“That’s just a filler-type word, Larry. It’s the equivalent of our ‘mmhmm.’”

“I’m not judging, Dan. I’m just saying it offends me. I’m doing my best not to say ‘Chink,’ and this is how they repay me, by getting to say that?”

“Okay,” I say, “but to be fair, none of this is Mary’s fault.”

“It’s all part of my horrible China experience,” Larry says. “Plus which, I can’t get a word out of Mary about her family. I don’t know if they’re a bunch of opium addicts or what. And her health is iffy. Apparently she’s had swelling of the ankles for two years, but she won’t let me get anyone in the hospital to look at them. So what it all boils down to, I can’t trust my database of emotions anymore. You’re supposed to be my sous-chef or whatever the term is-what do you think?”

A pause while I get to watch Larry clean the inside of his ears with a piece of hardworking tissue paper before depositing it in the orangey remains of his McFish chowder. Motorcycles pass by on the street nine stories below, sounding like a parade of broken lawn mowers.

What I think is, Mary’s come back with a fan. Against all odds, she’s not carrying a vacuum cleaner trailing a river of lint, or a stovepipe ripped out of some peasant’s hut, or a diseased dachshund she’s planning to cook. She’s bringing in a real live fan, and she’s plugging it into a real live socket. That goes in the credit column. But what I also think is that there’s this thing Mary does with her mouth that’s not pretty, like she’s getting ready to spit pig’s knuckles out on a tablecloth. I also think that every time we’ve shared a taxi, she makes Larry slide across the backseat, instead of letting him sit where it’s easiest for him and going around herself to the opposite door. I also think that from the beginning she’s always gotten us lost in this, her country; that she smells like she’s been sneaking into Larry’s Aqua Velva aftershave; that she talks on the phone to people in low tones, and when, to be conversational, I ask what she’s talking about she says, “Talking bout.”

And she looks like she’s lying.

“Well?” Larry says.

Okay, what I really think is twofold. Number one, I think I ought to investigate candeyblossoms.com myself. Because in case Mary isn’t going to pan out, I could better advise Larry if I have a sense of the field out there.

Larry agrees. “Take it out for a spin. Try running Shi and see what you come up with. Just make sure you limit your search to ages twenty-five to thirty, or you’ll be completely overrun. Oh, and be advised that in their profiles read ‘mistakes’ as ‘kids.’ If they say they’ve made three mistakes in life: three kids.”

I log on. I’m not going to lead any of the women on or set up a date; that would be worse than viewing time-sharing solicitations solely to collect the free gifts. It’s unethical to waste people’s time. But there’s nothing wrong with swapping a little screen info for educational purposes, is there?

Then, with a click of the mouse, there they are-like when my childhood pet hamster produced babies-a sudden rush of vulnerable bodies: so many candey blossoms that they threaten to litter my hard drive. Is that what they are, these Third World brides, just so much helpless brood? Or are they sophisticated young ladies availing themselves of modern technology? It’s an exploitative situation to be sure, but don’t both parties get something out of the deal?

Enough so that it’s worth a try, I guess…

“Hi, Zhang,” I type. “Can you tell me a little more about yourself? Would you say you’re a giving person? Are you kind to those less fortunate than yourself? Have you ever had nursing experience? Hope to hear from you soon!”

I can’t bear to stay on longer than a few minutes but leave the Web site open on my laptop, like leaving a fishing line dangling in the water.

The other thing I think, number two, is that I should ask Jade about the trust issue. This is something I won’t tell Larry about-it would only launch us into a proxy war, Larry and I sparring through our women: Mary versus Jade in a mud-wrestling pit. So I say nothing, wait till I’m alone that evening, and make the call from the second floor, where the Badminton Boys are going at it with macho brilliance.

“So what’s your opinion of Mary’s employment history?” I ask Jade. I’ve reached her on her cell at a girlfriend’s harmonica recital, and she’s speaking in a hushed voice, as I am.

“I cannot say, really,” Jade says.

“I know, but do you think she’s capable of holding down any sort of school job at all?”

“Yes, a little unbelievable, I think. And to take so many days away to be with Larry? I have a bad feeling about that.”

“Me, too.”

“Good chance she is lying,” Jade says, becoming more direct. “Some Chinese ladies want to cheat money from foreign, it’s torrible. As women Chinese citizens, we lose our Chinese face. I want to say sorry for that.”

“Ah, well, it’s not your fault-”

“So I think I can spy for you,” she says quietly.

“Spy for me? You mean like bang, bang, your fantasy career?”

“I can try,” Jade says. “Be private eye, find out what I can about Mary. I will call her school and say I am poor student, looking to speak Mary to ask job.”

“You cauliflower!” I cry. “You’d do that for us? And what do you think about the phone bill she’s run up?”

“This you not tell me about yet.”

“Four hundred dollars from our suite, just for the past two weeks.”

I hear Jade suck back her teeth bubbles with a sharp intake of breath. “How big the bill is!” she exclaims. “She must be call at least two hour each day, maybe when Larry is snoring. Who she can call for? May be another man?”

Whoa, really? A plastic birdie ricochets off the wall onto my head. Handing it back to Abu with a wink gives me time to assess this suggestion. “Another man?”

“Such a bill is too big if you call your relative. Only to lover we say so many words. But this is only my guess, not a fact. We can ask hospital for detail of the bill, see which phone numbers?”

“Got it right here,” I say, scanning the bill quickly. “There’s one main number that keeps popping up, to 04317137130. Do you want to call the number and see-”

“-if she lying wholesale,” Jade completes my thought.

“Bang, bang!” I say. I’m thrilled to have my own personal spy but am held back by one qualm.

“Before we jump the gun, though, are we sure we want to intrude?” I ask. “I mean, maybe Mary will turn out to be okay even if she does have ulterior motives. People are complex! So what if she met him only to make a better life for herself? Isn’t that a legitimate thing to want to do, as long as she genuinely cares for my cousin, which she seems to do?”

“No,” Jade declares. “The large heart of Larry, she will hurt it, definitely I think.”

It couldn’t be any plainer. Maybe it’s time I stop giving everyone the benefit of the doubt and just accept that life is sometimes as clear-cut as a badminton game: The birdie lands either fair or foul.

“Well, anyway, your pronouns are coming along nicely,” I tell her.

“I am learning the difference between man and woman,” she says with a catch in her voice.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

And that’s all I say.

Later that night, just as I’m crawling onto my couch to sleep, there are three loud knocks. I open the door to Larry’s room. But the Larry-Mary conglomerate is fast asleep. I’m back on the couch twenty seconds later when there are another three knocks. It’s my laptop, receiving nibbles from the Web site I forgot I left open: instant chat invitations. Barbi is thirty, from the suburbs, drinks occasionally, smokes not at all. But huwwo, what’s this? Is that a whip she’s holding? No, a microphone cord. Sure enough, one of her passions is karaoke-not as piquant as S &M, perhaps, but I’m not privy to Larry’s requirements. KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK: My, my, now here’s ShiJen, a nimble little typist. Her messages come racing in one after the other. Insistent, too. “U there? U want talk? U busy chatting? U find someone else?” Then KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK: Messages from more women come tumbling in un-summoned, one on top of the last, no waiting in line but cutting in front of one another to pound the door down. KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK: It’s “Hiedi,” snuggling with about thirteen teddy bears. I decide not to care that she misspells her own name. KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK: It’s Kate with an eye patch, no stated religion. Her bio is rather touching in its brevity: “Well… jst simple lady hoping for love…jst ask me what u want to know…” KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-