Dim Sum Dead

by Jerrilyn Farmer

  I was standing near the corner of Jody’s very large stall, beside her bountiful displays of six types of onions and two types of leeks, in addition to carrots in several astonishing colors.

  “Hi, Maddie!” Jody called out. She was now back behind her stall.

  A dozen shoppers were looking over the rutabagas and radishes on Jody’s stall. Jody’s sister was down at the other end, weighing tomatoes. A tall man in a hooded sweatshirt stood waiting for Jody’s attention. We both noticed him at the same time. I stepped back and looked down, ready to pick up my crocheted shopping bag, Wesley’s backpack, and the rest of the stuff I’d left at my feet.

  That’s when it all started. The shoppers who were thronged three deep around Jody’s booth all of a sudden began yelping, swearing. People were being shoved. I was just bending down to pick up the old mah-jongg box when the sudden pushing in the crowd began.

  “Hey!” I felt myself begin to trip. I reached out to catch myself. And then, just before I could grab hold of the side of the vegetable cart, a man’s hand shoved me hard, right between the shoulders.

  I tumbled down, crashing against the corner of the vegetable stand, throwing a hand up at the very last second to prevent the sharp wooden rim from poking out an eye. Under the sudden weight, the leg beneath the table buckled. I heard Jody’s voice, now shrill. “Stop that! Get security! Stop him!”

  I tried scrambling up to my feet, as the squash and cucumbers toppled down onto me. The sweatshirt man, standing close by, tried to help me up.

  “Maddie! You okay?” Jody called, her voice full of tension.

  Jody’s sister started screaming from the other end of the booth. “I told you. It’s not safe here. The homeless! They’re everywhere in Santa Monica…” She continued rattling on more of the same, as her urban paranoia ratcheted up to a dangerous high.

  I looked back to the ground to pick up my things.

  Hell.

  “Wesley’s case! Hey!” I squinted after the form of a short man walking fast as he disappeared into the thick crowd down the lane. “That guy who was pushing—he took off with my stuff!”

  “What?” Jody looked in the right direction but it was too late to see him by then. At the top of her lungs, Jody began yelling, “THIEF! Thief!”

  People nearby stopped talking. Some helpful souls had been righting the tipped produce stand, arranging to fix it to stand level again. Meanwhile, Jody began blowing a highpitched whistle. “They’ll stop him, Maddie,” she said, and shrieked her whistle again.

  I didn’t stick around to find out if the law of the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market would work its magic. I took off after the man, who by now had gotten lost in the crowd.

  I picked up some speed, cutting to the center of the road, avoiding the stalls and the main clusters of shoppers. I couldn’t see the thief, but there was no place for him to have turned off, yet.

  I should have been more careful, more alert. I usually was. I was engulfed by the crowd, now, unable to see two feet in front of me. Damn!

  If I hadn’t been caught off-balance like that, I’d surely have been able to keep from falling. I was disgusted. Me, Madeline Bean. Urban warrior. I don’t leave my things just lying around for someone to steal.

  I cleared a large group of mommies pushing strollers, balancing large Starbucks cups. There. I thought I saw the guy, walking fast, up ahead about twenty yards. Then the crowd closed around him.

  It was difficult to dart through the shoppers without accidentally stepping on someone. They were not on the lookout for young women dashing a little too fast for safety. I ran too close to an elderly man and almost smacked into him as he stepped off the curb right into my path.

  “Whoa!” I said to the old guy, sweeping my eyes up ahead, near the last place I’d caught a glimpse of the mugger. There he was. And, just as I spotted him, the guy turned his head, checking back. It was the chard guy. Damn. He spotted me spotting him. At once, he took off again, running, turning left at the first street. For a moment, I could even see our damn mah-jongg case in his hand. Creep! And then he disappeared around the corner.

  I followed, squeezing between several shoppers, dashing into a clearing, gaining a little. I was almost up to the corner, breathing heavily, running now. I was just picking up some speed, when a large man stepped out directly in front of me. I stopped just short of plowing into him and stepped to the side, but the man moved over and wouldn’t let me pass.

  “Excuse me,” I shouted, adrenaline pumping, “I’ve got to—”

  “Running isn’t safe in the Market. Better walk.”

  I looked up, sputtering. Before me stood a large immovable object—a big guy I’d seen around here for years. I think his wife worked the family bakery stand, but I’d never seen this guy do much of anything.

  “Did you see that man who just ran by here?” I shouted. “He stole my box. Let me go.”

  “Look,” the fat man said, reaching a log of an arm out to hold my shoulder. “I’m just saying, someone could get hurt with you running…”

  I pulled away from him. More time lost.

  I backed up and spun around off the curb, but before I could take off down the road, I was intercepted again. This time, by another man. Only this man was sitting on a bicycle—a young, good-looking man wearing shorts, with the kind of thigh muscles that could make a heart flutter. Not that I notice these things. I was now looking at a sworn officer in the Santa Monica Police Department Third Street Bicycle Patrol. His badge read, “Stubb.”

  Officer Stubb pulled to a stop beside me. “Your name Maddie?”

  “Madeline Bean, how…?”

  “They gave a description,” Stubb explained.

  “What?”

  “Your long braid. Your gray jeans. Your great…” Stubb stopped the description at the point of embarrassing himself. “One of the vendors reported the theft. We’ve got our guys out on bikes, but there are a lot of people here at the Market today. We’ve got to take it slow.”

  “I just saw the jerk,” I said, frustrated as hell. “He went there, off to the left. We’ve got to move fast.”

  “We’re on it,” Stubb said, resisting my command to move fast or even budge. “I’ve got two officers on that part of the Market. They’ll get the guy. It’s hard to run through a place like this without attracting attention.”

  “They’ve just got to find him,” I said, more to myself, and took another quick glance at Stubb.

  I knew about the Santa Monica cops on wheels. They were a PR guy’s dream: seventeen hunky officers selected for their interpersonal skills and riding ability. They were highly visible—a comfort to any nervous sightseers about to leave their tourist dollars in the beach city that was also known for its homeless “element.”

  But I was freaking out, just standing around, doing nothing. I looked up and read concern in the nice brown eyes of young Officer Stubb.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I have got to get that box back to my partner. I’d better go out there and look for it.”

  “Miss Bean,” Stubb explained calmly, “agility, maneuverability, and knowledge of the area permit our Bike Patrol to be more effective. All of us ride specially equipped police bicycles. Believe me, bikes rule.”

  “I’m sure they do.” They must make the guys memorize this stuff. “But—”

  “Our team’s response is fast yet silent. If that guy is still in the area, we’ll find him.”

  “Okay,” I said, giving up. “Okay.”

  I’m not a big fan of cops, really. I don’t like it when someone tells me to cool it. But then, Officer Stubb wanted to calm the nerves of a crime victim, as I’m sure he was instructed to in Bike Cop School. So, I had better show him that my nerves were freaking calm. Or he’d never leave.

  “What did he take?” Stubb asked. “Your purse?”

  “He stole my friend’s mah-jongg set.”

  Stubb looked at me with concern. “March on? What is that?”

  “Can’t you call someone?
Radio someone? Please. I can probably give you a better description of the guy. He was short, maybe five-five, and had black hair, dark eyes. He was wearing a tan jacket and gray pants. He was shopping for Swiss chard.”

  The seconds were speeding away. I was going to scream.

  Just then, Officer Stubb’s radio sputtered. “Be right with you, there, Madeline,” he said to me, and he picked up his radio from his belt.

  I could hear the other officer informing Stubb that there was no sign of the assailant. No one matching the description of the suspect, as given by vendor, was on foot, running. They would continue their search.

  Terrific. Like maybe about five years ago the suspect had been running on foot. By now, he had surely jumped into some waiting getaway Honda Civic or whatever. He was probably tooling his way up Wilshire by now, for all the effectiveness of the fast yet silent Bike Patrol.

  Stubb said something and there was a bit of conversation I didn’t follow as I felt my pulse slow down and my breathing get more regular. Ah, hell.

  Officer Stubb looked back at me, and said, “Sorry about that. Why don’t I just go down the street there”—he gestured to the left—“and maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Sure.”

  “So, what is it I’m looking for? The stolen property?”

  “Mah-jongg tiles. It’s a game. They were in an antique Chinese chest about this big.” I made a halfhearted gesture showing him about eighteen inches high and twelve inches around. “It’s an old wooden box with brass hooks and latches. My friend left it with me for a minute, and then this bizarre little man shoved me down and grabbed it.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll check it out.”

  Young, huge Officer Stubb had the decency to look rather pink about the face as he wheeled his bike around in the proper direction. He spoke into his radio once again. Perhaps he was finally calling in some megawheels backup, like a patrol car, to head the guy off. But I wasn’t counting on it. After all, I’d only lost a “march on” set. This wasn’t grand theft, auto.

  But what was I going to tell Wesley?

  I trotted down the street, passing vendors and shoppers, looking ahead for any sign of the missing thief, or Wesley’s antique mah-jongg set, or Officer Stubb’s police buddies. In about a block I reached a dead end and I could only turn left or right. In such cases, I make it a habit of always turning to the right. I jogged down the stalls on the one side, and wove my way through the stalls on the other. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

  I should have turned left. Figures. It was just that kind of day. I doubled back and raced over to the next block, feeling the sense that too much time had slipped away and I’d never be able to make this one up to Wesley. I was just too lame. So of course, I kept running. I retraced my steps and did the entire circuit one more time, telling certain vendors I knew to keep a lookout for the box.

  And when I found myself at the very end of the Third Street Promenade, all the way south, near the entrance to Santa Monica Place shopping mall, I stopped. I had been running around in circles for fifteen minutes, and running pretty hard.

  I leaned over, hands on my knees, and gulped some air. My ankle hurt. In all my racing around, I hadn’t seen Wesley, who I was sure must be halfway back to the house by then, unaware of this disaster. I was no longer chilled. My long hair was still pulled back in a braid, but now several stubborn wisps had pulled free and were curling up around my face.

  “Madeline?”

  Silently, Officer Stubb had glided to a stop beside me.

  “Officer?”

  I was waiting for my breath to slow down a bit and didn’t look up directly.

  “We’ve got everyone on it, but the fact is, we seem to have lost your man.”

  I nodded, head still bent over.

  “We’ll keep looking. I’ll write up a report. You’ll need it for insurance, that sort of thing.”

  When the nice cop starts giving you advice about insurance, you can pretty much kiss your stolen possessions good-bye.

  “Okay. Thanks anyway.” I stood up. “You want me to spell mah-jongg for your report?”

  “That’s a good idea. And I’m going to need a way to contact you.”

  “Right.” In case they found my box? I wasn’t holding my breath. I wrote down “mah-jongg” on one of my business cards and handed it to him. He thanked me again and pedaled away.

  Well, that was that.

  I had left my car parked in the oceanside parking structure, which I realized I could reach by cutting through the mall. I pulled open the glass entrance door and walked into Santa Monica Place.

  The trilevel skylit galleria was designed by architect Frank Gehry. Like most of L.A.’s landmarks, Santa Monica Place looks familiar to out-of-towners. It was the mall in Terminator II and was often seen on Beverly Hills 90210. Yes, I’m afraid even our shopping plazas have screen credits. I checked my watch—twenty past ten. The large shopping mall had just opened for business.

  I stopped inside the entrance and flipped open my cell phone. I had to tell Wesley the bad news sometime.

  “Wes here,” he said. That’s his phone schtick. I liked it, so businessman and cordial.

  “Madeline here,” I replied. “I’m still in Santa Monica.”

  “Whazzup?” He said it in that disgusting, guttural slangy way that had become popular in a series of beer commercials. We are annoying in this way. We pick up on every fad and buzzword and insist on torturing each other with them. Yes, we are cruel.

  “Whazzup?” I said back, being as obnoxious as he was. “Wes, get ready for a big fat horrible story.” I was standing near a large planter in the mall.

  “What’s up?” he asked, his voice instantly full of concern.

  I told him the tale.

  “So that’s it?” Wes asked when I finished. “Your cute bike cop didn’t come through?”

  “I wish Stubb hadn’t stopped me, Wes. I was this close to grabbing the guy.” Okay, slight exaggeration. “And I recognized the son of a bitch.”

  “You did? What do you mean?”

  “That guy fingering the chard—did you notice that guy? At Maria’s stand. What was his problem?”

  And as I was venting and generally acting cranky, standing just inside the mall entrance with shoppers flowing by in ones and twos, I looked up. And there he was. The son of a bitch. He was walking out of Robinsons-May, holding something bulky in a large navy blue Robinsons-May shopping bag.

  “Wesley, Wesley, Wesley,” I hissed rapidly into the phone, interrupting whatever he was saying. “It’s him.” He was only about a hundred feet away, walking deeper into the mall, away from where I stood.

  “Call the cops.” Wes had that stern sound I rarely hear.

  “Call you back,” I said, and clicked off.

  I followed the chard guy, but it was easy this time. The mall was hardly busy this early in the morning. And, even better, the chard guy wasn’t on alert. He hadn’t seen me. He didn’t think he was being followed. He was acting all normal, walking slowly, trying to fit in.

  I tried to stay back, walk softly, and match his pace as he strode past the shops. I made sure I was never close enough for my reflection in the window to bounce back at him as we passed by Brookstone, Card Fever, and The Limited. I was careful not to tip him off. Soon, I had followed him all the way through the mall, and we were coming to the opposite entrance.

  I crept a little closer. Not a great move.

  My cell phone rang. Wesley.

  Chard man stopped and began to turn.

  I peeled off neatly into an open doorway. Lenscrafters. Swell. I punched the YES button, which answers my cell phone, and then immediately punched the NO button hard, holding it until the cell phone was shut down. I had no time to argue with Wes.

  And when I’d managed to shut my phone up, I peeked out the door.

  He was gone.

  What can I say? I ran out after him, but he had vanished. And, believe me, I instantly began to doubt myself. Had I really seen him?
Was I post-traumatic nuts? I stood at that mall entrance, looking up and down the walkway. Nothing.

  And then something caught my eye. A school-age kid was standing by the parking structure not far away. He was pulling a bag out of the trash can by its cord handles. The top of a large Robinsons-May bag emerged.

  “Alex!”

  The boy’s mom called his name sharply.

  “Mom, I found something,” he said, pulling the bag out.

  I ran over to the boy, desperate to check that bag.

  His mother yelled, “Put that back, Alex. Don’t take things out of the trash.”

  “That’s my bag.” I heard my own voice ring shrill across the sidewalk as I rushed up to the trashcan.

  “It’s mine.” Alex held on to it with both hands.

  “No, kid, it’s mine,” I shouted, grabbing for the handles.

  The mother hustled herself over in a few steps. “Look, lady,” she said to me. “My son found—”

  “That’s…my…bag.” I shouted, emphasizing each word. “It’s mine. Look in the bag if you don’t believe me.”

  The mother was in a difficult spot. On the one hand, she rightly bitched to her kid that he shouldn’t be taking trash out of trash cans. On the other, she couldn’t stand to have some stranger take something away from her boy. The life of a parent is terrible ‘ard, I say.

  But I was bigger than Alex, and I was more determined. “Let GO!” I pulled at the bag with force.

  “Hey, hey!” The mother was aghast at my rudeness. She suddenly realized I was going to escalate this fight over trash. “Let go of the bag, Alex,” she instructed her kid more urgently. What a monster I was. I was willing to steal garbage from a baby. “Let go. This woman is crazy. Let her have all the trash she needs. Remember what I told you about Santa Monica?”

  Oh, my word.

  “Aw, Mom.” But Alex obviously remembered how homeless people dig in the trash. He let go of his prize.

  They both glared at me with Republican stares, but I didn’t care. I turned my back on them and started to look inside the Robinsons-May bag.