Die on Your Feet Read online

  There was a silent bell above Betta’s door. It flicked on a tiny green bulb in her back treatment room. It wasn’t necessary this time, though, since Betta was sitting in her window. She smiled as she watched Lola coming down the street. She was already standing by the time Lola entered the little shop. The women exchanged hugs. Lola felt how sharp Betta’s shoulders were getting, but she remained silent.

  “You’re getting too skinny, Betta,” said Aubrey. “You should go upstairs to eat more often. The gods know they’ve always got food to spare.”

  Betta smiled prettily. She couldn’t help it. She was a beautiful woman. Her dark eyes sparkled as she addressed the air just behind Lola. “If that’s your idea of charm, I don’t want to know what cranky looks like.”

  “Are you sure he’s not an old woman?” Lola asked Betta.

  The Healer smiled wearily. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Touché.” Lola looked around her at the front room. Every magazine was in its place, every cushion and chair. The window seat still had a slight dip where Betta had been sitting. “Done for the day?”

  Betta shook her head. “One more.”

  “Come up when you’re done,” Aubrey said. “You could do with the company.”

  Her smile faltered. “I think I’ll turn in for the night after this one.”

  Lola moved forward to hug her again, but Aubrey wasn’t finished. “Cancer?”

  Betta’s face tightened and her smile faded. Lola’s voice was flat. “Zip it, Aubrey.”

  “It’s all right, Lola,” Betta said, stroking the younger woman’s arm. “I know why he’s asking.” She turned to him, presumably by the window now. “Yes, a cancer patient. And yes, I find those treatments wearing.” She tried another smile. It peeked out weakly. “You know I’d love to join in tonight, but I’m not much of a player anyway.”

  Lola embraced Betta again. Her words were light. They didn’t match her expression. “Don’t take him too seriously. Aubrey’s just playing private dick again.” When Lola pulled back, Betta’s smile had smoothed out again. “See you later.”

  The building was small; there was no grand lobby. Betta worked in the store front and lived in the back. Her front door faced east, at right angles to her large window onto the street. The stairs to the Aunties’ flat were at right angles to the door. Force of habit had Lola looking into their mailbox, just inside the outer door, before heading up. It was locked. Nothing was visible through the slot.

  Lola climbed the steep stairs and caught her breath at the landing before the Aunties’ door. Her knock was greeted by the sound of brisk slippered feet. She smiled, knowing it was Viola. The door opened to reveal a petite Chinese woman, wearing tailored grey slacks and a pinstriped lilac blouse with white collar. A fuchsia scarf served as a belt around her tiny waist. Her diamond studs winked as she tucked her chin-length hair behind her ears. She ushered Lola inside and greeted Aubrey as though she knew exactly where he was standing.

  Lola exchanged a kiss and hug: “Sorry I’m late. Last-minute client.”

  “Like father, like daughter. Butch was never on time.” Viola waited as Lola slid her feet into house slippers, then linked arms and led the way down the short hall. “Have you eaten? I made cold noodles.”

  They passed two bedrooms on the right, a bathroom across to the left, and walked through an archway into the airy main living space. The dining area was directly ahead, the living room to the right. Windows lined both spaces along two walls, but only the windows along the street had a view. The others looked out on a very narrow space and the neighbouring building’s brick exterior. The kitchen was visible from here as well, separated from the dining area by a long counter.

  The windows were open to the warm evening air. A fan whirred industriously from the corner by the mah-jongg table. The street noises were subdued.

  Two women sat on opposing sides of the living room, each holding up sections of the evening’s paper.

  Veronica was on the long sofa. She’d tucked her legs beneath her, the skirt of her pale green dress snugged tight against her calves. Her slippers were perfectly aligned to one another, sitting perpendicular to the sofa. The sun behind her picked out the silver amidst the white of her hair. She had it in a tight bun. Veronica never wore makeup anymore, but her face was younger now than when she had been a stage performer. Her age spots looked like freckles. She spoke through the paper: “It’s unhealthy and you know it. An unhealthy obsession.”

  Across from her, Vivian rattled her newspapers in response. “I know no such thing. That’s purely an opinion of yours.” She frowned. In contrast to Veronica’s sleek elegance, Vivian had chopped her thick black hair too short. Her face was smooth, unlined, and perfectly round. Her lips were dark red at the moment. She wore a lavender blouse with puffed short sleeves. Her long legs, in black slacks, were crossed gracefully in front of her. One slipper dangled carelessly from a suspended foot.

  Viola squeezed Lola’s hand as she announced: “Lola and Aubrey are here.” Then she released the younger woman and went toward the kitchen. Lola went forward to greet Vivian and Veronica, in that order. Vivian was much more likely to hold grudges.

  Viola came back from the kitchen and laid a place at the dining table. Veronica was still reading her paper: “Have you eaten, Lola? Auntie Vi made noodles.”

  “Ahem,” replied Viola. Veronica looked up.

  “Oh good,” said the latter without sarcasm. She gave Lola a critical once-over. “You’re losing too much weight.”

  Vivian snorted: “Those damn foreign cigarettes. Bloody living on them now?”

  Lola watched Vivian fit a holder with a cigarillo, long red fingertips immaculate as ever. “Cigarettes and men, Auntie Viv. Don’t forget the men.”

  “Your father would’ve had something to say about them.” Viv’s tone was sharp.

  Aubrey laughed. Lola washed her hands at the kitchen sink and returned to the dining room. Viola placed a bowl of noodles and a cup of tea on the table. Lola dug in. Viola sat with her as she ate. She smiled and started to say something, but Vivian broke in first.

  “Lola, who was this client that made you late tonight?”

  “You know she can’t tell you that,” Veronica said.

  “Yes, I know that, Vee, but she doesn’t have to tell me her client’s name. I just want to know what’s the case. Is that an unhealthy obsession too?”

  Lola exchanged a glance with Viola, who shook her head and pursed her lips. Around a mouthful of salty, spicy noodles, Lola said: “Just someone looking for their lost roommate. Probably owes rent. Nothing earth-shattering.”

  “That’s an abridged version,” said Aubrey.

  Vivian snorted. “Sounds better than some of your other cases.”

  “Leave her alone. You’re just in a snit,” said Veronica.

  “I’m just saying,” Vivian continued, “Butch’s clients were all of a certain caliber, and I don’t see why Lola insists on ignoring those types of people. Besides which, studio people pay well.”

  “Well Lola doesn’t need the money, and that’s not the point anyway.” Veronica glared at Vivian. “You’ve always been star struck, Viv, admit it. Even after we were retired from the studios. Instead of a healthy bitterness, you got more and more stars in your little black eyes.”

  “Now that’s below the belt,” said Aubrey.

  Vivian scowled and opened her mouth. Viola cut in: “Ladies, please. You’re spoiling Lola’s meal. Here, drink your tea. It’ll help your digestion, dear.” Lola sipped obediently. The other two women weren’t as meek but they turned their argument down to simmer from boil. A tense silence filled the flat, punctured briefly by chopsticks hitting a bowl, as Lola finished her dinner. Even Viola was close to scowling. As soon as Lola placed the chopsticks on top of her empty bowl, Viola whisked them away and sta
lked into the kitchen. Lola was still chewing her last mouthful.

  She stood and walked behind Veronica’s perch on the shorter of the two sofas. She dropped off her tea mug at the mah-jongg area and went in search of cigarettes and lighter.

  “Use the holder, Lola,” scolded Vivian. “Your fingers will get hard and yellow.” Lola obeyed, plucking an ebony holder from her purse. This was not a battle worth fighting tonight.

  “All right,” said Veronica. “Down to business.”

  The mah-jongg table sat in the northeast corner of the flat. The four women sat down randomly for the time being. When Viola brought out the mah-jongg set, Lola couldn’t help smiling. The tiles were ivory and aged to a shiny parchment yellow. Her father had learned mah-jongg on this set. They both had. Hours of rules and games. Years of thumb pads rubbing, reading the characters, had faded the paint to ghosts of their original brilliance.

  “Aubrey,” said Lola, “stop breathing down my neck.” She shuffled a few tiles from the end of her line to the centre.

  “You know damned well you don’t feel a thing,” the Ghost replied.

  “What I know is you were never this interested in mah-jongg when you were alive.”

  “A Ghost’s got to have a hobby.”

  “Well, enjoy it at a distance, will you.”

  Vivian shook a finger at Lola. “Manners,” she said primly. “No private conversations in public, if you please.” She raised her gaze briefly. “And no peeking, Aubrey.”

  The game went swiftly. These four were old adversaries. Lola became increasingly despairing of a win as she watched Vivian hunt down the same tiles she needed. Finally, she was certain Vivian was about to crow with delight over a win, but it was Viola who suddenly sat up and grinned.

  “Ji maw.” She happily showed the second tile she’d drawn.

  “What?”

  Lola watched, incredulous, as Viola flipped her tiles and revealed the cheapest winning hand: gai woo. However, a self-drawn and hidden win made up for small pickings.

  “Muen ching,” said Veronica. “Well done, Vi.”

  “Squeezing every last drop out of that sorry hand,” mumbled Vivian. “All right, show your tiles.” She scanned Lola’s hand as the younger woman returned the scrutiny. “You really were close,” she murmured.

  Lola sighed, reaching for her cigarettes.

  Veronica counted up Viola’s points and Vivian wrote down the tally. At the end of the evening, money would change hands. They were playing a nickel a point, a light game. The Aunties always played for money. When they were serious, points were a quarter apiece. Lola always sat those out. She preferred serious gambling at a parlour, not with family.

  The women chatted and commiserated, turning tiles facedown and mixing once again.

  “Ask them what they were arguing about,” Aubrey suddenly said.

  “Aubrey, be quiet.”

  Viola gave Lola a pointed look.

  “He’s just being rude, Auntie.”

  “Aubrey?” Her expression was incredulous.

  “Yes, Aubrey.”

  “Well,” said Veronica, “that doesn’t mean you can be rude to him.”

  Vivian grinned but remained silent.

  “Ask them,” repeated Aubrey.

  “If I could think of a polite way to tell him to stop pestering me, Auntie, I would.”

  “Aren’t you concerned about them, Lola? Don’t you want to find out if there’s something you can help them resolve?”

  “Aubrey, it’s none of your business until someone says otherwise. Beat it.”

  “Lola,” said Veronica.

  The younger woman continued stacking tiles calmly. Veronica repeated her name, hands now still. Lola met her aunt’s eyes without embarrassment.

  “What’s none of his business?” asked Vivian.

  “Always the sharp one,” commented Aubrey. He sounded amused.

  “He thinks I should put my nose into your argument.”

  Veronica looked down at her hands and swiftly straightened tiles. There were faint pink spots at her cheeks, remnants of her displeasure.

  “Fine,” said Vivian, “since you’re curious. We were arguing about your mother.”

  “I wasn’t curious.”

  “Leave it alone.” Veronica shot Vivian a warning glare.

  “No,” said Vivian, “I won’t. That woman was the death of Butch and I am not going to forgive her for it.”

  “He had cancer, Vivian,” said Viola.

  Vivian never backed down. “She sucked the life out of him.” She angrily clacked her tiles together and pushed them toward the forming square. “And now she’s picked up again with that abomination.”

  Veronica was impatient. “Viv, please. Your flare for the dramatic has grown into a wildfire. Mayor’s a Ghost. Just a Ghost.”

  “An abomination,” Vivian repeated. “A normal Ghost wouldn’t be visible to everyone. A normal Ghost wouldn’t be meddling in the daily affairs of a million people.”

  “For heavens’ sake. He’s still in office because we wanted it that way. We asked the poor man to forego reincarnation for us. And he did it. Doesn’t that tell you about his character?” Veronica clacked a tile forcefully.

  “You’ll never convince me that entire campaign wasn’t his idea in the first place. It was too perfect. The man knew he was dying. He didn’t want to let go the reins of power. He chose Ghosthood over reincarnation of his own volition. It was simply better drama to pretend we,” her face twisted, “‘the fair citizens of Crescent City,’ wanted him after death.” She made as if to spit. “I know it. He’s cunning. He thrived in the movies for over two decades,” Vivian shouted. She was building a full head of steam now. “And I didn’t vote for him to continue Unto Death. It’s not right. The man should be dead and gone. Not in charge of a city of living souls. And certainly not traipsing around with an aging Crescent City starlet.” She tapped out her cigarette and reached for another.

  “They’re just friends.” Lola lit another Egyptian. “If I’m not bent out of shape, why are you?”

  Vivian drew herself up haughtily. “Why shouldn’t I be? I loved your father. We all did. You don’t have the corner on that.” She stood up abruptly and walked into the kitchen. Viola put down the dice she’d been ready to cast. She got up wordlessly and went to the coffee table in the living room. She returned with a newspaper and handed it to Lola. She squeezed Lola’s hand before following Vivian into the kitchen.

  Page Three of the Crescent City Post. The headline in bold: Ingenious Pair at it Again? There was a photograph of a dark-haired woman smiling up at a shadow to her left. Mayor never photographed as anything more than a person-shaped smudge. The caption was predictable, too. “Mayor escorts Grace McCall to world premiere. Are the duo planning a reunion project?” The article had as much weight as a cotton skirt in a stiff breeze.

  Grace McCall hadn’t made a film with Esperanza for years before his death. He was unlikely to give up governing the city to direct a movie, of all things. Their most famous film, Ingenious, was over twenty years past. There weren’t a lot of things Lola liked about Grace McCall, but she admired her mother for knowing her place in the pantheon.

  Veronica took the paper from Lola and folded it neatly. “It’s not healthy, Lola. We all loved him. Butch wouldn’t want her like this.” She, too, got up. She took her mug of tea and walked to a window overlooking the street.

  There were murmurs from the kitchen. Lola didn’t strain to catch any words. After a moment, she went to join Veronica.

  Aubrey sighed.

  Veronica spoke without turning: “Were you telling the truth? It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Mother and Mayor?” Lola stopped to consider. She shrugged. “It’s her life. Her past. It doesn’t matter. Dad died twelv
e years ago. I don’t expect her to pine away for him. She didn’t when he was still alive. Why should death make him mean something to her?”

  Aubrey tried to say something. Lola tuned him out. He was a single note on the subject of Grace McCall. Lola was tired of the noise. He’d been her best friend since childhood. She was sure that was the cruel reasoning behind his Haunting.

  Vivian returned from the kitchen with a clickety-clack of her heeled slippers. Lola and Veronica both turned to watch her approach. Her face was set into stubborn lines.

  “I guess I should be grateful someone’s taking my father’s side in this,” murmured Lola. “He never seemed to.”

  Veronica gave her a sideways glance.

  The four sat down and resumed play. They made it through six games before the round was completed. It took about an hour and a half. Vivian won the majority of games but she was still angry. There wasn’t much anyone could do about it. None of them had Butch’s touch with Vivian. She never could stay angry at him.

  Eventually, farewells and hugs were exchanged. Lola stepped out into the damp night and pulled her coat up to her ears. The night was young yet and she was still restless. She decided to try some more substantial gambling and drove toward The Golden Bowl. It wasn’t much in the way of glamour, but it was on the way home. A few hours were wasted there with some other regulars, but her concentration was thin and the table tepid. In the end, she made the acquaintance of a tall painter with beautiful hands. He was masquerading as a waiter. They adjourned to his apartment to peruse his etchings. By the time Lola finally went home, the hours were wee and the stars dim.