The Misfortune Cookie: An Esther Diamond Novel (10 page)

“Tongs are complicated,” John concluded as he turned south on the Bowery. “Well,
most
things in Chinatown are complicated.”

That much I had always gathered. In keeping with the long tradition of New York City as a gateway to America, there’s a constant churn of population in Chinatown, with new immigrants (legal and illegal) arriving here and working hard to scrape out a fresh start in a new land, and previous arrivals moving on after a few years—or after a generation—as they seek to turn their initial foothold in the New World into middle class prosperity. Much the way that my own forebears came to these shores more than a century ago, survived in overcrowded tenements on the Lower East Side, and labored long hours for low wages as garment workers, before ultimately saving enough money to move on to better jobs and decent apartments elsewhere. Their children, in turn, grew up as Americans, started successful businesses, and owned suburban houses. It’s the perpetual cycle of realizing the American dream, generation after generation.

The Chinese got a late start on this path, despite migrating to America as early as the mid-nineteenth century to build the railroads that eventually crossed the continent. The racist Chinese Exclusion Act severely limited Chinese immigration to the US for some sixty years, including decades during which there were no immigration quotas or restrictions for other nationalities. The act prevented Chinese men from becoming US citizens, and prevented their wives and families from joining them here.

Even Jews were treated better than that. Not a thing one often has a chance to say about my people, historically speaking.

During the decades that the Exclusion Act was in effect, the Chinese in America became a small, isolated bachelor society, largely self-governing and separate from the general population. Hence the establishment of historic Chinatowns in various major cities, which are still destinations for new Chinese immigrants every year.

The Chinese Exclusion Act remained in effect until World War Two, and the motivation for eliminating it was political, not moral. In the Pacific war against the Japanese, the US became allied with China. This made the typical American characterization of the Chinese as the Yellow Peril a tad inconvenient for the US government, which finally lifted the virtual ban on Chinese immigration that had been in effect since the Victorian era.

But, you know—world at war, tens of millions perishing, the Japanese occupation of China . . . There wasn’t exactly a huge rush to get in the door the moment the Exclusion Act was abolished. It wasn’t until the 1960s that the Chinese population in the States really started booming. So the Chinese have made major inroads in American society in a relatively short time. And in the process, much of lower Manhattan has now turned into Chinatown.

Hey, you learn a lot about a people when you spend your whole life eating their food twice a week and every Christmas. Especially if your father is a history professor.

Still making cautiously slow progress, the hearse turned once more, cruising down to the south side of Chinatown’s historic area and doubling back toward Mulberry and Mott, where they each came to a dead end in this tangle of old streets. I realized that the claustrophobic one-way traffic system of this neighborhood had forced John to bypass our destination and circle back around to it. He pulled into a parking garage and swiped a plastic key card through a machine at the entrance. A moment later, we were granted access to the garage, and John parked the hearse in a large ground floor space that was, I noticed, reserved for Chen’s Funeral Home.

The penny dropped, as Ronnie Romano might say.

“So this family business that Lucky is in with your father . . . It’s a funeral home?” As we all got out of the vehicle, I realized with consternation that John’s mode of transport had been a pretty big clue.

“Yes.” He went around to the back of the hearse so he could let Nelli out. “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t make that clear.”

“No need to apologize,” said Max. “The hearse was self-explanatory.”

Indeed.

It was starting to dawn on me how Lucky, while hiding from the cops, had uncovered disturbing information about the recent death of a Chinatown businessman. John’s family was obviously handling the funeral, in the business which they co-owned with their Uncle Lucky.

“Okay, I think I’m caught up now,” I muttered.

Having consumed most of the carry-out appetizers, I was still hugging the bag in my arms. I hoped we were headed some place comfortable enough for me to sit down and finish my dinner.

Nelli leaped out of the hearse in a burst of energy and then gave herself a bracing little shake. She wagged her tail gaily as Max took her leash from John and we all headed toward the exit.

“Are you a mortician?” I asked John curiously. I didn’t think I’d ever met one socially before.

“No. I mean, I help out, of course. It’s the family business, after all. But I’m in grad school. Biochemistry. My older brother is the mortician. He’ll take over running the funeral home, when the time comes.”

“In that case, your father must be pleased with both his sons.” One would be a scientist and the other would follow in the father’s footsteps. My own parents, who must often wonder if I was a changeling left for them by fairies with a malicious sense of humor, would be hard-pressed to hide their envy of the elder Mr. Chen.

John grinned as he shook his head. “Chinese parents are never pleased with their kids, Esther.”

“Well, then, that’s another bond between Jews and Chinese,” I replied, and he laughed.

“Or if they’re pleased,” he added, “they don’t show it. That would never do, you know.”

The sleet was turning to snow as we left the garage, so I pulled my hood over my head. As the wind whipped down the street, blowing damp flakes into my face, Max paused to settle his fur cap more firmly on his head. Nelli huddled close to him, clearly skeptical about the wisdom of venturing forth on foot in this weather.

Following John’s lead, we started walking in the direction of Mulberry Street. I estimated that our destination, which must be close now, was roughly halfway between the Fifth Precinct house, which was the Chinatown police station, and One Police Plaza, which was just a few blocks from where we’d left the hearse. So Lucky must really trust the Chens. There were a lot of cops nearby, if the family happened to decide they didn’t really want a Gambello hitter hiding out here. Or if any of the Chens happened to be a little too loud or indiscreet, unable to resist gossiping about the notorious mobster hiding out with them.

Thanks to my recent memories of being arrested and incarcerated, I also wasn’t thrilled to see how close we were to the immense, ugly façade of Manhattan Central Booking, where a lot of people were probably having a grim night. I always thought that building’s architect must have been a huge fan of Stalin and Mao; the place had that sort of look. Feeling a little spooked as I glimpsed that stark edifice looming ominously over Columbus Park by night, I reminded myself that I was a free woman—and would remain so, thanks to Lopez making a mess of the procedure after arresting me.

Thinking of him made me start wondering where he was now, and whether he . . .

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 façade: 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 décor 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.”