The Misfortune Cookie

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 facade: 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 decor 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.”