He comes back out with a large Yanjing Draft and two glasses. Hesitates. Then gestures at the table.
Good. I don’t think I want to sit on the couch with Creepy John.
He puts the glasses on the table as I limp over there, then goes back into the kitchen. Brings out a second beer. And black-and-red lacquer coasters.
He would have coasters.
We sit. He pours. I drink.
“So is this your apartment?” I ask.
John shrugs again.
“Pretty upscale neighborhood,” I continue. “I didn’t think they paid DSD spies that kind of money. Or are you just on the take like every other cop in China?”
He looks at me. I see anger, but only for a moment. He takes a big swallow of his beer.
I can’t help it. I keep going: “Has your ex-fiancée been over? She sees this, maybe she’ll change her mind.”
He puts down his glass with a thud. On the coaster. “Enough,” he says.
Now it’s my turn to shrug. Okay. I’ll drink, then.
I think about getting hauled away by fucking DSD plainclothes to a crappy hotel in Outer Fengtai and about how I might not just walk away the next time.
Yeah, I’m pretty pissed off.
“So you wanna hear about my day?”
“Of course. I know you must want something. Otherwise you wouldn’t text.”
He does a good job sounding like he really doesn’t give a shit. Hey, maybe he doesn’t. Which is more than fine by me.
Except that I need him. To help me with this DSD situation, right?
“Maybe you already know,” I say, and I sound like a total bitch, even to myself.
He shakes his head.
Cool down, McEnroe, I tell myself. He’s not going to help you if all you do is try to piss him off.
Which is kind of too bad, because pissing people off seems to be one of my stronger skills.
I tell him what happened. It takes me the entire beer to get through, plus part of his. He doesn’t say anything; he just listens, watching me with a level expression. I mostly don’t look at him. Instead I stare at my hands.
When I finish, I notice my hands are trembling. Weird. I got through that whole experience without losing my shit, but I feel like I could fall apart right now, just dissolve into a million pieces.
“Do you want another beer, Yili?” John finally asks.
“Sure.” My voice cracks. “Thanks.”
He returns with the beer. Fills my glass. Hesitates and then fills his. Abruptly sits.
“That guy… he is such an asshole!” John says, and then he drains about half his glass.
I don’t know why this makes me laugh, but it does. “Yeah,” I say. “A total asshole.”
John doesn’t laugh. He’s lit up, like someone’s flipped his switch, his dark eyes bright, everything about him tense and alive. Angry.
“People like Zhang Jianli, making art, people who say truth in newspaper or on Internet, he wants to arrest people like that. Why?” His voice rises. “Why? Because they threaten China? No. Because of corruption. Because he benefits the way things are now. He doesn’t care about real security, for China. He doesn’t even know what that means.”
“Wow, John,” I say. “Keep talking like that, maybe you’ll be drinking tea with him.”
Now he chuckles. “Maybe. Maybe not. He is not even very important. Just a… a little man who wants to be a da wanr, a big shot. He thinks bothering you and bothering Lao Zhang can help make his name big.”
“So what do I do?” I ask. Because I can laugh at John, I can do my best to piss him off, and there’s no way that I trust him, but I still need help. And out of everyone I know in China, for this situation? He’s the best person to ask.
“Stay out of trouble. Don’t do foolish things. I think, if I have some time, I can maybe do something about this guy.”
“Do something?”
He waves his hand, that dismissive gesture I see Chinese men make combined with a little head shake, like when you try to get a taxi driver to take you someplace he doesn’t want to go.
I probably don’t want to know.
“Yili, but I must ask…” He hesitates.
“What?”
“Zhang Jianli. You really don’t know where he is?”
He stares at me, his dark eyes steady, his expression concerned.
“No. I don’t.” I stand up. “Thanks for the beer. And fuck you.”
I head for the door.
“Yili, please, wait.”
I half turn, and I see him reach for me, and he catches my wrist. I pull away.
“Wait,” he says again. “I just-”
My hand’s on the doorknob, and I’m twisting it to open, and his hand grabs the fleshy part of my shoulder, and he pulls me toward him. I stumble a little, and my tits brush against his hard chest, and then we fall into each other. Before I know it, his mouth finds mine, tongue slipping between my lips, and I’m trying to slip my hand beneath the waistband of those snug jeans. Finally my fingers find his nice, firm butt cheek.
I so was not going to do this.
At least he bought a bed. Okay, a futon, but it’s a queen. By the time we land on it, my shirt and bra are off, and he’s got my pants pulled down below my ass and his fingers hooked on the band of my panties. I am looking forward to those fingers. I know what he can do with them. Meanwhile I’m trying to slide his T-shirt over his head, but it’s caught on one arm, thankfully not the one with the hand that’s tugging down my underwear.
I get his shirt off at about the same time that my panties reach my knees, and I’m sucking on his nipple while his fingers stroke and probe, and meanwhile I’m doing my best to release his brave little soldier from the confines of his jeans and boxers.
“Yili,” he manages. “No, wait-”
“Would you just fuck me?” I say. “I don’t want a marathon tonight, I just-”
His finger thrusts, and I shut up.
Well, that was dumb.
I’m lying on the futon next to John, both of us sweaty and spent. His hand rests lightly on my breast, like it’s a shy cat that he wants to pet.
John is not your boyfriend, I tell myself. He’s not even a friend with benefits. You can’t trust him. The last thing you need to be doing is sleeping with him.
It felt pretty damn good, though. I’m sure way more relaxed than I was when I got here. I don’t even feel the need for a Percocet.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Huh?”
“For asking. About Zhang Jianli.”
Things are so much better when he doesn’t talk.
I let out a sigh. “If I did know, I wouldn’t tell you. But I don’t.”
We’re facing each other now. “I just ask because… I need to be sure,” he says.
I laugh softly. Because it occurs to me that maybe John doesn’t exactly trust me either.
Fair’s fair, I guess.
“So are you? Sure?”
He slowly nods. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. I’ll help him if I can. But…” He reaches out his hand and touches my cheek. I feel his fingertips there, warm, a little rough. “If it’s you or Zhang Jianli, I help you.”
My stomach does a kind of flip. Part of me is mad, hearing him talk that way about Lao Zhang. Another part of me feels all teary, because, you know, I believe him. Which means he really likes me.
Don’t go there, McEnroe, I tell myself. Just don’t.
“I don’t want you making some kind of deal,” I say. “I mean, me for Jianli. I don’t want that.”
“I know.” John rolls over onto his back. “Anyway, you don’t know where he is, no deal to make.”
I lie there and think about what I’m going to say next. My heart’s pounding. Because I don’t know where he is, but I do know something.
What I say is, “Why do they even care? He’s an artist. He’s not trying to overthrow the CCP. You know that.”