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Authors: Naomi Hirahara
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ever.
“You were at the accident site.”
He has a slight British accent, which throws me off a little. I know Hong Kong was a British colony, but wasn’t Xu from mainland China? Isn’t that more New World than Old?
“Yes. And you were, too.” And it would have been nice if you’d stayed around to see if the man your father injured was okay .
Xu’s cheeks are pink and I wonder whether it’s from the wine he’s holding or from what I’m insinuating. “How is he?” he asks, meaning Mr. Fuentes. He takes a sip of wine as I just shake my head. It’s not my place to divulge any medical details, especially ones I’m completely unsure about. “My father was just protecting me. Protecting my cello,” Xu says.
“So you’re saying that the gardener was a thief?” I can’t help myself.
Xu’s whole face is flushed now. I wonder if he’s missing the enzyme to properly process alcohol, a condition that a lot of us Asians have. “I don’t know why he did what he did. Truly I don’t,” Xu says. Which he? I wonder. Fuentes or his father?
“Well, at least you got your cello back.” I figure that by making the assumption, it will generate an answer to what I’ve been wondering about all night.
“I did,” Xu says; then his eyes widen. “Did you have anything—”
A woman in high heels and a low-gelled ponytail comes our away. It’s Kendra Prescott. “There you are,” she says to the cellist. “I was looking all over for you. Bono wants to take a private meeting with you.” She notices me beside Xu and frowns, just in the corners of her mouth, before quickly turning up her lips. “Ah, hello. I didn’t know the police were here.” She still doesn’t seem to recognize me from the day before.
“Just here as a private citizen,” I tell her.
Before Xu can say another word, Kendra’s ushering him away. PR flak—was that what Nay called her? All I can say is that she’s very good at her job. I toss my empty plastic cup into the trash can and walk across the expansive lobby to the escalators leading to the parking structure. Most everyone has left, so there are only a few couples—all older ones with stylishly groomed gray hair—on the escalator with me.
I’m parked on the lowest floor, and by now most of the parking spots are empty. Sound carries through the empty parking garage, and I hear angry voices as I make my way to Kermit. I look around warily, and in a section marked ARTISTS’ PARKING , I see a flash of platinum hair. Standing next to a dark BMW convertible, Cece is speaking loudly in what sounds like Chinese to someone obscured by a parking column. I must have been spotted, because she immediately lowers her voice.
I get into Kermit and check my rearview mirror as I back out. The BMW’s rear lights are now on, but I don’t see Cece or the person she was talking to. As I drive up the next level of the parking lot, all I can hear is the squeak of my tires against concrete, a familiar sound at the end of a strange day.
FOUR
The next morning I check my phone. No calls, texts or e-mails from Nay. Since I’m on a four-day schedule, I’m off today, even though it’s the middle of the week. Nay is my usual go-to person to goof off with. Now, thanks to the translator, that option is not available.
I text Nay: What are you doing?
About five minutes later, I get a phone call. It’s her. I don’t bother with hello or any of that stuff. I get right to the point. “Where are you?”
“At Washington’s apartment.”
“Nay, already?”
“No, it’s not what you’re thinking. We did some barhopping in K-town and he lives right here. We just came to crash.”
She can apparently feel the disapproval in my silence. “This is all for the paper. Really.”
“Where is he now?”
“Taking a shower. He lives in a two-story multiunit thing. The outside is nothing special, but the inside is so, so cool. Wait a minute. I’ll send you a video clip.”
On my phone is a link to a
“You were at the accident site.”
He has a slight British accent, which throws me off a little. I know Hong Kong was a British colony, but wasn’t Xu from mainland China? Isn’t that more New World than Old?
“Yes. And you were, too.” And it would have been nice if you’d stayed around to see if the man your father injured was okay .
Xu’s cheeks are pink and I wonder whether it’s from the wine he’s holding or from what I’m insinuating. “How is he?” he asks, meaning Mr. Fuentes. He takes a sip of wine as I just shake my head. It’s not my place to divulge any medical details, especially ones I’m completely unsure about. “My father was just protecting me. Protecting my cello,” Xu says.
“So you’re saying that the gardener was a thief?” I can’t help myself.
Xu’s whole face is flushed now. I wonder if he’s missing the enzyme to properly process alcohol, a condition that a lot of us Asians have. “I don’t know why he did what he did. Truly I don’t,” Xu says. Which he? I wonder. Fuentes or his father?
“Well, at least you got your cello back.” I figure that by making the assumption, it will generate an answer to what I’ve been wondering about all night.
“I did,” Xu says; then his eyes widen. “Did you have anything—”
A woman in high heels and a low-gelled ponytail comes our away. It’s Kendra Prescott. “There you are,” she says to the cellist. “I was looking all over for you. Bono wants to take a private meeting with you.” She notices me beside Xu and frowns, just in the corners of her mouth, before quickly turning up her lips. “Ah, hello. I didn’t know the police were here.” She still doesn’t seem to recognize me from the day before.
“Just here as a private citizen,” I tell her.
Before Xu can say another word, Kendra’s ushering him away. PR flak—was that what Nay called her? All I can say is that she’s very good at her job. I toss my empty plastic cup into the trash can and walk across the expansive lobby to the escalators leading to the parking structure. Most everyone has left, so there are only a few couples—all older ones with stylishly groomed gray hair—on the escalator with me.
I’m parked on the lowest floor, and by now most of the parking spots are empty. Sound carries through the empty parking garage, and I hear angry voices as I make my way to Kermit. I look around warily, and in a section marked ARTISTS’ PARKING , I see a flash of platinum hair. Standing next to a dark BMW convertible, Cece is speaking loudly in what sounds like Chinese to someone obscured by a parking column. I must have been spotted, because she immediately lowers her voice.
I get into Kermit and check my rearview mirror as I back out. The BMW’s rear lights are now on, but I don’t see Cece or the person she was talking to. As I drive up the next level of the parking lot, all I can hear is the squeak of my tires against concrete, a familiar sound at the end of a strange day.
FOUR
The next morning I check my phone. No calls, texts or e-mails from Nay. Since I’m on a four-day schedule, I’m off today, even though it’s the middle of the week. Nay is my usual go-to person to goof off with. Now, thanks to the translator, that option is not available.
I text Nay: What are you doing?
About five minutes later, I get a phone call. It’s her. I don’t bother with hello or any of that stuff. I get right to the point. “Where are you?”
“At Washington’s apartment.”
“Nay, already?”
“No, it’s not what you’re thinking. We did some barhopping in K-town and he lives right here. We just came to crash.”
She can apparently feel the disapproval in my silence. “This is all for the paper. Really.”
“Where is he now?”
“Taking a shower. He lives in a two-story multiunit thing. The outside is nothing special, but the inside is so, so cool. Wait a minute. I’ll send you a video clip.”
On my phone is a link to a
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