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 greet 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.”
I wondered if a touch of squeamishness was why he wasn’t going into the family business.
“The doc needs to know everything,” Lucky said to him. “Any detail might be the key to the whole thing.”
“Uncle Lucky, there isn’t any ‘whole thing,’” said John. “All that happened—”
“I’m tellin’ it.”
John let out his breath, nodded, and fell silent again.
“A bloody head wound,” I said, digging into some spicy duck. “Was he attacked?”
“Nope. The medical examiner figures Benny got up from his desk without taking a bite of the cookie after he cracked it open. Maybe heading for the door. Anyhow, almost as soon as he got up, he tripped and fell. On the way down, he hit his head so hard on the corner of his desk that it killed him.”
“His secretary didn’t hear this?” I asked.
“Oh, she probably did,” Lucky replied. “She remembers a thud coming from inside his office a couple of hours before she and the missus found him. But it wasn’t that loud, and he didn’t call for her. She thought he just dropped something. Or threw something—I guess Benny had a temper on him.”
“He did,” said John.
“Oh, that poor young woman,” said Max. “It must torment her to imagine Mr. Yee lying there dying, while she sat on the other side of the door, unaware that anything was wrong.”
John shook his head as he said, “Benny died so fast, it wouldn’t have made a difference if she’d known and called for help.”
“Lucky, I’m not really seeing the connection,” I said. “Benny opens the fortune cookie. He sets it down. He gets up, he trips, he dies.” I shook my head. “The homicidal nature of the cookie isn’t apparent to me.”
John laughed at that. Lucky glared at him, then said impatiently to me, “The fortune cookie contained a death curse. Don’t you get it?”
“Hmm,” said Max.
I looked at John. “Do you think Benny was cursed with death?”
“No,” he said. “I think Uncle Lucky has been cooped up in here for too long, with too little to do besides worry.”
“That does sound plausible,” I said to Lucky.
He glared at me, then said grumpily to John, “So tell them your theory, Mr. PhD Candidate.”
“Okay.” John looked at me and Max. “Benny was the kind of guy you asked about when we were talking in the car, Esther. He was a bigshot in the Five Brothers tong and involved in plenty of stuff on the wrong side of the law. He had enemies.”
“And one of them,” Lucky said, “cursed him with death!”
“Hmm,” said Max.
“It’s John’s turn to tell the story,” I pointed out.
“Like a lot of older Chinese,” John continued, “Benny was superstitious. He was known for it, in fact. For example, he wouldn’t visit the fourth floor of any building, no matter how important a person or an appointment it might be.”
“Um, why?” I asked.
“Four is a bad-luck number,” John explained. “The Chinese word for it sounds like the word for ‘death.�
�� Sure, plenty of people think it’s inauspicious. But Benny had a real phobia about it. And that’s just one example.”
Realizing where John was going with this, I said, “So this very superstitious man who has a lot of enemies receives a mysterious gift, and when he cracks open the cookie, he reads a fortune there that curses him with death. And he panics?”
“Exactly. He drops the cookie and jumps out of his chair. Maybe he was just moved by agitation. Maybe he was headed for the door to tell his secretary they had to find out where the fortune cookie came from. Either way, he trips, falls, hits his head, and dies.” John shook his head. “I think it was a malicious prank, a practical joke that was intended to wind him up. To make Benny jumpy and skittish. But it had much worse consequences than the sender ever expected.”
“Hmm,” said Max.
“It might even have been sent by a friend or colleague,” said John.
“Not a very nice one,” I noted.
“I don’t think Benny hung out with nice people,” John replied. “Anyhow, there’s no trace of where the fortune cookie came from. And now that it has led to his death, no one will ever—”
“So it was really a misfortune cookie,” I said, thinking of Benny’s superstitions.
“You got it, kid. And ain’t nobody ever gonna admit to giving that misfortune cookie to Benny,” said Lucky. “That’s one thing John and I agree on, at least.”
“How did you guys find out about this?” I asked. “Did Mrs. Yee just blurt out the whole story when she was making funeral arrangements?”
“No, I heard it from Benny’s nephew,” said John. “He heard it from the widow.”
“And I eavesdropped.” Lucky shrugged. “I was bored. I really don’t have anything to do besides worry.”
“Why did the nephew tell you all this?” I asked John.
“I know the family,” he replied. “Ted and I grew up together, and Susan and I were in some undergrad classes together in college.”
“Who is Susan?”
“Ted’s sister,” he said. “And, of course, I’m helping with Ted’s film, so we see each other a lot these days.”
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