He said, “Thank you, Gi. But I think I’d better keep moving, so they can’t find me. I’ll call you in a couple of hours to see if you’ve been able to translate the note.”
Gi rose from his chair but did not step out from behind his desk. “You came for advice, you said, not just to have this message translated. Well, my advice is… you’re safer trusting in family.”
“I do trust in you, Gi.”
“But you trust a stranger more,” Gi said pointedly, although he did not look at Del.
“It saddens me to hear you say that, Gi.”
“It saddens me to have to say it,” his brother replied.
Neither of them moved one inch toward the other, though Tommy sensed a yearning that matched his own.
Gi’s face was worse than angry, worse than hard. It was placid, almost serene, as if Tommy could no longer touch his heart for better or worse.
“I’ll call you,” Tommy finally said, “in a couple hours.” He and Del left the office and went down the steps into the enormous bakery.
Tommy felt profoundly confused, petty, stubborn, stupid, guilty, and miserable—all emotions that the legendary private detective, Chip Nguyen, had never felt, had never been capable of feeling.
The aromas of chocolate, cinnamon, brown sugar, nutmeg, yeasty baking bread, and hot lemon icing were no longer appealing. Indeed, he was half sickened by the stench. Tonight the smell of the bakery was the smell of loss and loneliness and foolish pride.
As he and Del passed the coolers and storerooms, heading toward the back of the building and the door through which they had entered, she said, “Well, thanks for preparing me.”
“For what?”
“For the glorious reception I received.”
“I told you how it was with me and the family.”
“You made it sound strained between you and them. It’s more like the Capulet’s and Montague’s and the Hatfield’s and the McCoy’s all thrown together and named Phan.”
“It’s not that dramatic,” he disagreed.
“Seemed pretty dramatic to me, quiet but dramatic, like both of you were ticking and liable to explode at any second.”
Halfway across the room from the shift manager’s office, Tommy stopped, turned, and looked back.
Gi was standing at one of the big windows in that managerial roost, watching them.
Tommy hesitated, raised a hand, and waved. When Gi didn’t return the wave, the bakery stench seemed to intensify, and Tommy walked faster toward the rear exit.
Lengthening her stride to keep up with him, Del Payne said, “He thinks I’m the whore of Babylon.”
“He does not.”
“Yes, he does. He disapproves of me even if I did save your life. Severely disapproves. He thinks I’m a succubus, a wicked white temptress who’s leading you straight into the fiery pit of eternal damnation.”
“Well, you’re lucky. Just imagine what he’d think if you’d worn the Santa hat.”
“I’m glad to see you still have a sense of humour about this family stuff.”
“I don’t,” he said gruffly.
“What if I was?” she asked.
“Was what?”
“A wicked white temptress.”
“What are you talking about?”
They reached the rear exit, but she put a hand on Tommy’s arm, halting him before he could open the door. “Would you be tempted?”
“You are nuts.”
She pretended to pout as if hurt. “That’s not as flattering a response as I’d hoped for.”
“Have you forgotten the issue here?”
“What issue is that?” she asked.
Exasperated, he said, “Staying alive.”
“Sure, sure. The doll snake rat-quick little monster thing. But listen, Tommy, you’re a pretty attractive guy in spite of all your glowering, all your deep angst, all your playing at being Mr. Mysterious East. A girl could fall for you—but if she did, would you be available?”
“Not if I’m dead.”
She smiled. “That’s a definite yes.”
He closed his eyes and counted to ten.
When he was at four, Del said, “What’re you doing?”
“Counting to ten.”
“Why?”
“To calm down.”
“What number are you at?”
“Six.”
“What number now?”
“Seven.”
“What number now?”
“Eight.”
When he opened his eyes, she was still smiling. “I do excite you, don’t I?”
“You scare me.”
“Why scare?”