Dating Is Murder

“It was my misfortune to be raised without religion, a sad disadvantage.”

“Why?” I asked.

“A belief in God and prayer has been shown to reduce stress by a margin of some significance.”

“So-you believe in God?” I asked.

“No. Only stress reduction.”

“Okay, cut!” Bing said. “Paul, have the cute waitress take their order and then, Vaclav, ask Wollie the question.”

Fredreeq jumped up to powder me. “Gorbachev here just lost the Bible Belt vote,” she whispered. “Nobody likes an atheist. Talk Jesus.”

“Okay, Round Two,” Bing called. “Food, then God. Action!”

Vaclav ordered monkfish liver, uni with raw quail egg, and beef sabu-sabu, the kind of thing Doc would’ve ordered. I went with vegetable tempura, in honor of Ruby. Vaclav asked me my religious preferences, which reminded me that the camera was on.

“I started out Catholic,” I said. “Around age ten, I turned to Judaism, but never converted because I couldn’t give up Christmas; I’m not sure whether that makes me a closet Christian or just… sentimental. Then I read Be Here Now and fell in love with Buddhism, but every time I meditate I fall asleep. Same problem with Sufism, another lovely religion, headed by a very charismatic guy, and if you’re into poetry, they’ve got Rumi, a great person to have on your team. I’m a little sketchy on Hinduism, but I have a necklace with Hanuman on it, he’s a monkey demigod, and-” In my peripheral vision, Fredreeq was jumping up and down, gesticulating. “Oh! Sorry. Jesus,” I said. “Jesus is great. I’ve always loved him. The parables and the miracles are fine, but my favorite moment is when he tells the thief on the other cross that they’re headed for paradise. What a happy ending to a really bad day. Not that I’m well versed in the Bible. Protestants are much better read than the Catholics. Better singers too, The Sound of Music notwithstanding. A good gospel choir is a peak experience, don’t you think, like sex? And if you’re down South and visit a church where they do snake-handling and speak in tongues-well, wow.”

Fredreeq was frantically waving her hands over her head, signaling something. It didn’t appear to be unqualified approval.

Vaclav said, “So what will your children be? Catholic?”

“No, I’m a bad Catholic. Even as a child I was only in it for the stained glass. And the incense. Frankincense. Or myrrh? Very heady stuff, and would come in handy right now to obscure these fishy odors-” I remembered again I was on camera. “Oops. Oh, does it matter, Vaclav? Most people I know turn their backs on their parents’ religion. I’ll probably just read my kids poetry and pray they don’t become Raelians.”

“Cut,” Bing said.

I turned to look at Fredreeq, who had dropped her head into her hands. Joey was talking on a cell phone. Paul studied a menu. Vaclav occupied himself with the Takei Sake bottle, the drink for once appropriate to the cuisine. Joey’s phone reminded me to turn on mine, now that filming had temporarily stopped.

Instantly, a buzzing dentist’s drill noise indicated that I’d missed a call. I pressed buttons and listened to a message from Detective Cziemanski. I called him back. “What’s up?” I asked. “Is it about A

“No, it’s about Wollie. What are you doing for di

I laughed. “Tonight? Eating tempura on national TV.” I explained Biological Clock, a show that he, like most Americans, had never heard of.

“You didn’t tell me you’re a star,” he said. He didn’t sound thrilled.

I looked around. Vaclav knocked back sake. Paul leaned against a wall, dozing. A fly skimmed the surface of the sushi bar. Plastic fish adorned the walls. “It’s nonstop glamour,” I said. “But only Mondays and Thursdays. The rest of the week I slum.”

“Okay, I don’t know how to ask this, but-that name, Biological Clock-is there something we should talk about here? Not that I need to know your age before I buy you a burger, but I take it you’re a little older than… twenty-eight, twenty-nine?”

“A little. Is that a problem?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Is it? In terms of kids?”

“My understanding, Detective, is that if you and I had sex every half hour from now till next year, I’m more likely to get pregnant than I am to fall into an active volcano. But not by much.” Silence. “I’m exaggerating.”

The silence continued. Then, “The thing is, Wollie, I was hoping for-”

“Kids?”

“A bunch of them.” A call-waiting click occurred, on his end. He apologized, saying he had to take the call. “Listen, I’ll be in touch. I still want to be friends, but-”

I sat very still, listening to a dead phone, feeling a little sick.

“Boyfriend problems, Vollie?” Vaclav’s words slurred a little.

Before I could reply, the restaurant door burst open. “Bing Wooster!” a man yelled. “Where are you, you worthless asshole?”

Bing turned toward the voice. We all did.

Then Bing pulled out a gun.

A long moment of silence followed, interrupted by Joey’s gravelly voice. “Jesus.”

More silence. Finally, Bing spoke. “Get off my set.” His voice shook. His hand shook too, his gun hand, but still, he was showing more courage than I’d expect from Bing, a director defending his production. The Betacam was still on his shoulder, but Paul moved in behind him, ready to take the camera.

The man laughed. He was muscular, with a goatee, wearing a black T-shirt. I’d seen him before. Outside the restaurant last week, on the sidewalk. “Or what?” he said. “You blow me away?” He walked forward with a swagger, arms open, fingers spread, body language saying, “Shoot me.”

Bing shook some more.

“You’re holding the gun wrong, Wooster,” the man said. One hand snaked out and the gun went flying across the room. The Betacam wobbled and slipped from Bing’s shoulder.

The gun skidded into a wall.

The Betacam fell into Paul’s waiting arms.

The gun didn’t fire. The restaurant exhaled.

The goateed man had both hands on Bing’s gun arm, doing something that forced Bing to his knees. When he let go, Bing bent over, holding his hand, whimpering.

“Now that I’ve got your attention,” the man said, leaning down, “you pull a no-show again, I’ll kill you. I don’t need a gun to do it. Two, you don’t pay, you don’t play. I make her disappear, get what I’m saying? You never see her again.” He spoke quietly, but because no one in the room was even breathing, we all heard.

The man walked out of RockiSushi.

We all looked at one another, the chef, the staff, the B.C. people, the five customers. Two or three cell phones came out. “Do we call 911?” a woman at a table asked.

“Did anyone die?” Fredreeq said.

Paul went over to Bing, who was nursing his hand. Bing told Paul to get lost.

Joey, meanwhile, had crossed the room and picked up the gun. She went to the window, gun pointing down, glanced outside, then walked out the door.

Seconds later, a man came in. Cadaverous, middle-aged, and dressed in a Nehru jacket, he looked around, smiled, and made his tentative way to the sushi bar.

“Excuse me,” he said to the sushi chef. “I’m Dr. Arthur Ostroot. I’m supposed to meet some people here with a TV show?”

“That’s us, honey,” Fredreeq called. “Sit down and have some edamame beans.”

Vaclav offered our expert some sake while Bing hauled himself up off the floor. He wobbled, glanced around the room, and steadied himself.

“Paul, what are we waiting for?” he yelled. “Next setup. And who’s got Vicodin?”