Hour of the Rat by Lisa Brackmann Page A

Jason.
    “
Wei?
Hello?”
    “Ellie McEnroe?” A woman’s voice. Chinese, I’m pretty sure.
    “Yes. Who’s this?”
    “I am Vicky Huang.”
    I stand there for a moment, thinking, Who the fuck is Vicky Huang?
    “I represent Sidney Cao,” she continues. And who the fuck is Sidney Cao? “Hi,” I say. “How can I help you?”
    “I contact you by email. Mr. Cao has interest in buying some Zhang Jianli art pieces.”
    “Oh, right,” I manage. The Chinese billionaire collector. “Look, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but—”
    “Mr. Cao is willing to pay top dollar.”
    “Like I explained in the email, there’s nothing for sale right now.”
    “But how can that be? I hear he has many unsold works.”
    “It’s just … um, it’s a little complicated.”
    “No need to be complicated. Mr. Cao has resource to manage all complication.”
    “Look, I’m on vacation right now. How about we talk when I get back to Beijing?”
    “When will you return?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “When can we schedule this talk?”
    “In a couple of days, I promise,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s been nice speaking with you.” And I hit the DISCONNECT bar.
    Apparently “Vicky Huang” is Chinese for “bulldozer.”
    “Hey,
lamei
.”
    I turn. Walking beside me is the doorman from the club lastnight, the place called the Last Emperor. He’s got his Qing-dynasty robe on, unbuttoned to reveal a T-shirt with a cartoon panda holding a pistol, and he’s wearing sunglasses and a Yankees baseball cap. The perpetual cigarette dangles from one corner of his mouth. I don’t think it’s even lit.
    “
Ni hao
,” I say, not sure how I feel about his calling me a “spicy sister.”
    “Thought you said you’d come for a drink last night.”
    “I wanted to,” I lie. “I was too busy.”
    “Too bad.”
    I think about it. “I can have a drink now,” I say. “But only if you have one with me.” And I do my best attempt at a flirtatious smile.
    Which, admittedly, sucks.
    He grins and says, “Sure.”
    Well, he did call me a hot number.
    It’s not dangerous, I tell myself. I’m just going to have a drink with the guy. He gave me a good tip last night, about the Gecko, and I’m wondering if he knows more about it than he said.
    We’ll sit down, have a drink, and it’ll be fine.
    “C OME ON , A BEER ?” He raises his hands, seemingly incredulous. “We make best mixed drinks in Yangshuo. Martini. Cosmopolitan. Long Island Iced Tea. Name your favorite. I make it for you.”
    We sit just inside the doorway of the Last Emperor. I wish we could sit outside, but it’s still a little chilly for that, the leaden sky threatening rain. The decor is kind of what you’d expect: red and gold, a couple of giant hangings of some famous Qing emperor, a huge paper dragon suspended from the ceiling, Plexiglas panels bordering a dance floor that at the moment is dark. A few dead-eyed customers sit around the borders, sipping drinks.
    “Well, see, it’s the middle of the day. I have to meet my mother later.”
    His expression suddenly shifts. He almost looks embarrassed. “Ah,” he says. “Okay. A beer. You like Budweiser?”
    “Not so much. Do you have Liquan?”
    “Sure. Okay.”
    I watch him walk behind the bar and pour the beer. He returns with two full mugs of lager. I hope it’s not drugged. He deposits them on the table and sits.
    “Cheers,” I say, lifting mine.
    “Cheers.”
    Tastes like beer to me.
    “What’s your name?” he asks.
    “Yili. You?”
    “You can call me Kobe.”
    I almost laugh. “Kobe? Like the basketball player?”
    “Sure, why not?” He grins. “I aim high.”
    “Okay, Kobe.” I have to admit the guy cracks me up. “Last night I showed you a photo.”
    Kobe leans back in his chair, adjusts his ball cap, lights his cigarette. “Smoke?” he asks.
    “No thanks.”
    “Smart. They say it’s bad for your health.”
    I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. A lot of Chinese people