“Oh, man,” I said grumpily. “This means I’ll have to talk to him, Lucky.”
He frowned. “I know you had a big fight with him at Bella Stella, and he wound up arresting you. But maybe . . .” Lucky sighed and shook his head. “Wait a minute. Forget it. What was I even thinking? I’m sorry, kid. If I wasn’t climbing the walls here, I wouldn’t even have asked. I know better. I shouldn’t be sending you to talk to that guy after—”
“No, no, it’s important,” I said quickly. “And I want to help you. And the Chens, too, who I’m sure you don’t want to put in danger.”
“No way do I want them to get in trouble because of me.”
“So I’ll just have to talk to Lopez,” I said firmly. “For your sake. And theirs.”
“Are you sure?” he asked with concern.
I lifted my chin. “I can do this. Don’t worry about me, Lucky.”
God, you’re pathetic, Esther. And despicable.
I had no idea how I was going to approach Lopez, let alone how I’d manage to sound casual while quizzing him about his activities in Chinatown and/or the hunt for Lucky Battistuzzi. But at least I’d get to talk to him. Once I could think of a suitable pretense for it, that was.
You swore you’d stop thinking about him. You swore you’d move on!
Especially after the god-awful events of New Year’s. When I tried to imagine how that night could have been any more humiliating, I came up blank.
Yet here I was, volunteering—more or less—to get in touch with Lopez.
I didn’t even know why I wanted to see him.
To demand an apology from him? To get an explanation for his behavior? To say all the cutting things to him that I only thought of after the squad car had pulled away from the curb that night?
Or maybe I’d tear off his clothes, indulge in hours of steamy sex with him, and then just not call him—not even after promising to call.
Okay, stop right there. There will be no removing of clothes and no indulging in sex. Are we agreed? If not, then you can’t get in touch with him. I absolutely forbid it.
Well . . .
Agreed or not?
Oh, fine, then. Fine. No sex. Clothes stay on. Agreed!
“Maybe I should just bring him a misfortune cookie,” I muttered.
“Don’t even joke about that,” said Lucky. “I’m telling you, I got a real serious feeling about this. Benny Yee was cursed with death. And you know what that means.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“The killer ain’t gonna stop with Benny.” After a moment, he added, “You better go join them at the wake. Oh, and I forgot to tell Max—keep Nelli away from the food.”
“They’ve got food?” I asked. “At a wake?”
“Offerings to nourish the spirit of the departed. It’s a Chinese thing.” Lucky added, “We can’t have our favorite familiar stealing food from a corpse. It won’t make a good impression.”
7
Filial piety
Respect and veneration for one’s parents and ancestors.
Benny Yee’s wake was so crowded that I thought the odds were good that John and Lucky were right about the killer being here—simply because half of Chinatown seemed to be here.
Well, “killer” if the misfortune cookie had inflicted Benny’s death; “malicious prankster” if his reaction to reading that menacing fortune had led to a fatal but mundane accident in a moment of distracted anxiety.
The latter possibility was making me think about how uncertain life was. Anyone’s candle could be snuffed at any moment. Just by tripping and cracking open your head, for example. As I searched for John and Max in the crowded funeral hall, phrases like carpe diem and “live each day as if it were your last” kept running through my head.
Since Chen’s Funeral Home was in a downtown Manhattan neighborhood, rather than in a sprawling modern suburb, it was too small for such a big send-off. But people here were accustomed to that, so everyone just crowded in without reserve, shoulder to shoulder, cheek by jowl. A lot of people had shown up this evening to pay their respects to Benny Yee. Traditional music was playing on the sound system, but with so many people here, I could hardly hear it, though most of the mingling visitors kept their voices respectfully muted as they chatted. As I squeezed my way through the throng, I felt glad I’d left my coat and belongings in the office with Lucky, since the collective body heat was making this hall rather warm.
The Chinese side of the L-shaped funeral complex was decorated in elegantly somber shades of gold and red. Several large, beautiful tapestries hung on the walls, as did some banners that displayed graceful Chinese calligraphy. I assumed the latter were blessings or prayers for the departed. There was an alcove in which several tables, all draped in white linen, were covered with offerings. Lucky was right about the food; there were plates and baskets of prettily wrapped candies, little Chinese egg tarts (my favorite), mooncakes, dried mushrooms, bright orange clementines, and dark purple plums. Several people had left bottles of liquor for the deceased.
Fortunately, Nelli didn’t seem to have been here. Everything appeared to be tidy and intact, and there was no sign of drool.
I wondered whether the person who’d left a basket of fortune cookies here knew how Benny Yee had died. In any case, these were the small, plain sort of cookies that you could find in any Chinese restaurant, not the elaborate, chocolate-drizzled, gourmet variety that someone had sent to Benny.
Still searching for John and Max, I continued making my way through the gathered mourners. As John had predicted, they were all dressed pretty much the way I’d have dressed if I had known I’d be attending a wake this evening. Most of the men were in suits, most of the women wore skirts or nice slacks, and the dominant colors were black and navy blue. In my brown slacks and dark green sweater, I looked a little casual compared to most of the people here, but not out of place—well, except for the fact that Benny didn’t seem to have known many Caucasians. Max and I were apparently the only white people in attendance. However, we were in contemporary New York City, not imperial Peking, so no one noticed me, let alone did a double take, as I made my way through the crowded hall.
Or so I thought.
Just as I stumbled on the guest of honor, so to speak, lying in his open casket, I heard someone near me say in an oily voice, “Hey, pretty lady, are you here all by yourself?”
I kept my gaze fixed intently on the deceased, fervently hoping that the voice was not addressing me.
Benny Yee had been a man of modest stature, probably in his early sixties, with a receding hairline, snub nose, and thin lips. He wore a gray suit, a gold wedding ring, and an expensive wristwatch. A large framed photo of Benny was displayed near his corpse; I noticed that he hadn’t really looked that much more animated in life.
“You look lonesome,” said the same oily voice, closer now.
The coffin was lined in white silk and elegant white drapes hung behind it, with additional heavy white swags framing the area around the casket and the profusion of funeral wreaths and floral tributes surrounding it. A small altar near the coffin held a statue of the Buddha, chubby and laughing—a portrayal I always found very comforting, compared to Yahweh’s dour attitude throughout the Old Testament or the suffering Jesus nailed to a crucifix in Catholic churches. There were also small incense burners from which aromatic smoke was wafting, as well as special offerings, skillfully fabricated from brightly colored paper, of the things Benny had evidently enjoyed in life and wouldn’t want to be deprived of in death: cars, money, a house, gold ingots, airplanes, more money.