I close my eyes.
I see Boba and the birds. Sparrow, and Kang Li, and the cats.
Whatever I say, I don’t want to lead these guys back to them.
“It’s like I said. Jason sent a postcard. From Yangshuo. I went there. Asked around. Found out about Jason’s girlfriend and where she was. It wasn’t hard. You could do the same thing I did.”
The American guy sits in the chair. He stares at me. His finger brushes the trigger of the Taser.
I stare back. I can’t tell if he believes me. And I don’t know what I’ll do if he hurts me again.
Finally he tosses the Taser on the floor.
“Whatever,” he says. He stands up. The Chinese guy flicks his cigarette butt onto the floor and rises as well.
“After we’re gone, take care of the trash,” the Chinese guy says to the thugs. “Away from here.”
Hello Kitty follows them out.
Now it’s just me and the thugs.
It’s weird. Here’s these two guys, and they’re looking at me with dead eyes. Like one time I went to a restaurant in Beijing and ordered a fish, and the waiter took the fish out of the net by the tail and slammed its head against the concrete floor right in front of me.
I’m the fish.
I don’t know why I’m so calm. They’re going to do something, they’re probably going to kill me, and it’s like I’m already feeling dead.
Outside, I hear a car start. The engine rev. Then fade away.
“I’m friends with a man in the DSD,” I say. “He’s my lover, in fact. If you hurt me, he will find you.”
I think the guy on the left, maybe there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes. I’m a foreigner, and messing with foreigners can be a pain in the ass. Messing with the DSD an even bigger pain in the ass.
“I have money, too. More than they’re paying you.”
The other guy stoops over. Picks up the pink Taser and hands it to the one on the left. Trots out of the room.
“I’m telling the truth,” I say. “My lover works for the DSD. He knows I’m in Guiyang.”
I’m wondering how many charges one of those things has. Because this guy, he may be a thug, but he’s not very big, and he’s kind of scrawny. I’m pretty sure I’m taller than he is.
Could I do it? Could I kick him in the nuts and run?
I’m not even sure I can stand up.
“I’m telling the truth about the money, too. I can pay you.” His eyes flick down, then up; he shuffles his feet. He’s nervous about this. I’m getting to him.
“You don’t want trouble, right?”
That’s when the other guy comes back. He’s carrying a large bag, woven plastic. The kind the migrant workers carry their stuff in. Like for flour, or rice.
That and a length of rope.
Take care of the trash. Away from here.
I’m not dead, I’m not dead yet, and I don’t want to be.
“Wait,” I say. “Just wait. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want the trouble. Listen to me, it’s not worth it. He’ll kill you. I’m telling you the truth—”
The little guy looks at the Taser, almost curiously. Like, how do I work this?
Pushes the button.
I can’t see anything for a while.
I’m aware of the other guy kneeling down by my side, fumbling with the sack and the rope. Then I hear something, a car engine, a screech of brakes, a door slam.
He lets out a curse, drops his stuff, springs to his feet. “Wait here!” he yells—at least I think that’s what he says. He’s speaking in dialect, and besides, there’s a buzzing in my ears and I’m dizzy and sick, like something’s pulling on my eyes from behind, hollowing out my gut.
But when I hear the gunfire, I know what that is.
The other guy drops the Taser and runs.
The adrenaline clears my head some. I push myself up with my arms so I’m sitting, try to stand, but I’m still too weak, too dizzy.
More shots.
I crawl to the chair. Brace my hands on either side of the seat.
Stand up. Fucking stand up.
I’m about halfway there when two men burst into the room.
The guys Kang Li and I left in a rice paddy: US Polo Team and his buddy, from Yangshuo.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THEY’RE VERY POLITE.
One of them helps me to my feet. The other picks up my backpack, which was sitting against the wall across from the door.
They guide me out of the little room and into the next one: bigger and vacant, except for bare metal shelves and a few odds and ends—a computer monitor here, empty file folders there, an abandoned desk, a couple of deflated plastic grain sacks scattered on the floor.
And a dead guy.
My little buddy I thought I could bribe. Lying on his back by a bank of shelves. They shot him in the neck and in the chest. I can see blood still pulsing from the wound just under his throat.
Maybe not all the way dead, but he will be in a minute or two.
The other dead guy is sprawled facedown by the door.
“Lai, lai,” US Polo Team says. Come, come.
I’m not going to argue.
THE BLACK BUICK’S OUTSIDE, pulled close to the entrance. No license plates on it, I notice. Smart. I wonder what the woman in the snack store is doing right now, if she called the PSB or if she’s just hunkered down behind the counter waiting for all this shit to blow over, like a storm. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what she’s doing. Stuff like this, who wants to get involved?
The second guy, Windbreaker, helps me into the backseat, goes around to the other side and slides in next to me. US Polo gets behind the wheel, and we peel out.
I sit there. Stare out the window. “Women qu nar?” I finally ask. Where are we going?
“Jichang.” Airport.
“Okay.”
That’s when I start to shake. I don’t know if it’s nerves coming back to life or just the whole “I almost died” experience, but whatever it is, I can’t stop.
“Yao he shui?” Windbreaker asks.
I nod. Sure, I’ll drink some water. I love water. He hands me a bottle stashed under the seat.
I’m guessing they’re DSD. People working for John, even though he acted like he didn’t know who they were when I asked him about them. Whatever. I don’t care that he lied. I don’t care that they killed two guys. All I can think of right now is, I’m alive and those guys aren’t. Tough shit.
AT SOME POINT WE pull over onto a shoulder, in the shadow of a giant billboard advertising FAIRY LAKEFRONT ESTATES—THE BRIGHT FUTURE AND RICH LIFE AWAIT! and Windbreaker takes a set of license plates out of the trunk and attaches them to the front and rear of the Buick.
As he gets back into the car, I wonder why would the DSD even care if someone gets their license numbers?
Okay, I think, okay. Whoever these guys are, they still saved my ass. They’re being pretty nice to me. And I’m too fucking wiped out to panic. Much.
WHEN I START SEEING signs for the Guiyang Airport, we don’t head toward the passenger terminals. Instead we follow directions to “Cargo and Freight.”
We pull alongside a big, corrugated tin-clad hangar, Shining Star Aviation.
Poised at the hangar exit leading out onto the tarmac is a private jet. You know, like a Gulfstream, one of those things. There’s a movable boarding ramp leading up to it. And waiting at the foot of the ramp is a cute young woman wearing a retro flight-attendant outfit that looks like something out of an old magazine. Back when they were called stewardesses. Sky blue, white gloves, peaked hat, short skirt.
“Welcome!” she says with a bright smile. “Welcome you to fly with us!”
She helps me up the stairs, backed up by Windbreaker because I’m still feeling pretty wobbly, and she leads me to a leather seat. Windbreaker and US Polo sit a couple of seats behind me.
It’s pretty fancy. Like I said, leather seats. A couch across the aisle. A wash of red on th
e walls, interspersed by walnut inserts and paintings. And though I still don’t know as much about Chinese art as I should, I’m pretty sure I recognize a piece, one of Gu Wenda’s “Fake Character” series.
Well, that’s weird.
Maybe it’s a shanzhai rip-off.
“Please fasten your seat belt—we will take off soon! I can help you if you need.”
“No thanks.” I mean, I think I can fasten my own fucking seat belt.
Truth is, my hands tremble so bad that I have a hard time getting the tongue in the buckle. Finally the flight attendant leans over and fastens it for me.
“Xie xie,” I say.
Not too long after that, the whine of the jet engines picks up and the plane taxis out onto the tarmac. We pause at the beginning of the runway, gathering power, like some big cat bunching up its muscles, and then we spring.
Up into the air.
AS SOON AS WE start to level off, the flight attendant’s back.
“May I serve you something to drink?”
Yeah, I guess I could use a drink. “Sure. Thanks.”
“What kind of drink you like? Chivas Regal, Grand Mariner, cognac? Maybe Johnnie Walker?”
“I, uh …” I can’t even take it in. Just bring me something, I want to say.
“Oh, maybe you prefer wine.”
“Sure. Wine sounds good.”
The bottle she brings out is Château Lafite Rothschild—“shi zhende!” she says. The real thing. I remember Harrison saying to me, not too long ago, “No one serious is buying Château Lafite Rothschild anymore—too many counterfeits. The real collectors have moved on to burgundy.”
This one tastes pretty good.
“Can I bring you anything else? Something to eat? Maybe foie gras? Or sushi?”
Sushi?
“No thanks.”
I drink some more wine.
“Whose plane is this?” I finally ask.
She beams. “It’s Mr. Sidney Cao’s, of course.”
Sidney Cao.
“Of course.”
I DRAIN THE FIRST glass of wine, barely tasting it. Try to think it through.
Sidney Cao? Billionaire art collector Sidney Cao? That would account for the Gu Wenda on the wall. But the other stuff? Guys with guns who follow me around and kill people?
I try to remember the source of Cao’s wealth. Chemicals, wasn’t it? Something like that. Could he be … I don’t know, the CEO of a rival seed company? A passionate environmentalist?
“More wine?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I take my time with this glass. It really is pretty good, though I don’t know how well it would go with sushi. I’d try the combo and find out, but my gut’s still in knots. I don’t think I could eat anything. The wine’s about all I can handle.
About halfway through the glass, I can’t hold my head up anymore. I lean back against the seat. My eyes feel like someone’s rubbed them with sand.
“Do you want to take a rest?” I hear the stewardess’s voice in my ear. “Still some time before we land.”
I nod. I figure she’ll bring me a pillow and a blanket. Maybe a chocolate mint.
She pats me gently on the shoulder. “Come with me.”
She has to help me up, and my feet hurt so bad the first few steps that I’m hobbling like a little old lady.
We go down the aisle past the US Polo Team, who’s watching a DVD, a Harry Potter movie it looks like, and Windbreaker, who’s tilted back in the chair, jaw hanging open, asleep.
Beyond them is another compartment. The stewardess opens the door.
It’s dark, except for a night-light. But I can see an actual bed, fluffy white quilt, plumped pillows.
She rushes ahead and expertly flips down the quilt and sheets. “Xiuxi yixia,” she says. Rest a little.
I collapse on the side of the bed. Somehow manage to kick my shoes off. She helps me with the shoes, I think. I fall back against the pillow.
“Where are we going?” I finally think to ask.
“Xingfu Cun,” she says.
“I don’t know it. Where’s that?”
“It’s the home of Sidney Cao,” she says brightly, pulling the quilt over me. “Have a rest. You can call me if you need anything.”
I think I nod, but by the time she’s closed the door behind her, I’m pretty much passed out.
WAY TOO SOON, I hear the stewardess: “Miss! Miss! Sorry, but you must return to seat now. Time for landing.”
“Can’t I land here?” I mumble.
The last thing I want to do is get up, but I do and hobble back to my seat.
By now it’s close to sunset, and as the plane descends and banks, I get a look at the landscape below me. I see rows of houses, ranks of high-rise apartments, laid out in loose circles, like some giant amoeba. Then larger buildings, crazy shapes: gold globes and a lopped-off pyramid that looks like some kind of Mayan temple.
The weird thing is, hardly any cars. Hardly any lights. Where’s the neon?
Then the lights of the runway.
IT’S A SMALL AIRPORT. A little terminal building. A couple of hangars. I glimpse a couple of other small jets inside one of them.
It all looks brand-new.
In no time at all, two young men in blue uniforms that look like the flight attendants’—well, no skirt, but chevron-peaked caps, gold buttons and white shirts—have positioned the boarding ramp.
Windbreaker in front, US Polo team behind, gripping the rail so I don’t tumble and take Windbreaker down with me, I make my way down the stairs.
Waiting there in the shadow of a gleaming BMW SUV is a woman. She’s small, a little chubby, with a huge pile of teased black hair and a lot of eye shadow, wearing a snug pink cashmere sweater, a pencil skirt, and bright pink stilettos.
It’s maybe not the best look for her.
She steps forward, extends her hand. Her long pink nails match the shoes.
“Vicky Huang. Welcome to Xingfu Cun.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I HOPE YOU HAD a comfortable flight.”
“It was great,” I say.
“Mr. Cao is very anxious to meet you. He has invited you for dinner.”
“That’s … uh, really nice of him.” I mean, what else can I say?
Vicky Huang looks me up and down. Her nose wrinkles. “Your clothes are a little dirty.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. The rest of my stuff’s in Guiyang.”
“Ah. I arrange for pickup.” She reaches into her designer handbag, which I think is Versace (I only know this from hanging out with Lucy Wu) and pulls out an iPhone in a gold rhinestone case. “Of course your things won’t arrive in time.” Her finger pauses above the touch screen. She looks me up and down again. “For now we can go shopping.”
“SO … that was a lot of trouble you went to … to, uh … pick me up.”
Vicky Huang gives a little shrug and cranks the wheel of the SUV hard to the left, like she’s taking a turn on a NASCAR track. “Mr. Cao wants to speak with you. He is tired of delays.” She doesn’t bother to look for oncoming traffic, but then there doesn’t seem to be any. Xingfu Cun looks brand-new and, so far, pretty much deserted. A ghost city.
I try to think of what to say. How there are two dead people back in Guiyang and it seems like maybe something we should discuss. But I don’t know, maybe that’s not my problem. It’s not like I killed them.
“What does he want to talk to me about?” I finally ask.
She draws back, surprised. “But I think you know.” Makes a hard right. “However, now that you are here, you can discuss business with Mr. Cao himself.”
I lean back in the leather seat. Maybe I should be scared. But I’m just too tired to care. And anyway, we’re going shopping.
The thing I saw when we were landing, that I thought looked like a Mayan pyramid? Well, I think that’s where we are now, and it’s more like some kind of … I don’t know, Egyptian … thing, or maybe Babylonian—a ziggurat? Is tha
t what they call them? And it’s gold. And flanked by huge statues of winged lions, and there’s a fountain out in front the size of an Olympic pool, with more weird animal statues, elephants and panthers and horses, spewing water according to some complicated sequence timed with changing colored lights. We passed the giant egg-shaped things on our way here, those and blocky black granite buildings with the red-and-gold seal of government.
There’s hardly anyone here. A few cars parked at the government Death Star. A couple of cars in a huge lot out in front of the giant gold whatever-the-fuck-it-is place we’ve arrived at.
But no cars on the broad asphalt streets. No people either.
Vicky Huang pulls her BMW up to the front of the pyramid thing, all the way up to the expanse of sparkling pink granite pavers that spread out in a semicircle in front of the entrance: a small plaza, flagpoles spaced around the curve. Actually, she parks with one wheel up on the low curb. I guess the No Parking sign doesn’t count.
“We are here,” she announces.
I get out of the car, and now I can hear recorded music: “The Blue Danube”—which is what the animal fountain’s timed to. The flagpoles have flags of a bunch of countries hung up on them, like a mini–United Nations. Highest of the flags is the red banner and gold stars of the People’s Republic. Next to that is one I don’t recognize—sky blue background, stylized gold sun, and green grass.
Cao can mean “grass.” It can also mean “fuck.” Depends on your pronunciation.
Vicky Huang doesn’t wait for me. She heads toward the wide Plexiglas entrance—huge double doors and windows on either side.
I limp after her.
There are mannequins in the windows, high-fashion ones wearing what I’m pretty sure are designer clothes, posed with their arms and legs at crazy angles, against a black-and-white backdrop that I think is supposed to be a city and cars. There are a couple of sparkling snowflakes suspended on wires. One of the mannequins is missing a hand.
The broad doors slide open, triggered by our approach.
Yeah, a mall.
Inside, it’s three stories high. I can see escalators going up and down between the floors. There are stores—signs for them anyway. Coach. Li-Ning. Nike. Louis Vuitton. Armani. North Face. Gucci.
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