Death of a Rug Lord by Tamar Myers Page A

?” I had half a mind to toss both women out into the street, tangled together or not.
    â€œAbby,” Cheng whined, “do you want us to get back together, or what?”
    â€œFrankly, Cheng, knowing Toy a whole lot better than you do—and let’s not even go there—I might be tempted to say ‘what.’”
    â€œGo where, Abby?”
    â€œShe means that you’ve slept with him and she hasn’t,” Wynnell said. “At least I hope she hasn’t.”
    â€œBut I haven’t slept with Toy either; that’s the problem.”
    That’s all it took to get the pair apart—that, a couple of shrieks, and some huge hunks of hair. They staggered away from each other like prize fighters when a round has been called.
    â€œWhy do you mean you haven’t?” I said.
    â€œExactly what I said, Abby.”
    â€œIs my brother…well, is he impotent?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œIt’s not important. Can we change the subject? I think I see some women about to try the door.”
    â€œPretend they tried five minutes ago—or whenever. Toy’s my brother, Cheng, so you have to tell me.”
    â€œAnd Abby’s my best friend, Wang,” Wynnell said, “so I get to listen in.”
    â€œYou see how she treats me?” Cheng said.
    â€œWynnell, this isn’t funny,” I hissed. “What if I called you Wynnell Crawdad, instead of Wynnell Crawford? How would you like that?”
    â€œOkay, I’ll behave.”
    â€œNow spill it, Cheng,” I said.
    â€œAbby, I just can’t bring myself to—uh, do it with a white man.”
    â€œRun that by me again, please.”
    â€œNo offense, Abby, but I find Caucasians kind of yucky.”
    â€œI’m still not quite comprehending this. Yucky how? In what way”
    â€œY’all’s skin, for one thing: it’s too hairy. And while I’m being frank, you smell a bit like wet dogs, even when you’re dry.”
    â€œCheng, that’s racist! I’ve never heard such blatantracism in all my born days. If you were my employer, instead of the other way around, I could probably sue you.”
    â€œYou tell her, Abby,” Wynnell said. She glared at Cheng beneath her unibrow.
    â€œWynnell,” I growled, “I’ll thank you to butt out of this.”
    â€œBut she offended me too.” My friend did a quick sniff test. “Stale lavender soap? Maybe. Yesterday’s Secret? Maybe. But definitely not wet dog.”
    â€œBesides,” I said, “what about Granny Ledbetter and Aunt Nanny, and that entire clan? And if you think Toy is too hairy and smells a bit too much like Fido—”
    â€œFunny thing,” Cheng said, a nostalgic smile spreading across her massive face, “Granny Ledbetter always smelled like feta cheese. Aunt Nanny smells that way too, don’t you think?”
    â€œHmm, I think you’re right. But Cheng, look here, your mother was a white Russian, so you are half Caucasian, and for all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve smelled just fine to you. So here’s the deal: I’m going to keep on smelling fine to you, and you’re going to keep on being the loving, goofy C.J.—I mean Cheng—you’ve always been, or you no longer work here. Comprende? ”
    â€œYes, Abby. I’m sorry.”
    She sounded sorry too, so I was about to wrap my short doggy arms (perhaps I’d been a Chihuahua in a former life) around her when one of the customers not only knocked on the door, she practically broke it down.

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    I t always pays to be courteous—well, most of the time it does. I brushed some hair out of my eyes and put on my perky saleslady face. Then, despite the continued banging, I took ladylike steps to the door. I even managed to turn the dead bolt with deliberate slowness.
    â€œGood morning, ladies,” I said as I stood