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.
Chapter 10
An 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.
Q
uita 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 he
lp 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?”
“You know I’m good for it,” she said, and then looked up with a start, noticing at last that I was standing there.
My eyes, however, were instantly focused on a twentysomething couple. Kelli, the daughter of that Channel 2 news anchorman, and Bo, the beach volleyball champion who did all those Miller commercials. Their passion was, uh, aflame. They were, in fact, making out with such enthusiasm that I could hardly interrupt to ask them if they’d care for another round of steamed octopus balls. But most of my immodest staring at the beautiful couple in the lip lock was camouflage. I hoped Verushka might decide that I hadn’t overheard her conversation, after all.
Party planners have a few too many plates to keep spinning to get really involved in the party guests. We have plenty to worry about and a lot of things to hope for. And added to the hope that the Dim Sum wouldn’t get too sticky, and the hope that we’d brought enough Chinese soda, and the hope that Holly wouldn’t faint from the heat of her steaming cart before we’d finished the meal service, I now fervently hoped that Verushka wouldn’t get angry and suspicious. I hoped she wouldn’t feel awkward and embarrassed, wondering if her secret conversation might have been overheard.
But, of course, it had.
Was Verushka having serious money problems, or just a onetime shortfall of cash? The fear in her eyes was not a good sign. Had she gotten in over her head? Had the gambling bug pushed her beyond what she could afford? I couldn’t help myself. I swear. I just want everyone to be happy. Is that too much to ask?
Chapter 11
I love to plan. I love to cook. I love to party. But I love the relaxing close of a party almost as much. It was eleven o’clock. Dim Sum had been finished hours ago. Many hot mah-jongg hands had been played. We were almost finished clearing away dessert dishes. Our daringly retro Chinese Fireworks Bombe, an amazing bowl-shaped dessert, had been a showy success. Even Trey, who had a nasty habit of ignoring the food, was impressed. He noticed the auspicious number of seven lit sparklers and gave me a less than cynical smile.
Dim Sum Dead Page 8