Hour of the Rat Read Online Free Page A

drivers can’t make turns, and for some reason I think about what a pain in the assthose iron fences can be, like they go out of their way to make simple things difficult. We pass trucks stacked with vegetables—potatoes, bundles of celery—that rumble down a narrow street toward some huge grey cement gate with a red badge and gold characters across the top, a guard box on either side.
    Finally we get to the end of the block and turn left, into a walled, gated parking lot. In front of us is a large, blocky building, about ten stories high, the façade a combination of faux marble, metal sheets, and green Plexiglas. Red lanterns hang above the entrance.
    The pinyin below the characters spells out HEXIE ANXI JIUDIAN .
    Harmonious Rest Hotel.
    We drive past the lobby, around to the back, through a metal gate, into a little service yard. There are rows of dumpsters, a couple of battered electric scooters, a warped ping-pong table, and a clothesline with hotel uniforms hung up, inside out, to dry.
    “So we aren’t checking in?” I snark.
    The younger cop does one of those embarrassed semi-giggles. “Please wait a moment,” he says, and gets out of the car. He jogs over to a back entrance and goes inside.
    The older cop sits in the front seat and drums on the steering wheel.
    Shit, shit,
shit
, I think. Even if this ends up not being a big deal, what are the odds I’ll get my visa renewed if I’m getting hauled in to drink tea with the fucking DSD?
    The young policeman comes trotting back and opens the car door. “Okay,” he says, as cheerful as a tour guide about to show me some special scenic spot, “we can go upstairs now.”
    I T ’ S A “ BUSINESS HOTEL ,” meaning stripped down, stained, and frayed around the edges but fairly clean. We enterthrough the back door, past a curtained room that’s some kind of staff facility: I glimpse cleaning supplies, stacks of towels, one hotel worker, a rosy-cheeked girl who hardly looks old enough to be working here, sitting on a metal folding chair, sewing a button on a uniform smock.
    We go up three flights of worn carpeted stairs. The air smells like stale cigarettes, the smoke permeating the walls, the red industrial carpet; you’d have to tear the whole place down to get rid of it.
    By the time we’re on the third flight, my leg is throbbing and I’m just really pissed off, because people keep fucking with me, because I can’t catch a break, because my leg really hurts, and I don’t even have a Percocet.
    Okay, I tell myself, okay. You need to keep it together. Don’t lose your temper, and don’t panic. Just calm down, listen to what they say, and don’t give them any more than you have to.
    I’ve been in worse situations than this, and I got through them.
    This is nothing.
    We walk down to the end of the hall, to a room like every other room. Room 3310. Young Cop has a key card, and I hear the insect whir as the door unlocks.
    It’s your basic Chinese hotel room. A bit larger than some of the places I’ve stayed, in that there’s room for two club chairs and a little round table on a raised Formica-covered platform by the window.
    A man sits in one of the chairs. No uniform, just a polo shirt and slacks. Middle-aged, a slight paunch hanging over his typically ugly belt with a square gold buckle, fake Gucci or Armani or something. Hair swept back in a Chinese bureaucrat pompadour.
    “
Qing zuo
,” he says, gesturing to the other chair.
    I sit.
    He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there and smiles at me. I fidget. Maybe that’s the point of the silence.
    “You asked me here for tea,” I finally say. “I don’t see any.”
    “Ah.” He nods. Motions to Young Cop, who quickly scoots over to the desk, where the hot water kettle is, and fills it with a bottle of Nongfu Spring water that’s sitting next to it.
    “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says.
    I shrug.
    He leans back in his chair, twines his fingers together, rocking them up and down like