My mother’s never liked fish in her congee. But I love it.

While I unpacked, I called my office phone. No messages. Not that I’d expected any. Work was slow, and anyway I’d been checking in daily from California. Now, that might sound like I was waiting for a particular call, but of course I wasn’t. I especially wasn’t waiting for a call from Bill Smith, my former associate, then partner; former close friend, then almost-I-don’t-know-what, who’d done a vanishing act months ago after our last case together. The case, involving Bill’s nephew Gary, had ended badly. As his partner and close friend, I felt terrible for him and understood why he wanted no part of anyone for a while. But as his partner and close friend, it made me furious to be one of the people he wanted no part of.

To the tune of my mother bullhorning Chinatown gossip across the apartment, I excavated my suitcase. I was down to the T-shirts when my cell phone rang. I grabbed it; the number was unfamiliar. Squashing down a pang of disappointment, I gave my name in both English and Chinese. Then I yanked the phone from my ear as an off-key tenor bellowed:

“The stars that hang high

Over Shanghai

Bring back the memory

Of a thrill!

I’ve been looking hiiiiigh, and I’ve been looking looooow,

Looking for you, Shanghai Lil!”

“Stop! Pilarsky, your singing has not improved.”

“Hey, it wasn’t ‘ Lydia the Tattooed Lady.’ I thought you’d be happy. How are you, Chinsky?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” I sighed. “How are you? What can I do for you? And what was that?”

“Footlight Parade. Busby Berkeley, Cagney, Keeler. One of the greats. And me, I could be worse. I’m still in business. Are you? If yes, it’s not what you can do for me, it’s I have a job for you.”