Dim Sum Dead (8 page)

“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?

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.

The party was winding down. Coffee drinks had been served and refilled. Some of the guests had begun packing up their personal mah-jongg sets. Others were sitting around, lazily nursing their cappuccinos.

Wes, Ray, and I were finished cleaning up Buster Dubin’s small kitchen, and I told Ray to go home, counting out the money I owed him in cash, apologizing for coming up a little short. I told him to come by the next afternoon, Thursday, and I’d have the twenty-five I still owed him.

“No problem.” Ray showed a lot of straight, white teeth. “Dubin peeled me a C.”

I smiled. The art of tipping is yet another of Buster’s many talents. I looked over at Holly, who was semicollapsed on a kitchen chair. “Are you okay, pumpkin?”

Holly was sprawled upon the kitchen table. Without lifting her head from the crook of her bent elbow, upon which it
was resting, she attempted to nod. “Dubin gave me a hundred, too. He’s a sport.”

“You should go home,” I said. “Really. You want someone to drive you? Ray goes right by…”

“No, I’m fine.” Holly hoisted her head up and attempted to steady it in an upright position. “I think Ray has plans for the evening, don’t you, Ray?”

“I told Marisa I’d drop her off.” Ray grinned at me. “I can take care of Holly, too.”

“Marisa Tager?” Wesley stopped polishing a silver cake server and looked over at Ray. “Her dad is worth forty million, Ray. And I thought she was dating that guy who owns the Montrose Microbrewery.”

“That right? Hunh. That’s not the way I hear it. But, you know…” He gave a dazzling smile. “I’ve been wrong before.”

Nothing got to Ray. At twenty-two, Ray Jackson was the freaking poster boy for self-confidence. We were, of course, well used to Ray’s good-humored bragging.

Holly mumbled, “He serves them Singapore Slings, and they follow him anywhere.”

I looked at Ray, intrigued. “So you two are going out?”

He’d met a lot of women over the past year, working our parties. He flirted a good deal. But I hadn’t remembered ever hearing him say he was seeing any of the party girls he’s met on the circuit.

“Now, hey. Did I say that? Anyway, Marisa was telling me her Testarossa didn’t sound right when she drove up the hill tonight.”

Holly groaned. Her face was back down splat on the kitchen table, so her words were faintly muffled. “He shoots. He scores.”

Ray looked nothing but innocent. “I better go help her out.”

“You are a true humanitarian, my friend.” Wesley saluted him.

Ray slipped out of the kitchen as Wes came over and offered me a cold can of Diet Coke. It was, so far, my only addiction. I was hooked on the combination of mucho caffeine
and zero calories. Cold, refreshing, and filled with innumerable tasty artificial colors and chemicals, it was the bubbly antidote to whatever ailed me.

There was a knock at the back door. The black poodle dog, whose tail wagged off the seconds on the wall above the sink, displayed the time: 11:10.

“Must be Lee.” I opened the kitchen door and there she stood.

“Hi, Maddie. I hope I am not late.” Lee Chen stood on the threshold, carrying a mah-jongg case. She was tiny, the size who spent a lifetime shopping in the “petite” section, down in the extremely low numbers. At a guess, I’d say she had to be in her sixties. Her short, jet-black hair and her smooth skin did not give away her age, but I had known her long enough to hear her tell about her twin granddaughters at Stanford.

I gave her a hug. At five feet five inches, I almost felt tall. “How are you tonight, Lee?”

“I feel wonderful, Maddie dear.” Lee Chen was educated in Hong Kong, and her accent was faintly British.

Holly attempted to lift her head, revealing a face that had been steam-cleaned of all makeup. “Hi, Lee.”

“Hello there, Holly. Is something wrong? You look very pale.”

“She served dim sum tonight,” I explained. “She’ll recover.”

“Dim sum is a special treat.” Lee smiled at Holly and turned back to me. “It turned out very well, Maddie?”

“Yes, thanks to a wonderful teacher I had a few years ago.”

In fact, I had studied Chinese cooking with Lee Chen. After years of running her own popular restaurant, she taught a master’s class in Cantonese cuisine at UCLA Extension for just one quarter, and I was lucky enough to get in.

Lee had an interesting past. She spent much of her childhood in the city of Canton, now called Guangzhou. She was full of stories about her visits with Ling Ah, her mother’s sister. In addition to passing down family recipes, Auntie Ling Ah also taught Lee about Confucius. What Lee learned as a girl in her auntie’s kitchen became lessons she shared with us. Her course was the most spiritual and serene cooking
class I can remember taking.

“You remember what I taught you?” Lee asked me, teasing.

I certainly did. In her classroom, I learned about the ancient traditions. I learned about the “Seven Necessities” of Chinese cuisine, those being rice, tea, oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and firewood.

From Lee I learned that color, aroma, and flavor share equal importance in the preparation of every dish. I found the rituals and traditions fascinating, each stemming from a unique culinary philosophy that had been worked out and passed down for hundreds of years in stunning detail.

I learned that each Chinese entrée combines three to five colors, selected from ingredients that are light green, dark green, red, yellow, white, black, or caramel-colored. I also learned to balance the five flavors—bitter, salt, sour, hot, and sweet. A proper meal, Lee instructed, must be designed to maintain the balance of Yin and Yang forces that are vital to good health in the body, mind, and spirit.

I have always been ambitious in the kitchen. As my final class project, I cooked Buddha Jump over the Wall, an intricate dish that took two days to prepare. Lee Chen’s recipe for the insanely complex dish called for twenty-eight ingredients, mercifully not including the fish lips and duck gizzards used in the true Fuzhou version. Lee told us that this robust stew was so alluring that supposedly the Buddha himself, a vegetarian, could not resist it. She was an inspiring teacher.

But cooking was just one of this tiny woman’s talents. Growing up in China, where mah-jongg is still a craze, she knew the game well from childhood. As the years passed, she also became a great student of the ancient practice of telling fortunes by reading the tiles. In this capacity, I had brought her to the Sweet and Sour as my New Year’s gift to Buster and the gang.

“Shall we start now?” Lee asked, tapping her old mah-jongg case. “Where are your guests, please?”

“They’re in the game room, Lee. But you’ll see that there are many mah-jongg sets already out.”

“Ah, but when we use my tiles, Maddie, the fortunes come out better. You will see.”

The surprise introduction of Lee Chen and her humble offer to do mah-jongg tile readings moved the party into a second peak of excitement. One by one, the players sat with Lee at a little table near the fireplace. One by one, she instructed them to shuffle the tiles facedown and select thirteen. Most were very happy with Lee’s predictions.

Verushka would hear good news about money soon, Lee foresaw. Verushka, naturally, was happy to hear that. In more startling news, Trey and the Swansons could expect a visit from the stork. This news pleased Max and Greta Swanson silly. They were a cute couple. But the stork news left Trey shaking his tousled blond bachelor head. Oh, well. Can’t please ‘em all.

Most of the others eagerly listened to predictions of the future with that great L.A. mixture of hope and skepticism. Each took a turn to learn that: a new game-show pilot would be picked up, a Silverlake band would find a label, a new job involving both water and costumes (!) was around the corner, a health problem (having to do with feet) was to be overcome, a canned-fruit voice-over job was a sure thing, a location would send one to Brazil, a bad agent would be lost and a lost Gucci bag was to be found (look in high places), a prestigious preschool would have a last-minute opening for twins, a ski accident was to be averted in Aspen, a new sports car should be ordered in the auspicious color of red, a script needed a quick rewrite, a beach house would have termite damage, beware, and a network would be unfaithful. Well, that last went without saying. By midnight, the only ones whose fortune had yet to be read were the hosts.

Buster had just said good-bye to the last of the guests. Quita watched Trey as he walked out with Verushka. She said, “Doesn’t it look like Verushka’s gaining weight?”

That has to be the single most catty comment I’d heard after a party. I was annoyed, but I ignored it. Instead, I called to Buster, “Come on over here, with your lucky red jacket. Your future awaits. Your turn.”

“Oh, goodie.” Buster loped over, then slouched down in the chair opposite Lee Chen and grinned. He looked across the room and noticed Quita down by the mirrored bar, serving
herself another Singapore Sling from a pitcher Ray had left in the bar’s minirefrigerator. “Hey, Queets. You haven’t had your fortune told.”

Quita had been twitchy and bitchy and restless all night. “I know what’s coming,” she said darkly. She’d also been drinking all night.

“She’s in a pleasant mood,” Buster said to Wes and me, shuddering. And then he turned back to her. “Come on, Queets. Your fortune is waiting, doll.”

“What if it’s bad?” Quita didn’t budge from her barstool.

“I’m giving up on her,” Buster said, turning his attention back to Lee Chen. “She doesn’t deserve a good fortune, but I do. I’m all excited here. Let’s do it.”

Wesley and I had been lounging on two black-leather club chairs, which had been pulled up near Lee’s fortune table, listening to all the predictions made from the tiles. I popped up and asked Lee for perhaps the third time that evening, “May I get you something to drink?”

She smiled up at me. “Thank you, Maddie. Perhaps just a glass of water? Do you have Perrier?”

Even little Chinese ladies have their favorite brand of H
₂
O.

As I trotted over to the bar, Lee Chen turned her full attention to young Mr. Dubin. “Do you have a specific question? Or perhaps you would like to know the future in general? Which do you like?” As Lee spoke in her soft accent, her fingers were constantly combing through the mah-jongg tiles on the table, gently shuffling and reshuffling the facedown cream-colored rectangles.

Buster picked one up. “This is beautiful. Is it bone or is it ivory?”

“Thank you. It is ivory, very rare.” Lee studied the tile Buster had randomly selected. For once, her hands stopped shuffling. The other 143 tiles sat suddenly silent. She looked up.

For a brief moment, the boyish grin slipped from Buster’s face. “What, Mrs. Chen. Is it bad?”

“No, no. Something very good. You see! You drew the East Wind, which is a very powerful tile. It means very good
luck.”

“I love this,” he said. “What else?”

“You had good luck tonight. You won a big pot of money, I think.”

Quita McBride looked up from the bar. She walked, a little unsteadily, over to join us. “That’s an easy guess,” Quita said softly. “Look at how the man is gloating. I’d say it was shocking bad manners for the host of the party to take so much money from his friends.”

“I don’t think it is his fault, Miss,” Lee said, laughing. “He cannot avoid fate, you see? He is East Wind, tonight.”

“That is so true,” Buster said. “I can’t help it if I’m lucky.”

Quita sat down on Buster’s lap and turned to Lee Chen. “So how does all this fortune-telling work?”

“Mah-jongg, you know, is a very old game. Quite old. In China, some women play this game all day long. The men gamble in the mah-jongg halls, and even in public. The tiles, you see, have pictures and numbers engraved on the front to mark the different suits, like these.” She quickly turned over a few tiles, and pulled out a tile with six stalks of bamboo, etched in green. “This one here is Six Bamboo, or sometimes in this country you say Six Bam, do you not?”

“Yes,” Quita said, watching intently. “My husband taught me to play.”

“Oh. This gentleman is your husband?”

“No,” Quita said quickly. “Buster and I aren’t married. My husband died last year. You’ve heard of Richard McBride, the actor?”

Little Lee Chen looked up astonished. The name of a big-time movie star has power. It’s always been that way.

“Ah,” Lee said, her voice recovering, “then you must know about all the tiles. The three main suits are Bamboo, Wan, and Circles.”

“We call those Bam, Crack, and Dots,” Buster said.

“Yes. And there are also the Flowers and the Four Winds and the Four Seasons and the three colors of Dragons. But, when I tell fortunes, the tiles become an oracle to interpret the future. Each tile in the set has a symbolic meaning all its
own.”

“Kind of like tarot cards,” Quita said.

Lee said, “An oracle requires an interpreter if the meaning of its secrets are to be divined. I am that ‘diviner,’ you see? It is quite simple.”

I had seen Lee Chen give readings of the tiles once before, and it was fascinating. She must sit in the West position and the party guest sits in the East. She had cautioned me that the table should not be placed in a direct line toward a door, as this is regarded as unsympathetic to the oracle.

Lee looked up at Buster. “Now, you must shuffle the tiles, if you please.”

Buster spread his large hands over the facedown tiles and gave them a swish.

“How long should I shuffle?” he asked.

“Until you are satisfied, my dear,” Lee answered.

“Well, that could take forever,” Quita said. “Buster, I really need you for a minute. We need to talk.”