Free The Christmas Train by David Baldacci Page B

simply pick at the olive in his drink. After the fourth time he performed this maddening feat it was all Tom could do to keep from going over the table at the man.
    “Ginseng?” Sue said. “You mean the herb?”
    “Yes. Let me tell you why I’m asking.” He gave each a conspiratorial look and lowered his voice. “I met this woman. An Asian woman, or Oriental, or whatever the PC term is these days, I can never remember. I guess it’s not ‘slanty-eyes,’ is it?” he said, trying for humor and failing badly.
    “No, it’s not,” said Agnes Joe. “And please don’t go there. Tolerance and understanding of other cultures make for a peaceful world. On top of that, I have ancestors of Japanese descent.”
    Tom looked at the massive woman and wondered if she were actually carrying some of these ancestors on her person. And he noted that her vocabulary and diction had kicked up a notch too. What was that about?
    The fellow continued. “Right. Sorry, bad joke. Well, this woman, she seemed, you know, to be attracted to me. And I was definitely attracted to her. We went out for dinner one evening, and she brought up this ginseng thing. To make a long story short, she actually sent me some ginseng. I guess it was from China.”
    “Actually, ginseng is grown in Wisconsin,” said Sue, as she put even more butter on her roll, such that there was no longer any bread actually visible. “The soil is perfect for it.”
    Tom stared at her. The state of Wisconsin had perfect ginseng soil? This sounded crazy to him, but what did he know about it? Maybe the Green Bay Packers were all ginseng groupies.
    “Okay, Wisconsin,” the man said, “but the point is, she sent me this stuff, and I’m not sure what to do with it. I mean, do I cook it or drink it or what?”
    Tom said, “Just because she gave it to you doesn’t mean you have to use it.”
    “Well,” said the man, eyeing the ladies a little nervously, “I assume she gave it to me, you know, because it’s supposed to possess certain performance-enhancing attributes. At least that’s what she intimated. I should add that she’s much younger than me.”
    Tom began to realize where this was going when Agnes Joe said, “You mean so you can romp like a young stud in the sack with a woman half your age and not let her feel she’s cheating herself with some old bag of bones.”
    There was a long period of silence before the man finally said, “That’s sort of my point, yes.” And then he went back to massively sucking wind and picking at his pitted olives with renewed vigor.
    “I’d mash it up,” continued Agnes Joe as her gaze bored into the man, “and shoot it right into your veins with a hypodermic needle. Do it right before you get into bed, and then fly out of the bathroom, screaming and pounding your chest like Tarzan, and just jump her. I hear Asian women like that.”
    The man looked at Tom with wounded eyes, obviously seeking some gender support. Yet all Tom could offer was, “I heard that too... honeypie,” and then he swallowed his screwdriver in a mighty gulp.
    He ordered a glass of merlot as a chaser, then ate his meal, which was wonderful. He looked around the car and observed that at one table two Muslims and a man of Native American descent were engaged in animated conversation, a verbal sparring match. Each was smiling, so it seemed civil at least. At another table, a middle-aged and attractive African American woman was very obviously having the moves put on her by a young, handsome Korean man. She was deflecting his advances with good-natured banter, but Tom could tell that the woman was flattered. At yet another table, some businesspeople were supping with the Tarot card lady. She was examining their hands and even had her cards spread out in front of the remains of her Shenandoah Valley baked chicken. As she methodically forked the award-winning train cheesecake into her mouth, the corporate suits, their cell phones put away for now, were