LITMIR.BIZ

      Outside, the dust has kicked up, filtering the sun through a yellow haze.

      I walk down Jianguomen. There’s a Starbucks around here someplace. I could get a cup of coffee. I fixate on that. A cup of coffee. I’ll get a cup of coffee and try to think. But I can’t remember where the fucking Starbucks is, exactly. It’s around here. I keep walking down the street. I just need to get a cup of coffee, and I’ll be able to sort all this out.

      Tears run down my face. I’ll just blame the dust. Because the other stuff, I can’t think about that. Trey and his little ho’ girlfriend. Loves Jesus, my ass. The stuff he did … How can he talk about love?

      And Lao Zhang. It’s not like I love him. What’s love, right? I thought I loved Trey, and how stupid was that?

      But I like him. Lao Zhang’s a good guy. Maybe the Suits are telling the truth; maybe he’s fucking around, but so what? I never asked him not to. All I ever asked was if I could come over, and he always said yes. I think: all the time we’ve spent together, hanging out, it felt … comfortable. Like belonging somewhere. And now …

      What’s he gotten himself into?

      Then I think: it’s not the Chinese government that’s after Lao Zhang. It’s Global Security Concepts. Trey’s company. Not official. But they might as well be.

      I know how those guys work.

      How did the Suits find out about Lao Zhang?

      I’m slick with sweat, like a fever’s breaking. They’ve been watching me, no matter what they said. They followed me to Mati. To Lao Zhang.

      How long have they been watching?

      Finally, I spot the familiar green-and-white Starbucks logo.

      Inside, the air is perfectly conditioned, and they’re playing their latest retro Brazilian compilation; the baristas are smiling, the espresso machine hisses, and it smells like roasted coffee. They’re advertising Fair Trade beans and selling Starbucks Beijing coffee mugs. There’s a couple of tourists, a student or two, and a few local businessmen with pocket PCs and laptops.

      I feel better already.

       ‘Yi bei benride kafei. Zhong.’

      ‘Room for cream?’ asks the barista. They all know the English for coffee words.

      They give me my coffee of the day, size medium. I put the cup down on an empty table and go into the restroom to wash my face. Under the fluorescent light above the mirror, I can see where my tears have cut through the dust and soot of a Beijing spring day.

      I look like shit.

      I used to be cute. It wasn’t so weird that Trey wanted me, back in the day. I used to be fresh-faced and smooth and round. Nice tits. Good hair. Standard American Attractiveness Template.

      Now? I have circles under my eyes, black ones, as dark as the Uighur’s. Crow’s-feet. Lines running down from my nose to my mouth, deep as slashes. Blemishes and brown spots on my face from the sun. I’m seven years older. And I’m not sure I’m any wiser than I was.

      Fucking Trey. It’s his fault my life’s turned out this way. I was young and dumb, and I would’ve done anything he wanted me to. And he knew that. He knew that, and he crooked his finger at me, and I followed him.

      Then I think: but you went. You didn’t have to. You should’ve known better.

      But there’s nothing I can do about any of that now.

      I wash my hands, my face. Go out and sit at my table. Sip my coffee and try to think.

      They watch Mati Village, Suit #1 said. Who’s watching? Someone I know? One of the artists? A waitress at the jiaozi place?

      I should call Lao Zhang, let him know these guys are looking for him. I get out my phone, and then I hesitate. The Suits never asked me for his phone number. I sip my coffee and think, they must have it already. And I think: how is that? I stare at my phone and wonder. They probably know my number. Fucking Trey probably gave it to them. Can they tap these things?

      How did they find me earlier at Matrix Arcade? They didn’t follow me from Chuckie’s apartment, did they? So how did they find me?

      Cell phones all have GPS built in. You can find people with GPS – that’s what it’s for, right?

      I switch off my phone. This is crazy. They can’t just do that, can they?

      I laugh in spite of myself. Yeah, right. They can do whatever they want to do.

      Besides, this is China.

      I stare at the iPhone. It was a gift from Trey two years ago: top of the line then, out of date now. He bought it in Hong Kong, unlocked, which is technically illegal, but everyone does it here because you couldn’t get iPhones legally in China until last year, and the legal ones cost a fortune.

      How does this stuff work? If my phone is off, does that mean they can’t find me?

      I almost get up and throw my iPhone in the trash. I want to hurl it across the room. It’s hard for me to stop myself, but the phone was expensive, and it’s got all my numbers and photos and tunes on it.

      I think: it’s off. They can’t find me if it’s off.

      Right about then a couple of students come in, two guys, Americans or Europeans. I can tell they’re students by the backpacks, the counterfeit North Face jackets, the perfectly broken-in T-shirts, the vaguely ethnic bead necklaces.

      I think for a minute while they get in line. Then I stand up and say, ‘Duibuqi.’ Excuse me.

      The two guys look at me. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Do you speak English?’

      ‘Sure,’ one of them says. He’s wearing a Bob Marley shirt and a crocheted cap.

      ‘Great,’ I say quickly, ‘because I’m kind of in a bind. I really need to make a call and my phone died.’ I hold up my switched-off iPhone, which I figure looks pretty convincingly dead. ‘Do either of you have a phone? I’ll buy your coffee if I can make a quick call.’

      ‘You can use mine, no big,’ says the second guy, the one in the Bruce Lee shirt. ‘So long as you aren’t calling Mongolia or something.’

      ‘Nah, just Kazakhstan,’ I joke back.

      The kid hands me his phone (a new iPhone, way cooler than mine). I quickly punch in Lao Zhang’s number.

      ‘Wei, ni hao.’ I talk in a low voice, as fast as I can. I’m hoping these guys are beginning Chinese students and won’t be able to understand me if I Beijing it up. ‘It’s me, Yili. I met two foreigners today,’ I continue in Chinese. ‘Americans. They asked a lot of questions about you.’

      Then I’m not sure what to say.

      ‘Take care,’ I finally add. ‘Be careful.’

      I hit the red button and hand the phone back.

      ‘Your accent is really good,’ Bob Marley T-shirt guy says.

      They’re students, like I thought, just finishing

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