The Mandarin Club by Gerald Felix Warburg Page B

tragic to pass some mundane existence in the ’burbs, only to get run down in some shopping mall parking lot.”
    “Tragic?”
    “Sure. In some ways, I’ve always thought I’d die young. Half expected it even. Something I saw in the desert once. Maybe it was the peyote or the Budweiser. It made me want to do it all. To cheat death, to outrace my demons. I wanted to see every continent. Taste every dish. Seduce every pretty girl.”
    “Every one?”
    “Present company excluded, of course.”
    “I should be flattered?”
    “Roomies’ girl.” He was flirting with his eyes now, his trademark “aw shucks” look. “Hell, Rachel. You’re like a sister.”
    “Story of my life!” She was laughing now, but exasperated. There was something simple and pure that rang true in his confession. “I wonder if you ever had—”
    “Hey! What’s this heavy tête-a-tête? Gotta share!” It was Barry, leaning in to break up the private moment he’d spied out. Before Mickey or Rachel could respond, Barry was shouting over them at their comrade. “C’mon, Lee! Rejoin the party! Gotta keep up, my man.”
    Lee appeared sullen, a bit far gone. He gazed warily at the shot glass in his right hand as Branko tried to explain something he wasn’t following.
    “Truth or Dare!” A shout erupted. It had been Barry’s idea. Truth or Dare, the guys’ adaptation of a game of self-revelation—a game where they threatened to expose their deepest secrets.
    Barry was circling now, grinning, a bit too eager as he roared: “Branko goes first!”
    Branko regarded him coolly for a moment, thinking as he chewed, a bit of onion caught in his brown moustache. The others had gathered, so Branko played along, turning first to Alexander.
    “OK, let’s start with you, Alexander,” Branko began matter-of-factly.
    “What the hell are you doing living here in academic nirvana with a bunch of engineers and business whizzes? Shouldn’t you be off writing novels somewhere? Don’t writers need to go suffer for a while before they have anything to say?”
    Alexander smirked, but did not miss a beat. “I’m a plant,” he said. “I’m spying for Reader’s Digest , collecting material on how The Chosen Ones live.”
    He reached and sampled one of Branko’s fries before continuing. “My assignment is to chronicle the rise of an entire generation devoid of ideology. You’ll all end up as characters in my first bad novel.”
    He raised his glass and gave a slight bow.
    “Pretty weak, Bonner,” Mickey said, moving to reclaim the lead. “Barry, you’re next. Your question is for Booth.”
    Booth was grinning, his thick red curls splayed in several directions. “Martin B., OK,” Barry hesitated. “Would you sell out your country for a million bucks, or—”
    “Or a babe!” Mickey added.
    “Yeah, a hot one,” Barry parroted.
    Booth pressed forward, ever earnest, struggling to play against type, emboldened by the whiskey shooters Mickey and Barry had been pushing. “I won’t need to. I will be Secretary of State, preaching democracy to the developing world, and bringing freedom to the godless Communists. Then I’ll step down and tour the nation giving inspirational speeches with Billy Graham.”
    “For a fee, of course,” Mickey interjected.
    “Of course. A big fee. I will have a limo and driver, and run diplomatic errands for the UN before I retire home to Iowa to raise thoroughbreds. I’ll be livin’ the dream, guys.”
    Next, Booth threw a lob to Rachel, something about describing “perfect foreplay.”
    “A kiss,” she offered, swigging her beer. “A good kiss.”
    But the boys leaned in, wanting more. “C’mon, girl,” Mickey demanded. “Give it up!”
    “It’s that simple. That’s all you need, really. A kiss that communicates. Mischief. Intimacy. Desire. An invitation to an unveiling.”
    Mickey let out a long whistle of admiration to break the awkward silence that followed. Rachel had captivated her male audience,