That Kind of Luck

“You wouldn’t do it.”

“Oh, but I would.”

“You say that, but you really wouldn’t.”

Chase’s black eyes glinted mischievously. “Because it would make a scene, yes?”

“Nobody ever follows through when they say stuff like that.”

He shrugged elegantly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. They were from page 107 of the fall JC Penney catalog, he’d mentioned, just to be interesting while they waited in line at a relatively new Chinese restaurant called YinYang. Layla liked him but she was beginning to wonder if she’d ever be satisfied with anyone. No matter what they did, no one could fit her idea of the right guy for her.

She’d been growing more uncomfortable and vaguely depressed as the night wore on. The woman ahead of her had a tag sticking out of her jacket and she wanted to stick it back inside so badly that her fingers ached. So intently was she studying the tiny print reading Machine wash cold that she didn’t even notice that Chase had discreetly moved out of the line, a few feet away from her.

Suddenly he dropped dramatically to his knees and slid across the soda-stained floor toward her, singing in a booming falsetto, “Laaayla-a! You’ve got me on my knees!”

The woman ahead of her jumped, and there was a general turning of heads through the restaurant. Layla opened her mouth in delight and shock as he continued, undaunted, “Laaayla-a! I’m begging darling please! Laaayla-! Won’t you ease my troubled mind?”

He broke into manic air guitar, furnishing the riffs with the same falsetto but a pitch higher.

Mingled laughter and applause swelled throughout the restaurant as he stood up and brushed his knees off. Layla pressed her lips together and tried to contain all the mixed emotions she was feeling, but she couldn’t take the delighted grin off her face.

When he moved to touch her, though, she deftly blocked it. “Go wash your hands,” she said. “That floor is filthy.”

He grinned and ambled over to the restrooms. On the way he stopped to look up at the big golden Buddha, perched on a little table between the two bathroom doors. The gold paint on it had been almost worn away from people rubbing it for good luck. Nearby, the sour-faced janitor was silently polishing it, with a look of extreme concentration.

“If I wash my hands, will you kiss me?” he called out to Layla before putting his hand on the doorknob.

She smiled demurely. “We’ll see.”

“Case of food poisoning in a Chinese restaurant. Seems like a no-brainer to me.”

“But health inspectors okay’d it. And our investigators didn’t find anything wrong in the kitchen, on the cutlery—nothing.”

“Besides,” said a pleasant voice that projected surprisingly well, considering that he was almost across the room from them, “The symptoms didn’t coincide with food poisoning.” The source of the voice was somewhat thin man, with neat brown hair swept to the side in front as though he were constantly pushing it out of the way. He was wearing his usual worn khakis and an un-buttoned button-down over an undershirt. Under his arm was a decrepit spiral-bound notebook and a file.

“Masaryk, for crying out loud, button your shirt before coming in here. This is a work environment.” The older of the two policemen, Captain Fisher ordered without expecting compliance.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled in a maddeningly condescending way before buttoning one or two. However, when he started talking again he abandoned this endeavor and began flipping through his notebook.

He slammed the file on the desk in front of them. “You’re missing something. I want to check it out again.”

Layla wasn’t hungry, exactly. So she ordered a three-dollar cup of sweet and sour soup. Chase ordered—seemingly—everything else on the menu. He grinned when he noticed the discrepancy but didn’t say a word—to her immense relief.

He ended up sampling most of the restaurant’s buffet selection in the end: chicken and pork fried rice, egg-drop soup, kung pao chicken, mushu pork, egg rolls, spring rolls, stir fry, lo mein, crab puffs, deep fried noodles, rice balls, sushi…he probably had about a bite of each. Layla knew this because she had to report it to the police officers and crime scene investigators one week later.

“I am Ping He. I trained in New York to make good sushi. You do not get food poisoning from my sushi.”

“Yes, Mr. Ping,” Fisher replied politely, “But Masaryk here would like to ask you a few questions.” He smiled, and then turned to face the detective, who was behind him. “Try not to be too much of an ass. I’ve gotta check out another case. I’m leaving the rookie here with you.”

“Me? Be an ass?” Masaryk looked genuinely shocked.

“His name’s Ben Abbott and if you could just deal with it for today—”

“I always enjoy myself,” he interrupted smoothly. “But I can’t guarantee the other guy will say the same.”

Rolling his eyes, Fisher ended the conversation by leaving.

“So Chef Ping,” the detective addressed the chef now, opening the decaying notebook but not taking his pencil out of the spiral, “Tell me about sushi. I’ve always had an interest in the aesthetic aspect of uncooked dead sea creatures rolled up in rice.”

Chef Ping wrinkled his brow, clearly dismayed. Seeing this, Masaryk smiled and said humorously, “Show me how you make the sushi for the buffet.”

“Nanotechnology?”

“Tiny robots. I mean, what could be cooler?”

Layla grinned. “I don’t think you’re going into nanotechnology.”

Leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head in exaggerated casualness, he said, “I think I’m sticking with social work. If kids weren’t so cute, I’d totally be making tiny robots. With tiny blowtorches and tiny screws…”

“Tiny wires, tiny computer chips—”

“Everything’s better at 10-9 meters.”

“Tiny malfunctions. Tiny explosions. Those don’t sound nearly as serious.”

“Just tiny disasters.”

“Yeah.” Layla found herself thinking about her own plans for a business degree. “Nothing like how it is macroscopically.”

Chase leaned forward. “Actually, it’s exactly the same. Tiny things can have macroscopic consequences. For instance.” He pressed his hands flat against the table. “If I were to move my hand like this—” He slide is fingertips over to cover her own, “—what would happen? Macroscopically?”

“So you’re Czech, right?”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t eat any of the kolaches Williams brought this morning.”

“I hate kolaches.”

“A Czech that hates kolaches. What do you know.”

Masaryk nodded coolly. He’d only met Ben Abbott half an hour ago and he could already tell he’d met his match in ability to infuriate people. The news from the lab that the bacteria couldn’t have come from the sushi, destroying his first theory, had disheartened him a little, and he wasn’t sure if he was in the mood for banter.

A thought popped into his head as he studied his opponent, and he grinned a little. What was he thinking? He was always in the mood for banter.

He couldn’t suppress the glint in his eyes as he stuck his hands in his pockets with feigned casualness. “And you’re a cop that hates donuts. I suppose you must be Irish, then.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because,” he said, motioning toward Abbott’s slightly protruding belly, “if that’s not a donut gut, it’s a beer belly.”

Amazingly, this succeeded in silencing him for all of five minutes, while Masaryk flipped through his notes. The air in the police station seemed hot and stagnant, as though to compliment his frustration. He pondered other theories. Were all the employees vaccinations up to date? Had someone coughed while preparing the kung pao chicken? His brow knitted.

Abbott’s voice broke into his thoughts. “So you’re Czech. And you work as a police detective.”

Masaryk was so absorbed that he decided not to respond to this oddly obvious statement. Only a vague nod indicated that he’d heard it at all.

He looked up, however, when he heard a tone of something bordering on delight in his voice. Abbott’s face had an impish twist, like a little boy that was about to give one of his sister’s braids a good yank.

“Does that make you a… de-Czech-tive?”

The lights in the restaurant gave off a gentle, golden glow that seemed to spread around everyone and wrap them up in their warmth. Against the dark walls and floor it seemed almost as though they were sitting under some particularly close stars. Layla usually felt uncomfortable in such settings.

But after only a few dates with Chase, everything seemed to be so much more…at ease. Any situation, any predicament was just warmer and more pleasant. She felt safer. The future seemed brighter.

“Excuse me.” The sound of Chase’s voice hailing a waitress brought her out of her thoughts. “Could we get some chopsticks?”

The waitress was well prepared for this situation, and pulled two sets out of the pocket of her apron. He grinned so widely at her you’d think she’d just offered to donate her kidney.

“I can never get those to work,” Layla said lazily, watching him snap them apart. She didn’t bother asking why he’d requested them when their plates had already been taken away.

What he did next was very strange—of course, that was nothing new. Casually and surprisingly quickly, he slid his chair around to her side of the table. Then, without saying a word, he began twisting up her thick, wavy hair with the chopsticks.

When he realized that this haphazard method wasn’t working, he let it down again and started over—carefully smoothing out the dark brown waves with his fingers. Once she had overcome her initial surprise, Layla found herself strangely at ease in this new situation. That was usually how it worked with Chase.

When he finally had her hair completely gathered up and twisted into a messy bun, he slid his chair back around and looked at her from across the table. Somehow in his glinting black eyes he was simultaneously making sure she was okay with it and telling her she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“So he checks out too?”

“Yeah. Health records are totally clear. Vaccinations, everything’s up-to-date. No one’s had so much as even a cold for the past month.”

Masaryk ran his fingers through his hair in a motion almost comparable to a madman trying to yank it out. This case wasn’t stacking up at all. All logical options seemed to have been exhausted. They’d been inside this restaurant countless times over the past few days and everything he’d tried had turned up clear.

It didn’t help that he had to listen to the restaurant owner’s railings in French to one of the chefs in the kitchen. He was tired of the investigations. He’d been losing business for too long. This much he heard in the smatterings of English sprinkled throughout the conversation, usually directed at the dishwasher, who was one of the few native English speakers in the restaurant. In fact, there was only one Chinese person working there—the sushi chef, Ping He. The guy making the “authentic Chinese food” everyone was railing about was actually born in Vietnam, like the restaurant owner, and spoke primarily French.

“Masaryk.” Captain Fisher’s crisp tone, in sharp contrast to the steady stream of angry tones coming from the kitchen, “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Who?”

“The girl our victim was dating. Layla Browning. Probably has questions about the investigation.”

Masaryk raised his eyebrows, sticking his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Is this going to get in my way?”

“Talk to the girl, detective.”

“Alright, if you insist.”

The captain gave him a very hard look before adding, “He’s not doing so well and the doctor’s don’t know what’s wrong. She’s upset. So try to show a little compassion, okay?”

“Like this?” He mimed ripping his heart out of his chest, extended his arm before him with such conviction that his wiry muscles stood out jumper cables and, with an agonized expression, bent over double.

As usual, the captain did not respond, instead, stepping out of the way so Layla could get a full view of Masaryk’s theatrics. Her fresh, pretty face had grown somewhat wan and was streaked with dried tears. But she smiled a little in appreciation of this performance.

“I’m sorry,” he said, straightening and extending his hand. “Masaryk. I have a first name but I don’t like it—it’s not even Czech. Lovely to meet you.”

“I apologize for him,” the captain murmured in Layla’s ear before leaving. “He doesn’t have real human emotions. He used to be an actor.”

Her smile upturned a little more at this revelation. As Masaryk opened his notebook and began flipping through it again, she watched him rub his knobby knuckles with his thumb. When it became apparent that he had all but forgotten she was there, she asked,

“I was wondering if you’d found anything. Or if you needed my help with anything.”

Masaryk paused in his musings, at first faintly annoyed. But seeing her quiet green eyes, so wide and tender with suppressed grief, gave him an idea that would solve two problems at once.

“Actually, there is something you could do.” He closed the notebook and put his arm around her small shoulders. “The manager of the restaurant—Joshua Lai Pham—hasn’t really been closely interviewed. Do you speak French?”

“Yes,” she responded quietly. “I’ve studied it since middle school.”

“Excellent. Well then,” Masaryk masked his surprise and quickly altered his plan. “See if you can listen in on what he’s discussing so discreetly with his amigo in the kitchen. Only don’t—” he stressed, “—let him see you. Tu comprends?”

She nodded and headed off in that direction. In the process she accidentally jostled the janitor. Instead of apologizing or even accepting her fervent apologies, he shook his head and shifted his gaze to the floor, which he began mopping again, as slowly and methodically as before, with an expression of barely-disguised hatred.

Cracking his knuckles, Masaryk reopened his notebook and mentally congratulated himself. Now he wouldn’t have to deal with her—and maybe she would actually hear something.

If her French was as good as she claimed.

“You will find happiness in a place with water all around,” Chase read from the tiny slip of paper he had pulled out of his fortune cookie. “So I’m thinking… desert island? Wanna come?”

Layla grinned. “Mine says, Your entreaties will result in a reversal of your fortune.”

“They’re all so vague. It could mean anything, really.”

“I dunno, I thought yours was oddly specific.”

He nodded thoughtfully, but his eyes sparkled in a way suggesting he wasn’t taking it seriously. “Well, anyone can write a fortune cookie,” he said, wrapping an arm around Layla. “The real stuff happens when you rub Buddha’s belly.”

As he said this, he extended his free arm and generously ran his hand over the huge golden stomach. Layla giggled a little.

“So we need to plan the rest of our week around the lotto money I’m about to win.”

“You never buy lotto tickets.”

“Hey,” he said gravely, “Don’t doubt the lucky Buddha belly. Such trivial details.”

Four hours after Masaryk told her to “investigate” the restaurant owner, Layla was using her own methods to get the information. What she heard while Pham screamed at the head chef had proved totally unhelpful—besides teaching her some new French swear words. Now that she thought about it, she wondered if Masaryk had expected it to be helpful—after all, a murderer isn’t going to scream out his motives for an entire restaurant to hear. Not even in a different language.

Fortunately, however, she had another connection that Masaryk didn’t know about. The dishwasher, Jimmy Lee, had been in her French I class a few years ago. As far as she knew he had barely scraped by, without learning any usable French besides “Where is the library?” and “The monkey is on the branch.” She discovered after talking to him for a few minutes that he was, after all, one of those infuriating types often referred to as “smart but unmotivated.” He’d actually learned everything but had been too lazy to do his work or turn it in on time. Therefore he was able to tell her—using French I vocabulary—the story of the restaurant owner’s background.

“He grew up around My Lai I think… he grandired…”

“That’s right.”

“…and his father was killed by an American soldier during the war… the Vietnam War, I mean.”

“I gathered.”

“Apparently it bothered him a lot. He moved to America and bummed around until his friend—that guy who’s the head chef, I think—came up with this idea for a Chinese restaurant and asked him to manage. Turns out he had a good head for business—until this mess happened. Some of this I’m piecing in from what I’ve heard about him. But—” Jimmy stopped suddenly, seemingly unsure how to word what he was going to say.

“But what?”

“Well… you know my French is on a first-year level. But I heard some stuff that weirds me out little.”

Layla tilted her head slightly, urging him on with her eyes.

“Not… definite stuff,” he said, hesitating. “But sometimes it sounds like he’s a not a huge fan of American people in general. And more than that—it sounds like he still thinks about what happened to his dad back in Vietnam…I mean, it was years ago, but maybe you just never let that stuff go.”

She wrinkled her nose a little. “Are you… sure you’re not just reading too much into that?”

He shrugged. “There’s no questioning the guy’s at least a little off-kilter. Everybody knows it. But I don’t know exactly what that means—what he’s capable of doing, anyway.”

“Are you okay?”

Chase’s face had suddenly lost color. A thin film of sweat coated the surface of his skin, and his eyes were getting an odd, unfocused look, as though he couldn’t see what was in front of him.

The night sky was close and thick, like a blanket over their heads, dotted with tiny gleaming stars that reminded Layla of Chase’s eyes. She had been looking up at them, smiling a little, when he’d abruptly stopped walking.

“Yeah, I’m just… okay, maybe not.”

At this he collapsed.

Masaryk and the rookie, Ben Abbott, were sitting across from each other at what had been Chase and Layla’s table a few weeks before. Masaryk was curiously studying the table and Ben was chewing on a kolache, making sure to have an expression of pure bliss on his face each time the detective looked up from his investigation.

With a hint of sigh on realizing that Masaryk wasn’t going to take the bait, Abbott asked, “So you’re thinking he might have picked it up from the table?”

“But the other three cases were from people sitting at different tables.” With a mild sound of frustration, he landed his elbows on the table, burying his hands in his hair.

“What happened next?” Abbott asked, after a few moments of silence..

By this time Masaryk’s head had sunk into his arms and he seemed to have almost fallen asleep on the table. When he spoke, it came out as, “Blmhphmhbuphuh.”

“Oh. Okay.” He had no problem with not doing anything. It was sort of his trademark investigative technique. But Captain Fisher was glancing over in their direction and he didn’t want to look like he was doing nothing. “Well, I think he asked for the chopsticks at this point,” he offered.

“The chopsticks. We checked those, right?” Masaryk had finally looked up. His eyes were sharp and clear, and occasionally they flickered over to the kitchen or other parts of the restaurant. Abbott had to wonder if he’d been thinking all the time he’d been slumped over the table.

“What was next?” Suddenly the detective seemed to have gotten a second wind. His eyes gleamed a little, with something like triumph. “We’ve been over this. Let’s try something new. They got up and walked over to the exit—” He motioned for Abbott to follow him as he retraced their steps. The carpet was a fresh forest green; the restaurant hadn’t been around long enough for it to show any wear. Abbott realized he kind of liked how it looked against the deep brown wood of the tables and chairs—it was classy. He wasn’t used to these kinds of restaurants.

“—and got fortune cookies out of this bowl—we checked the bowl and the cookies—” Masaryk picked up a few and opened one, pulling out the fortune and tossing it aside.

“Yeah…?” He was only half-listening, despite the detective’s excited tone. Now they had moved into the waiting area—a step down from the dining area, and floored with matte black tile. The surly janitor was giving them all the evil eye as he swept up around the door. Abbott had almost tripped over his mop yesterday and the guy hadn’t apologized—in fact, he’d acted like it was his fault.

“They’re talking about their fortunes—he rubs the Buddha belly—for good luck, you know—” Masaryk extended his hand and paused in mid-air, just before touching it.

“Abbott,” he said, in a strange tone, “Did we get the lab rats to… swab the belly?”

Layla compared notes with Masaryk the next day—amazingly, they had actually turned out to be helpful. He’d pieced the story together from her accounts and from the unabashed testimony of the janitor—who, when asked, was only too happy to confess. He seemed unconcerned with the legal consequences, only somewhat dismayed that his work was about to come to a permanent end.

The friend of the restaurant owner who worked as head chef had been as wakeful as Masaryk the past few nights—but for entirely different reasons. The cause of his insomnia had been a guilty conscience. All it had taken for him to spill what he knew about the restaurant owner had been a few of Layla’s probing questions, paired with her sorrowful green eyes.

Pham, it turned out, was not directly responsible for contaminating the Buddha belly. But when he’d caught the janitor in the act, he’d quietly looked the other way. Apparently, Jimmy Lee’s assumptions had not been totally misguided.

The janitor’s motives were unknown. His misanthropy didn’t have any rhyme or reason that Masaryk could fathom.

Of course, he didn’t have to worry about that. He’d leave that for the shrinks—they were paid to do it.

The janitor had also been happy to reveal the name of the disease on promise of some privilege or another. The doctors, who had been treating for several possible causes, were happy to have that little tidbit. A few weeks later Chase was in the clear.

Chase was still a little thin and pale when he and Layla showed up in court. Masaryk watched them from across the aisle—the place was crammed but that wonder of modern technology known as air-conditioning kept it in roughly artic temperatures. At first he’d assumed the illness would have taken a toll on Chase’s personality. But as the janitor and Pham were being led down the aisle to the front, he heard him murmur, almost inaudibly, “Bad boys bad boys what you gonna do, what you gonna do when they come for you—”

With a grin Masaryk turned back to face the front. Sometimes, seeing those two together, he thought that coming out of bachelorhood might not be such a bad idea. Of course, finding the right person seemed like it would take more luck than he had.

And that kind of luck wasn’t going to come from rubbing Buddha’s belly.