The Misfortune Cookie

“No, no, I understand,” I assured him. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Lopez could help expedite Ted’s application, and I certainly hadn’t entertained any hope that we could resume filming on Doyers today. “I just didn’t want our director-producer to get arrested. Or for the city to impose heavy fines on Ted for filming here without a permit this morning. Or for this problem to go any further than a stern talking-to, really. We’re on a tight budget here, and Ted’s lost his backer and is trying to get another one before the money runs out. So it wouldn’t take much for this production to go belly-up. And I really want to keep working.”

“In that case, are there other city locations Ted wants to use that he hasn’t applied for?” Lopez’s nose was getting red. It made him look a little boyish. “I could make sure we get this all sorted out at the same time, so that a problem like today’s doesn’t happen again.”

“You’ll do that for him?” I asked appreciatively.

“Of course not.” Lopez stomped his feet against the cold. “I don’t even know the guy. I’m doing it for you.”

“Oh.” I had asked him here to do me a favor, but this caught me by surprise, even so. It wasn’t exactly as if the two of us were on the most amicable terms lately.

He noticed my bemusement. “Of course I’m doing it for you, Esther. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten how you lost your last job. And it’s certainly not as if I don’t know who you blame for that.”

“Well . . .”

“Look, I’m glad you’ve got this job. Really glad. I know you need to keep earning. And this is a much better job for you, anyhow. You should be acting, not waiting on wiseguys.” Lopez shivered a little inside his dark blue overcoat. “So if you need my help to keep this production rolling forward, then I want to help.”

“Oh. Okay.” I stared at him, feeling grateful, relieved, and pleased—and thinking this was the guy I had always thought he was. Not the guy who slept with me and then didn’t call. And although I was still upset about that (also still angry, hurt, and humiliated), for the first time since late on Christmas Day, when I had started to suspect that he wasn’t going to call me . . . I didn’t want to talk about it. It was such a relief, for the first time in nearly three weeks, not to be furious with him, I just wanted to stay in this peaceful neutral territory for a little while.

Besides, I did need his help, and I had vowed to stay focused today, rather than revisit my grievances against him.

So I said, “Thanks. I appreciate it. And I’m sure we need your help. Ted’s about as organized as a tropical storm.”

“Don’t say the word tropical right now. You’ll make me cry,” Lopez said as another wall of icy air hit us. “On days like this, I keep wishing I’d been born in Havana, despite everything my dad has ever said about Castro.”

His father, I knew, had emigrated here from Cuba many years ago. In his sixties now, with three grown sons, he and his Irish-American wife still lived in the family home in Nyack, across the Hudson River from the city, and they craved grandchildren with zealous fervor.

“How is your father?” I asked politely, stomping my feet as they started to turn into blocks of ice.

“Not speaking to me,” Lopez said. “Pretty much like my mother. Only her way of not speaking to me is much noisier.”

So there had been a big family fight. I wondered if it had somehow involved Lopez’s relationship with me, but I was reluctant to ask. That question could wind up being one of the worms in the can that I didn’t want to reopen today.

So I just said, rather lamely, “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

He shrugged. “It’ll pass.” After a moment, he added, darkly, “Eventually.”

I was sure he was right about that. His family was volatile (I still felt like I needed to lie down every time I recalled meeting his parents), but they were devoted to each other. It seemed very much in keeping with their family dynamics that his mother kept calling him to tell him she wasn’t talking to him. She wouldn’t want to be out of touch just because they weren’t on speaking terms.

“So how’s your family?” Lopez asked politely.

“Oh, same as always.”

“I’m sorry.” He caught himself. “Um, I mean . . .”

“No, that’s all right,” I assured him with a wry smile. I loved them in my way, but I wouldn’t want to live any closer to them than the eight hundred miles that currently separated us.

He smiled, too. Our gazes locked again. And for a moment, I forgot all the heartache and misery he’d caused me and only recalled how much I liked his company. How much I missed his company . . .

I shivered again and cleared my throat, forcing myself back to the subject at hand. “We will need your help. I’ll bet there are other permits Ted hasn’t applied for besides Doyers. And during lunch, it sounded like he’s thinking now about adding a scene that’ll be set during the firecracker festival.”

“During the . . . ?” He rubbed his red nose with the back of a gloved hand. “Oh, you mean when all the lion dancers are running around Chinatown?”

I nodded, my teeth starting to chatter.

“That’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”

“In a little over a week,” I said. “Chinese New Year’s is early this year.” And people in the neighborhood were already hanging out the festive red banners and traditional good luck symbols that marked the event.

“Then this is really late to apply if Ted wants to film on location that day,” said Lopez. “It’s not like asking to film in an empty side street on a cold weekday morning when nothing much is going on. That’s a huge event, tens of thousands of people, dense crowds, streets closed off, extra cops brought in for crowd control, dealing with firecrackers going off, opening ceremonies, live performances, martial arts guys leaping all over the streets in their lion costumes . . .”

“Well, since it’s not even in the script yet,” I said, “I’m not as worried about getting a permit for that scene. Anyhow, maybe Ted was just blowing smoke.”

“If he’s serious, though, we need to make sure he understands he can’t do it without a permit, that’s for sure.” Lopez started rubbing his gloved hands together, trying to get his blood circulating. “Okay, I need to meet this guy and figure out exactly what needs to be done. More than that, I need to get inside before my body parts start freezing and falling off.”

“Me, too.” I turned to enter the restaurant.

“You must be so cold in that outfit,” he said as he opened the door for me. “I like your hair like that, though.”

“John does a good job.”

“John?”

“He does hair and makeup for the film,” I said, still shivering. “Pretty skilled. Nice guy, too.”

And since he habitually called a certain Gambello hit man Uncle Lucky, I was glad John wasn’t here. He was very discreet, of course, but having him in proximity to two OCCB cops would nonetheless make me anxious about a possible slip of the tongue or revealing reaction.

Detective Quinn, who was sitting at the lunch counter enjoying his dumplings, nodded briefly to us as we entered the restaurant. The door closed behind us and we both sighed with relief as warmth enveloped us.

Thinking of Lucky reminded me of the additional reason I had called Lopez today. So as we stood there warming up for a moment, I tried a direct approach to that problem. “So what brings you to Chinatown, anyhow?”

Lopez grimaced. “An old case. From when I was in the Sixth Precinct.”

“But Chinatown’s in the Fifth.”

“Criminals are so inconsiderate about that,” he said. “We ask them to play nicely and stay within precinct boundaries, but they just won’t cooperate.”

I smiled but stayed on point. “An old case, you said?” I prodded, thinking with relief that this didn’t sound like a search for a semi-retired capo who was hiding out in a Chinese funeral home.

“Yeah. It’s coming up for appeal, and the defendant has got a hotshot lawyer working on it. Well, Ning’s