Right now I’m just glad to be home with my dog and a Yanjing Draft.
The evening those guys are having, it’s the kind that ends up with somebody running over a migrant vendor with a Ferrari, or with said Ferrari smashed to pieces against a freeway abutment-with or without dead hookers. It’s how the fu er dai, the second-generation rich, tend to roll.
Bugging out was the right thing to do.
Chapter Six
★
I’m sitting in bed with my laptop checking the English-language China gossip sites like I do a lot of mornings, this time with a little more interest than usual, because hey, what if Gugu and Marsh did crash a Ferrari into a concrete wall?
But if something went wrong last night, it hasn’t made it onto chinaSMACK yet.
I take another sip of strong, black coffee. Not as good as the stuff Harrison served up the other day, which is one of the problems with hanging out around rich people-they always have better stuff than I do.
Or maybe that’s why I hang out around them.
I glance over at the designer clothes heaped on this armchair that I never actually sit on-it’s just where I throw clothes. They’re wrinkled, and I can smell the cigarette smoke on them from here. Discarded lizard skins.
I drink more coffee. At least I’m not hungover, just tired and headachy and dry-eyed from all the smoke and the noise and not enough sleep. But I’m still feeling all mature for not doing anything totally stupid last night.
That is, until my iPhone rings.
“Vicky Huang. I have Mr. Sidney Cao for you.”
Fucking great.
“Hello, Ms. Ellie!” Sidney, as usual, sounds weirdly cheerful. Though maybe it isn’t weird to be cheerful when you can buy anything you want. “I hope you had a nice evening?”
“Yes. I did. Pretty much.”
“And how was Gugu?” He’s still all Mr. Happy, but it’s forced this time. Because yeah, actually, you can’t buy everything.
“He seems… I don’t know, pretty good.” I mean, what else can I say? He seems like a bitter, drunk parasite? Which, you know, might be a little of a pot/kettle scenario, but I’m at least doing no harm, right?
“And you meet this friend of his? This American, Marsh Brody?”
My heart starts pounding. “I did.”
“And what are your thoughts?”
Stay Hippocratic, McEnroe.
“You know, it’s a little hard for me to say. It’s not like I really got to know him. There wasn’t enough time. And it was, kind of… loud.”
“I see.” He no longer sounds cheerful.
“We’re going to meet again,” I say quickly. “To talk about the museum. With Meimei and Tiantian.”
“All three of my children?” I can hear a cautious little happy note under the surprise. And I’m thinking, Oh, shit, I have stepped in it again. I mean, I have no idea what the relationship between the kids is like, except from what Gugu said last night-it sounded like he wasn’t close to the other two. Who knows if I can actually get the three of them together to discuss Sidney’s art obsession? If Sidney has some kind of fantasy about a family reunion and I don’t deliver…
“So this… this Marsh Brody. He is interested in art?”
“Yeah. Well, movies, I think.”
“Movies.” He snorts. “Those are not art.”
“Well, you know, some contemporary artists, they’ve been really influenced by film,” I manage, and I’m not sure where I pulled that little gem from, but it sounds credible, right?
“Maybe, in older days of classics. Now just men in tight underwear and things blowing up.”
“Right.”
“Vicky can help arrange this meeting,” he says, and I can tell I’m being dismissed. “After, you can tell me your impressions.”
“Sure. Great. Looking forward to it.”
Shit.
I flop down on the bed, my laptop balanced on my pelvis, wondering if it’s too early for beer.
It’s 10:45 a.m. That’s too early.
Out in the kitchen, I hear the scrape and squeak of the steel door opening and Mimi’s toenails skittering and dancing on the vinyl kitchen floor, along with an excited little “Woof!”
Must be my mom.
“Well, hello, Mimi! Are you a good dog? Are you a good dog?” Now Mimi’s nails are clicking on the floor like a flamenco dancer. Of course she loves my mom, who always gives her scraps from the taco projects.
I lie there a moment longer with my arm over my eyes. I’m so not ready, not for any of this.
But my door’s open, so my mom pokes her head in. She’s wearing one of her Christian T-shirts, one that says hot mess without jesus.
“Hi, hon,” she says. “You want some breakfast?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Late night?” She smiles.
I have to push down the rush of anger. I don’t know whether she thinks I was out having fun or what, but it’s none of her fucking business, and anyway, it wasn’t fun.
“Yeah, kind of.” I’m not a great actor, but I’ve gotten better at faking things the last few years. Mostly by shutting up and nodding a lot.
Lucky for me, sometimes my mom is pretty oblivious. Or she’s acting, too. Tell you the truth, I’m not really sure anymore.
“Andy and I were thinking about driving out to Miyun in a little bit. Do you want to come? The weather’s supposed to be nice today, and the air’s better out there.”
She’s looking at me with that same look Mimi gives me sometimes, the liquid eyes asking for something, some kindness, maybe.
Or a treat.
I’m such a shit.
“I’d like to,” I say. “I’ve got some stuff I gotta do. Maybe if things don’t get too busy.”
“Okay. Just let me know. We have some time.” She turns to go, then stops. “You sure you don’t want some eggs? I have pork belly.”
“That sounds good,” I finally say. “Thanks.”
After she leaves, I lie there a few more minutes. I tell myself I need to get up. To do something. But what?
I can’t sell Lao Zhang’s artwork right now, given this whole DSD situation. They’re already looking at him for “economic crimes,” tax evasion, something like that-whatever they can use to make a case-and Harrison thinks we’ll only compound the problem by continuing to sell his work. Or anyone else’s work, for that matter. Because even if it’s all about getting Lao Zhang, I’m the one whose name is on the paperwork as “Director of Operations.”
If I can’t sell any artwork, I’m not going to be able to afford this apartment much longer. My craptastic disability payment doesn’t come close to covering it. And my lease is up in a month. If they raise the rent on me…
There are other jobs I can get, I tell myself. I used to be a bartender. I could do that again. Or, given Harrison’s new coffee project, maybe I could be a barista.
That is, if I don’t get arrested.
Why am I staying in this country again?
Because there’s nothing left for me back in the States. No job for me to do. No future that I can see.
Because for all the enemies I have here, I have plenty there, too.
I finally sit up.
Sure, I’ll have some breakfast. Maybe I’ll even go to Miyun with Mom and Andy. It would be good for Mimi to get some exercise, to breath some semi-fresh air.
Good for me, too.
Instead what happens is this: First, my phone rings again. “Pressure Drop” by Toots and the Maytals. The ringtone I use for Vicky Huang.
“Tonight you can go to meet Meimei,” she tells me.
“I can?”
“Yes. At seven p.m. For dinner. She is in Beijing today. She has favorite place. I send directions.”
“Okay,” I say, figuring it’s pointless to argue.
“Expensive.” Vicky nearly hisses the word. “Wear nice things.”
I glance over at the pile of smoke-soaked clothes on my chair. “Will do.”