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Dragon Day (An Ellie McEnroe Investigation Book 3) Kindle Edition
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|Length: 369 pages||Word Wise: Enabled||Enhanced Typesetting: Enabled|
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- Book 3 of 3 in An Ellie McEnroe Novel (3 Book Series)
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A Seattle Times Best Mystery of 2015
“Excellent . . . Ellie McEnroe, our guide, is a piece of work: an expatriate American veteran of Iraq with a bad leg and a worse attitude . . . Brackmann is terrific at evoking both the glitz of modern high-society China and Ellie’s hand-to-mouth existence in some of Beijing’s less reputable corners."
—The Seattle Times
"Edgy . . . When Ellie becomes a convenient murder suspect—her business card is found on the body of a waitress at a party—she must navigate China’s elite and their kids, plus corruption on every level, to find the real culprit."
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
"Spot-on modern China noir and brushstroke-perfect descriptions of the new China make Brackmann’s series a pleasure to read. Her writing is crisp, vivid, and masterful."
—Barry Lancet, writing for The Strand Magazine
"As soon as I read the opening lines of Lisa Brackmann’s new China-set crime thriller, Dragon Day, I knew I was going to enjoy it every bit as much as I had anticipated. At initial glance, the book indulges in the two ultimate China clichés—that 'dragon' title and its red cover—but with those first four sentences, Brackmann delivers a big wink to her readers: Don’t worry. You might think you know what’s coming, but you have no idea."
—Los Angeles Review of Books
"Like a bullet-train tour of daily life in China, one vignette after another, sometimes verging on poetry."
—Salem Macknee, McClatchy News
"Set in China, Brackmann always manages to keep you on the edge of your seat and teach you something about that country at the same time. Not to be missed."
"The sensation of a society in constant flux underpins the action and makes for great excitement."
—The Crime Review (UK)
"A nonstop thriller, illuminating the Chinese police state in which 'First they decide you’re a threat. Then they find a label for it.' Top-notch international crime fiction."
—Booklist, Starred Review
"Rambunctious, well-plotted . . . Readers will be sorry to see the last of Ellie."
"One of crime fiction’s most successful portrayals of China . . . [Ellie] is absolutely convincing, both as a character and as a witness to an unpredictable realm where past, present, and future constantly collide."
—The Life Sentence
"This well-written series not only keeps readers involved in the storyline, it offers some keen insights into artistic freedom in China and the difficulty of managing so many layers of bureaucracy."
—Reviewing the Evidence
"Dark, mysterious and engaging, Dragon Day is a must-read."
—RT Book Reviews
"Had me hooked from the very first page . . . a tale at once exotic in its details but familiar in its inherent hard-boiled truths."
Praise for the New York Times and USA Today bestselling Ellie McEnroe series
“Ellie is a perfect spunky heroine . . . Be prepared for a wild ride.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“This pulse-racer about an American Iraq-war vet is set in the art world of Beijing.”
—Entertainment Weekly, “Recommendation for More Thrills”
“As slick and smart as an alley cat . . . Beijing in Rock Paper Tiger is as it is in real life: fast, furious, often ugly, and with a Starbucks sitting on every corner.”
—Time Out Beijing
“A gripping ex-pat nightmare that unfolds with superb pacing and salient details. And it makes you damned glad your life is boring.”
—The Miami Herald, “Summer Reading Recommendation”
“China’s a big country, and as the foul-mouthed, pill-popping vet travels from tourist trap to toxic wasteland and back, her journey becomes one of disenchantment, frustration and anger . . . This book—and the fingers it points—matters.”
—January Magazine, Best Book of the Year
“One of the best thrillers of the year. She has set the bar high for anyone wishing to write at the top of their game in the noir genre.”
“Don’t turn the pages too fast. Brackmann’s evocation of China, funny, frustrating, frightening, sometimes tender, and always real, is worth savoring.”
—Nicole Mones, author of Lost in Translation and The Last Chinese Chef --This text refers to the paperback edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Thing is, dragons are a big deal in China. The emperor’s symbol was a dragon. Dragons are all kinds of good luck, and super powerful. They can control weather, especially the kind that involves water. Your village keep flooding? Maybe you pissed off the local river dragon. Dragons can hide among clouds, disguise themselves as worms, or grow as big as mountains. Out of the twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac, Dragon is the one you most want your kid to be. Dragon babies are attractive, smart, natural leaders, bring good fortune to the family. Yeah, I know all the other animals are supposed to have positive characteristics, but come on. You’re telling me you’d choose to be a Sheep over a Dragon?
Me, I’m a Rat. Obviously I’m not winning any zodiac beauty contest. Sure, they say we’re clever survivors, and that’s useful, I guess. It’s true I’ve survived some pretty crazy shit.
On the other hand, if I’m so clever, why do I keep walking into it?
If you believe in any of this Chinese astrology, it’s way more complicated than just the animal year you were born in. There’s an animal for your birth month, for your birthday, for the hour you’re born, and there’s all this other stuff having to do with the four elements—or maybe it’s five—and stems and pillars, and I have no idea what any of that means.
All these things have to do with your luck, or lack of it, and what kind of person you are. Because it’s not like every single baby born in a Dragon year turns out to be smart, goodlooking, and destined to rule, right?
So maybe you’re born in a Dragon year but on a Sheep day.
And maybe some of those Sheep have Dragons inside.
I’m eyeing the bottle of vintage Moutai on the table and wondering if it would be unforgivably rude of me to pour myself another shot.
I don’t even like Moutai. But Sidney Cao singing “Feelings”? I definitely need something.
We’ve finished the Château Mouton Rothschild (“Genuine one,” Sidney promised), and there’s nothing else left on the table to drink except Pepsi.
“Feelings . . . nothing more than . . . feelings . . .”
I’m sitting in a private room in what I’m told is one of the three most expensive karaoke bars in Shanghai. The weird thing is, it’s not in a super-upscale neighborhood like the Bund or Nanjing Road, the French Concession or the riverfront in Pudong. Instead it’s this area west of the Shanghai train station that looks pretty typical: grey high-rises, broad streets choked with traffic and torn up by subway construction, nothing green in sight except for the occasional strange paint job. Vendors selling socks and DVDs and steamed buns crowd the sidewalks, along with bicycles and electric scooters.
This place though, outside, it’s a façade pretending to be marble that’s slathered with neon, fiberglass columns, and turrets surrounding tall, fake-bronze doors. The cars doubleparked in the street are Beemers, Mercedes, Ferraris, a Rolls, and a Bentley. On the inside there’s a huge lobby four stories high that you have to go through a metal detector to enter, and when you do, you’re surrounded by the fronts of fake buildings, like a movie set of a European village, all painted white, and everywhere you look, there are gilded planters and gold chandeliers, Plexiglas kiosks advertising luxury goods, giant ornate mirrors, and the kind of fussy carved furniture that belongs in a Three Musketeers movie with dudes wearing long powdered wigs, except instead of being white like it usually is, the furniture’s painted peacock blue and neon green.
Also grand pianos. There are several in the cavernous lobby, black Steinways, sitting beneath a painted sky hanging four stories up that gradually changes from sunny blue with popcorn clouds to a garish red sunset.
No pianists, though. Maybe the pianos are just for decoration.
Our private room is pretty cozy, with fake Renaissance paintings on the red-flocked walls, which, I have to say do not go very well with the peacock blue and neon green Musketeers furniture. But whatever.
I’m sitting next to Lucy Wu on one of the couches. Lucy, my sometime partner in the art business, owns a Shanghai gallery, and she dresses the part. She wears crazy designer stuff a lot, but tonight she’s outdone herself outfitwise. It’s this short, sleeveless, white dress with daisy-shaped cutouts and a halo of wispy white ostrich feathers, paired with red leather boots. Her shiny black hair is cut in this blunt anime style, and she’s wearing bright scarlet lipstick, thick mascara, and eyeliner like on a cartoon Cleopatra.
“Feeeeelings . . . Oh, oh, oh, feeeelings . . .”
“One more chorus,” she says to me, all the while keeping a big smile on her face.
Sidney really can’t sing. I mean, I can’t sing either, but I’m not the one standing up there with the microphone. So far this evening, Sidney has regaled us with “Yueliao Daibiao Wode Xin” (“The Moon Represents My Heart”), “Home on the Range,” and “Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman”—“Cultural Revolution favorite!” he explains with a big laugh.
I’m just about to reach for the Moutai when the song ends. Lucy smiles, showing her perfect tiny teeth, and claps. I smile and nod and clap.
Vicky Huang, the fourth member of our party, sits straight backed, not smiling, because this is serious stuff apparently, and she’s staring up at Sidney and applauding like she’s witnessing the Second Coming.
Sidney beams and approaches our little group of couches, microphone in hand. As he does, our very own private waitress, dressed in a French maid’s outfit, emerges from the shadows of the back wall, where she’d blended in like one of the paintings.
Smiling, without saying a word, she refills the tiny crystal flutes reserved for the Moutai.
“Ganbei!” Sidney says, raising his glass.
“Oh, thank God,” Lucy Wu murmurs in my ear.
I lift my glass. We clink. And Lucy, who is about the size of an anorexic hobbit, downs hers in a single “Ganbei.”
I don’t do as well. I know this is expensive stuff and prized in China, but it’s about 110 proof and tastes like sweet and sour paint thinner, with maybe a dash of soy sauce. The Moutai catches in my throat, and I cough.
“Now, Ellie, I think it is your turn!” I look up, and there’s Sidney holding the microphone in his outstretched hand.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m . . . you know, I can’t really sing.”
“Everyone can sing! You only must express what’s in your heart!”
Believe me, buddy, you don’t want to know.
“I . . . uh, my throat’s kind of sore.”
“Then you should have more Moutai!” He doesn’t even need to raise his hand. He merely flexes his fingers, and the waitress rushes over to refill our glasses.
“Just sing something!” Lucy hisses in my ear.
“Why don’t you sing something?” I hiss back.
“Because he asked you.”
“What shall you sing, Ellie?” Sidney asks.
I really don’t want to sing. But a good rule of thumb? Don’t piss off Chinese billionaires.
Especially don’t piss off Sidney Cao.
I mean, it’s not like he seems scary. He’s wearing his usual golf shirt, slacks, and ugly designer belt, this sixtyish guy with prominent cheekbones, a bony nose, and crooked teeth. Which he could obviously fix if he wanted to. But he doesn’t seem to care.
“I . . . um, where’s the book? I’ll take a look.”
The waitress quickly fetches the Big Book of Karaoke Tunes, a red leather binder with an embossed gold crest on it, some kind of made-up coat of arms. I start flipping through it. I have no freakin’ clue what to sing. “My Heart Will Go On”? I don’t think so.
“While you decide, I will sing,” Vicky Huang announces. She rises.
I think of Vicky as Sidney’s enforcer. I doubt that she’d actually break my kneecaps, but she’d know who to call. Like the dude in the nice suit standing sentry by the door. There’s nothing about him that sticks in your head. He’s just this slightly taller-than-average Chinese guy with a thick neck and a crew cut.
Vicky, on the other hand, stands out. She’s wearing an outfit that might look cute on a young, thin, twenty-something girl: brown leather hot pants over black leggings and a tight, fuzzy pink sweater. On a middle-aged, chubby woman with a cloud of teased, dyed black hair sporting red highlights, not so much.
Sidney hands her the mike like he’s passing a loaded gun. I drink my Moutai, which I’ve decided is not so bad, at least situationally.
She takes her place in front of the giant flat-screen karaoke monitor. Standing there with this deadly serious expression, like she’s facing a firing squad or has otherwise found Jesus.
The music begins. Swells. Building up to something big. On the screen there are random nature scenes and a young couple sitting on bright green grass, staring at each other, holding hands. Cartoon hearts drift up into the pixelated sky.
Vicky Huang opens her mouth, and out comes, “The hills are aliiiive . . . with the sound of muuuusic . . .”
What I wasn’t expecting: Vicky Huang can actually sing.
Sidney claps wildly.
Lucky me, Vickygets on a roll and sings four songs, and by the time she’s done, Sidney’s ready to bounce. This whole long night, he hasn’t said one word about why he wanted me and Lucy to meet him in Shanghai for karaoke, but that’s the way business gets done here a lot of the time.
When we gather in the lobby, next to a Lucite display advertising Rolex, the fake sky is black, with a full moon and clusters of stars. A jazz combo plays around one of the grand pianos, a song that would be kind of mellow if it weren’t amplified to the point of distortion.
“Thank you for the lovely evening,” Lucy says to Sidney. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you while you’re in Shanghai.”
“Of course, of course! We will talk. Perhaps tomorrow?”
Vicky Huang consults her iPad. “Two p.m.” It is not a suggestion.
Lucy doesn’t miss a beat. “I believe I’m available.” She turns to me. “Ellie?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” I mean, what else am I going to do, other than try to score soup dumplings? Which sounds like a great idea, actually.
Besides, I’m the one who hooked up Lucy and Sidney. And even though Lucy thanks me for the connection, I feel a little queasy about it. Because I like Lucy a lot. We work together. She’s a friend. And getting involved with Sidney is a really mixed bag.
“Shall we meet at the gallery?” Lucy asks. “I have a show up now with an emerging artist who may interest you.”
“Of course, of course.” Sidney sounds distracted. “Vicky will arrange.”
Sidney Cao, in addition to being a ruthless billionaire guy, is seriously obsessed with collecting art. He has a collection that blows a lot of museums out of the water. Everything from Vermeer to Warhol. More recently he’s gotten into contemporary Chinese art, which is how our paths happened to cross. I manage the works of an important contemporary artist: Zhang Jianli, my friend Lao Zhang. “Lao” means old, which he’s not; he’s maybe forty, but it’s also a term of respect and friendship. A lot of people respect Lao Zhang.
My ending up as his representative was kind of an accident, and though I’ve come around to thinking that the art gig isn’t bad in theory, some of the complications—drinking tea with Domestic Security, karaoke marathons with a homicidal billionaire—are starting to wear on me.
Okay, maybe “homicidal” isn’t fair. Maybe he just told his muscle to do whatever it takes to arrange a meeting with me to discuss Lao Zhang’s art a couple of months ago, and what it happened to take was . . . well, killing people. Stuff happens, right?
Besides, I’d probably be dead if he hadn’t. I was in the middle of some serious shit at the time, and the people his men killed weren’t exactly my friends.
“Can I drop you at your hotel?” Lucy asks me. She drives a cute MINI Cooper.
“That’d be great.” I’m staying at my usual Shanghai rack, this funky, sprawling nineteenth-century hotel at the north end of the Bund. It’s getting kind of pricey, over seventy bucks a night, but I have this thing where I get comfortable someplace and that takes the edge off the ol’ PTSD hypervigilance, especially in a city as crazy big as Shanghai. This hotel, I know where it is, how to get there, I know the menus at their bar and café, even a couple of the staff, who recognize me when I check in. I feel, if not exactly safe, safer.
“Ellie, do you still have time tonight?” Sidney asks. Suddenly. “For a nightcap?” Emphasis on “cap.” He giggles. As if he’s nervous.
Sidney, nervous? I’ve never seen that before.
I’m not liking this at all. And I’m past ready to go to my familiar hotel and burrow under my queen-size comforter.
Don’t piss off the billionaire.
“I, uh . . . Sure.” --This text refers to the paperback edition.
- File Size : 1432 KB
- Publication Date : August 18, 2015
- Publisher : Soho Crime (August 18, 2015)
- Print Length : 369 pages
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Language: : English
- ASIN : B00RKQ657E
- Enhanced Typesetting : Enabled
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Lending : Enabled
- Best Sellers Rank: #983,431 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
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