The Misfortune Cookie

“The butt?” I said. “Don’t you think he means bud?”

The tall stranger put his finger to his lips again, reminding me not to speak. I gasped as I realized who must have written this note, and I promptly continued reading over Max’s shoulder.

My seminary will bring you here so we can talk. Bring Nelli with you. We may need her. BURN THIS NOTE!

“Seminary?” Max said.

“Emissary,” I guessed, looking at the well-dressed young man. Seeing how puzzled Max still looked, I silently mouthed, “Lucky.”

Max’s eyes widened. We both turned to look at the stranger, who nodded to confirm my guess. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket, took the note gently from Max, and set it on fire. After he dropped it into a tea saucer, where it turned to ashes, he made a gesture indicating that we should leave the bookstore with him.

We nodded in unison and started bustling around the shop, gathering our things and putting on our gear. While I slid my daypack over my shoulders, atop my heavy coat, Max donned his furry Russian cap. The hat complemented his long, tailored coat with its dramatically flaring hem. His brightly colored waterproof boots didn’t match his otherwise elegant winter attire, but they were practical.

While Max wrestled Nelli into her thick winter vest (“I fear her short fur is not sufficient protection against New York’s climate at this time of year”), I went back to the table and peered inside the bag of carry-out food. It smelled wonderful. My stomach growled. My mouth watered. I decided I would rather let Evil have its way with Manhattan than miss this meal, so I picked up the bag and carried it with me to the door.

The stranger held open the door for me as Max clipped Nelli’s pink leather leash onto her collar. I exited the building and entered the night, with the rest of my party right behind me.

As I turned to ask where we were going, I slipped on some ice. The man caught my elbow and steadied me. Sleet hit my face, cold and stinging. I felt a drop of it trickle down my neck, a chilling sensation.

Max was tugging gently on Nelli’s leash, trying to urge her to come outside. She hung back, looking dubiously at the freezing precipitation coming down on us and the filthy slush soaking into our footwear.

“I brought a car,” said the stranger, much to my relief.

“Will our dog fit?” I asked him.

“Sure. That’s why I brought it. Um, our mutual friend suggested it. He said Dr. Zadok would be bringing a big dog.”

“Actually, ‘dog’ is not quite accurate,” Max explained, still trying to coax Nelli out the door. “She is a mystical familiar who has chosen to manifest in canine form.”

“A very large canine form,” our companion noted.

“Nelli, come on,” I said firmly, taking her leash from Max and giving it a sharp tug. She skittered toward me and tried to seek shelter under the hem of my coat (not a very practical strategy) while Max closed the shop door. I asked the well-dressed stranger, “Where’s your car?”

“Right over here. I got lucky with parking,” he said, leading the way. A few seconds later, he stopped at a big black hearse and opened the tailgate so Nelli could climb into the back.

“A hearse?” I blurted, clutching my warm bag of food.

“I thought it would be too conspicuous, but our mutual friend insisted I bring it. Now I know why,” he added with a grin as he closed the door on Nelli, who was settling herself comfortably. “Anyhow, being inconspicuous was the idea with the carry-out. I was trying to seem like I had an ordinary reason for entering the shop to find Dr. Zadok.”

“Delivering food in a hearse?”

“Not my smoothest plan ever,” he admitted with another smile. “Here, you don’t have to keep holding the bag.”

“Yes, I do.” I took a step back when he reached out to take it from me.

As Max helped me into the back seat of the hearse, he said to our escort, “May I ask were we are going?”

“To a funeral,” was the reply.

“Of course,” I said as I dug into my bag of food.

5 White

The color of death and mourning, ancestral spirits and ghosts.

As we turned south on 7th Avenue, I extracted a container of egg rolls from the bag. “Does anyone else want something to eat?”

Nelli whined a little, and although I didn’t want to encourage bad habits, I tossed an egg roll into the back for her, rather than feel her mournful brown gaze bore into me while I ate. Our escort was busy dealing with bad driving conditions and heavy traffic, and Max was too nervous to eat. (Not because we were on our way to confront Evil, but because cars terrify him. Born in the seventeenth century, he’s still having a little trouble adjusting to motorized transportation.) So I ate alone, munching on the remaining egg roll with relish as I investigated the other contents of the bag.

After we crossed Houston and continued going south, Max unclenched his tense jaw enough to ask, “Where exactly is this funeral we’re attending?”

“Chinatown,” said our driver.

When traffic became so thick that the hearse came to a standstill, I asked, “Who are you, by the way? Or can’t you tell us?”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I should have introduced myself,” said the stranger, turning to look at us both. “I’m John Chen. How do you do?”

We exchanged greetings.

Then John said with a self-deprecating smile, “Uncle Lucky got me so focused on secrecy, in case your shop is bugged by the cops—”

“Uncle?” I said in surprise.

“Bugged?” Max blurted.

“—that I forgot to say something after we were outside.”

“Bugged,” I repeated to Max with a nod. As soon as I had realized the message was from Lucky, I’d understood why we were supposed to be silent. “I really doubt it, Max, since it’s not as if you’re a ‘known associate,’ and OCCB’s resources probably aren’t so endless they can spy on everyone who knows Lucky. But I guess that being so cautious is one of the reasons he’s never gone to prison.” Then I asked our chauffeur, “Is Lucky really your uncle?”

John returned his attention to traffic as things started moving again. “No, we just call him that. My brother and I. I’ve known Lucky all my life. His uncle—a real one—and my grandfather were business partners, and ever since they died, the business has belonged to Lucky and my dad. But he’ll explain all that to you.”

I wondered what sort of business we were talking about. Underworld stuff? I didn’t think Lucky would get me and Max mixed up in Gambello business. Not in the current circumstances. And John seemed like a respectable guy, not a third-generation hoodlum. Then again, what did I know about Chinese criminals? I’d seen gangbangers stalking the streets of Chinatown occasionally, when I was there shopping and eating (prices are good in Chinatown, so I go there often), and they looked just like thugs of any other ethnicity. But for all I knew, maybe Chinatown associates at Lucky’s level of business all came across like John—who gave the impression of being a courteous, well-spoken professional with nice manners. One who slowed down when the traffic light changed from green to yellow, I noted, rather than speeding through it.

“So, John, whose funeral are we going to?” I asked, opening a container of dumplings. “Is there sauce with this?”