Dragon Day

by Lisa Brackmann

Marsh pushes the door open a little wider. Peeks inside. Draws his head back and turns to me, his eyes squeezed shut, his expression a grimace. He takes a couple steps back to clear the way and gestures at the door.

  I take a step forward. I don’t want to look, but I do. It’s this thing where I have to know, no matter how bad it is.

  I’m aware of Marsh standing just behind me, this solid presence radiating heat, and I think that if this is some kind of trap, I need to be ready. Stomp on his foot. Grab his balls and twist.

  I take a look inside.

  My eyes are already adjusted to the dim light, so I can see that there’s a big bed against the wall to the left. A woman sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard. She’s a little heavy. She’s topless, or maybe naked. Who knows? I don’t get that far. Because there’s Gugu sprawled across her lap, and he’s sucking on her tit. Which is, you know, whatever. Except that her tits are swollen with milk. I see this when Gugu lets go for a moment and milk dribbles down his chin.

  The woman stirs, turns her head toward the door. Stares at me for a moment. She’s not that young. Her face seems hard. Then she looks away, back at Gugu, who’s too out of it to notice. I see her hand, going up and down.

  Okay, that’s as much as I need to see.

  I turn, and there’s Marsh standing in front of me, practically convulsing in silent laughter.

  Marsh’s gaze drops down to my own rack. Lingers there.

  “Got milk?” he whispers.

  I stare at him. “Fucking hilarious,” I mutter, and I walk away.

  “Come on, can’t you take a joke?”

  I stop in my tracks. We’re in the sitting room of the east house, and I’m heading for the door.

  “What kind of friend of his are you anyway?” I spit out. “Showing me that?”

  Marsh raises his hands. “Hey, I didn’t know he was gonna be doing … that.”

  “Bullshit,” I snap.

  “Okay, I thought maybe he was with a girl, not with some … wet nurse from Anhui.” He snickers. “It’s a trending thing, I hear. Supposed to be good for you. The milk, I mean. All the rage in Shenzhen.”

  “Good luck on the movie. I’m out of here.” I turn to go.

  “Wait.”

  He’s standing there, palms out, and even in the dim light I can see that he’s doing a pretty good impression of contrite. “Look, I … I saw it and I thought it was funny. Okay, so I’m an asshole. And I’m kind of drunk. I’m sorry.”

  I let out a hard sigh. “Whatever. Tell Gugu I hope to see him soon.”

  As I turn to go, the last I see of Marsh he’s still in that same pose, palms open, asking for forgiveness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ★

  I’M RIDING THE subway one stop to home, and I keep saying to myself, That’s it. No more stupid stuff.

  I need to stop drinking so much. I need to exercise more. Figure out how I’m going to manage my pain without Percocet.

  Or how to get more Percocet.

  And I need to stop doing stupid stuff.

  I just have to keep pushing things to the edge. Why do I do it? I’m starting to think maybe I really do want the buzz.

  Or maybe I just don’t give a fuck if I keep pushing and one of these times I fall off the cliff.

  Ever since the Sandbox, ever since I got blown up, I haven’t been able to get my head on straight. Before that I was so young, who knows what kind of person I’d be now if I hadn’t gone to war? Maybe I’d still do stupid stuff. But it’s like I never got the chance to actually grow up, like a normal person.

  Of course, what are the odds that I would’ve grown up normal anyway?

  What wakes me up the next morning is Mimi, barking.

  I freeze, heart pounding. Listen.

  Happy barking.

  Okay, then. I settle back into bed and try to relax.

  “Who’s a good dog? Who’s the best dog?”

  My mom.

  I reach around for my phone, which is somewhere on my bed, I think. My fingers brush against its shiny glass.

  It’s 11:51 A.M. I guess I can get up now.

  I mean, I walked Mimi hours ago, for about five minutes. Which I guess is not really a “walk.” But after last night …

  It’s not like I had that much to drink, for me. Just the wine, and then a couple of beers when I got home. My mind wouldn’t stop going for a while, after that party.

  John’s right. The second-generation rich are a creepy bunch. And if Dao Ming, Mrs. Tiantian, is a hong er dai with connections to the Party leadership …

  These are really not people I want to be hanging out with.

  I mean, I already have my rich friend Harrison and a Party friend … spy … whatever he is, John.

  That’s enough.

  There’s a Chinese proverb I learned once. Something about when tigers fight, you sit on the mountain and watch.

  What you don’t do is make friends with one or both tigers. Pick the losing tiger, you’re fucked. Try to make friends with both, one of them’s bound to eat you.

  I drag myself out of bed. My head feels swollen. I didn’t have that much to drink, I tell myself. The atmosphere over there was poison, that’s all.

  “What am I doing?” I say out loud. “I have to stop doing this.”

  I’m not sure what “this” even is.

  “See what Andy got me?”

  My mom is standing in the living room. There’s a big, round, cast-iron griddle sitting on top of a box next to the dining-room table.

  “Was it here last night?”

  “No, it just came. It’s a jianbing griddle.” She peers at the box. “I think the other thing’s a stand and a propane tank.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I limp over to the kitchen. I’m thinking coffee. It occurs to me to ask, “You want to make jianbing?”

  “Tortillas.”

  “Oh.” I get out the coffee, scoop some into a filter. Another thing occurs to me.

  “You’re not going to cook in here with that, are you? I mean, a propane tank?”

  “Only if it’s safe.”

  Deal with this later, I tell myself, pouring water into the coffeemaker.

  Mom waits until I sit down at the table with a fresh cup before she says, “Andy and I have been talking about opening a restaurant.”

  I have coffee in my mouth, so I can’t answer that right away. When I do, the best I can come up with is, “A restaurant?”

  “A Mexican restaurant. Tacos mostly. Nothing too complicated.”

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “Well, I think there’s a real market for it,” she says, and it’s hesitant enough to sound almost like an apology. “The ones I’ve tried here aren’t very good. I know I can make better salsas. I just have to get the tortillas right. And find enough good avocados for a decent price.”

  I take another gulp of coffee, because this time I don’t really want to answer right away. I swallow.

  “Mom, opening up a business here, it’s very tricky for a foreigner. With restaurants people’ve even had them shanzhai’d. Copied. The original owners thrown out and the business taken over.”

  “I know you need a reliable Chinese partner,” my mom says. “That’s why it makes sense to do it with Andy. Andy has some money. Or he can get some money. He owns a few apartments. Plus, he has a friend who might want to invest.”

  I don’t even know where to start with this.

  “Okay, you’ve known Andy how long?”

  Mom scrunches up her face like she’s calculating. “I think it’s been almost four months.”

  “Do you even know what he does? Why he has money?”

  “Some kind of state job? I think? He might be partly retired. He doesn’t seem to have to show up all the time. He said he bought the apartments back when they were cheap. I know one of them’s in Qingdao.”

  “What happens if the two of you break up?”

  There’s a long pause. Then a sigh. “Well, I
hope that doesn’t happen. But the thing is, Ellie …” She sits down across from me. She seems … I don’t know. Weirdly calm. “Both of us want to try something new. We think this could work. And sometimes you just have to go for it.”

  I study her. Her face is slightly flushed. She looks good, I think. She’s been exercising, she and Andy, ever since we got back from Yangshuo, where they bicycled and did tai chi classes together.

  I think about this, about my mom being fifty-one and trying to make a fresh start yet again.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess you do.”

  What else can I say? And maybe she’s right.

  “Andy and I are going to get lunch. And, after that, check out a few potential locations.” She twists her hands together, uncertain again. “Do you want to come? It’d be great to get your opinion.”

  I realize, all of a sudden, that the uncertainty isn’t about what she wants to do, with the restaurant and with Andy. It’s with me. Like I’m this cat that might respond with a hiss and a scratch.

  “Yeah, I’d … I’d like to. But I have some things I need to do.”

  I really am a shit.

  She doesn’t look surprised, or even disappointed. It’s probably what she expected me to say.

  “Maybe, if you want, we could look at some places in a couple of days?” I offer.

  She smiles. “That sounds great, hon.”

  She probably thinks I don’t really mean it. Who knows? Maybe I don’t. But I could. I could be a little nicer. Pretend like I’m a grown-up, even if I’m not.

  Mimi dances around my mom like she’s about to get a walk. “Sorry, puppy,” my mom says, ruffling the fur at her neck. “Some of these places probably don’t like dogs much.”

  “Except on the menu,” I mutter.

  My mom rolls her eyes.

  “I’ll take you for a walk, I promise,” I tell Mimi after she leaves. “I just have to do some stuff first.”

  What stuff, I really don’t know. Check email. Shower maybe.

  Decide what I’m going to tell Sidney about last night.

  We haven’t had the museum meeting yet, I tell myself. I could try to put it off a little longer.

  Why do I keep putting it off?

  Marsh is a creep. But does he deserve to get whacked by Sidney for that? I mean, who’s the worse influence here, Marsh or Gugu?

  Like I’m going to tell Sidney about Gugu’s milk fetish.

  Maybe I’m overreacting here. Maybe Sidney won’t actually kill Marsh. Those guys his men smoked a couple of months ago, that was a little different, right? They were bad guys, hired guns who nobody much was going to miss, and it was kind of a kill-or-be-killed situation. Like combat. You engage the enemy. Someone’s going to end up in a glad bag.

  I’m thinking all this, and someone pounds on my door.

  This time Mimi barks and bares her teeth.

  I grab her collar. “Quiet. Sit.” I brace my hands on the table and push myself up. “Stay.”

  I hobble over to the door. Peer through the keyhole.

  A guy in a uniform and a man in plainclothes behind him.

  I’m on the fifth floor. There’s nowhere to run.

  And this whole drill is starting to feel almost routine.

  So I open the door. I don’t even bother to say anything.

  “Ellie McEnroe?” It’s the plainclothes guy in the back. Fortyish. Slacks, white short-sleeved shirt.

  “Yeah?”

  I’m thinking, more tea with the DSD.

  Except the uniform in front has a patch on the shoulder of his light blue shirt with the Great Wall and the olive leaves that says 警察 and then, in English, POLICE.

  Regular cops, more or less.

  This is confirmed for me when the guy in plainclothes says, “We are from Beijing Municipal Public Security Bureau. I am Inspector Zou. This is Sergeant Chen. We think perhaps you can help with our investigation.”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  I open the door wider and step aside.

  I mean, what else am I going to do? Ask for a lawyer? This is China.

  The two of them walk in. The uniform, Sergeant Chen, stations himself close to the front door. He’s tall, young, lanky, all angles, like a jointed puppet, and has a messenger bag slung across his shoulder.

  Mimi stands by my side, neck arched, tail up high and stiff. Ready to attack.

  “No, Mimi,” I whisper. “Be a good dog.”

  The man in plainclothes, Inspector Zou, leans back on his heels, a little freaked. “Will he bite me?” he asks. “I do not know dogs well.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, because I’m having these nightmare scenarios where they shoot her or drag her away and sell her for hotpot. “She’s just nervous with people she doesn’t know.” I ruffle the scruff around her neck. “Right, Mimi? Don’t bite Officer Friendly.”

  Mimi’s tail relaxes. A little.

  Sergeant Chen approaches us. Her tail stiffens again.

  Oh, fuck. Please do not shoot my dog.

  “Sit, Mimi,” I say. She doesn’t. She hugs my hip, and I can feel her muscles tense.

  Sergeant Chen crouches in front of Mimi, so he’s at her level. Cautiously extends his hand, palm up, even lower, so it’s practically scraping the floor. His expression never changes. Not scared, not happy, just neutral, as far as I can tell.

  She sniffs his hand. Her tail relaxes. Slowly swishes back and forth.

  I guess he smells okay.

  “I’m just going to put her in the bedroom,” I say. “Come on, Mimi. You can sit on the bed if you want.”

  When I come out of the bedroom, Zou is strolling around the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, peering at the stack of DVDs on the coffee table, at the books on the bookcase behind the couch. He’s shorter than Chen and a bit stocky, with buzzed hair that looks as if it would grow in like brush bristles.

  “You are … Jidujiaotu … ? Christian?” he asks.

  I shrug a little. “My mother.” I’m not going to bust out the Mandarin yet. Sometimes it’s better to act like you don’t understand. Play dumb. Besides, his English is pretty good.

  Zou nods. “I see. Your mother lives here, too.”

  Which you must already know, I almost say. Because she had to register with the PSB when she came to stay with me.

  But apparently we are doing small talk before we get down to police business.

  “Would you like some tea?” I ask. “Maybe a beer?” I’m kind of snarking but figure he can’t necessarily tell.

  Zou pauses in his wandering. Tilts his head up, like he’s seriously pondering this.

  “It is … very hot today. The … kongtiao … the cold air … in our car … is broken. So. Yes. I would like some beer.” He grins. “Officer Chen is the driver.”

  Well, okay, this is weird.

  The three of us are sitting around the dining-room table snacking on spicy peanuts and shrimp chips. Inspector Zou and I have Yanjing Draft in little glasses, the open bottle and a fresh one on the table. I gave Sergeant Chen a Coke.

  “This is … nice apartment,” Zou says. “Do you like this area in Beijing?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Very convenient.”

  Zou nods. “Not so many places like this left, with the siheyuanr, the old kind of houses,” He says it with an “r,” like a proper Beijinger. “When I was a boy, my family live in siheyuanr, near Dazhalan. You know it?”

  “Sure.” Dazhalan’s down by Qianmen, an old neighborhood south of Tiananmen that mostly got chai’d for the Olympics, the main street rebuilt into a Disneyfied version of itself, a fancy pedestrian mall that’s half empty.

  “Very dirty, really,” he says. “Toilet outside house in hutong. I don’t miss this part.”

  Zou pauses for a sip of beer. I refill his glass. He drinks. Puts his glass down with an audible thunk.

  “So.” Zou suddenly slaps his hands on the table. “The investigation.” He tilts his head toward Sergeant Chen. “Chen Jingguan, gei wo zhe zhang
zhaopian.”

  Sergeant Chen, get me the photograph.

  Chen reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a manila folder. Opens it, extracts a glossy piece of paper. Hands it to his boss.

  Who lays it on the table in front of me with a small, satisfied smile, like he’s flipping over his hole card.

  A dead woman.

  “This woman, do you know her?” Zou asks.

  She’s young. Chinese. The shot is a close-up of her face. It’s bruised. One eye swollen shut, the other clouded and flecked with dark red specks. Nose broken, shunted to one side, dried blood covering her split lip. Below her jaw, around her throat, more purple bruises.

  “No,” I say.

  “You are certain?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t recognize her.”

  I want to say more, something like, It’s possible I met her once, but the way she looks now, how could I tell? Except I haven’t had enough beer to say something that dumb.

  “This does not disturb you?” Zou asks.

  Oh, I’m supposed to gasp and cry or something? Go all to pieces over a photograph?

  Maybe I should feel something, but I really don’t.

  “I was a medic in the Iraq War. I saw dead people in person. This is just a picture.”

  “I see.”

  Fuck. Maybe I should’ve pretended. But I’m not a very good actress.

  “If you are a … medic? Is that a doctor?”

  “No. More like … we’re first responders. We help people on the scene, when someone’s hurt. Do first aid. Stop the bleeding if we can.” I try to gauge his reactions. I’m not sure if he’s understanding me, but one thing I’m pretty sure of: he’s not stupid.

  “But still you are a medical person. So. How is she dead, then?”

  “You mean, what killed her?”

  “Yes. In your opinion.”

  I look at the photo some more. “I couldn’t tell you from a photo. No one could for sure. Not even a doctor. Not unless it was something really obvious. But someone beat her up. Maybe choked her.”

  “Choke?”

  I put my hands on my own throat for a moment. “This.”

  “Ah.”

  We fall silent. The photo sits between us on the table, a piece of paper that suddenly feels like it weighs a ton.

  “Why are you asking me about her?” I finally say.