“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.”
Chapter 12
“OH 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. Nothin
g 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.”
Dim Sum Dead Page 10