Dim Sum Dead (9 page)

Buster eased her up out of his lap and turned to face the game table. “Not right now, doll,” he said, quickly shuffling the tiles in earnest.

“Keep in your mind a question,” Lee advised, and smiled modestly. “You do not need to tell me what your question is.”

“There,” Buster said, and he raised his hands off the tiles in a dramatic gesture. “I’m ready.”

“Very good. Now you must push all the tiles to the sides, you see? This will clear an area in the center.”

Buster did as she instructed as we watched.

“This,” Lee said in her singsong instructor’s voice, “is the Take.’” She referred to the central area that Buster was clearing. “The tiles you push to the sides must form a circle with no breaks, please.”

Wesley leaned over and whispered to me, “You’re up next, so pay attention.”

I jabbed him.

“Very nice, Mr. Dubin. Next, please select thirteen tiles from the outer circle, any tiles at all, sir, and push these into center of the lake.”

Then Lee instructed Buster to reshuffle the thirteen tiles that he’d selected and then to push three tiles toward the West sector of the spread, then three tiles towards the East sector, then three tiles toward the North sector and then three tiles towards the South sector. Finally, he was told to push the one remaining tile toward the center.

We looked on as he completed building the pattern as he was instructed.

“Now, I turn them over in order,” she told us, smiling. “And we shall see what fortune has in store for you.” She turned over the center tile. “The tile in the center represents the focus of the reading. This is your present problem.”

“Funny,” Buster said, “it doesn’t look like you, Queets.”

Quita stood directly behind Buster’s chair, brooding. She did not laugh.

Lee Chen studied the tile. It had a small numeral four in green and a squiggly blue Chinese character that meant four on top and a red squiggle that represented the Wan suit. “You see? It is the Four Wan, which represents the Chinese character:
Ch’in.
This character is symbolized by the lute and represents the performing arts. It is a symbol of music.”

“You are unreal, Mrs. Chen,” Buster said, delighted.

“My god.” Quita looked at Buster. “Did you waste your question on the stupid
Warp
music video?” She turned to us, and added, “He’s desperate to do it. I don’t know why. But they are not coming up with the contract.”

Buster gave his girlfriend a pained look. “They want me, Quita. Look at my Four Wan. They just have to come up to my price. But with my East Wind and my Four Wan, I think it’s a done deal.”

Then he turned back to Lee. “Please, Mrs. Chen, go on.”

She continued to turn over tiles and tell their significance, but just at that moment my cell phone rang. I moved out of range of the reading so I wouldn’t disturb them as I answered the call. It was Arlo. He wanted to see how late I was working so we could meet for a late dinner. By the time I returned, five minutes had passed and Buster’s reading was nearly done.

I looked down at the table where all of the tiles had, by now, been turned face up.

“I’m sorry I missed everything. How’d it turn out?”

“Not bad.” Buster looked up at me, grinning.

“Mr. Dubin is a very lucky man.” Lee Chen’s eyes held an extra twinkle. “Money he will get, and he will hold on to it, which is most important. Success will be his as well. I saw for him a big project with music—”

“The
Warp
video,” Buster interpreted.

“—but there may be a delay. There was only one thing we do not like to see, I am afraid.”

“Well.” Quita stood up and straightened one of the spaghetti straps on her slim shoulder. “I think this whole thing is a joke.” She looked at her watch and, immediately, some other expression wiped clean the annoyed, pinched look she’d worn throughout most of the late part of the evening. “I’ve got to go, Buster. We still need to talk.”

“Later, honey,” he said.

“There is no later,” she said, pouting. “I told you I can’t stay tonight.”

“In a minute. Hang out a while longer, okay?”

Quita stomped out without another word.

Lee Chen watched her go. “That lady is not happy with me, I think.”

“What’s not so happy about Buster’s future?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea, even without the mah-jongg oracle. “Quita?”

“That we can only guess,” Lee said, hiding a smile. “The tiles only tell us that after a brief romance with a duplicitous partner, Mr. Dubin will start over. And here is lucky news again. He will find a very nice new romantic partner.”

“Oops,” Wes said.

“Actually,” I said, “I’m pretty worried about Quita. We talked to her earlier, and she was horribly upset.”

Buster didn’t look surprised. “You can’t let her drag you into her drama, Madeline. Quita has so many wheels turning up here, so many plots”—he tapped his temple—“she doesn’t have much time to knock two rational thoughts together.”

“I guess,” I said. “I think maybe she hasn’t gotten over her husband’s death yet.”

“She was really freaking out,” Wes said, remembering like I did how differently Quita had behaved back at the Wetherbee house.

“She’s a sweet kid,” Buster said, “but she has problems. Hey, who doesn’t?” He got up and pulled out the chair opposite Lee. “Come on, now, Maddie. Your turn.”

“Don’t you think we should be going?” I asked, looking off in the direction Quita had gone.

“No way. She’ll keep.”

“Come sit down, Madeline,” Lee instructed, and so I did.

After a rapid bout of shuffling tiles, and making a lake, I quickly selected thirteen tiles and pulled them into the center. Then, as Lee guided me, I set up the tiles, three apiece in the positions that represented East, West, North, and South, and one in the center.

Lee turned over the tile in the center first.

“Ah. Six Wan. Very interesting.”

“What?” I looked down at the tile. It showed the number etched in red in the upper corner and the same Chinese character as the other wan tiles etched in black.

“It means many things. One thing is intelligence.”

“Of course.” Wes began to laugh. “That’s perfect, Mad.”

“I love smart women,” Buster said. “So why don’t I ever date any?” He gave me a goofy look, raising his eyebrows several times, Groucho Marx style, to signify possible future romance.

I laughed and turned back to Lee. “Intelligence. That’s a nice compliment, Lee. That’s safe. But I forgot to think of a question. So does that botch the reading?”

Lee was intently studying the Six Wan tile. When she realized she’d been addressed she looked up quickly and
smiled. “No, no. Nothing is ruined. You may have a general reading, Madeline dear. Listen and learn about the future.”

She turned over another tile. Five Wan meant house. I thought perhaps it could be Wesley’s new house, but she didn’t confirm that. Four Circles meant hard work, but it also meant friendship and it also meant justice.

Wesley smiled at me. “This is just so
you.
”

I blushed. These things are fun, but they are not very specific.

“Here’s Five Bam, and look, here’s another Five Bam. Two children.”

“Oh, really?” I had much to think about.

“Soon,” Lee said, beaming up at me.

“Not too soon,” I said, laughing.

“Ditto,” said my business partner, Wes.

Then Lee turned over the tiles that represent relationships. Buster moved in closer, making jokes about taking notes. I must admit, I settled down and paid a little more attention, too.

Lee said, “Here, you have West Wind. This is a very masculine person. A man with strength and power.”

“Well, that leaves out your boyfriend, Arlo,” Buster said.

Wes chuckled.

Men liked to make such jokes. I ignored them.

“Then another tile here.” Lee turned over the next tile. “It is the Eight Circles. Ah.” Lee looked deep in thought.

“What is it, Lee? Bad news?”

“Madeline, the Eight Circles is also a man, very masculine. This tile means an authority figure.”

“Good grief,” I muttered.

“You mean, like her father?” Wes asked.

“It could be a policeman,” Lee said, sounding worried. “I hope this is not scaring you, dear Madeline.”

“Only just a little, Lee. I know a police fellow, actually. I saw him tonight, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh? Then it is all right? Good.” Lee went through the rest of the tiles, but I don’t think I remember much else she said. I just fixated on her nailing Honnett, right there on the Eight Circles. Jeesh.

“So Madeline, when we add these tiles here to these others, we see stability.”

“Stability is okay,” I said hopefully.

“Stable, happy work. Stable, happy home. Stable, happy man in life,” Lee said, looking over all thirteen exposed tiles. “Stable, happy partners.”

“Thank goodness,” Wesley said.

“You get married soon to Arlo, Madeline?” Lee asked, after careful thinking.

“No!”

“Well,” Lee said with a shy smile, pointing to the two flower tiles, “then what are these two babies doing here?”

We all laughed.

Lee said, “They are only tiles, after all. You like to hear more?”

“Go ahead.” I never take this sort of thing seriously. It’s just fun to imagine life’s possibilities.

“Your man. He is very powerful. A very passionate person. A very affectionate man. It says this quite clearly in the tiles.”

I burst out laughing. “Lee Chen!” This was not the type of reading I expected from a grandmother of twin college girls. “Really.”

She joined me laughing. “I do not make this up, Maddie. You can see it yourself. Here, here, and here.” She pointed out tiles as if I could read their meanings.

“Well, I’m shocked,” I said, trying not to smile, kidding my former teacher.

“I do not see why you are so modest, Madeline. You know about the philosopher Kao Tzu, I think.”

Buster and I shook our heads, but Wesley looked up, alert. “Kao Tzu. Yes, the famous Warring States-period philosopher.”

Wesley.

“Yes,” Wes said, “Kao Tzu was a keen observer of human nature.”

“Very good,” Lee answered. “No reason to be shy about love, Madeline. Kao Tzu said, ‘Appetite for food and sex is nature.’”

Well, how was one supposed to refute a Warring States
philosopher? And given his philosophy, why would one want to?

It had gotten to be so late, I was anxious to get Lee home and so we left shortly afterward. Wesley left in his own car. And I had one more stop to make. The call I’d received had been from Arlo. He was leaving his office after a typically long night of doing rewrites, and he wanted to meet me for a late dinner.

I stood in the street next to Lee’s small black Acura, waiting for her to safely start her car. I heard the engine turn over, but she didn’t pull out from the curb. She rolled down her window and called me to come closer.

“Thank you so much, Lee,” I said again as I approached. “Your talents are extraordinary.”

“You are always welcome, dear Madeline. But I think I must tell you one more thing.”

“Oh?”

“I did not want to say this in front of your friends.”

“Say what?”

“It is the Six Wan.”

“The Six Wan?” I tried to remember. “Wasn’t that the center tile? That meant intelligence?”

“Very good memory,” she said, always my proud teacher. “But the tiles have many different meanings. I told you. It depends on what the position, what the next tile. And the Six Wan…” She frowned.

“Yes?”

“It is also the tile of grave danger.”

“Oh.”

“I do not want to scare you. I just think you should know this. The Six Wan. It is the tile of greatest warning.”

“Warning of what?” I asked. I don’t know if it was the chill of the night, or perhaps I was getting tired. I pulled on my leather jacket but felt no warmth.

“Six Wan can mean an accident. I’m sorry, Madeline. I want you to be careful, okay?”

“Okay, Lee. Don’t worry about it.”

“
O
H NO
!”

“Man oh man.”

“Oh my God. It’s dead, Madeline. You killed it.”

I looked at the small, sleek cell phone, ice tea dripping off its pathetically flipped open flip part. A dark watery stain formed on the pink-linen tablecloth beneath it. The thing was dead all right.

“Oops.”

I don’t know how it happened, really. I am not clumsy. I am actually pretty damn graceful. But I was holding Arlo’s little phone for a second and it slipped and it fell and the Atlantic Ocean of ice tea kinda swallowed it up. It fell straight into his glass. I don’t know how that happened.

“Okay, I’m not a technical guy. Granted, okay?” Arlo was getting agitated, as the enormity of his cellular disaster washed over him like a wave of, well, tea. “But I’m pretty sure these things don’t work anymore after they have been deliberately dunked in
iced beverages.
I’m pretty sure that was in the ninety-page Ericsson instruction manual. The phone, Maddie, is dead. It is never coming back.”

I handed him my napkin. “Sorry, Arlo, honey. It was a freak accident.”

And then I realized. That was
it.
That was Lee Chen’s prediction of an accident. It had to be. I smiled myself silly.

Arlo looked at me with suspicion as he gently patted his little gizmo.

He was cute. No one said otherwise. He had that boyish thing down, with shaggy brown hair and a prep-school face. Behind his small wire-rims, Arlo’s large, troubled brown eyes met mine.

“It was an accident. I swear,” I swore.

Jeesh. Drop a guy’s new cellular toy among the ice cubes and it’s some deep, sinister plot. He asked me to hold it for a second, and technically, I held it for a second. And then, well past the agreed-upon time limit, it slipped. I wasn’t trying to drown the gizmo. Honestly. At least, I don’t think I was. Murdering electronics was beneath me.

“Some people believe there are no accidents,” Arlo said.

“Then they should talk to my old teacher, Lee Chen.”

“What?”

“Never mind, Arlo. Never mind.”

“Some people might think you dropped my phone on purpose.”

“Yes, and some people believe that Barry Manilow is one of the greatest singers of all time.”

Arlo stared at me. Arlo loved Barry Manilow. “And?” His voice had gone up a notch or two. “Your point would be…?”

“I’m simply saying, Arlo, that there is no end to ‘what some people believe.’”

Arlo and I were meeting for a late supper at La Scala Presto in Burbank, just a few blocks from his office at Warner Bros. studios. We had yet to order. We’d hardly had a moment to talk. Even at one in the morning, Arlo’s job kept him tied to his cell phone, making vital network decisions as to why Jim J. Bullock could not possibly play an alien in the sitcom pilot on which Arlo was consulting. Our menus were still on the table. They, along with the table’s linen cloth and the china and silver, were now dripping with tea drops and scattered with beached cubes.

“What a shame.” The restaurant hostess was at our side now, surveying the splash zone. “Perhaps the table there?” The restaurant was fairly empty at this time. She indicated a vacant table that was freshly set up.

As we stood, Arlo wrapped the napkin around the tiny
wireless phone and patted it gently. As we crossed the room, an upscale trattoria, I looked around. Green ivy leaves were hand-painted onto the white Italian tiles that surrounded the open-hearth pizza oven, and a full-time prep chef at the counter continually chopped the ingredients to their famous Leon Chop Salad, even this late. I noticed the head of prime-time programming at NBC sitting alone in a corner booth. We had catered a large event for him last year. The hours people worked in this industry were cruel. He was absorbed in reading a script and appeared to be the only one in the room who hadn’t looked up when I
accidentally
sent Arlo’s little phone deep-tea diving. I decided it would be better not to disturb him. I could say hello later.

I sat down and looked over at Arlo. He was pushing and repushing a number of tiny buttons on his cell phone in frustration. Yes. I got it. It didn’t work.

I had been telling Arlo about my day between his urgent calls. I told him about what happened in Santa Monica. I told him about the strange conversation at Wesley’s Wether-bee house. As I started and restarted my saga, Arlo juggled calls. Momentous decisions re: series minority (Chicano vs. Asian); sofa color (Nile green vs. plum); and rehab program for the star (Sierra Tucson Clinic vs. Betty Ford) were made. And as I tried to tell Arlo about the mah-jongg party, I waited while he received three more calls during which everyone wanted to change those decisions. And then the ice tea incident occurred.

“Dead, dead, dead…” Arlo looked me in the eye.

Perhaps I should explain where I’m coming from. I’ve been going through a lot lately. Heavy things just keep happening. I mean, for a gourmet chef and caterer, admittedly a lighthearted kind of profession, I’ve been swimming an awful lot, lately, in the deep end of life’s little pool. I have observed several serious events recently, some involving death and lives ruined. So watching Arlo make a federal case out of a little mishap with passion fruit ice tea was not playing well. I was becoming less amused, by the minute, with always having to accommodate Arlo’s inalienable right as a comedy writer to milk anguish to the tenth power, so long as
it got a laugh. If Arlo had a raison d’être it was simply this: the joke must be played out. And, therefore…

Arlo picked up the phone, pressing all of the buttons and shaking it again. “It’s really dead, Maddie. Dead and gone.”

I put my finger next to my eye, right where I could feel the little headache pinching. “And now what, Arlo? The five stages of grief? First you cry? Can we just order, honey?”

His lip curled. A smile, perhaps?

“Or could you hurry up and move into the denial phase?” I asked sweetly.

He laughed, despite himself. “Don’t make fun.”

This was Arlo and me. We’re not the easiest couple. For one thing, we both work a lot. Maybe too much. We had been squeezing what might pass as a fairly passionate, fairly hilarious relationship around his sitcom’s insane production schedule and my never-ending parties. But lately. Well.

Just then, I began to detect the sound of slightly raised voices somewhere in the background. I turned and saw the NBC guy upset on his cell phone. Short and wiry, with rolled-up sleeves, he kept talking as he slammed back his chair, speaking into his receiver in a harsh tone. It didn’t look like he had finished eating, but he was pulling out his wallet, saying wait a minute, wait a minute. In a flash of insane and perfect irony, I wondered if the NBC guy was just receiving the unacceptable news from some underling that his newest series producers were insisting on a Latino sidekick with a Nile green sofa.

Nah!

The waitress brought us a pair of dry menus and cast an eye over to the small commotion. “I don’t know what it is tonight. Maybe the Santa Anas. People are acting strange. Would you like to order now? Or do you need a few more minutes?”

I told her we’d like to order just as Arlo told her we needed more time. I gazed over to Arlo with intensity.

Under protest he tossed out his usual order. A burger. Well-done. Make that extra-well. Plain. No onions. No tomato. No lettuce. With fries. Actually, it’s about the only thing Arlo ever orders. He is a man with rigidly simple tastes
in food. Nothing green. Nothing, in fact, of a vegetable nature of any kind. Imagine what the average four-year-old likes and you can safely have Arlo over for dinner.

By the time I looked back over to check on what was up with the NBC guy, he had gone.

“So, anyway, whose party did you do tonight?” Arlo asked.

“Buster Dubin. He’s a neighbor of mine. Remember?” I think I’ d explained this to Arlo on at least four occasions.

“What does he do again?” Arlo asked.

“Directs,” I said, looking at Arlo, waiting for him to wake up. “Remember? He did the music video for The Julies. And a bunch of big commercials. You know the one for Tattoos. com? That’s his.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And isn’t his girlfriend that model or something?”

I shook my head. “That was one of his old girlfriends. Lately he’s been living with Quita McBride. He kinda goes through women.”

“I’d better use the pay phone to call Mark back,” Arlo said, checking his watch. “Before the food comes.”

“I thought it might be nice if we, like, talked.”

“Oh?” Arlo adjusted his glasses. “Okay. If you say so, sweetie. A talk. Shoot.”

I resettled in my chair and tried to restart the evening on a better note. “I heard this lovely story yesterday. From my friend, Sophie.”

“Is she still the chef at that restaurant in Pasadena?”

“Uh-huh, she’s doing great. Did I tell you she’s adopting a baby girl? From China. She just found out they’ve matched her to a little girl.”

“She wants a baby?” Arlo began doing his Rodney Dangerfield schtick, pulling at the collar of his denim shirt, mock nervous. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “She didn’t go giving you any ideas.”

“Arlo. Sophie’s ten years older than I am. She’s thought about this decision for a long time. Jeez! She would be a perfect mother. But don’t worry. I’m not ready. You know
that. I don’t want to have children anytime in the foreseeable ever. Don’t worry.”

“Because we’re not the kind of people to go and have some of those, are we? We’re too young.”

I put my finger back on the spot that ached, at my temple.

“Well, I’m almost thirty, Arlo. And you are five years older than I am, so…”

“Exactly. We’re mere children ourselves.”

I shot him a look.

“We’re babies, Mad. And, also, we’re focused on other things. We’ve got our work, obviously. We’re busy people. And we’ve got hobbies.”

“Hobbies?”

“Sure.” Arlo, apparently jacked up on several barrels of ice tea, got excited making his point. “Loads of very time-intensive hobbies. I enjoy cutting out the crossword puzzle in TV Guide—”

“Because,” I said, interrupting, “you’re always hoping they’ll use your name in one of their puzzles.”

“Low blow.”

I laughed. “That’s not much of a hobby, my friend.”

“But it’s terribly time-consuming, just the same. And you…”

I looked up. Pretty much all I did was work away at my little business with Wesley and Holly.

“What are my hobbies, would you say?” I asked.

“You, Maddie, are teeming with important things that take up all of your time.”

“Such as…?”

“Making insane, passionate love to your devastatingly handsome boyfriend.”

“Ha.”

“And your hair! You are busy all the time shampooing.”

“Shampooing.” I bit my bottom lip. To laugh at Arlo’s award-winning humor was to succumb to his powers, so I made him work a bit for it.

“Yes. You take a lot of time with that hair of yours, Mad. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it, actually.”

My hair has the look of a reddish blond mop that’s been
set on spoolies. And that’s its natural state. In fact, it does take a lot of time to brush it out and blow-dry it straight, so I mostly let it go in ringlets. But I knew Arlo’s schtick. He liked to disarm me with wit.

“So,” he said, in conclusion, “it’s really absurd to be thinking about babies.”

Our waitress brought us fresh glasses of ice tea and withdrew quickly. Just what this man needed.

“Arlo. Did I say this has anything to do with us? Can you possibly imagine there are other people in the world? And sometimes, just sometimes, there are things that happen to
them.
”

“Other people.” Arlo sipped his drink. “Now that you mention it, I do believe I’ve heard of them. So go on about Sophie.”

“Thank you. She is very excited about her new daughter. She had just gone to the bookstore and found some great books. One of them is a little folk tale from China. It’s called
The Empty Pot.
”

Arlo spoke up in a tone of voice that sounded absolutely outraged. “Now wait a darn minute. Sophie wants to be a mom and she’s buying books about pot? I think some women were just not meant to be mothers.”

“Arlo!”

“I’m joking. I’m joking. Go on already.” I think Arlo gets a special charge out of riling me up.

“I wanted to tell you about this story because it really affected me. Okay? So settle down.”

“I’m settled.” He put on his good-listener face, the one that must have disarmed Mrs. Beven, his fourth-grade teacher, when he was in reality whispering one-liners to the back row, and then chuckling when they got into trouble for laughing.

But this was about the most of Arlo’s attention I’d had in a while. With neither one of us at our offices, and his cell phone temporarily out of commission, I began my story. “
The Empty Pot
is a folk tale about an ancient Chinese emperor. The aging emperor gives one flower seed to each child in his kingdom. He tells them, ‘In a year’s time show
me what you have grown, and the flowers will choose my successor.’ But what the children don’t know is the seeds they get from the emperor are incapable of germinating.”

“Now that’s downright cruel, Madeline. Are you sure this emperor didn’t work at Disney?”

“Arlo. It was a test.” I crossed my legs and noticed my tight black pants got his attention. Whatever it took. I continued the story. “Naturally, all the children were horribly disappointed when their flowers didn’t grow. They didn’t want to show the emperor they had failed. Now, what would you have done in that situation?”

“Okay. No brainer. I’ d have gone to the florist with my Kung Fu MasterCard and charged something impressive.
Voilà.
The best flowers would win. And basically, you’d be bowing and calling me Your Highness tonight. Because bottom line, I have always been the kind of guy who wins. I’m a winner.”

“Of course you are.” I didn’t have the energy to roll my eyes. “However, in this story, Ping is chosen to be the next emperor because he is the only one who has the courage to come before the ruler with an empty pot.”