Dim Sum Dead (7 page)

“Hey, Mad. It’s Arlo.”

Oh. See. Just when you think you are keeping all the grenades in the air, one goes thud, hiss, boom. Hearing Arlo’s name didn’t used to make me tense up. Things had not been going well between us for a long time.

“You working?” he asked. Arlo never seemed to be able to quite remember what I was doing when.

“Is that Arlo?” Holly asked, looking over at me, mouthing the words.

I nodded.

She pantomimed cutting her throat.

Lucky for me, my friends never try to meddle in my personal life.

“So what do you say we get together later?” he asked.

“I say I’ve had a rough day.”

“Great. Then you’ll need a chance to unwind,” Arlo steamrollered on.

I added one more item to my mental to-do list, then quickly got off the phone.

T
he weekly site of the Sweet and Sour Mah-Jongg Club—the game room at the back of Dubin’s house—was dazzling. I stopped at the doorway on my preparty inspection. The room, large and elegant and dripping in high-price-tag Asian fillips, appeared ready to be photographed by
Architectural Digest.
It was a spotless re-creation of a luxe, 1920s Art Deco mah-jongg lounge. The success of the room’s decoration was a tribute to Buster Dubin’s eye for set design, his sense of whimsy, and his deep pockets.

The ebony-stained hardwood floor was a mirror-polished sea, atop which three exquisite Oriental carpets floated. Exotic dark wood paneling covered the walls and absorbed the soft glow of many hanging Chinese lamps. Scattered in a symmetrical pattern, four matched rosewood card tables awaited the night’s amusements. David Bowie’s voice sang out from a state-of-the-art digital music system. “China Girl”—what else?

Over in one corner was the bar, a big, flashy roaring twenties antique. It was completely mirrored, including all the intricate Art Deco zigzag details. Reflecting wildly from its many polished surfaces were the bottled and bowled ingredients, which had been set out in readiness for the evening’s featured drink. In mirror upon mirror upon mirror, endless reflections of cherry liquor red and pineapple juice yellow dazzled the eye, multiplying our potential Singapore Slings to infinity and beyond.

In addition to the hard liquor, the bar’s minirefrigerator was also stocked with Chinese and domestic beers and several current brands of water. Next to the bar, a large buffet table had been laid out to display the gourmet snacks, upon which starving mah-jongg players were wont to nibble.

Yes, I know it could be effectively argued that Chinese Chicken Salad was hardly an authentic Asian recipe. But please remember whom we serve. Our party guests were the denizens of L.A., after all, and like all of the city’s thin and hip, they were serious salad junkies. No Southern California caterer would go broke pandering to this city’s intense cravings for mass quantities of gourmet roughage and bottled water.

I checked out Holly’s finished salad, rearranged the golden chopsticks, and admired a few of the other bowls and platters. An abundance of fresh fruit, sliced and beautifully arranged, was heaped on a large ornate Chinese platter. Amid Buster Dubin’s valuable Chinese carvings and his astonishing collection of Chinese magic gizmos, the display looked perfect.

This is it for me: this brink of high adventure, this special time of fresh expectation, of careful preparations completed, this greedy anticipation of pleasures to come. I love this time right before the party begins. Everything clean and ready, everything beautiful and expectant.

In this brief pause before show time, I was alone. Ray had stepped outside, no doubt to grab a smoke. Back in the kitchen, Wes was beginning to prepare the dim sum with Holly’s assistance.

Footsteps echoed up the hallway. I am pretty good at recognizing gaits and footfalls. Call it a little-appreciated talent. So, expecting Wes, I turned.

Lieutenant Chuck Honnett walked into the room.

“I told them I’d find you.” He stood in the doorway to the party room and gave me a look that was almost a smile.

My heart did a funny little half gainer with a twist. I was actually a little annoyed with my heart. I guess that’s why they call it an involuntary muscle.

“Honnett.” It was not my most original opening.

Remember how I feel about surprises? Hate ‘em.

Chuck Honnett seemed to look me over without moving his eyes too much. He saw me as I appear when I’m working a casual party, my hair pulled back into a clip, wearing a pair of slim black pants and a sleeveless white T-shirt. I felt his eyes take in the deep V of my collar.

“Hi,” I tried again. “I guess you got my message.”

“Yeah. What happened to you out in Santa Monica today?”

“Well, I feel silly asking you to come all the way out here. It’s just that there’s this woman. Her name is Quita McBride.” I rambled on a bit, nervously, and told him about our weird encounter and her insistence she was in some serious kind of trouble.

Honnett stood there, listening to it all. Then he said, “Madeline, technically it’s not our jurisdiction, Santa Monica.”

“I know. I know. This is silly, right?”

“But I called out there, and they faxed me the officer’s report.”

I looked at him, hopefully.

“Sorry to say, they have no leads and nothing new. They did send some of those tile things to be fingerprinted, and I didn’t see that they had any matches. But really, I wouldn’t be too upset. These things happen. There are people ready to grab anything that looks valuable. It’s pretty sad, but there it is.”

“Yes. I know that. But this woman, Quita McBride,” I said, looking toward the door, worried she’d walk in on us and have a fit that I’d invited a cop to her party. I told him the rest, how she was sure someone would want the red-leather book, Dickey McBride’s unpublished novel, that she was looking for.

I looked up and recognized Honnett’s expression. Incredulous is the word that came to mind.

“So,” I said. “You don’t think she’s in big trouble.”

“No.”

“And you don’t think she should have some kind of protection?”

“From what?”

“And you think I’m an idiot for giving her money so she could get a decent night’s rest.”

“No. I think you are a good friend.”

“Well, she’s not my friend, actually,” I said, feeling uncomfortable.

“You’re a good person, then.” Honnett had blue eyes. Deep, deep blue. “But I’m not sure why you have to get yourself mixed up in stuff all the time.”

He stood there, across the party room, looking at me, trying to figure me out. Well, that might take the man quite a while. I stared back. Honnett had the look of a transplanted Texas man, just off the range, with that sort of outdoor skin and long legs that look good in jeans, and the kind of hard body that came from real work, not workouts.

“So, Maddie. How’ve you been?”

Honnett and I had a history of botched opportunities and lousy timing. He and I had had a few possibilities, a while ago. We’d flirted up and back with pretty much nothing to show for it. Nothing ever got to the interesting point. Maybe it was because both of us were more comfortable
not
knowing each other better. Now that was a sad little thought.

Or maybe it was because I was going with another guy. Honnett’s job and my relationship with Arlo were enough to cool things down. My life is forever on the verge of resembling
One Life to Live
on a bad day.

“I’ve got to get back to work now,” I said, “if you’re sure there’s nothing that can be done.”

“No. The problem you had on Third Street is being handled by Santa Monica, so there’s nothing to do there.” His eyes squinted. “And your friend, McBride, if you’ll pardon me saying this, sounds pretty flaky.”

“Yeah. But you know, her husband was a big star. And he died not too long ago. Something may be weird about that.”

“There are lots of old stars in this town. Some of them die. We can’t go digging one up just because something he owned goes and gets itself snatched and his ex-wife is feeling antsy. Right?”

“And you don’t want to just talk to her? She’s here, somewhere.”

“If it makes you feel better, give her my card. Tell her to call me if she has evidence of any other crime, okay?”

I nodded, taking his card, knowing Quita would never call him.

Honnett’s voice changed, softened. “And as for that mugging, you sure you’re okay?”

I nodded again.

Honnett said, “Because maybe I should keep an eye on the case, as it develops. When can you and I get together?”

I took a deep breath. I let it out. “You mean business or you mean pleasure?”

He smiled at me. “You never know. You may think of something that you didn’t remember at the time of your original statement. Or maybe we could just talk?”

I felt a sharp little pain, wherever the solar plexus is supposed to be.

“Why don’t you come over to my house,” I offered. “Do you remember where it is?”

“On Whitley? Of course I do.”

“Good.”

“What time is this party over?” he asked.

“I’m seeing Arlo tonight.” I looked at Honnett, wondering what he could possibly make of me and my muddled relationships. “I’ll be home pretty late, I guess.”

“I’m working pretty late, too,” he said lightly. “Well, I had better go.”

This was not good at all.

“Hey. Mad?” Holly bounded into the game room, clearly expecting to find me alone. She recognized Honnett. “Oh, it’s you. Hi. I’m sorry. I thought Mad was…”

“No problem. I’m going.” He looked over at me as he departed. “Be seeing you.” And he left.

Holly watched him leave. “He’s looking good, isn’t he? I mean, for a cop.”

I became seized with an impulse to check for dust on the fireplace mantel. I found absolutely none. “Hol, remind me
to ask Buster who does his housecleaning. She’s exceptionally thoro…”

Holly looked at me with her big puppy-dog eyes. I read pity. “Even if you don’t want to admit it, there is a perceptible level of hormone residue left in this room.”

She makes me laugh. What can I say?

“Look, I know he’s a cop and all…” she began.

“Yes?”

“On the other hand, Honnett’s the kind of a cop who doesn’t have to wear a uniform, which you figure makes his whole copness a little easier to take.”

On the expensive sound system, Ash’s version of “Kung Fu Fighting” was coming to a close. And then, in the brief silence that followed, I heard three muted mellow musical tones coming from the front of the house.

“Ah.”

The doorbell meant that our party guests were about to arrive.

A
n explosive burst of noise clattered loudly, momentarily drowning out the happy hum of many overlapping conversations. It was the precise click and clack of 144 bone tiles being slapped and shuffled upon the hardwood surface of one of the big room’s game tables. Sitting there resplendent in his red-silk jacket, Buster Dubin prepared for his next hand of mah-jongg with his closest cronies. Buster’s laugh rose above the percussive din as four pairs of hands spread all the mah-jongg tiles facedown, quickly and efficiently swirling them in random patterns on the table.

Quita sat to Buster’s right. Across from Buster was a rounder, sweet-faced woman with a perfect bow mouth. Her name was Verushka Mars. She owned her own special effects business. The fourth player at Buster’s table was a pencil-thin young man, Trey Forsythe. He was a sufficiently hot sales rep who could easily afford his mah-jongg losings, and he’d been Buster’s best friend since way back in prep school. Trey wore a gold hoop earring and had a small blond beard and was devastatingly handsome, according to Holly. Anyway, all but Quita were the founding members of the Sweet & Sour Club. Alas, Quita’s predecessor, Jean Geiger, no longer came to game night.

Effortlessly, a fresh round of Singapore Slings appeared at the In table. Ray set the icy pink drinks down silently on golden coasters bearing the S & S Club insignia, then
slipped away, followed by murmurs of “Thanks, man,” and “These Slings are gonna get me in trouble.”

The party was warming up, and I was satisfied. I, too, have gotten rather hooked on the game of mah-jongg since I’ve been catering the Club’s social nights, and I perched on the corner of a nearby sofa to watch Buster’s table set up their wall.

In preparation for the new hand, each player began to build a line. As they gossiped, Verushka and Trey and Buster and Quita reached forward into the array of shuffled, facedown tiles, and selected random pairs, stacking them in neat bundles of twos, and pulling the bundles back until they clacked against the edge of each of their mah-jongg racks. In this way, each player began constructing his or her own row of tiles two high and eighteen across. When these lines were completed, all four players pushed their racks forward, forming a cream-colored square made up of double-high rows of tiles. The wall.

“Buster is still East,” Quita said. She gazed at Buster from under heavily made-up lids and pulled the little green umbrella from out of her drink.

East Wind was a favored position in mah-jongg. In every round, each player gets a turn to be East, which gives him or her several scoring advantages. He may keep the East position only so long as he continues to have winning hands. Once another player goes mah-jongg, the Winds shift, as it were, and the player to his right becomes East.

The whole symbolism of this game is rather fascinating.

Buster looked up at me and grinned. “We ever gonna get you to join in the fun, Madeline?”

“Not if you are still playing for a dollar a point.”

“Madeline. Darling. You’re a rich caterer. You charge exorbitant fees. You can afford to indulge in life’s upscale pleasures.”

“Honey, leave her alone.” Quita took a slow sip of her Sling. “She’s not interested in gambling with lunatics like you, she’s interested in cooking.”

Quita was getting on my nerves.

Then, in a flurry of excitement, a young woman’s voice
from across the game room called out, “Mah-jongg!” The players at her table erupted into a noisy spatter of conversation.

“If you ever want a private mah-jongg lesson,” Buster Dubin continued, looking up at me again, “just give a holler.”

“Well,” I said, “I do have a question.”

Quita looked up at me and watched my exchange with Buster.

“Why do they make such a big thing out of the East Wind?”

“Ah!” Verushka’s brightly painted bow-shaped lips curved up. She wore an ash-colored T-shirt with the words
MAH-JONGG MAVEN
on the front, and the enlightening message,
MY MOTHER USED TO PLAY
, on the back. Verushka leaned back and smiled even wider. “Buster knows all about the history of the game.”

“Well, there are a few theories, actually,” Buster said, nodding. “One story that’s passed around suggests that the origins of mah-jongg come from as far back as biblical times.”

Trey looked up at me with amused eyes. He did exude a sultry sort of something. I did not normally fall for sultry, so it was lost on me.

Buster rolled the dice, throwing an eight, as he spoke. “Would you like to take a guess, Madeline, which game was played on the Ark? I’m talking THE Ark, by the way—Noah and the gang. What did they play? Mah-jongg!”

I burst out laughing.

“Yep,” Buster said, smiling up at me, enjoying my reaction. “Think about it. It’s raining…it’s raining…they’re floating…they’re floating…forty days and forty nights of nonstop mah-jongg action. What on earth else was there for old Noah and his family and all those
fercockta
animals to do?” Buster looked at Verushka for support.

Trey said dryly, “Sure. It could have happened. After all, they didn’t have cable.”

Verushka chided Trey, “Don’t laugh at Buster, you only encourage him.” Then, she looked over at Quita. “North
opens the wall.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Quita wasn’t paying strict attention. After the wall of tiles is formed, there are very specific rules as to where the wall is broken to begin dealing out the tiles. “I don’t know why we have to do it this way. Why does East throw the dice and then we count around to see where the wall gets opened up anyway?”

“To preserve a romantic Chinese tradition, my love.” Buster took one of her hands in his.

Quita giggled and glanced over at Trey.

“And to prevent cheating,” Trey said, looking up at her.

Quita quickly picked up the dice and threw a four.

“Four plus eight is twelve,” Trey offered helpfully.

“I know that.” Quita laughed and counted, brushing her finger lightly over the tops of the tiles from the left hand side of the wall in front her until she reached “12.” She lifted up that pair of tiles and placed them on top of the tiles to the left of the break.

I stood up to check on the other tables of guests. They were all deeply engaged in the tiles and the conversation. At one table, small, colorful gaming chips were exchanged, as the latest winning hand demanded its monetary reward.

“Hey, Madeline. Don’t you want to hear about Noah?”

I turned back to my host. “Of course I do. I thought you were concentrating on your game.”

“Talk to him. Please.” Verushka drawled the last word out, begging. “Distract him. Keep his mind off the game. He’s already stolen $50 from me. I need help!”

I reperched on the edge of the white damask sofa, always delighted to mix and mingle with the guests, when my clients preferred. As this was a long-standing gig of ours, Wes and I had become especially casual with Buster and his regulars at the Sweet and Sour.

“Now listen up.” Buster hushed his rowdy friends, including four women sitting at the table beside him. “Madeline asked why the East Wind position is so significant in the game and I was telling her about Noah.
East
had been the prevailing wind during the great storm that caused the Great
Flood.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“And thus—”

“Yes, tell us, Professor,” Verushka said, and then took a long swig, draining her pink cocktail. She had quite a thirst for gin.

“…Thus, the East Wind became the dominant seat in playing the game. This theory would suggest that the game would date back to around 2350 B.C.”

“Fascinating,” I said.

I admit it. Half the time I say stuff like this just to get a rise out of Quita. Not very nice of me. Must work on this.

As each of the players grabbed their tiles, taking turns dealing themselves four tiles at a time, Buster continued. “Another very interesting story suggests that Confucius, the great Chinese philosopher, developed the game about 500 B.C. The appearance of the game in various Chinese provinces coincides with Confucius’s travels at the time he was teaching his new doctrines. The three Dragon tiles also coincide with the three cardinal virtues taught by Confucius: Chung the Red, which stands for achievement, Fa the Green for prosperity, and Po the White means sincerity. Confucius was said to be fond of birds, which would explain the name mah-jongg, which means sparrow.”

“Strictly translated, mah-jongg means ‘hemp bird,’” Trey clarified.

Both Quita and Verushka giggled.

While Buster had been speaking, the foursome grabbed new tiles and picked up others’ discarded tiles with a wild and thrilling speed, accompanied by the rhythmic clicking of tiles as they hit the table. In front of each player, a trifolded plastic card displayed the combinations that made up the year’s official premium hands.

All of the teasing and kibitzing around the tables suddenly brought back to mind vivid memories. Heather Lieberman, whom I hadn’t thought of in years. Childhood sleepovers at my best friend’s house. She lived with her grandma in a modest fifties split-level suburban tract home. I was over there all the time in fifth and sixth grade. I remember
how we would creep silently along the upstairs hallway in Heather’s grandma’s house. In the late evenings, we were expected to be up in Heather’s yellow room, if not sleeping, then at least in bed, giggling, gossiping, and hiding our laughter under the sunflower comforters. But on Friday nights, we used to make a break for it. We would sneak to the top of the steps, careful not to make the top one squeak, to watch her grandmother play maj with the gals. At ten years old, we were preteen Mata Haris.

I remember those nights with such fondness. Heather and I would hide in the darkness, sitting still in our long Lanz flannel nighties on the top step, just out of eyesight of Rose Lieberman and the mah-jongg ladies. We’d eavesdrop, listening to the older women laugh and mildly swear to the accompaniment of the swift and expert clicking of the tiles. I remembered catching whiffs of Chanel No. 5. I remember the flicker of the Sterno candle, which was lit beneath Rose’s polished silver chafing dish, its task to keep warm the cocktail weenies in a thick sweet barbecue sauce. I remember feeling safe among the nearby sounds of adult female camaraderie.

“Dead hand.” Verushka pushed back her chair. The others at her table grumbled that Buster would remain East and began, again, to shuffle the tiles.

At the door to the game room, right on schedule, Holly arrived with the Dim Sum cart, ready to begin serving. We had discussed with Dubin earlier the possibility of serving an authentic Chinese banquet, but he resisted. He didn’t want to slow down the MJ action with a heavy meal. And we agreed Dim Sum would suit the crowd nicely, despite the unconventional hour. The custom of offering bite-size morsels known as Dim Sum started in teahouses in China as a prelunch thing. But we were rather nonconformist in our food tastes at the Sweet and Sour Club.

Dim Sum was a popular treat, and the players looked up from their hands and chattered with excitement when they spotted Holly and her cart.

Dubin was the sort of man who fully enjoyed himself at his own events. Seated at the game table, he found Holly’s
exposed waistline was but a foot or so from his nose.

“Do you know,” I heard him whispering up to her, “what Dim Sum means?”

Not a thing escaped Quita’s notice. She was also listening to this exchange.

“To your heart’s delight,” she answered.

“Ah.” Dubin winked at her.

On Holly’s cart, the traditional round metal containers, about five inches in diameter, towered up in neat stacks. A series of small holes, top and bottom, allowed the cart’s steam to pass through the tins and keep the fresh Dim Sum piping hot while they were delivered to all the diners.

Tonight, Holly’s tiny metal pans were filled with Shrimp Har Gow. These pinkish dumplings, packed four to a tin, contained the freshest plump shrimp wrapped in tender wonton skins so thin they were virtually transparent. Holly was also offering homemade Shu Mei, steamed dumplings made with spicy ground pork. Another stack of tins contained triangular packets of Sticky Rice wrapped in Lotus Leaves. In addition to the Dim Sum, Holly also offered guests a trio of tasty dipping sauces.

As we had figured, the mah-jongg players were ready to take a break in the action. Holly slowly pushed her cart, serving each table, as the S & S clubbers finished up hands in progress and cleared their tables in order to sample the Dim Sum.

Big cities with large Asian populations, like Los Angeles, were full of great choices to eat excellent Dim Sum. Chinatown and the eastern suburb of Monterey Park offered numerous noisy, happy Dim Sum palaces. There, at ABC Seafood or Ocean Star Seafood, women who still spoke heavily accented English pushed tiny Dim Sum carts between the tables, offering freshly cooked treats to each table as they passed by. Tonight, Holly did her best to keep up that fine tradition.

Steam coming from the wheeled cart wafted up as Holly pushed it around the room. Her face had turned slightly red. Her pale hair, I’m afraid, under the onslaught of humidity, had reverted to its natural stick-straightness. Alas, serving
Dim Sum is not a glamorous profession.

I winked at Holly. She didn’t notice. Instead, she stole a few seconds to blow her bangs back up off her sweaty brow.

As I moved around the room, following Holly’s path, serving the dipping sauces and helping Ray pass out plates and chopsticks, I noticed the gamers’ reaction to our little “heart’s delights.” There were comments on this one, and compliments on that one. The Turnip Cake was admired and sampled, as each of the evening’s players listened to the story of its portent of good fortune. All in all, a successful event.

I moved to the back of the room to help clear up some empty metal Dim Sum tins. As I approached a far table, I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between Verushka and a man I hadn’t met before. He looked to be in his midthirties, which of course meant he was probably closer to forty-five, using Hollywood math.

I guess I had half expected to overhear some additional raves over the evening’s cuisine. The man, wearing black everything, bent his head close to Verushka, and said, “Okay. Just get it back to me, right?”