The Misfortune Cookie

16 Die, dead, death, condemned to die

As soon as Max saw the decorative fortune cookie in my hands, he understood why I had come to the bookstore at night, without warning, shivering in my slutty red dress and go-go boots.

(Well, okay, maybe my costume puzzled him; but he instantly comprehended the rest of the situation.)

My hands were shaking with nerves. Which made even me more nervous, lest I drop the cookie and wind up inadvertently killing Lopez or myself—take your pick.

I was glad Nelli was at the funeral home with Lucky, rather than here. Her usual friendly greeting would have put Lopez’s life at risk. Or mine.

“M—M—Max,” I said, my teeth chattering as he opened the door of the shop for me, so that I could enter while securely holding this thing with both my hands. “Coo—coo-coo—”

“A misfortune cookie. Yes, I see it. Come inside!” After he closed the door behind me, he said, “Where did you . . . Er, perhaps you should hand it over to me, Esther.”

I was still shaking like a leaf in the wind. My fingers were curled convulsively around the cellophane wrapper that contained the cookie, squeezing the slippery material so hard I was losing feeling in my hands. I was so terrified of dropping the thing, which I had brought here by taxi (also a terrifying experience) that I couldn’t seem to relax my grip.

“Lo—Lo—Lo . . .”

“Lo mein? Lower Manhattan? Lone cookie?”

“Lop . . . ez . . .”

Max’s blue eyes widened. “This cookie was intended for Detective Lopez?”

I nodded. I took a few panting breaths, trying to steady my nerves and make my teeth stop chattering. “Found in his car.”

“Esther,” Max said firmly, “you’re overwrought. You need to give me the cookie.”

“Someone’s trying to kill him, Max!” I wailed.

“Esther,” he said sharply, “give me the cookie.”

I surprised myself with a hiccup . . . then took a long, slow, deep breath and forced myself to release the cookie to Max.

He took it from me gently, carried it slowly through the shop, and set it down on the large old walnut table where he often studied his musty tomes or did his bookkeeping.

“Well done,” he said. “Well done, indeed, Esther. I can only imagine how emotionally fraught your journey here was.”

“Destroy it,” I said vehemently. “Destroy it right now, Max. Someone is trying to kill Lopez!”

“Yes, we must dispose immediately of the cookie. Then we can confer.”

When he picked up a cocktail shaker, I snapped, “For God’s sake, Max, this is no time to mix a drink! Lopez’s life is at stake!”

“No, no, this is the means of disposal,” he said soothingly.

I blinked. “A cocktail shaker?”

“It’s made of silver and it contains liquid. Those are the two requirements of the vessel I need for this ritual.”

“Oh. I see.”

I sat down quite suddenly. It was unfortunate that there was no chair beneath me.

“Esther!”

“I’m all right,” I said, lying there winded, sprawled on the floor. “A little bruised, but . . . I think I’m going to stay here for a moment. While you . . . you know . . . destroy that cookie.”

Upon seeing the cookie in Lopez’s car, all I could think was, Someone’s trying to kill him! Someone’s trying to kill him!

And right when I had finally decided not to kill him, too.

Nothing mattered but saving his life. Without hesitation, I had picked up a heavy iron doorstop I found sitting outside a darkened shop door, smashed one of the windows of Lopez’s car, and seized the cookie.

His car alarm was shrieking as I walked away. Moving carefully, with the cookie held carefully in both hands, I went in search of a taxi. I only realized now, in the safety of Max’s place, how lucky it was that no one had grabbed or tackled me. Chinatown was so crowded, there must have been witnesses to my smash and grab.

I sat on the floor now, huddled in my coat, recovering from the cold night but still shaking with emotion as I realized how close Lopez had just come to death. My God, what if I had gotten in the car? What if I had sat on that cookie?

Or what if we hadn’t made up and decided to go to dinner together? What if he had driven off alone, with his death curse sitting on the seat beside him, waiting to be activated? I would never have known, until after it was too late . . .

Even though my stomach was empty, nausea welled up inside me and I felt like I might be sick.

I started taking slow, even, deep breaths, trying to pull myself together.

Max was chanting in a language I didn’t recognize as he raised the silver vessel over his head. The misfortune cookie sat on the table, inert, ordinary looking . . . and so deadly that I was almost afraid to look at it, now that I had turned it over to Max.

Destroy it, destroy it, destroy it . . .

Lopez’s survival was determined entirely by what happened to this garish little confection. I couldn’t stand the tension.

Max set down the cocktail shaker and stood there for a moment in silence with his head bowed. Then he lifted off the top, carefully picked up the fortune cookie (which was still in its cellophane wrapper), and dropped it into the silver receptacle. He put the lid back on and then stood there staring at the shaker.

“Now what?”

“We wait for the elixir inside the vessel to take effect and—Ah!”

Thick, white, putrid smoke started seeping out from beneath the shaker’s lid.

White, the color of death.

“Max?” I clambered to my feet, prepared to flee.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “This is quite normal.”

“Yeah, right.”

The shaker started trembling, subtly at first, and then with rapidly growing violence, until it was soon shaking as fiercely if rocked by a major earthquake. The sour-smelling white smoke was by now billowing out in roiling clouds, escaping from beneath the vessel’s rattling lid and accompanied by a menacing hissing sound that made my hackles rise. After doing this for what seemed like a long time, but was probably only about thirty seconds, the shaker gave a little hop, landed back on the table with a muffled thud, and went completely still and silent. The smoke that filled the room began dissipating, though it still stank.

As I stared at the quiescent cocktail shaker, I realized I was panting with anxiety. Max’s posture was alert and his expression taut, but he looked focused and intent rather than worried or puzzled.

After a long moment, he reached for the shaker, removed the lid, and pulled a slimy, dripping object out of it. I stared at it for a moment with a frown . . . until I realized what it was.

“The cellophane wrapper?”

He nodded. “The only part of that confection that was neutral rather than evil.”

“Whoa.” I needed to sit down again, but this time I made sure I found a chair first. “Some part of me hoped . . . you know.”

“That this cookie was a merely a harmless treat which you had, in your anxiety, erroneously perceived as a threat?” He showed me the interior of the shaker. Nothing remained but the elixir. The mystical potion had completely eradicated the cookie and the death curse it contained. “That was an understandable hope, Esther. But as you can see . . . the cookie conjuror has tried to kill again.”

“Evil is voracious,” I said, “and feeds on its own appetite.”

“I wish it were not always so,” Max said gravely. “And yet, it always is.”

I pulled out my cell phone, fully focused now on stopping the killer before he took another crack at Lopez—who was probably still in Chinatown right now, a vulnerable target.

Lucky answered his phone by saying, “Hey, kid, I was about to call you. I just found out—”

I interrupted him and cut to the chase. “Uncle Six is the murderer, and he’s trying to kill Detective Lopez.”

“Huh?”

I met Max’s eyes as I gave the old hit man a summary of what had happened tonight, and I concluded, “So the killer must be Uncle Six! Or, at least, he’s the mastermind behind the conjuror.”

“No, we got that one wrong,” said Lucky. “I just found out—”

“Of course it’s Six,” I insisted. “We know he wanted Benny dead. He’s bound to want Lopez dead, too. After all, Lopez is the cop who put his brother in prison three years ago and who’s going back over the case now to make sure his brother stays in prison.”

“It’s a good theory,” said Lucky, “but it don’t work. I just found out—”

“Lucky, the killer just tried to whack Lopez!” I said shrilly. “We’ve got to stop Uncle Six! Now! Tonight!”

“I can tell you’re upset, but you gotta calm down and listen to me,” Lucky said firmly. “Six is dead.”

“We don’t have time to calm down. We have to . . . to . . .” I blinked. “What did you just say?”

“Uncle Six is dead,” Lucky said.

I shot out of my chair. “What?”

“What’s happened?” Max asked, startled into jumping out of his chair, too.

Lucky said, “Joe Ning was found dead today. Sometime after dark. The Chens will be handling the funeral.”

“Uncle Six is dead?” I asked. “You’re sure?”

“He’s dead?” Max asked. “Is there a cookie in the vicinity?”

I said to Lucky, “Max is asking—”

“Yeah, I knew what the doc would ask,” Lucky said. “So I made sure I asked. That’s why it’s taken me time to get word to you. I was finding out—”

“And?” I prodded impatiently.

“Uncle Six received a gourmet fortune cookie a couple of days ago. A gift. His housekeeper thinks there was a card with it, but no one really knows. The old guy was a diabetic, not supposed to touch sweets. But you know, the will is weak . . . So today he cracked it open. Only got to eat about half of it before he died, poor bastard.” After a moment, Lucky added, “I guess no one mentioned to him exactly how Benny died—about two seconds after breakin’ open a fortune cookie just like that one, I mean.”

Who would have mentioned it, after all? The few people who knew about it supposed that that Benny’s own superstitious reaction to the nasty fortune inside the cookie had made him fatally clumsy that day.

“Only you saw the possible significance in what happened to Benny,” I said, recalling that Lucky had exhibited sensitivity on previous occasions too, to mystical danger. “You and Max.”

“How exactly did Mr. Ning die after cracking the cookie?” Max asked.

“Freak accident,” Lucky replied when I relayed that question. “They think he tripped. Maybe had a dizzy spell after eating the cookie—a reaction to the sugar he wasn’t supposed to eat.”

“Tripped where?”

“The balcony of his apartment,” said Lucky. “Fell six stories straight down. Hit the street below with a really messy splat.”

I winced.

“No one else got hurt, though,” Lucky added.

I suddenly realized that’s what had made Danny Teng go ballistic at Yee & Sons earlier tonight. He was receiving news of Uncle Six’s death. And he took it badly. Given the kind of business they were in, he probably assumed Uncle Six had been murdered.

That was the case, of course—but not in a way that Danny could recognize, let alone avenge.

I slumped into my chair, realizing what this meant. “Oh, Lucky, this is awful.”

“Yeah, our killer’s turning up the temperature, and we still gotta find him and take away his rolling pin,” he said. “But don’t shed any tears over Uncle Six, kid. A quick exit kinda goes with the life he chose. And it’s not as if he was a friend of ours.”

“No, I don’t mean Six’s death,” I said. “I mean we’re starting all over now, with a cold engine. We’ve got no idea who’s trying to kill Lopez!”

There was a silence, then a low whistle. “Someone’s trying to whack a cop,” he said as it sank in.

“Could it be Paul Ning, the brother who’s in prison?” I asked.

“Nah. Joe had all the juice. Paul’s an empty shirt. Also penniless, thanks to a gambling habit he ain’t got the skill to support. Paul won’t even be able to keep his lawyer now that Joe is dead. So Lopez probably ain’t even among Paul’s problems anymore, now that his brother’s been whacked. He’s lost his protection.”

My heart was thudding with dread. “Then if this isn’t about the Nings . . . Why is someone trying to kill Lopez?”

My voice broke, surprising me, and I struggled not to burst into tears.

Max gently took the phone away from me and conferred with Lucky for a few minutes, while I struggled to regain my self-control. Max ended the call a few minutes later, saying we’d be in touch again tomorrow.

I was calmer now, though filled with anxiety. “I should have remembered that Lucky’s got no reason to care what happens to Lopez. He’s in hiding because of Lopez, after all.”

“I believe that Lucky would be the first to say that his problems with Detective Lopez are strictly business, whereas Evil is highly personal—and must be confronted,” Max said soothingly. “I can also assure you that it has occurred to Lucky, as it has to me, that if Detective Lopez had offered you a lift, rather than leaving on foot to investigate—I believe we may assume—Uncle Six’s death . . . Then you might indeed have sat on the cookie by accident. And since we don’t know how precise or skilled these death curses are, only that they are quite powerful . . . You might have been the next victim. Alternately, if you had never seen that cookie, who is to say that Detective Lopez would not have given it, for example, to his mother? Or to some other innocent?”

I put my hands on my emotion-flushed cheeks, feeling a little dizzy again as I considered the geometrically expanding possibilities for death and destruction contained in the misfortune cookies. “I hadn’t even thought of that! I was just so panic-stricken to realize he was in danger.”

“Perfectly understandable, since you are fond of him,” said Max. “But Lucky, who is not fond of Detective Lopez, more readily perceived the extended ramifications of your story.”

I sighed in despair. “What are we going to do, Max?”

“For now, I urge you to go home and get some sleep.”

“What?”

“There’s been a new murder and an attempted murder. As we feared, the killer is augmenting his attacks, now that cursing his victims with death has proved to be such a convenient solution to his problems. Therefore, it behooves us all to be alert and effective. You seem overwrought and fatigued, so I strongly recommend rest.”

“But how I possibly rest when—”

“Your young man is safe tonight,” Max assured me. “Remember, from the killer’s perspective, the attack on Detective Lopez is in motion now, and the murderer is awaiting results—unaware that we have confiscated and neutralized the murder weapon. He will not attempt another strike until he realizes the first one has failed, and that seems likely to take some time. Uncle Six, after all, did not immediately activate the curse; it took a matter of days. The murderer presumably anticipates that possibility with this methodology. In fact . . .” He seemed to lose his train of thought, and he wound up staring off into space for a few long moments. “Hmm.”

“Max?”

“It’s very subtle, isn’t it?” he murmured. “If not for Lucky’s keen instincts, murder would never even have been suspected.”

I was looking at his gentle, bearded face, but not sure what I saw in his distracted expression and slightly unfocused gaze.

“The beauty . . . the patience . . . the indirectness . . .” He nodded and murmured, “Yes. Subtlety.”

“Max?” I prodded. “Something has occurred to you, hasn’t it?”

He blinked and looked at me, as if surprised to discover me sitting right in front of him. Then he said briskly, “I must do some research. And perhaps an experiment. And you, my dear, must go home and get some rest. We’ll speak again tomorrow. Shall I call a taxi for you?”

I realized that he wanted to do the kind of work he did best when alone and undisturbed, and also that he was right about my needing rest. I could barely hold a thought or form a coherent sentence by now. I was so wrung out, I really wouldn’t be of any use to Lopez—or anyone else—if I didn’t get some rest.

I went home, squandering more money on cab fare rather than brave the subways and icy streets in my state of anxious fatigue and Alicia’s tiny dress. I didn’t expect to hear from Lopez tonight, partly because it was pretty late by now, and partly because he was probably working. Even if the NYPD thought Joe Ning’s death was accidental, they presumably still had to investigate when a tong boss took a dive off a sixth-floor balcony. And although it wouldn’t be Lopez’s case, he would take an interest in it because of his own Ning investigation—which meant he’d probably want to be at the crime scene tonight, along with a bunch of other cops.

And I was glad of that. Because I found it comforting to picture him surrounded by many cops tonight while they worked the crime scene and canvassed witnesses.

With that soothing image of him, I was actually able to get a good night’s sleep, despite having thought when I crawled into bed that there was no way my jittery nerves would let me slumber. In fact, I was still dead to the world when my phone rang the next morning, startling me awake.

Hoping my caller was Lopez, I reached for my cell on the bedside table and answered without opening my eyes. “Hello?”

“Oh, did I wake you, Esther? Sorry. I thought you’d be up by now.”

The voice was familiar, but not the tone. “Ted?” I said groggily. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.” He gave a dispirited sigh.

Accustomed to his (often groundless) optimism and enthusiasm, I was surprised by how low he sounded. “Is something wrong, Ted?”

“Things aren’t looking good, Esther. I’m not going to tell the cast and crew for a few days, since I don’t want to spoil the holiday for them. But since this isn’t your holiday . . .”

“Yes?” I prodded, remembering that Chinese New Year’s started today.

“I just wanted to let you know that, well, you might want to start looking for another job. I don’t think the film’s going to be able to go forward.”

That got me to open my eyes and sit up. “What? Why? Ted, what’s happened?”

“I’ve lost my backer,” he said sadly. “God, that’s two in a row. In the same month! Can you believe my luck?”

“What do you mean, you’ve lost your backer?”

“He died last night.”

For a moment, I wondered if Danny Teng had gotten himself killed while out looking for trouble in the wake of Uncle Six’s swan dive off a balcony . . . and then it hit me.

“Uncle Six was your new backer?”

Of course.

“Oh, I guess you heard about what happened?” Ted said morosely.

Danny was Joe Ning’s enforcer, his lackey, despite his boast to me at Benny’s wake that he worked for himself. He’d been on our set each day at the behest of his boss, Uncle Six, who was the one who was investing in the movie and wanted an eye kept on it.

I also realized now why Ted had never returned to my costume fitting last night.

“When you were helping Danny get out of the store, he told you, didn’t he?” I said. “That Uncle Six had just died.”

“I couldn’t believe it,” said Ted. “I went with him to the Nings’ place, sure he must be wrong. Hoping he was wrong. But, no, Uncle Six was dead.” After a moment, Ted added, “It’ll have to be a closed-casket service, of course.”

After a fall like that, I supposed so.

I asked, “Did you have a contract with Uncle Six? Anything like that?”

“No,” said Ted. “He didn’t really work that way.”

“Oh. I guess not,” I said.

Maybe the film would have been some sort of money-laundering scheme for the tong boss . . . But, actually, I suspected it was instead a perfectly legitimate business interest. A matter of face. Of stature. As one of the most powerful men in his community, it was Joe Ning’s rightful place to support a young ABC filmmaker who was employing Chinatown talent and telling a story about the life of dreams and ambition, sacrifice and hardship, guts and true grit that people lived in the narrow, overcrowded streets of their famous and infamous neighborhood.

And although I didn’t think much of Ted’s writing or direction, I could understand what this film meant to him. In a way, I could even imagine what it might have meant to Benny Yee and Uncle Six.

“I’m really sorry to hear about this, Ted,” I said sincerely. “But what about John’s idea for getting new investors?”

“Maybe . . . I don’t know, Esther . . . I need to step back and take a break. Think things through, you know? Maybe when your luck keeps turning so sour, it means you’re chasing the wrong fate.” He added, “After everything that’s happened, I really feel like this movie is cursed.”

Luck . . . fate. . . . cursed . . .

Something was taking shape in my mind. Pieces of the puzzle were tumbling together, a jumble of stuff that almost made sense . . .

And then Ted said the thing that showed me the pattern.

“Can you do me a favor and tell your friend—Detective Lopez, I mean—that I don’t think I’ll be needing those location permits, after all?”

“Lopez,” I said, my blood running cold.

“Please tell him I really appreciate his help.”

Lopez, helping with the film, to try to make things right with me.

Ted continued, “But I’d hate for him to do any more for me at this point.”

Benny and Uncle Six, putting up the money for the film.

“Not when I’m not even sure,” Ted said, “whether we’ll be going forward.”

Luck . . . fate . . . cursed . . .

Those three men had all received a misfortune cookie.

“Oh, my God,” I murmured breathlessly, feeling the chill down to my bone marrow now.

We had been looking in the wrong direction. This wasn’t about the criminal underworld, a power struggle in the Five Brothers, or an attempt to liberate a tong boss’ homicidal younger brother from the prison where Lopez had helped put him.

Benny Yee, Joe Ning aka Uncle Six, and Detective Connor Lopez . . .

The film was what those three men had in common!

They had all helped Ted realize his dream by keeping the troubled production rolling forward, against the odds and despite multiple setbacks.

“When you just keep having the worst luck over and over,” said Ted, “there must be something inauspicious about your project.”

“The worst luck . . .” I repeated slowly, remembering something else now.

“I guess I sound very Chinese today,” he added wryly.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying about her,” I murmured, thinking aloud. “Mary had the worst luck. It was just one thing after another . . .”

“I know,” said Ted. “By now, I almost feel like I brought it on her by casting her in the film.”

“Maybe you did,” I mused.

“Pardon?”

“It was as if she was cursed,” I said slowly.

“Um, I hope nothing bad has happened to you, Esther?” he said anxiously. “You sound a little strange.”

“Ted, I need Mary’s phone number,” I said briskly. “It’s important.”