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“Landscapes by Fan Kuan, scrolls by Huang Gongwang, and woodblock prints from Kitagawa Utamaro, among others.”
“Cool. Fan Kuan is amazing.”
“You know Fan Kuan?”
“Why not? He’s one of the most revered artists in China.”
“He’s not well known in the Western world, even among art history students. Asian artists aren’t as covered.”
“Luckily, in ’Frisco—except we locals don’t actually like that term—there’s the Asian Pacific Art Museum. They’re having, like, a special exhibit next month. Art from the Tang Dynasty.”
He stiffens, as if I’ve said something wrong. What did I say? Maybe I’m imagining things because I’m inebriated.
“The Tang Dynasty,” I reiterate.
“Yes, I know. You should get some rest.”
I get the feeling he’s done talking to me. Since I still feel a little woozy, I take his suggestion.
“Thanks for the amazing dinner,” I say as I get up and head inside. I look down the hallway and head in that direction.
“Where are you going?” Rafe asks me.
“To my room.”
“It’s the other way.”
“Oh. My bad. I think I had a little too much to drink. Doesn’t help that I’ve always been a cheap date.”
He takes me by the elbow and leads me in the correct direction. In fact, he walks me all the way back to my room. The place is so large, I’m not sure I would have made it even if I was completely sober. How many people live here, anyway?
Once in the room, I lay down on the bed. Sauntering over, Rafe takes off my shoes and pulls the covers from under me.
“Were you named after the artist Raphael?” I ask as he tucks me in.
“In a way. I gave myself that name when I came to America. Too many people couldn’t get my given name right.”
“How old were you when you came to America?”
“I was a penniless twelve-year-old immigrant.”
“Look at you now,” I murmur. “Guess crime does pay. Not as much for me, though. I shoplifted a lot of candy bars when I was little. Video games. Over-the-counter medicine, which I sold for a third of the price. Probably could have gotten half the retail price, but I didn’t know much at the time.”
I don’t remember what else I said. Maybe I simply fell asleep. I vaguely remember staring at a painting of chrysanthemums before the lights go out.
When I wake up, the late-morning sun is glaring through the curtains. I feel a plush bedcover on top of me and silken sheets below me. The pillow my head rests on is sumptuous. I never thought I’d apply that adjective to a pillow. Where am I?
Prying an eye open, I see a painting of chrysanthemums on the wall and groan. Yesterday wasn’t a dream. Instead of my studio apartment, I’m in the mansion of a triad member. And if I remember correctly, I was tucked into bed by a man who might have had people killed. Or even kills people himself.
Who plans to havemekilled.
Sitting up in bed, I rub my head. I feel a little hungover but not as bad as I would have thought. It was stupid of me to have had that much to drink while in the company of a criminal, and in a stranger’s home no less. I don’t even drink much in public after learning about all the crazy shit that happens to women in bars.
How could I have let my guard down? Did I get lured into thinking Rafe was halfway decent because he served me caviar and had nice table manners? Or was I trying to drown away this nightmare I find myself in?
I sit in bed, contemplating my situation, until there’s a knock at the door.
“Bwek-fass,” a woman with an accent says from the other side.
