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of Santa Monica’s favorite restaurant, Fox on Main, was in charge of this dinner. His restaurant catered many of the hottest parties on the west side of town. Freddie was doing what I usually did in the middle of major catering jobs—tasting and laughing and joking around. I felt a pang of something like envy.
    â€œSo you brought out your boiler for the crawfish?”
    â€œBut of course,” he said, smiling. “We are doing my famous étoufée , darlin’.”
    Freddie kissed my cheek, and then stood back, holding me out at arm’s length. “You are not dressed for cooking tonight, baby. You are dressed to kill.”
    â€œTonight I’m a civilian. But tell me…” I peered into one of the large tubs behind the boiling station. Live crawfish for days! “How many pounds total? A thousand?”
    â€œA thousand pounds, live. On the dot. How do you do that?” Freddie asked, smiling widely. “Flown in a few hours ago.”
    I could barely hear Freddie. Not far off, a droning roar like the unmuffled scream of a dirt bike engine whined from beyond the far end of the tent. I looked up, startled. Through an opening at the back, I could see apowerfully built man, shirtless, wielding a chainsaw. He was standing in the loading dock carving a five-foot-high ice sculpture of a rhino. Each time the jittering saw blade bit into the 300-pound block of ice, the pitch of the aggressive buzz changed.
    I stood watching. The quivering blade kissed ice once more, gouging out the area under one perfectly formed tusk, and then the man looked up. The dark, intense eyes of a power chainsaw freak met mine.
    â€œHe’s Ethiopian,” Freddie Fox commented. “Or South African. Anyway, he’s a brother.” He smiled.
    The iceman, muscled chest wet with sweat, stood out in the night under a lamp, breathing hard. He pulled his saw from the sculpture in progress and let it rev noisily in the air, his gaze still on me.
    â€œHe’s wild,” I said.
    Freddie snorted. “We’re all wild in here, take a look.”
    Three men, young and Hispanic, moved closer and began to lift the first large tub teaming with seafood. Their joking Spanish stopped for a moment as they heaved the tub up and began to tip nearly 200 pounds of crawfish into the boiling water in the trough. There was practically no backsplash. Pros.
    â€œSo,” Freddie said, leading me to a quieter corner. “Are you here to look us over? From what I hear, you’ll be running Vivian’s business pretty soon.”
    â€œIs that right? And when will I be elected Queen of the May?”
    â€œJust give me a call and I’ll set up a demo dinner for you,” Freddie continued. “We’ll have fun. Now that you’re giving up catering, we can work together on weddings. Cool, huh?” My former competitor’s eyes gleamed.
    Cool? I was about to answer when a shout from the back of the tent called Freddie away to make some critical decision about the balsamic vinegar and whether or not it was the same brand he had ordered.
    â€œGotta get this,” he said, turning to take over that debate. “Call me.”
    â€œWhere is Vivian, do you know?” I had my own crisis to solve.
    â€œI saw her about ten minutes ago with her old man,” Freddie said, happy to pass on one last comment. “Whoeee. Man, she was brutal.” He put his hand up and rubbed his short, black hair under a navy Negro League baseball cap. “Now I know Vivian is loaded, but no man should take that abuse. Know what I’m saying?”
    I stopped backing out of the room. “Vivian is what?”
    Freddie chuckled. “She’s worth millions, they say. Shit, she don’t have to do any of these damn wedding gigs. But, shi-i-it…” He walked back to me, lowering his voice, forgetting his balsamic worries for a second, “I would sooner be kicked in the groin than be