The water rat of Wanchai

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When the phone rang, Ava woke with a start. She looked at the bedside clock. It was just past 3 a.m. “Shit,” she said softly. She checked the incoming number. It was blocked. Hong Kong? Shenzhen? Shanghai? Or maybe even Manila or Jakarta, where the Chinese hid behind local names and were often all the more Chinese because of it. Wherever the call originated, Ava was sure it was somewhere in Asia, the caller ignorant about the time difference or just too desperate to care.

“ Wei, Ava Lee,” a male voice said in Cantonese. It was a voice she didn’t recognize.

“Who is calling?” she said in his dialect.

“Andrew Tam.”

It took a second for the name to register. “Can you speak English?”

“Yes, I can,” he said, switching. “I went to school in Canada.”

“Then you should know what time it is here,” she said.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Chow gave your name and number to my uncle and told him I could call you anytime. He also said you speak Mandarin and Cantonese.”

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