The Misfortune Cookie: An Esther Diamond Novel

by Resnick, Laura

  Hey, you learn a lot about a people when you spend your whole life eating their food twice a week and every Christmas. Especially if your father is a history professor.

  Still making cautiously slow progress, the hearse turned once more, cruising down to the south side of Chinatown’s historic area and doubling back toward Mulberry and Mott, where they each came to a dead end in this tangle of old streets. I realized that the claustrophobic one-way traffic system of this neighborhood had forced John to bypass our destination and circle back around to it. He pulled into a parking garage and swiped a plastic key card through a machine at the entrance. A moment later, we were granted access to the garage, and John parked the hearse in a large ground floor space that was, I noticed, reserved for Chen’s Funeral Home.

  The penny dropped, as Ronnie Romano might say.

  “So this family business that Lucky is in with your father . . . It’s a funeral home?” As we all got out of the vehicle, I realized with consternation that John’s mode of transport had been a pretty big clue.

  “Yes.” He went around to the back of the hearse so he could let Nelli out. “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t make that clear.”

  “No need to apologize,” said Max. “The hearse was self-explanatory.”

  Indeed.

  It was starting to dawn on me how Lucky, while hiding from the cops, had uncovered disturbing information about the recent death of a Chinatown businessman. John’s family was obviously handling the funeral, in the business which they co-owned with their Uncle Lucky.

  “Okay, I think I’m caught up now,” I muttered.

  Having consumed most of the carry-out appetizers, I was still hugging the bag in my arms. I hoped we were headed some place comfortable enough for me to sit down and finish my dinner.

  Nelli leaped out of the hearse in a burst of energy and then gave herself a bracing little shake. She wagged her tail gaily as Max took her leash from John and we all headed toward the exit.

  “Are you a mortician?” I asked John curiously. I didn’t think I’d ever met one socially before.

  “No. I mean, I help out, of course. It’s the family business, after all. But I’m in grad school. Biochemistry. My older brother is the mortician. He’ll take over running the funeral home, when the time comes.”

  “In that case, your father must be pleased with both his sons.” One would be a scientist and the other would follow in the father’s footsteps. My own parents, who must often wonder if I was a changeling left for them by fairies with a malicious sense of humor, would be hard-pressed to hide their envy of the elder Mr. Chen.

  John grinned as he shook his head. “Chinese parents are never pleased with their kids, Esther.”

  “Well, then, that’s another bond between Jews and Chinese,” I replied, and he laughed.

  “Or if they’re pleased,” he added, “they don’t show it. That would never do, you know.”

  The sleet was turning to snow as we left the garage, so I pulled my hood over my head. As the wind whipped down the street, blowing damp flakes into my face, Max paused to settle his fur cap more firmly on his head. Nelli huddled close to him, clearly skeptical about the wisdom of venturing forth on foot in this weather.

  Following John’s lead, we started walking in the direction of Mulberry Street. I estimated that our destination, which must be close now, was roughly halfway between the Fifth Precinct house, which was the Chinatown police station, and One Police Plaza, which was just a few blocks from where we’d left the hearse. So Lucky must really trust the Chens. There were a lot of cops nearby, if the family happened to decide they didn’t really want a Gambello hitter hiding out here. Or if any of the Chens happened to be a little too loud or indiscreet, unable to resist gossiping about the notorious mobster hiding out with them.

  Thanks to my recent memories of being arrested and incarcerated, I also wasn’t thrilled to see how close we were to the immense, ugly façade of Manhattan Central Booking, where a lot of people were probably having a grim night. I always thought that building’s architect must have been a huge fan of Stalin and Mao; the place had that sort of look. Feeling a little spooked as I glimpsed that stark edifice looming ominously over Columbus Park by night, I reminded myself that I was a free woman—and would remain so, thanks to Lopez making a mess of the procedure after arresting me.

  Thinking of him made me start wondering where he was now, and whether he . . .

  No, stop there. Stop right there.

  “We’re almost there,” said John, startling me.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s just ahead.” He was squinting against the snowflakes flying into his eyes. They clumped on his dark lashes.

  Max and I looked in the direction he was pointing. It was a turn-of-the-century building, crowded between others, with an elaborate Italian façade: thick marble pillars framed the doorway, above which there was an elaborate relief sculpture of trumpeting cherubim being blessed by a plump angel, surrounded by flowers, vines, and leaves. On a less profusely decorated portion of the building, swooping gold letters identified the place as Antonelli’s Funeral Home.

  “That’s a Chinese funeral home?” Max asked doubtfully.

  “It’s the Italian side of the business,” John said. “This used to be Little Italy.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “Of course.”

  The magnificently restored Eldridge Street Synagogue is now in Chinatown, on a street that was in the heart of the Jewish Lower East Side back when the synagogue was built in the 1880s. (I like their annual Egg Rolls and Egg Creams festival.) The oldest Jewish cemetery in the city, Shearith Israel, which dated back to Max’s childhood, was just a short distance on foot from this spot. And the Church of the Transfiguration, smack in the center of Chinatown’s historic district, had originally been Irish, then later Italian. Now Chinese Christians worshipped there, with services in English, Mandarin, and Cantonese.

  So finding a funeral home in Chinatown that looked like it belonged in Naples wasn’t that surprising. Layer upon layer of living history survived in these streets.

  John made what looked like a time-out gesture with his gloved hands. I realized a moment later he was giving us an illustration, when he said, “It’s an L-shaped building. You just can’t tell from here, because the other buildings are all crowding around it. You’ll see after we’re inside. The Chinese half of the business—Chen’s Funeral Home—opens on another street. All the bodies get processed in the middle.”

  Which went a little way toward explaining how Lucky Battistuzzi wound up in business with a Chinese funeral parlor.

  “Actually, these days, we do more Chinese funerals than Italian ones on this side of the building, too,” said John as we approached the door. “Things are slow tonight—Benny Yee is our only customer. But when it’s busy, we use both sides of the building for Chinese. We keep it looking Italian, though, or otherwise we’d lose all our white customers.”

  He opened the door, and we scuttled inside, grateful to escape from the weather. We entered a grand old foyer with marble floors, paneled walls, traditional art, several elaborate chairs, and two enormous vases positioned on either side of a large gold-framed mirror. Our footsteps echoed in the silent hall as we passed several closed doors. Max, Nelli, and I were following John, who led the way to the back of the building and through a door which he unlocked for us. The décor on the other side of that door was contemporary and utilitarian, dramatically different from the Italianate hall we had just passed through. These were obviously the offices and working rooms of the business.

  “Uncle Lucky?” John called softly.

  “In here!” responded a familiar voice.

  John gestured for us to precede him. We entered a room that had a couple of desks and computer monitors, a lot of standard office equipment, paperwork, and file folders—and an old mobster who was rising from one of the chairs to gr
eet us.

  “Lucky!” Relieved to see him, I gave him a big hug.

  “Hey, you’re all wet,” he said to me. “Is it stinkin’ rotten out there tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  He shook hands heartily with Max, then greeted Nelli. Lucky was a favorite of hers, so she was delighted by this unexpected surprise and barreled violently into him, panting, whining, and hopping up and down in her excitement. Her long, thick, bony tail wagged back and forth furiously, its whiplash motion threatening the safety of everyone (and everything) in the room. John cried out in pain and staggered away from her after this menacing appendage struck him in the leg.

  “All right, calm down,” Lucky said to the dog. “You’re hurting people.”

  “I’ll go get a couple more chairs.” John limped out of the room.

  I set my brown bag down on one of the desks. “Lucky, you’re really part-owner of a funeral business? I mean, you’ve actually got a perfectly legitimate business interest?” I had never expected this.

  “I inherited it from my mother’s brother,” he said. “He was never involved in any Gambello business. Running a funeral home, though, he turned a good profit from some of our work.”

  “No doubt,” I said.

  “And straight away after this place come down to me,” he continued, “I put it in my daughter’s name. Her married name.”

  “So you don’t think the cops or the FBI know about your connection with it?” I asked as Max helped me off with my coat.

  “I don’t think so . . .”

  He didn’t sound very sure, but instead of questioning him about that, I asked curiously, “How did your family get into business with the Chens?”

  “My uncle brought old Mr. Chen into the funeral business after that guy saved his life by pulling him out of a burning car one night right after an accident on Canal Street.”

  “Good heavens!” Max looked at me. “Speed kills, Esther.”

  “That kinda thing creates a bond.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said.

  “Those two guys was in business together for forty years. Italian funerals on one side, Chinese on the other, and their partnership was always as smooth as glass.” Lucky continued, “My uncle didn’t have any kids, so I was kinda like a son to him. Which is why he left me the business. Anyhow, I don’t advertise my association with the Chens, since I got complications in my life that my uncle never liked and the Chens don’t need, but we’ve always been able to count on each other.”

  As Lucky finished his story, John returned to the room, carrying a couple of folding chairs. While he set them up, he said, “That’s for sure. When my mom died suddenly fifteen years ago and my dad was devastated, Uncle Lucky took care of everything. Looked after me and my brother . . . Looked after my dad, really. He was the rock in our lives when we needed it.”

  “Oh, my dear fellow,” Max said, obviously moved.

  “Whatever,” Lucky said gruffly. He noticed the carry-out bag and asked me, “Hey, did you bring dinner?”

  “Yes!” I was ready to get this party started. “Have you got plates and forks?”

  “You really want to eat in a funeral home, kid?” Lucky asked me doubtfully. “There’s a dead guy lying in his coffin just across—”

  “You’ve been eating here, haven’t you?” I said dismissively as I began unpacking what was left of the food. I assumed he had been stuck inside this building ever since escaping the bust at Bella Stella.

  “Sensitive, but not squeamish,” the old gangster said with a grin. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

  “My dad’s got stuff here for when things are so busy he has to eat at his desk.” John opened a cupboard and pulled out some paper plates and napkins, plastic forks, and a few bottles of water.

  As we all sat down at the desks to eat, Lucky said to me, “So, kid, did you really clobber a couple of cops during the arrest at Stella’s? Including your boyfriend?”

  “Lopez is not my boyfriend,” I said, shoveling rice onto my paper plate. “I did hit him, though.”

  “Hmm.” Max frowned. “Actually, Esther, I’m still puzzled about why you struck Detective Lopez. Perhaps I’ve missed some key aspect of the stor—”

  “How do you know what happened during the bust?” I asked Lucky quickly. “I assumed you got yourself out of there as soon as you realized that the NYPD had just stampeded through the door.”

  “You bet I did,” said Lucky as he accepted a container of roast pork and vegetables from John. “But I’ve got my sources. I can’t stand going five days without any news at all. I been trying to find out how bad the damage to the family is and how much worse it’s gonna get.”

  “I’ve been reading the papers,” I said, “in case your name appeared.” I passed the spicy duck along to Max.

  “OCCB executed a search warrant on the boss’ home in the middle of the night,” said Lucky, “but they didn’t find nothing. He’s a careful man, after all. And he still ain’t been arrested, so maybe they just can’t get him.”

  “At least, not until someone who has been arrested decides to cut a deal and turn state’s evidence,” I said.

  “Hmph. We don’t need that kinda talk at dinner.” Lucky spoke sternly and dug into his meal with a scowl.

  Nelli was watching us with riveted attention, but Max—who otherwise tended to spoil her—had established a strict rule against begging at the table. So she was lying by the door, occasionally cocking her head alertly, as if hearing something interesting. I supposed her enormous ears could detect a few sounds from Benny Yee’s wake. Which reminded me . . .

  “So Lucky, what was the meaning of your note?” It had sounded serious. And talking about it would take his mind off the Gambello family’s problems.

  “Ah, yes! I am most intrigued,” said Max. “I deduce that you believe Mr. Benny Yee has been murdered by mystical means?”

  Lucky set down his plastic fork and nodded. “You bet. I think Benny Yee was killed by a fortune cookie!”

  6

  Tong

  “Let me get this straight,” I said to Lucky. “You think Yee was murdered by a cookie?”

  “No.” Lucky gave me an impatient look. “A fortune cookie.”

  “Oh. Well that makes all the difference,” I said. “I stand corrected.”

  “A fortune,” Lucky said. “The piece of paper inside the cookie. That’s what killed him!”

  “Hmm. What leads you to believe this?” asked Max.

  “It had a death curse on it,” said Lucky.

  “Interesting,” said Max.

  “A death curse? In a fortune cookie?” I frowned. “Seriously?”

  Lucky nudged John, who was eating shrimp with garlic sauce. “Tell them.”

  John nodded. “It was a death curse. That part is true.”

  “What do you mean that part?” Lucky snapped.

  “Wait.” Max held up an admonishing finger. “Someone please begin at the beginning.”

  John started to speak, but Lucky scowled at him and said, “I’ll tell it.”

  John nodded and went back to eating.

  “Benny Yee, who’s a capo in the Five Brothers tong—”

  “They don’t call them capos, do they?” I interrupted.

  “No,” said John, without looking up from his plate.

  “Esther, please, let’s not interrupt unless we must,” said Max.

  “Sorry.”

  “Three days ago,” Lucky continued, “Benny Yee receives this elaborate fortune cookie at his office. One of them gourmet things. It’s kinda big, drizzled with dark chocolate, wrapped in see-through silver cellophane. Very fancy. It was left on his secretary’s desk while she was down the hall for a couple of minutes. She thinks there was a card with Benny’s name on it, but no one could find it later.”

  I
spooned some roast pork onto my rice and then kept eating. It was amazing how much better lots of good food was making me feel about my prospects in life.

  “So Benny takes the cookie into his office, where he’s planning to spend the rest of the day working, and closes the door. And I guess he got a little hungry, because he broke open the cookie. To eat it, we figure.”

  Since Lucky seemed to be awaiting a response, I said, “Uh-huh.”

  “Later that day, his wife shows up by surprise. Some excuse about showing him her new hairdo. But word on the street is that she thinks Benny’s having an affair with someone and plans to catch him at it.”

  “Was he having an affair?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” said John with an emphatic nod. “With his secretary, in fact. And he wasn’t discreet. His wife is probably the only person in Chinatown who hasn’t seen him pawing her.”

  “But on this occasion, when the wife arrives, Benny’s alone in his office, and the secretary’s getting ready to leave for an appointment with Benny’s lawyer, who’s helping her fix a prostitution rap,” Lucky added. “She was on the game before Benny gave her a job in his office. Benny’s been getting that all straightened out for her.”

  “In other words, she’s got no motive to kill Benny, and several reasons to keep him alive.” Presumably Mrs. Yee wasn’t going to keep paying the secretary’s legal fees now that Benny was dead, even if she didn’t know about the affair.

  Lucky nodded and continued, “But Benny doesn’t answer when his secretary buzzes him to say his wife’s here. So his wife knocks on the closed door. Still no answer from Benny. So the two women go in—and Benny’s lying there, dead on the floor, with the broken fortune cookie sitting on his desk. His head’s split open and there’s blood everywhere.”

  John set down his fork. “I didn’t know we were going to go into this much detail.”