employer a fake address?
John meanwhile strides to the lobby door and heads outside. I follow him as he approaches a stout older woman in a dark blue smock and pants who is slowly sweeping the cement path with a straw broom. “Laodama,” I hear him say. Auntie. I hear bits and pieces of the conversation, John asking about the apartment number, about Wang Junyi. I hang back, listening to the cars honking on the street behind me, to a thin stream of music, some Chinese pop with a high-pitched chick singer, and I feel a sudden shiver in the warm, yellow afternoon. I don’t know why.
“Hao, hao. Xiexie ninde hezuo.”
Thanks for your cooperation.
When he reaches me, his expression is neutral. “Okay,” he says. “I know how to find her place now.”
We walk around the building. A narrow alley runs along one side, the ragged cement blackened with soot and worn-in grease, from the Xinjiang restaurant next door, I’m guessing. I can smell the roasting lamb and charcoal and lighter fluid.
There’s a heavy steel door, painted beige and dented in places. John opens it. He doesn’t wait for me to go first. Instead he steps inside, holding the door open but standing in front of me like a shield.
I cross the threshold. He lets the door close behind me.
Dragon Day Page 12
