Hello Kitty Must Die (19 page)

Another Jack, only in a skirt. Same shit, different partner.

“The merger has to go according to schedule. I need that due diligence report by tomorrow.”

Yes, Doreen.

Anything you say, Doreen. So long as you ask civilly.

SEAN WANTED TO STAY
in and watch the
Law & Order: Criminal Intent
marathon on T.V. on Friday evening. And I needed some company after my somewhat traumatic week.

“At least you still have your job, Fi,” he told me.

“Yeah, I thought they were going to lay me off with Jack gone.”

“Nah, trust me. Doreen should be more than happy to swoop down and take over Jack’s clients.”

“Oh my God, Sean, that’s exactly what she did as soon as we got the news that Jack wasn’t coming back.”

“How ruthlessly corporate. So you looking forward to tomorrow’s dinner with your fiance?”

“Yup. I have a surprise for Don, and I can’t wait to give it to him.”

Sean munched on a Ruffles sour cream cheddar chip, mulling over his thoughts. For a full minute, he didn’t say anything.

“Fi, be careful. If the opportunity doesn’t present itself, let it go.”

“I know.”

“Seriously. It’s all about timing and opportunity.”

“I know.”

“I would hate to lose my sailing buddy, Fi.” Sean continued to crunch, washing down his Ruffles with beer. “Where does this guy work?”

“Forget it, Sean.”

“Okay, but seriously, be careful. Whatever happens, don’t panic. Fear and panic make you stupid. Don’t be stupid.”

“I know.”

“And it makes you look suspicious.”

“I know.”

“Opportunity and timing. Remember that.”

“I will.”

Sean always looked out for me, ever since that time he inspired me to thump Jeremy in the schoolyard.

ON SATURDAY EVENING
, I drove down to San Bruno to have dinner with Don, snacking on Snickers bars. Snickers really is the best candy bar ever produced, consisting of peanut butter nougat topped with roasted peanuts and caramel covered with milk chocolate. According to Wikipedia, it’s the “best selling chocolate bar of all time and has annual global sales of U.S. $2 billion.”

But the peanut butter nougat and caramel make finely-chewed bits of peanut stick to your teeth, gums, tongue, and lips, making it extremely dangerous to kiss someone who has a severe peanut allergy. Accidental poisoning with peanuts.

“But Officer,
I
ate the Snickers. Not Don.”

“Did you know that he was allergic to peanuts?”

“Yes. That’s why I didn’t offer him one.”

Oops. Hello Kitty forgot to rinse her mouth out with Listerine before kissing her boyfriend.

I parked my car and threw away the Snickers wrappers in a public trash bin. I didn’t want anyone to find five empty wrappers in my car. Eating that many Snickers before going over to Don’s place for a crab dinner would look suspicious.

I strode up the block in a floral dress and my four-inch Prada stilettos, pounding on the pavement hard. The pain shooting up my calves strengthened my resolve to do God’s work properly, efficiently, the way it should be done.

Don greeted me wearing workout clothes. Tank top and shorts. His fat arms wiggled, brushing against his body as he walked. His belly hung over the elastic top of his shorts. The hazards of being the son of a chef.

“The crabs are cooking.”

“That’s great, Don. Can’t wait for dinner.”

“I was going to work out a little before dinner. You wanna watch?”

“Sure.”

What an exciting treat before dinner. Getting to watch Don lift weights. I felt like one of those girls who got to watch her boyfriend at football practice in high school. One of the girls in the “in” crowd.

“I think I can bench press one-eighty, Fiona.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Wanna spot me?”

“Sure.”

Like I would really save him if he lost his grip and the bar fell on his throat.

Don lay down on the bench and gripped the weight bar, struggling a little to shift his bulky form under the bar on the slender bench.

“Can you slide on two more ten-pound weights?”

Sure.

And there it was. Opportunity presented itself, along with perfect timing, as Don adjusted his hold on the bar.

I bypassed the ten-pound weights Don had requested, and quickly slipped a twenty-pound disk on each side of the bar.

“Okay. You’re good to go, honey.”

And where you’re going, there’s no coming back.

Don gritted his teeth and hefted the bar off its holder. All two hundred pounds of it. His arms shook as he brought the weight towards his chest and pushed it back up. His face, red with exertion, broke out in sweat.

One.

“You doing okay, Don?”

“Ya...”

Two.

Don’s cheeks, now the color of beets, puffed in and out as he struggled to push the two hundred pounds up. But he didn’t set the weights down. I had to hand it to him. Don was dying to try and impress me. Literally.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Then it happened.

Don lost his grip and the bar crashed down on his chest, rolling onto his throat. He gagged as the two hundred pounds crushed against his windpipe. And his arms, too tired from lifting, flailed helplessly as he tried to pry the bar off himself.

“Help...”

If your husband, wife, child, mother, or father is drowning and you do nothing, you’re liable for their death. Because you have a duty to rescue them, or at least try, by virtue of your relationship to them. So says black letter law.

But that obligation doesn’t apply to bystanders, strangers, friends, acquaintances, or the boy that your father is trying to force you to marry. You have no duty to save a stranger, unless you start saving them. Then you have to continue with your rescue. Because your efforts will make everyone else think they don’t need to help.

Just ask the thirty-eight people who watched Kitty Genovese get stabbed to death and did nothing. Not one of her neighbors was held liable.

“The bar is too heavy for me, Don. I’m going to call 911.”

I didn’t even have to kiss him. All I had to do was nothing, for about five minutes.

Don’s face turned purple. He made a curious gurgling sound in his throat as he struggled to breathe. But the bar pressed down heavy and tight until his eyes looked up at me, glassy, lifeless.

“Emergency? I need help. My friend just had an accident with his weights. Please send an ambulance. Quick.”

And it was an accident. Kind of.

The paramedics came and wheeled Don off to the hospital, but it was already too late. His brain had been deprived of oxygen for too long.

Thank God I ate all those Snickers bars. I didn’t get home until midnight. As soon as I opened the door, my father accosted me with questions.

“Why are you home so late? How was your dinner?”

“Don died.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Don died. Don is dead.”

“How? What happened?”

“He was lifting weights, trying to impress me. He slipped and the bar crushed his throat.”

“Fiona, this is not funny. Tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth. Don is dead.”

“Did you call an ambulance? Did you try to help him?”

“Of course I called an ambulance. But it was too late.”

“Oh my God,” wailed my mother. She too had been waiting up for me. “What about his parents?”

“The hospital called them, Mom.”

“Did you have dinner, Fiona?”

“No, I’m kind of hungry, actually.”

“You poor thing. It’s not your fault. I’ll make you some ramen noodles.”

Ramen noodles. Chinese comfort food. I love my mother. She is the best. Always ready with a soothing word and a pack of ramen noodles and chicken broth.

I SLEPT WONDERFULLY
that night and got up early. Instead of being full of energy, I woke up constipated, thanks to all the Snickers bars. Damn Don. It was all his fault I had to spend Saturday morning on the toilet before heading to work. That boy was nothing but trouble.

When I arrived at my office, I went online and found the following news article:

San Bruno Man Crushed to Death:
Don Koo, 30, of San Bruno, died yesterday evening at his home when he unsuccessfully tried to bench press 200 pounds. The bar slipped and crashed down on his throat, crushing his windpipe. Koo’s fiancée, Fiona Yu, an attorney at the prestigious San Francisco law firm of Beamer Hodgins LLP, called emergency services but paramedics were unable to revive Koo despite repeated attempts.

The article continued to discuss the importance of safety measures while exercising and lifting weights, including the use of a strong and able spotter. The usual trite discussion. Then I suddenly remembered I never even talked to a reporter. Maybe the nutters who think the government is invading their brain with radio waves were right. Maybe I needed to invest in an aluminum foil hat. Maybe not. Maybe they got it from the police or hospital report.

I stopped reading, picked up the phone and called Sean.

“Yeah?” answered a sleepy voice.

“It’s me. Have you read the news?”

“No. I haven’t even had my coffee yet, Fi. This better be good, darling.”

“It’s pretty good. I made the front page.”

“You what?”

“Made the front page. Go online. Type in Don Koo. K- O-O.”

“Oh God. Tell me you’re not in jail.”

“Sean, I’m not in jail. I’m at my office, working. Don’t worry. God did His own work.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Just Google Don Koo.”

“Okay, when I wake up.”

“Go back to sleep, Sean.”

“Fi?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Like you said, everyone has to die.”

I
LOVE FUNERALS. THEY
are chock full of good energy, which is perfect for anyone who has a porous psyche. It’s like bathing in pure sunlight.

I have a very porous psyche.

If you hated the decedent, you’re glad—happy, even—that he’s dead. If you loved the decedent, you’re sad. You miss him and you grieve because you loved him. Either way, the resulting emotions come out positive. Good energy all around. No jealousy, envy, or spite like you would encounter at weddings.

Just pure love and perhaps a negligible dose of schadenfreude.

No one ever says, “I’ve been a pallbearer twenty-seven times and never the decedent. When do I get to be the one carried down the aisle?”

No one ever says, “I wish I was the one in the box with the pasty mortician makeup and the scent of formaldehyde.”

And the nosy-parkers keep their mouths shut because no one ever asks, “So when do you plan to pop off? What kind of casket would you like? Mahogany or ebony?”

Most importantly, the decedent isn’t running around stressed out, screaming at friends and family to make sure his big day goes exactly the way he’s been dreaming about since the age of six. Because he can’t. He’s dead. He doesn’t give a crap whether everyone has their nails done right or has their hair in place.

Best of all, you get to pig out at the wake without worrying about what everyone thinks. You’re just drowning your sorrows in food.