She was sounding like her dead father, may the angels guard his soul. But what could she do? If he was a tiger, she could be nothing else.
At this moment, though, she lacked her usual superior confidence. She identified with the Americans and their weakness. She was tired of all that had happened. The loss of Abigail Webb was a blow, of course, but it was not immediate and she could have borne it. But the events since then – Maddy’s using her; the suspicion of her demonstrated by the news editor Howard Burke, who clearly believed Katharine was in cahoots with her uncontrollable friend; and, above all, the roiling, festering pot of ethnic hatreds Maddy had stirred with her latest story – all these were too much to bear.
In the nearly eighteen hours since Maddy’s report had appeared and then disappeared, Katharine had felt worse than at any time since the Treaty was signed. Those had been painful months, make no mistake: the impotent rage of Americans, particularly American men, had exerted a daily terror on Katharine and everyone like her. A brick had sailed through her parents’ shop window; Chinese restaurants had been set ablaze, a whole district of Chinatown torched. In the worst attack, three Chinese students had been stabbed in Palo Alto. In that period, Katharine had found herself speaking all the time and loudly, even when walking down the street, pretending to talk into a dead phone if necessary. It was a defensive measure, designed to ensure anybody within a fifty-foot radius knew she was an American first, whatever modifier came before the hyphen. She would will strangers to hear her accent before they saw her face. She was not proud of that.
And now she was having to act that way again, thanks to the great Madison Webb. The demonstrations, those Sigurdsson political ads, the venom spilling out of Weibo – it all added up to a climate of febrile, sulphurous hostility. Sure, they were all at pains to say their issue was with the garrison, the PLA, the government in Beijing, anybody but the Chinese community of LA. But Katharine had been around long enough to know that, while that distinction might make sense on the LA Times editorial page or in a Stanford seminar room, out here, on the streets, it didn’t travel.
So she had succumbed, feeling the rising need to have a drink and finally waving a white flag in its face. Here she was, on a stool at Poppies, sipping her third whisky of the night. And she had only been here twenty minutes. No point denying it, she was defeated.
Around her were the usual crowd: lonely business travellers and men whose wives had left them. She spotted, on his own at a table at the back, that cop Madison repeatedly rejected – what was his name? Jim? Jeff?
Only then did she become aware of someone in her peripheral vision, on the stool two away from hers. She glanced over to him: early forties, stubbled, business suit, tie loosened. He gave her a look of weary empathy, then raised his glass. A gesture of solidarity among losers.
She nodded back then drained what was left of the honey-coloured liquid, resuming her straight-ahead gaze over the shoulder of the bartender. She let herself be mesmerized by the different labels on display, enjoying the names: Tanqueray, Taaka, Seagram’s, Hendrick’s, Boodles. Boodles, she thought hazily. Boodles. She remembered a lover in college, a Virginia girl who talked about ‘oodles of love’.
‘Can I get you another?’
She turned to see the stubbled man, looking her way. His eyes were a clear blue; he was handsome, the kind Maddy liked. He seemed lonely. She was in no mood to talk, but saying no seemed too much like hard work. ‘Sure,’ she heard herself say.
‘Same again,’ Stubble instructed the barman. ‘For both of us.’
As the barman complied, Katharine noticed the man slip without effort onto the stool next to hers. She was too woozy to talk but he began and he had a nice voice and it was easy to listen to him, to drink and to listen and to drink some more. She nodded and sipped and nodded and soon enough she was doing some talking herself.
He explained that he was in town from Atlanta, that he had just done a presentation for a big client which he’d messed up. Ever since his divorce this had been happening a lot. He needed to be focused on work, but he was still thinking too much about, you know, everything else – about the stuff that really matters: family, love, real life, you know what I’m saying?
Katharine did know. Friendship mattered more than anything, but not everyone seemed to understand that. Some friends acted like friends, but they weren’t really. They liked you for what they could get, you know what I mean? Not all of them. And not all of the time. And maybe she was being hard on Maddy. After all she’d been through a lot. But that’s what life was like. It was hard. There were tests. You were tested all the time. She had been tested her whole life. And sometimes, just sometimes, it would be nice if your friends could pass, you know? Pass the test.
It was getting late, but the conversation flowed easily. She barely noticed her glass getting empty, let alone being refilled. An hour earlier she had resolved to drink some iced water and call Enrica, let her know where she was. But she had never quite gotten round to it.
‘I really should be going,’ she said, the words loose rather than slurred. She began to manoeuvre herself off the stool, but it was harder than it looked. Stubble had to take her by the elbow, guiding her down. His grip was strong.
‘You really should not be driving anywhere.’
Katharine was not so drunk that she didn’t know he was right. Her car was valet parked, but she was in no fit state to drive it. ‘Could you call me a cab?’
‘I can go one better,’ he said, his hand still lingering on her forearm, his eyes now probing deep into hers. ‘I have a suite at the Wyndham, just across the street. We could go there. You could rest a while.’ The hint of a smile was playing on his lips, his face now fractionally closer to hers.
Katharine paused, the information winding along her neural pathways at a sluggish half pace. By the time it reached her brain, where it was processed and converted into the realization of what was happening, she gave the only reaction she could. She smiled and then began to giggle, the sound of which only made her laugh more. The man smiled back, his eyes twinkling at first and then uncomprehending.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in a voice wobbling with laughter. ‘I’m really sorry. You’re very handsome. And I’m sure most of the women here would be very glad to go back to your suite.’ That word, suite, nearly set her off again. ‘But I have a wife at home who’s waiting for me.’ She dug into her purse, found a fifty and put it down on the bar. ‘That’s for the whisky.’ Then she leaned forward and gave the man an unsteady kiss on the cheek, her lips recoiling somewhat from the bristles on his face. That too made her laugh.
As she stood outside among the valet parkers, waiting for the taxi they had ordered for her, the wintry air blew away some of the Scotch fog. She smiled, both amused and, it had to be said, flattered. Nothing like that had happened to her since college. If she had been feeling benign towards herself, she would say that that was because she had long radiated dyke vibes, warding off men at a hundred paces. When she was being less charitable, she would say it was because, for all her brilliance, she wasn’t that much to look at. But tonight a rather handsome man had come on to her. It was silliness itself, he was probably drunk. But after a rough few days, it was a pleasant boost all the same.
Her earlier anger was fading, diluted by alcohol and the little ego lift kindly gifted to her by Stubble. She had been too harsh on Maddy, who was obviously going through a hell she, Katharine, had never experienced. She shouldn’t have dissed her friend to this stranger; it wasn’t fair. Maddy was being a good sister. Not for the first time, Katharine wondered if she had failed to understand sibling love because she had no brothers or sisters of her own.
She dug into her purse and took out her phone. Coughing against the smog, she dialled Maddy’s number. If nothing else, she would get a kick out of telling her the Stubble story. Though the look of incomprehension on that man’s beautiful face was slightly wasted in a phone call. This was a story that needed to be told over raucous
drinks on a Friday night with the girls in the Mail Room.
‘Maddy? It’s Katharine.’ Giggling as she got closer to the punchline, she proceeded to unfurl the story of the hot man who had propositioned a gay woman, making him as gorgeous as a movie star in the telling. To her delight, Maddy chuckled in all the right places, the first time she had heard her friend laugh since … since. Then Maddy’s tone altered.
‘And you say this has never happened before? Nothing like it?’
‘Don’t rub it in, Madison.’
‘You’re lovely, Katharine, you know that. But, you know, a man coming on to you. That way. You know, leaving no doubt what he’s after. That doesn’t happen often?’
‘That’s the whole point, Madison.’ The laughter was seeping out of her voice. ‘It never happens.’
At the other end of the phone, Maddy was digesting what she was hearing, dismissing the thought as paranoid and self-absorbed, then coming at it once again. She was sitting on the window ledge in her apartment, every mirror in the place now covered, her laptop snapped firmly shut. The curtains were drawn, save for the small gap through which Maddy gazed down at the street below. She had been doing this for an hour or so, watching the human traffic on both sidewalks as well as the cars.
Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me.
The old stand-up joke was playing back to her. Someone had concealed a camera in her bathroom and had now set an admittedly ill-conceived honey trap for one of her friends. And even though they had made a basic error in the execution – doubtless discovering in their research that K was ‘married’ but drawing the wrong conclusion – the intention was not stupid. They had chosen wisely, rightly divining that Katharine Hu was not just a friend but a crucial collaborator. That would not have been too hard to work out: you simply had to have watched Maddy these last three days, following her, monitoring her calls, staring at her computer screen.
She shuddered. These people, whoever they were, were inside her apartment and all over her friends. She looked at the burner she’d been using. She ought to call Quincy, tell her to scrap the old number – not even to dial it once, lest her sister find herself on their radar – from now on to use only this new, disposable one. She could imagine the reaction: ‘You sure you’re not imagining all this, Madison? You know, it isn’t always about you.’
Down on the street, the people and cars were still moving. Perhaps they were hurrying to the supermarkets, to pick up the now-staple roast-duck-in-a-bag or preserved fruits for the big New Year dinner. Lots of people were doing those now, a kind of Christmas reprise with a Chinese twist. Winter was long, especially in the smog; people needed treats to break it up.
There! White male, early twenties, six-two, maybe one hundred and sixty pounds, hoodie and gangsta headphones. This was the third time in the last fifty-five minutes he had passed by this building.
She checked her watch. If she was right, the thirtysomething black woman with braids carrying a courier’s bag over one shoulder would soon appear from the other direction. Maddy waited and waited, not wanting to look away even for a moment. Nothing.
Maybe Quincy was right. Maybe Madison’s ego, inflated by lack of sleep, was playing tricks with her. For all she knew, it was possible the landlord of the building had installed steam-free mirrors in every apartment of the—
Bingo. There she was, Mrs Braids, completing her own circuit. A few minutes late, but unmistakably her and unmistakably walking in a loop.
They were onto her friends, they were in her bathroom and they were on the street. They had followed her on the dead-end trail of Tony Gilper too. Whoever they were – and she had an inkling – they were watching her, inside and out. They were after her. And now she was after them.
Chapter 35
Politics Live Blog, Thursday
11.02am Signal’s a bit in-and-out here on Terminal Island, but I’ll be doing my best to cover the latest event organized by activist Mario Padilla. Today’s demo is called Encircle the Base and it’s his most ambitious yet. Crowds are already building up. Padilla says he hopes to start at noon. I’ve already been slapped with a sticker saying, of course, Encircle the Base. Will post a pic shortly.
11.11am Other reporters are here too, including Eli Haddin who’s just weibed this rather good question:
For an amateur, Padilla’s a master. Hastily organized, yet already he’s got bespoke stickers printed. They’re not cheap. Who’s funding him?
Gotta admit, I have wondered the same thing. There was a rumor that Elena Sigurdsson’s campaign had put some dough Padilla’s way, which would figure, given how hard she’s been running on the serial killer/Berger’s watch meme. But it’s still only rumor.
Hundreds of people arriving, by the way. Forgive shaky grip on this pic.
11.18am Padilla himself has just DM’d me:
There has been no question of direct funding from Elena Sigurdsson’s or any other partisan campaign. Our effort is 100% independent and outside politics. It comes from the grass roots.
Anyone else notice that use of ‘direct’ there? Sounds like Mr Padilla speaks lawyer.
11.22am Ben Portman of LA Politico has spotted GOP state chair Ted Norman in attendance. Norman says his presence does not signal formal Republican backing for Padilla campaign and that he’s here ‘in a personal capacity’.
11.24am. Padilla back again. Says one of the donors to today’s event was the catering firm his sister Rosario used to work for. They paid for the stickers apparently.
11.36am Slogans spotted on placards. ‘This land is our land’, obvs. Also: ‘Don’t Tread on Me’, ‘Live Free or Die’, ‘Go back to China.’ Personal favorite, if slightly lengthy: ‘You commit the crime, you do the time – in an American jail.’ Be interested to know if there are events planned in other Pearl cities. Let me know if you hear anything.
11.48am The encircling is properly underway. Hundreds, maybe thousands of Angelenos, hand-in-hand, linking up and forming the human chain around the base, as promised. There are stewards with bullhorns, attempting to choreograph the process, corralling people, shepherding them into single file etc. They’re as close to the base as they can get, which means essentially that they’re going to form the chain directly in front of and along the perimeter fence. There are LAPD officers facing them the whole way, standing between them and the fence itself. Maybe they’re worried some stunt-artist will bring out the fence-cutters and try to break into the base. I’ll be on hand to record that if it happens. Will be interesting to see what Chinese security do with them at the main entrance. I’m heading over there now.
11.53am Replying to my question above (see 11.36am), Janice Plum in San Diego says activists there have ‘no specific event planned at present’ but are keeping ‘a close watch’ on LA and wish ‘Mr Padilla and other proud Americans’ the very best of luck. I’m picking up similar noises from US nationalist groups in San Francisco too. Seems like all the Pearl folks are following this one.
11.55am OK, at the main entrance: it’s all LAPD out front. But you don’t have to look too hard to see uniformed PLA military police or guards (weib me exact title, please, anyone who knows) right behind them. Pretty stern-faced bunch. Can’t see how they’re armed, but other reporters here assure me they will be. So it’s weirdly like double security here. A line of LAPD, right in the protestors’ faces. Then, maybe ten yards back, by the entrance gate itself, it’s all PLA. Think of it as the thin green line behind the thin blue line. No way any protestors could break through that. Not that I’m saying they planned to, mind. (In case Mr Padilla is reading this!)
11.57am Crowd estimates are in. Police say they believe three thousand people are here. Organizers say they believe the figure could be as much as TEN times that. My own impression – and I am horrible at doing this – is that the base is so big, it’s not humanly possible for three thousand people to encircle it all. Yet Weibo tells me the whole thing now has a human ring all around it. No gaps. Some a
chievement, given access to Terminal Island is not easy. Kudos to Padilla: impressive.
11.58am What a time for battery running low!
11.59am The chanting and singing is now full throttle. No surprises, they’re doing the chorus of ‘This land …’
11.59am Now they’re doing a countdown to noon. Ten, nine, eight …
Noon. Big cheer as the bullhorns broadcast a recording of a clock striking twelve. Sounds like a cathedral or something. Spooky, chimes of midnight vibe.
12.05pm I wasn’t near enough to see before, or maybe they’ve only just appeared, I’m not sure – but I now have a clear view of one of the watchtowers. Inside, facing the crowd, are a pair of (it could be three) Chinese snipers, their guns clearly trained on the crowd. Geez, that is quite a sight. Can anyone confirm they’re seeing that at the other watchtowers?
12.07pm From the southwest corner, via Weibo:
We’re seeing the same thing. Chinese guards aiming weapons (sub-machine guns?) towards the crowd. People singing the national anthem.
12.09pm I can confirm the anthem thing. Very charged, hearing that sung right here, in this situation. Big throaty push when it comes to the final line:
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
The 3rd Woman Page 27