“Can you say it in English?”
Chef Pao made a fatigued, English-take-too-much-work face.
“Zài chúfáng.”
“I got an app on my phone, it’ll transl—”
“Zài chúfáng.”
Maybe this was a confession: a little “deathbed repentance” before meeting Saint Peter or Confucius or Buddha or whoever was waiting for him at the pearly gates.
“Zài chúfáng,” she repeated.
Chef Pao gave Zoey’s fingers an encouraging squeeze. “Kǒnghòlì.”
Zoey said it back. “Kong…ho…?”
“Kǒng. Hò. Lì.”
“Kong holy?”
“Kǒng hò lì.”
“Kǒng hò lì?”
Chef Pao released Zoey’s fingers. He closed his eyes. His head sank into his pillow.
“What’s it mean?” Zoey said.
Chef Pao was still.
Zoey walked out of the hospital room. She didn’t know what to make of the encounter. All she could think was, Láo shǔ zài chúfáng. Kǒng hò lì.
Whatever that meant.
At eight-ish a.m., Zoey wandered back to room 304. The bathroom door was closed. She heard a running faucet and Dallin beatboxing while he washed his hands. Dallin’s mom had arrived at five-ish a.m., but she was gone now. Stepped out for breakfast, probably.
Zoey plopped down onto the armchair next to the bed. At the foot of the bed sat a box of Kings County Jerky: Grass-Fed Original. Tied to the box was a ribbon attached to a shiny helium balloon with a football helmet on it.
While Dallin washed and beatboxed in the bathroom, Zoey took out her phone, put it on speaker, and said, “What does ‘láo shǔ zài chúfáng’ mean?”
A woman’s robot voice replied, “Book in kitchen.”
Either Chef Pao was delirious or Zoey had pronounced it wrong. She tried again. “What does ‘láo…’” Up on the a. “‘…shǔ …’” Down and up on the u. “‘…zài…’” Down on the a. “‘…chúfáng…’” Up on the u, up on the a. “…mean?”
The reply: “Rat in kitchen.”
So New Shanghai had a rat problem? Rat germs could certainly make an entire kitchen staff sick. Or was “rat in kitchen” a reference to a traitor in his midst? Someone close. Someone he trusted. A friend turned saboteur.
In either case, what did Zoey have to do with it? Why had Chef Pao made such an effort to tell her about it?
“What does ‘kong ho li’ mean?”
The reply: “Empty hole E.”
Meaningless.
She tried again. “What does ‘kǒng hò lì’ mean?”
The reply: “Oh intimidation in.”
“Thanks for nothing.” She put her phone in her skirt pocket, attributing the meaningless message to sick delirium.
Dallin came out of the bathroom, wearing a hospital robe over his dirty clothes. He stopped beatboxing.
“How’s your head?” Zoey said.
“Awesome,” Dallin said, giving two thumbs up. “Coach came while you were gone. He brought me jerky and a balloon. Did you see?”
“Yep.” They were the focal point of the room. How could she not have seen?
Dallin walked back to the bed, a spring in his step. “Coach heard about how I busted down the door last night in Trolley Three. He said I’m a hurricane. He’s gonna start me at our next scrimmage, play me the whole game.”
“Awesome. When is it?”
“Wednesday, seven p.m., at Everett.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to eat meat loaf.”
“Suh-weet.”
“Unless I’m in prison,” Zoey added. She still had a gazillion dollars of property damage to answer for, as well as possible criminal charges. The phrases “criminal negligence” and “attempted vehicular manslaughter” knocked around in her head.
Dallin sat down on the bed. He lifted the lid from the Kings County Jerky box. “Dude, Z, did you swipe my jerky?”
“No.”
“Someone opened the bag and took some.”
“Maybe it was your coach.”
“It was closed when he left. I checked.”
“Your mom?”
“She left before coach came.”
“Maybe a nurse did it.”
“Nurses don’t steal jerky.”
“Don’t look at me. I don’t even like jerky.”
“Well, the jerky didn’t steal itself.”
WHAM.
Zoey bound to her feet. “Say that again.”
“The…jerky didn’t steal itself?”
Zoey closed her eyes and held her fingers to her temples. The events of the previous four weeks raced through her mind like a filmstrip on high speed. She observed every moment, every step, every glance, every word. She gathered a phrase here, a silhouette there. A stutter. A scowl. A rat skull. An empty shelf. An invitation. Chopsticks. A ponytail. A coincidence.
And then, like a key in a lock, everything clicked.
“Say ‘kung ho li’ ten times fast.”
“We’re not talking about my jerky anymore, are we?”
Zoey clasped Dallin’s face in her hands and planted a big kiss on the top of his head. “I’ll see you at your scrimmage.” She dashed out of the room.
Racing down the hallway, toward the elevators, she whipped out her phone and made a call. He answered on the fourth ring.
“Knuckles, where are you?”
“I’m, uh, let’s see…” Static. Rustling. Wood legs sliding across a concrete floor. “…under a table, looks like.”
“You’re with the Night Owls, aren’t you?”
“Uh, hold on.” More rustling. “Monk? Four? Other ones?” More rustling. “They mussa took off after the brawl.”
“You got in a fight?”
“Relax. We were on th’ same team. Fat Jo’s got a wicked left hook. It’s the drummin’, I reckon.”
“I’m sorry I asked. Where are my trolleys?”
“At Hog Vomit.”
“Meet me there in thirty minutes.”
“I don’t wanna m—”
“Knuckles.”
Rustling. Grunting. Boots on broken glass. “See you in thirty.”
“In here,” Zoey said, leading Knuckles into Trolley 3. Jagged pillars of dusty sunlight stabbed through the cracks and holes in the windows. Stepping over dried stains on the floor, Zoey couldn’t tell if they’d come from spilled food, spilled drinks, or spilled blood.
Arriving at the emergency-brake room, she stooped down to inspect the door frame. Crusty gray goop, bumpy to the touch, caked the inner panels. “Is this…?”
“Cement,” Knuckles said. “Chef Pao musta snuck in here yesterday and sealed the door to the frame. Tha’s why the door wouldn’t budge.”
“You’re half-right,” Zoey said, brushing flakes of dry cement off her fingers. “Wait a minute. You were in the trolleys yesterday. How did someone sneak on board without you knowing?”
Knuckles plunged his meaty hands into his jeans pockets and looked down at his big black boots. “I mighta, kinda sorta, stepped out fer a bit.”
“You what?”
“I got hungry, walked down t’ the Chevron station, bought a corn dog and Skittles.”
“What kind of Skittles?”
“Wild Berry.”
“I love that kind.”
“They’re tangy.” Knuckles scratched his hairy chin. “I was gone twenty minutes. The meddler musta been watchin’, waitin’ fer the right moment.”
“Fifty bucks says he tampered with the brakes and gears too.”
Outside again, Knuckles lay down on his stomach and crawled under Trolley 1. “Don’t bump yer head.”
Zoey got down on her hands and knees and followed Knuckles under the trolley. The dirt was damp and ashy. The air stunk of burnt oil and rust-bitten metal.
Knuckles rolled onto his back. He pointed up at a white tube that ran the length of the underc
arriage. “See this tube? It’s the brake line. It’s been slit open witta knife. Last night, we had enuff juice in the line t’make the brakes work fer a half hour or so. Once the juice drained out, the brakes went dead and we were in trouble.”
He pointed above his head at an elaborate system of metal arms and hooks. “See these gears here? They connect to the levers in the driver’s box.” Propping himself up on one elbow, he reached up into the metal maze. “I feel sumthin’. It’s lodged up in there real good.”
Knuckles bit his lower lip as he tugged on whatever object was lodged inside the gear system. Snap! Knuckles withdrew a long black rod, the ends of which had broken off.
“This explains a lot,” Knuckles said. “The meddler placed this rod in such a way that it wouldn’t jam till I shifted tuh third gear. Tha’s why the gears didn’t jam at first. I hadn’t gone above second.”
Knuckles looked up. His eyes fixed on something. “Is that…? Hold on a sec.” He reached up into the gear system. He arched his back and rotated his arm. “Almost…got it…”
Clank! Ping!
Knuckles lowered his arm, clutching an object in his burly fist. He reached toward Zoey and uncurled his fingers. “Recognize this?”
In Knuckles’s greasy palm lay a gold lion’s head, four inches tall, its jaws open in a silent roar.
La Cucina di Cannoli was a media circus. A gaggle of cameramen and reporters faced a square table at the center of the dining parlor. At this table sat Chef Cannoli, bright-eyed and clean-shaven, dressed in his finest kitchen whites. The other tables and chairs had been moved to the back of the parlor so nothing could stand or sit between Cannoli and his press.
Zoey stood by the front doors, next to the empty umbrella stand. Through a gap between two brunette reporters, both of whom needed more fat in their diets, Zoey could see Chef Cannoli, his hands clasped on the tabletop, a genial smile on his tan face. He appeared so pleasant and harmless that Zoey nearly forgot—and had to remind herself—what he really was:
A cheat. A betrayer. Unworthy of the title “Chef.” He almost killed me. My family. My best friend. My customers. He destroyed my restaurant. He cremated my professional reputation. He caused zillions of dollars of damage to this beautiful city. And for what? His name on a trophy.
A reporter said, “Chef Cannoli, you’ve been nominated for the Golden Toque many times, but never won. After all these years, how does it feel to finally come out on top?”
A dozen cameras and microphones tipped in Cannoli’s direction.
Cannoli placed his hand on his heart. “I cook for to give the happiness to the people, not for to win the awards. The Golden Toque belongs to the people as much as it belongs to me.”
The reporters responded with looks of admiration. Zoey fought the urge to vomit.
Another reporter said, “What was the secret to this year’s victory?”
Zoey wanted to blurt out, “Malice and subterfuge!” but she held her tongue.
“I have an angel watching over of me.” Cannoli blew a kiss heavenward. “Questo è per te, la nonna.”
The reporter sighed in an ahhh-how-cute sort of way. (If you’ve ever been to a baby shower, you’ve heard it. A lot.)
Another reporter said, “Chef Cannoli, your critics say the only reason you won this year is because Chef Pao and Chef Zoey were disqualified. Your response?”
Hot fury flashed in Cannoli’s dark eyes. The flash was so subtle, so quick, that Zoey wondered if anyone else had seen it. Probably not.
“I no can speak for other chefs. I cook hard. I win award. If other chefs get the disqualified, no is fault of mine.”
Zoey clapped both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming.
The press conference ended. Reporters traded microphones for lattes and cell phones. Cameramen packed up cameras and rounded up cables. None of them appeared to be in a hurry to leave. Good thing too.
Cannoli remained at the table, looking chipper and bright-eyed, advertising his availability for a one-on-one interview, should any reporters want one.
Don’t mind if I do, Zoey thought, slipping through the media throng like a snake through a pumpkin patch.
When Cannoli saw her, he froze.
“Congratulations. The best chef won.” Her voice sounded hard and cold. She would have to dial up the cheer, a lot, or this would never work.
“Bambina, what pleasant surprise is this.”
His voice was level, cautious. He was too guarded. Zoey had to loosen him up. She tried looking him in the eyes. She couldn’t. It was like looking at Judas Iscariot.
Which gave her an idea.
Planting her fingertips on the table, she leaned forward, lowered her lips to Chef Cannoli’s cheek, and gave him a brisk, Italian-style hello kiss.
Drawing back to her side of the table, she watched the apprehension evaporate from Cannoli’s jaw, neck, and shoulders. The tactic had worked. He thought she didn’t know.
Cannoli reached forward and took Zoey’s hand. (The nerve!) “Bambina, when I learned of your accident I had so much the sadness for you. Are you okay?”
“We’ll see.” Zoey withdrew her hand. She reached into her purse, took out a white container about the size of a ring box. She lifted the lid, revealing a mini-cupcake with fluffy red frosting and white sprinkles. The cupcake was the size of a golf ball or donut hole. Bite-size. As much frosting as cake.
“I made this for you.” Zoey placed the open box on the table. “It’s a congratulations gift.”
Cannoli slid the box to the side of the table. “Grazie. I put this in the fridge for to eat tonight.”
Zoey slid the box back to the center of the table. “I prefer you eat it now.”
Cannoli’s eyes narrowed.
Uh-oh. Too eager? Did I tip my hand?
“I prefer it to eat later.”
“Just one bite.”
“After lunch, perhaps.”
“Eat it.”
“No.”
Zoey heard the front doors open and close. She turned, looked. Two reporters had exited. More were on their way.
Zoey had one card left to play. The compassion card. She could only hope that somewhere inside Cannoli, beneath the greed and pride and ruthlessness, existed a teaspoon of compassion.
“I lost everything last night,” Zoey said. “I’m bankrupt and jail-bound, and I’ll never cook professionally again. I need to know that someone in this city still appreciates my cooking. Please, one bite.”
Cannoli’s face softened. Zoey saw sorrow in his eyes. Real sorrow, like the gravity of what he’d done was at last sinking in. “I suppose one bite won’t give me the hurt.” Cannoli picked up the cupcake….
Attaboy.
He unwrapped the pleated cup….
Good.
He placed the cup inside the box….
Keep going.
He opened his mouth….
Almost there.
He raised the cupcake to his lips….
Yes. Yes.
He put the cupcake in—
“Chef, phone call.” Panzanella appeared at the table, pretty as ever, her waist-length black hair swaying like a curtain by an open window. “It’s Taste of Italy. They want an interview.”
“Ah!” Chef Cannoli set down the cupcake without taking a bite. He accepted the phone. “Ciao?”
Zoey clenched her hands in her lap, resisting urges to chew her nails or claw her seat. I am not loving Taste of Italy right now.
Cannoli leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Gli americani non possono cucinare,” he said with a laugh.
The front doors opened and closed again: the sound of more newspeople leaving the restaurant. The window of opportunity was closing. Fast.
The time for subtlety had passed.
Zoey reached into her pocket, took out the gold lion’s head from Cannoli’s busted cane, and placed it on the center of the table. This got Cannoli’s attention.
“Hang up,” Zoey said.
&n
bsp; Cannoli obeyed. “How did you…?”
He reached for the statuette. Zoey snatched it away before he could.
“A trade,” Zoey said. “I give you the statuette. You eat my cupcake.”
Cannoli balked. “Is poison.”
“I assure you it’s not,” Zoey said. “This ain’t New Shanghai, and I ain’t you.”
Cannoli’s eyes darted left, then right, then: “Give it to me the lion head.”
“No.”
“I have a gun.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Is under the table, in my right hand, has the aim at you. Give it to me the lion head and no one gets the hurt.”
“We gonna trade or not?”
Cannoli clapped his hands on the table and twiddled his thumbs. (Surprise. No gun.) He weighed his options, then, “Yes, we make the trade.”
“You first,” Zoey said.
Cannoli was leery. “How do I know you will give it to me the lion head if I eat this cupcake?”
“I can show the press now if you’d like.”
Cannoli picked up the cupcake. He smelled it, dabbed the frosting with his tongue. It must’ve smelled and tasted fine, because he popped it into his mouth. He held out his hand.
“Not until you swallow,” Zoey said.
Cannoli chewed, and chewed, and swallowed.
Let the showdown begin.
Zoey set the lion’s head figurine on the table. She didn’t need it anymore.
With quick hands, Cannoli swiped the statuette and hid it in his pants pocket. “Get out.”
“I will soon enough.”
Cannoli titled his head to one side, wincing. “Something is…” He rubbed his throat. “…ferito…” He rubbed his palm across his forehead, raking away a layer of sweat. “Panzanella?”
The pretty server appeared at his side. Cannoli handed her the phone, saying, “Acqua con ghiaccio. Fretta.”
“Sì, Chef.” Panzanella dashed off to the kitchen.
Zoey said, “Ice water? That’s your plan?”
Cannoli said, “Hot peppers, that is your plan?”
“Not exactly,” Zoey said.
Panzanella emerged from the kitchen with a glass of ice water. Cannoli gulped it down. He waited.
Panzanella took back the glass. “Bene…?”
The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops Page 16