A week ago, I followed the Stanford continuing studies program ad and,
curious, clicked on the link to the Mystery and Thriller Workshop, taught by
Deborah Johnson. "The Black Book" by Patterson and Ellis was one of the three
required textbooks.
It was my first time reading Patterson and I very much enjoyed it. The story
was good and, for me, the writing was great. You see, I'm more obsessed with
language, for a reason.
One of the painfully felt handicaps for me, as a Chinese migrant, was
vocabulary. I crammed solely for passing the TOEFL and GRE exams before
coming to the west. This effort and a dozen prior years of English schooling,
rendered me functional in academic and corporate settings for the roles I
played. But life, living among the Canadians and Americans, always felt
awkward as I couldn't express myself as they did and I blamed the words I
used.
Of course, words are nothing but culture. And I like the book for the exact
reason that through narrations and dialogues, it teaches the way people think
and behave, the overtone, the implications, what's funny and what's not, etc.
Here's one part I liked best when Detective Larny fell in love with
assistant prosecutor Lentini and called after seeing her in a bar with some
guy. Enjoy.
"Your boyfriend seemed nice," I said.
I couldn't believe I said that. It was the half dozen shots of bourbon talking. [YOU SHOULD HANG UP RIGHT NOW, YOU MORON. CUT YOUR LOSSES.]
"He's not my boyfriend," she said.
"No? Does HE know that?"
"He does now." [HE SHOOTS, HE SOCRES!]
But I didn't say anything in response. I'd already made an ass out of myself, bringing up her date in the first place.
"Are you calling to confess, Billy? To admit that you stole the little black book?"
I crossed an intersection without noticing that a car was coming right toward me. The driver didn't even slow down. He just honked his horn and expected me to jog out of the way. He must have been born and raised here.
"No," I said. "I think I'm going to exercise my right to remain silent."
"And yet you called me."
She was a lawyer, all right. And she had a point. I'd called her.
And I didn't know why. Or maybe I did but didn't want to admit it to anybody, including myself.
"You ever eat?" I asked, feeling my pulse jack up, putting all out there.
"I--yes, I've been known to on occasion."
She wasn't going to make this easy, was she?
"Are you asking me to dinner?" She said.
"No. I'm just taking a survey on people's daily routines."
"Oh, I see."
"But if you wanted to have dinner with me, that would fine."
She seemed to like that, a cute little chuckle. "Well played, Detective. So now I'M asking YOU out."
"And I accept," I said. "I mean, since you insist."
I punched off the phone to the sound of her laughter. I figured I should quit while I was ahead. I felt a little steam in my stride. The wind felt like a balmy ocean breeze.
