The Misfortune Cookie

2 Yin-yang

Complementary yet contradictory forces, often represented as female and male.

More than a dozen cops barreled into the restaurant right behind Lopez, all of them wearing NYPD vests or jackets, all of them armed and shouting.

One of them was saying into a megaphone, “NYPD! Stay seated! This is the police! Do not move! Stay where you are!”

Holy shit.

“It’s a raid!” Ronnie screamed as he leapt to his feet. “Police raid! Run! Run!”

“Are you nuts?” Jimmy stayed seated and tried to tug Ronnie back down into his chair.

Frightened diners were already screaming. Some jumped out of their seats and were strongly (and loudly) encouraged to sit right back down. Other people were sliding out of their chairs to hide under their tables. The accordion squealed atonally as the staggering musician got squeezed between the panicking people and the cops who were ordering them to stay calm.

A confused customer bumped hard against the table Ned was still standing on. The actor lost his balance as the table rocked; he flailed briefly, then flew headfirst into a pair of cops. The impact carried all three of them to the floor, shouting and groaning, while startled diners around them shrieked in alarm.

“What the hell . . . ?” I glanced around frantically, unable to form a coherent thought. My heart was pounding, my breath coming in little pants. I looked at Lopez, who was standing in front of my table, staring up at me in apparent shock, his jaw hanging open, his eyes wide with horror.

Not exactly the expression a woman hopes to see on a man’s face the first time they meet again after spending a passionate night together.

“It’s a raid!” Ronnie screamed while being strong-armed by the police and Jimmy Legs. “Save yourself!”

“Will you calm down?” Jimmy shouted at his colleague. “They’ll put a bullet in you if you keep this up!”

“He’s right!” confirmed a grimacing, redheaded cop who was trying to subdue the panicking mobster. “You’re tempting me, Ronnie!”

“You can’t shoot him!” Jimmy turned on the cop in outrage. “I want my lawyer!”

“Viva la revolucion!” someone in the kitchen screamed. “Viva la libertad!”

Everyone paused for a moment to look in that direction.

Then Ralph dropped a whole tub of dishes. It fell to the floor with an earsplitting crash of shattering ceramic and glassware, and everyone started screaming again.

“Sorry!” Ralph wailed. “Sorry about that!”

Still on top of my table, I gaped down at Lopez. “What’s going on? What are you doing? ”

He blinked, as if surprised to hear me speak. Then he frowned thunderously. “What are you doing?”

“Working!”

“No, what are you doing here?” He was scowling up at me as if my very existence offended him.

“Working!” I repeated, staring down at him while people all around us continued screeching, shouting, and bounding around the restaurant in agitation.

Stella was bellowing, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I got rights! I’ll sue! Get out of my restaurant!”

I looked away from Lopez long enough to see a couple of cops shove Stella up against the wall next to Ronnie, Jimmy, Tommy Two Toes, and Freddie the Hermit. They were all being frisked, along with four or five other Gambello wiseguys. A policewoman started searching Stella, who continued shouting threats and questions despite being ordered to pipe down.

Lopez said something to me.

“What?” I looked down at him again, unable to hear him above the roar of the crowd.

“You’re not supposed to be here!” he shouted, as if accusing me of breaking a promise.

And then it hit me.

You bastard! You slept with me and then didn’t call!

“You weren’t supposed to start working until next week!” he shouted up at me.

“Hey, Lopez, some help over here?” hollered the redheaded cop who was handling Ronnie and Jimmy.

He ignored that and continued shouting at me, “You told me you weren’t getting any shifts here until after the holidays!”

Lopez’s rich blue eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes, were bloodshot and shadowed by dark circles. His straight, shiny black hair was rumpled. His strong face, exotically good-looking, appeared drawn and tired, and his golden-dark skin looked a little sallow tonight—at least in this light. The vest he was wearing added some bulk (I vaguely realized it was one of those bulletproof things), but under it, he had a slim, lithe, athletic build. And now that he was here in the flesh, the last person I had expected to see tonight, looking almost edibly gorgeous despite his apparent fatigue and furious scowl . . .

I wanted to kill him.

I wanted it so much, my hands bunched into tight fists, clutching the fabric of my skirt, and my shoulders started creeping upward in vengeful wrath as my chest swelled with righteous indignation.

“You can lower your skirt any time now, Esther,” he added irritably. “I think the wiseguys are getting enough excitement for one night.”

“What?” I looked down and realized that I was still holding my skirt hiked up to display a flash of thigh. In fact, in my agitation, I had tugged my hem up almost to my panty line and was displaying a lot more than I’d realized. “Oh!”

I dropped my skirt and smoothed it over my legs.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Lopez demanded. “Lifting your skirt for these guys!”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” I snapped.

Jimmy Legs roared, “I want my phone call! I want my lawyer!”

“I will sue you bums into the next century!” Stella bellowed.

“Everyone calm down!” the megaphone cop ordered the agitated diners. “You’ll all be able to leave as soon as an officer collects your information.”

“But I don’t have information!” a sweating man wailed. “I don’t have any information!”

“As soon as an offer gets your personal details,” the cop amended.

“You’re not getting my details!” Freddie the Hermit’s date insisted, now clustered with the regular diners.

The cop said doggedly, “Please wait quietly in your seats until—”

“This is still a free country, buddy!” someone cried. “You can’t hold us prisoner here!”

“No one here is a prisoner,” said the cop, clearly growing exasperated.

“Does that mean I can go now?” Tommy Two Toes called across the restaurant. “I know you already got my details.”

“No, you’re a prisoner,” the cop said to Tommy while fiddling with the volume on his megaphone.

An outraged diner rose from his seat. “So we are prisoners! By what right—”