She stares at him. I’m not sure if she’s buying it. “You came to bring her identity card. You can leave it with me.”
John shakes his head. “Since she is missing, it must go to the police.”
Her eyes are tearing up again.
“Here.” He produces his wallet, pulls out a business card. Looks like the same card he gave me once, the one for his supposed company, “Bright Spring Enterprises,” where his name’s Zhou Zheng’an.
I’m pretty sure it’s not a real business either.
He holds out his card to her. “You can call me if you want. I will tell you what the police say.”
She doesn’t take the card. She squeezes her eyes shut, like she doesn’t want to see it.
I get it, I think. If she calls him, maybe she’s going to hear something she doesn’t want to hear.
“If there’s news, you want to tell her parents, don’t you?” he asks softly.
Finally she nods and takes the card.
“So what do you think? The catering company has ‘girls selling smiles’ after hours?”
He’s been quiet during the ride back to Gulou. Distracted.
“Maybe so. Or maybe someone just has this expectation.”
“Yeah, could be,” I say, thinking of Milk Lady, a little detail I have not told John about. I mean, for all that the guy is great in the sack, in a freaky kind of way, he’s got a moralizing streak a mile wide, plus he seems to have a bug up his ass about rich people in general, the Caos in particular.
“What now?” I ask.
“I thought you want to go back to Gulou.”
“No, I mean… Okay, so we think we know who the dead girl is. What happens next?”
“Hmmm.” His forehead wrinkles. “We can tell Inspector Zou. But maybe we can wait a little while.” His eyes get that dark look again, the one that kind of scares me. “I think I want to meet these Caos first.”
I slump back in the seat. This is not going to end well, I’m pretty sure.
Chapter Twelve
★
Dinner with the Caos is at a place called Tea.
I checked it out online. From the photos the place looks so perfectly elegant and minimal that it makes my teeth hurt. And according to an article on CNN, it’s one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.
“You sure you want to go, John? What if you end up with the bill? They give you that kind of expense account?”
John pauses in the middle of straightening his tie and shoots me a glare.
We’re in my apartment. John’s in the bathroom, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. He’s wearing a suit-something I’ve never seen him wear before-and though I’m no expert, I’m pretty sure he, or somebody, spent some money on it: a kind of silvery grey that drapes just so over a perfect white shirt. He’s put a styling gel in his hair that makes him look like some kind of movie star for the teen-idol set. I have to say he looks pretty good. Way better than a guy who’s hanging out with me should look. I mean, shouldn’t he be with some cute, perfect, dainty Chinese girl? What’s he doing with a train wreck like me?
Probably spying, I remind myself.
Mimi sits there half on his feet, staring up at him with a look of utter adoration. She’s always loved John.
I thought dogs were supposed to be loyal.
John smoothes his coat and turns to me. Looks me up and down. I’m wearing one of my Vicky Huang outfits.
“That is nice,” he says. “Though why do you never wear a dress? I think you will look pretty.”
I want to smack him. Instead I shrug. “Busted-up leg, not so pretty. Look, can we just get out of here and go to this fucking dinner?”
Mimi thumps her tail. Like she thinks we’re going for a walk. I lean over and ruffle the scruff around her neck. “Sorry, pup. I know you’re not getting enough walks. Tomorrow, I promise.”
Assuming I don’t get arrested.
Tea is in a hutong area just north of the Forbidden City, close to the National Art Museum and Jingshan Park. Not all that far from where I live, but the traffic sucked, and there was an accident on Di’anmen, and by the time we get close, my leg’s hurting and I’m twitching like a meth head, feeling like the longer we sit in this car, the more of a big fat target I am, and even though I tell myself, That’s stupid-it’s not getting blown up you need to worry about right now, I can’t help it.
I thought I was getting better.
“Are you feeling sick?” John asks.
I shake my head. “No. Just don’t like sitting in a car in traffic, that’s all.”
“Almost there.”
We get off the main street finally. Turn down a little lane lined by old grey walls with red doors, peaked roofs coyly hiding behind them, revealing just a glance, and I catch a glimpse of the bright moon through a tree-I don’t know what it’s called, one of those trees you see everywhere here with the narrow limbs and tangles of thin twigs that stretch toward the sky, like they’re trying to break through the smog and the bullshit to nourish themselves somehow-and it hits me like a wave, how in spite of how ugly this city is, sometimes it’s still beautiful.
We pull up in front of a grey wall. A uniformed valet swoops in and takes John’s keys.
I heave myself out of the car. Pain arcs up my wobbling leg, and I’m suddenly light-headed. I stare up at the sky, blinking, looking for the moon through the smog. The streetlamps light up the dust, making the air seem to sparkle, like somebody threw yellow glitter into the sky.
“Are you all right?” I feel John’s steadying hand on my arm. And I’m remembering the night we met, how he tricked me. I was dizzy that night, too, walking with him. I remind myself why that was. What he did.
I pull my arm away. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Yili…”
I turn to face him. He looks confused, he looks concerned, he looks like he actually gives a shit. But hey, I’ve been wrong about that before.
“What?”
“We can just go home if you like.” He sounds so earnest saying this. So honest.
“Yeah? And then what? I get arrested for killing some girl I don’t think I ever even met?”
“I can take care of it. You don’t need to-”
“I do need to,” I snap. “I need to take care of myself. I need to…” I get hit by another wave of dizziness. Swamped. I steady myself against the wall. “Let’s just go to this dinner, okay?”
What the fuck is wrong with me?
A panic attack. It’s like I used to get, when I wouldn’t leave the house, when I’d freak out in the supermarket, or in a car, or… well, anyplace. But I’m better. I’ve been handling things. Look at what I’ve done the last two years. Look at the shit that got thrown at me. I survived it, right?
Why is this happening now?
There’s a double red door with brass studs. A red wood beam threshold. We step across it. On the other side is a broad courtyard and, across it, what looks like a small, Tibetan-style temple: ornate upturned roof with scalloped yellow tiles, red screens and walls and columns. Pillars of light rise at even intervals, like they’re another row of columns holding the place up.
It’s your head that’s doing this, I tell myself. There’s nothing wrong right now. I’m not going to get blown up. It’s just a feeling. Like what the army shrink used to say: Feelings are transient. You let yourself feel them, observe what they are, let them go.
“Just because I feel this way now doesn’t mean I’ll always feel this way,” I mutter.
“Ni shuo?”
“Nothing,” I tell John. “Nothing important.”
There’s a flagstone path leading up to the temple, lit here and there by lanterns on iron posts. A little stone bridge that arches over an artificial stream. And finally, as we walk up a couple of broad steps that lead to the entrance, a bronze sign with a cutout character lit from behind: 茶.
Tea.