The Misfortune Cookie

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