Hello Kitty Must Die (9 page)

Cosmo. The tallest blonde kept glancing over her shoulder at Sean, pretending to look around the room. Long, straight hair with expensive highlights. Model face. Leopard print spaghetti-strap cocktail dress. Small gardenia behind her ear. Big, acrylic French manicured nails. Louboutin stilettos. Silver Tiffany round tag charm bracelet with matching necklace.

Melonball. Cosmo’s shorter companion chatted away, stirring her milky green drink every so often. She had on a paisley silk cocktail dress that was one size too small for her. Her breasts jiggled every time she waved her hand around. A hand with a large Tiffany mesh ring on the fourth finger. Prada open-toed stilettos. Silver Tiffany round tag charm bracelet without a matching necklace.

White Russian. The third blonde sat on the bar stool, nodding at Melonball’s monologue. Hair pulled back into a chignon. Slinky black dress. Beaded Manolo Blahnik evening sandals. Silver Tiffany round tag charm bracelet without a matching necklace.

“Sean, they all look the same to me.”

“Pick one,” he said, without looking at me.

“Miss Cosmo.”

“Why that one?”

“I covet her shoes. Red soles. Good luck in Chinese culture. I want her to win the lottery. That and she’s so pretty.” Too pretty.

Sean smiled at me. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I breathed in his Aqua Di Gio.

“Yes, reminds me of someone. Look at her. Thinks she’s got this whole place wrapped around her little finger.”

“Well, that other one just looks boring and sad. White Russian. Bleh,” I said.

Sean sipped his Bloody Mary, licking the corner of his mouth clean.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m going to do, Fi?”

I said nothing for a moment. Sean’s eyes sparkled, daring me to ask him. Sparkled like beady serpent eyes, blinking, tantalizing, charming, lethal.

“Fi?”

“No. Should I even stick around for this?”

“Probably better if you finished your drink and went home to Pepito.”

“If I was any other girl, I’d call you an asshole for telling me to finish my drink and to go home.”

Sean laughed darkly. “But you are not any other girl.”

Suddenly, I felt nauseous. Sick. Projectile-vomiting-punkrock-style sick with a chill that ran down my limbs.

“Why don’t we go dancing, Sean? Let’s go to the Starlight Lounge.”

“No. You already picked a girl for me. I have work to do. God’s work.”

“Forget her, Sean. Let’s go dancing. Don’t tell me you can’t dance.”

“Dancing. Someone told me once that dancing is ‘the vertical expression of horizontal desires.’ Wise man. And you have no horizontal desires, Fi.”

“But I like the vertical expression. Come on, let’s go.”

“No.”

“Sean. Come on.”

“No, Fi. I’m busy this evening. Go home.”

“Sean. Come on.”

“No.”

“Then take me home first. I might trip and die in these shoes. Or get mugged by some junkie.”

“So kick the bastard with those stilettos. Everyone has to die, Fi. Go home.”

Sean stood up and strode over to the tall blonde who flipped her hair over her shoulder and flashed him her professionally-whitened smile.

What the hell. The woman was asking for it.

Death, the great equalizer. Old, ugly, sick, poor. Young, gorgeous, healthy, rich. It doesn’t matter to the Reaper. Everyone ends up the same way. Dead, naked, stinking to high heaven, leaking, falling to pieces in pieces.

It didn’t matter to Sean either.

Everyone has to die. Especially the blonde and pretty.

S
EAN DISAPPEARED AFTER
that evening at the Oak Room.

Modern technology has made it easier for people to disappear. Cell phones. Email. Blackberries. Voicemail. Answering machines. All of which can make it seem like someone can be contacted every which way from Sunday. All of which can take a message. None of which can make the person you are trying to reach call you back. Not even the new iPhone. The limits of modern technology.

“Dr. Killroy is not in. He had a family emergency,” said Sean’s receptionist.

Sean’s parents were dead. He had no siblings. He had no family that could have had an emergency.

“Can I take a message?” she asked.

Can you make him call me back?

No, you can’t. The limits of human beings.

Office, home, cell, email. Multiple messages on each. Maybe Sean died. Or was passed out at home drunk. Or just didn’t want to be found for a while. Either way, no Sean.

I suffered Sean withdrawal. Symptoms included lack of concentration, mood swings, anxiety, irritability, bloating, boredom. Boredom proved to be the most dangerous. Idleness and the Devil.

In my case, idleness and Laurie.

Man-crazy Laurie, who had just learned that the swanky bar two blocks from our office was hosting an Asian speed-dating event that evening. Single, available Asian boys. A whole bar full of them. Laurie’s idea of a gold mine.

“Oh my God, we have to go, Fi!” Laurie’s eyes glittered when she ran into my office. She bent and unbent her knees, trying to keep herself from jumping up and down.

“Not really my type of thing. Not into Asian boys.”

“But I need a wing-woman.”

“Don’t you have work to do, Laurie?”

“Don’t we all? But this is one of those can’t-miss opportunities. You’re not seeing someone, are you?”

“No, I’m still with Pepito.”

“God, Fi, stop talking about that bird. You sound like a crazy bird lady. So you coming or what?”

Asian speed-dating seemed like a good analgesic for the boredom brought on by Sean withdrawal. So I said yes.

We paid twenty-five dollars a piece to get in. The bar had a two-drink minimum. They wanted those booze goggles good and thick on us. They wanted us nice, willing, stupid for the boys. They wanted us to be mouthless, clawless Hello Kitties.

“Write your name and three things that you want the other person to know about you on your name tag,” said our slinky, sexy Asian hostess. Amanda Lin, according to her name tag. Black slip cocktail dress. Faux croc stilettos. Long hair all the way down to her waist, all smelling strongly of Issey Miyake.

“Three things!” Our hostess giggled and held up three, perfectly manicured fingers.

I glanced at Amanda’s name tag which listed the three things she wanted men in the room to know about her:

SHOPPING

COOKING

GIVING MASSAGES
;)

I fought my gag reflex.

“Oh, what should I write? What are you going to write?” Laurie asked, scanning the room nervously.

“Dunno yet.”

I looked down on my name tag. It said “Hi, I’m” with a large blank space for my name and my three things. I grabbed a Sharpie and wrote on my “Hi, I’m” tag:

NOT A GREEN CARD TICKET

NOT A MEAL TICKET

LOOKING FOR A BIG PENIS

Laurie gasped. “Fi, you’re not really going to wear that, are you?”

I peeled the waxy paper away from the label and slapped the tag on my lapel, wondering what Sean would have said had he seen what I had written. “What would you need a big penis for? Total waste on you.” He would probably have said something like that. And he would have been right. Sean always was.

“Or do you think it would look better on my forehead, Laurie?”

Laurie choked on her cosmo, coughing and snorting some out of her nose. She started laughing.

Amanda, our hostess, came over, read my tag, and gave me a nasty look. “You can’t wear that. Make another tag.”

“But I like this one.”

“No man is going to want you.”

Right.

“Okay, everyone. No talking. As you all know, this is silent speed-dating. Instead of speaking, you’ll be writing messages to each other on these index cards.” Our host held up salmon-colored 3x5 index cards, waving them over her head. “Okay, ready? No talking from now on until I say so.”

“Laurie, what is this?”

“Silent speed-dating, Fi. Shhhh!”

Save me, Jesus.

But Jesus wasn’t listening.

I wrote “Hi (Duh)” on my first index card and flashed it about. Three guys walked over to me and Laurie. They looked at my name tag, laughed, and started scribbling on their pink cards.

Hi, I’m Joe. You’re funny.

Hi, I’m Thomas. You’re funny.

Hi, I’m Greg. You’re funny.

Duh.

Laurie scribbled furiously.

Hi, I’m Laurie. I’m a lawyer. I work with Fi here.

Hi.

Hi.

Hi.

Hai.

And on it went. For two hours.

I started to wonder if any coupled happiness would result from our savage use of trees, dye, and ink. Then Joe and Thomas returned to where I was sitting at the bar. They both slipped me an index card. Each had a phone numbers scrawled on it.

Laurie smiled and waved at them. They waved back and walked away.

Her tag read, “Hi, I’m”

LAURIE WONG

SHOPPING – MOVIES – RUNNING

No phone numbers for Laurie.

Poor girl.

Laurie and I walked back to the office after the speed-dating event. We still had a busy night ahead of us. After all, ninety-hour weeks don’t bill themselves.

“Fi, you did well! Wow. Two numbers. Are you going to call them?”

“No.”

“Why not? It can’t hurt to get to know more people. I just signed myself up on
match.com
and eHarmony this week. I’m waiting for my matches. You want to sign up too?”

No. I don’t want to die.

Internet dating can be hazardous to your health.

Just ask Raymond Merrill. But you can’t. He’s dead.

All the fifty-six-year-old carpenter from San Bruno, California wanted was a woman to love. All he did was answer an ad on a Brazilian marriage website promising to make his dreams come true.

I wonder if his dreams ever included being kidnapped, robbed, drugged, strangled, doused with gasoline and set on fire in a vacant lot in Brazil by the woman he thought was the love of his life.

Because that was what Raymond got. Poor man. Talk about being a victim of false advertising.

So I told Laurie.

“No, that only happens in rare cases. You met Joe and Thomas in person first.”

So obviously they could not turn out to be psychos later.

“Besides, just have them take you to a movie or something. Keep it near your house so if anything weird happens, you can just leave, Fi.”

True. Laurie had a point. But I wasn’t interested in Joe. Or Thomas.

“At least you got some numbers,” said Laurie wistfully.

I felt bad. Like I owed it to poor Laurie to call one of those guys because she didn’t get any numbers. So I had to date for the both of us.

We returned to our world of buy-sell agreements, schedules, exhibits, letters of understanding. The two drinks I had didn’t make those documents any easier to draft, so instead, I checked my email. I checked my voicemail, my cell phone, my Blackberry.

Nothing. The world had gone Sean silent.

I took off my blazer, reaching into the pocket to clear it of any debris. Two pink index cards with phone numbers slipped into my hand.

Joe.

Thomas.

I couldn’t remember what Joe looked like. Thomas’ face came vaguely into focus in my memory. His visage was not too unpalatable. Perhaps if I squinted really hard, I could turn him into a Chinese Ryan Phillippe. Probably not.

My cell phone rang.

“Fiona? It’s Dad.”

Duh.

I saw my home number flash thanks to Caller ID. The beauty of modern technology. You can now tell who is trying to reach you so you can decide whether or not to hang up on them. You no longer have to lie and say that you have something burning on the stove. Or pretend that you have to move your bowels. Modern technology gives a helping hand to morality, saving us all from the hell fires reserved for liars.

“Are you still working at the office?”

“Yup. Billing away, like a good little associate.”

“Good. I have good news. I set up another date for you this weekend. He’s the son of the head chef at the best restaurant in Chinatown.”

Son of a chef. Great. Probably fat and spoiled by professional cooking. But I was too tired to argue with my father. And I knew it would be useless. He would just give me the silent treatment until I agreed to go. You rebel, you get shut out. I’d learned that lesson at Uncle Yuen’s house.

“Everything tastes the same in Chinatown. Which one?”

“The one with the glass doors, Fiona.”

All the restaurants in Chinatown had glass doors.

“Oh, that one, Dad.”

“He’s a great boy. You’ll like him.”

“But Dad, I can’t go.”

“Why not? Can’t you take a day off this weekend?”

“No, it’s not that, Dad. I have a date,” I lied.

“What?”

“Date, Dad. Date. With a man. Chinese man.”

“Really? When did you meet him?”

“Tonight. Laurie dragged me to an Asian speed-dating event. I met someone.”

“What does he do for a living, Fiona?”

“Computer engineer. UC Berkeley grad.”

“UC BERKELEY?!”

“Dad, don’t yell. I have a headache.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No,” I lied.

“Are you drunk, Fiona?”

“No. God, Dad.”

“This boy is real?”

“Christ, Dad. Yes, we are going to a movie this weekend.”

“Wow. He really went to UC Berkeley?”

“That’s what he said, but he could be a big fat liar.”

“What is his name?”

“Thomas Lam,” I said, reading the jagged handwriting on the index card.

“Okay, I’ll change your date to the following weekend.”

“What?”

“You can’t put all your eggs in one basket, Fiona. Especially you.”

Especially me. Who couldn’t hold a man, with or without a missing hymen.

“Dad.”

“Did Thomas really go to UC Berkeley?”

“I don’t know, Dad. I told you. That’s what he said.”

“Okay. Go back to work. I’ll take care of your other date. You go on this one first. And remember. Wear lipstick.”