by Ponzo, Gary
Chapter 9
A couple of days had passed since the Carlsons had read the riddle. Jerry was eager to get on with their next task, but for that to happen, he needed to figure out what the message meant. Vicki wasn’t as good as Jerry when it came to deciphering the clues, and he suspected part of her lack of ability had to do with the fact that she didn’t want to rush things and leave the city.
Jerry sat quietly in the hotel room while drinking coffee. He and his wife had spent the day shopping and were back for an afternoon nap. She was the only one occupying the bed. Jerry chose, instead, to take advantage of the quiet time and the fresh pot of brew he had ordered from room service to think through the riddle.
Good fortune comes in many forms. Find the right one for your next clue. Jerry repeated that thought while he sipped the hot and black. Every riddle they had received thus far had something to do with San Francisco, particularly the city’s Chinatown neighborhood. No other instructions were included; figuring stuff out was part of the process. They knew each riddle would lead them to a specific location where they would receive the answer to unlock their next task.
Fortune… fortune…
His body jerked and his eyes widened. It’s so obvious: fortune cookies. Every Chinese restaurant serves them after a meal, but which one?
Jerry moved over to the desk and searched for popular Chinese restaurants on his laptop. He scanned the results, hoping something from the name or location would jump out at him, but nothing did. There has to be a better way of narrowing it down.
He revised his search for restaurants only in the Chinatown area but it didn’t help much. Most of the same restaurants appeared. He tried adding “delivery” to his search, but nothing about the results told him anything useful still. Frustrated, Jerry looked at his wife; his sleeping beauty lay calmly under the covers, unaware of his irritation at not having a sounding board to help.
Maybe I’m coming at this wrong, he continued with his thoughts. Many forms… Flavors? There are different flavors. I’ve seen chocolate-covered ones. Still, the problem was who and where. And that’s when he realized it wasn’t about all the places that served fortune cookies.
On a hunch, he typed “manufacturing fortune cookies in San Francisco” into the search field. Bingo! The Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory popped up, and it was in Chinatown. That’s it! It’s gotta be. Jerry mentally patted himself on the back for his cleverness before draining the last of the coffee from his cup. It was time to wake his lovely up.
<><><>
As soon as he had figured out their destination, Jerry had dragged Vicki out of bed and into Chinatown. This time, he also wore his disguise: a pair of glasses and a mustache. It was important to Jerry that he and Vicki conceal their identities when meeting with their contact. She said he was being paranoid, that it didn’t matter, but he insisted. As they walked north on Grant Street, she monitored the map on her phone. “We need to make a left on Jackson, and then it’s the next left after that.”
They continued to the intersection, turned left and walked half a block uphill where they found themselves looking at an alley. “Is it on a street? I would think a place of business would have their front door facing the street.”
Vicki frowned at the phone. “Well, it says it’s the very next left. It doesn’t say if it’s a road or alley.”
Jerry ignored the alleyway and told her to follow him as he continued up the hill to Stockton Avenue. He made a left and started looking for the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory.
“We passed it,” she blurted. “According to the map, it’s back where we were, in that alley.”
“Let me see that phone,” he ordered. But to his surprise, the map clearly showed they had passed it.
“I told you so.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes these maps have the wrong information and—”
Vicki didn’t wait for her husband to finish his sentence. She turned around and marched back down the street. By then, Jerry had caught up. In the alley they passed a florist and a small fruit market, even a print shop.
“See? There are businesses here.” They kept on walking until they reached the other end on Washington Street.
“Well, I didn’t see any giant factory,” he said smugly. “Think about it; how could a factory fit in such a small area?”
Again, Vicki ignored her husband and retraced her steps. This time, he didn’t follow. As far as he was concerned, she was wasting time. He pulled out his own phone with a plan to call the factory for directions, but before he could dial, he heard a big laugh coming from the alley.
He looked up and saw his wife waving her hands over her head. “It’s right here. We walked right past it.”
Can’t be. Jerry headed to where his wife stood, and sure enough, above a single glass door where one wouldn’t think to look, there hung a red and yellow sign that read “Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory.” The glass door was dirty and covered with smudges, which helped camouflage what was behind it. The nondescript entrance looked more like the backdoor to someone’s apartment than what Jerry had pictured in his head.
Vicki pushed open the door, and the smell of baked vanilla and caramel flooded her nostrils. “Mmmm, it smells delicious.”
The space was tiny, no larger than a long narrow apartment. Bags of fortune cookies for sale overflowed from the shelving near the entrance. Down the middle of the factory were three women sitting behind tables with metal contraptions that resembled waffle irons. They were busy making fortune cookies.
Jerry leaned in toward his wife. “You mean to tell me these three women make all the fortune cookies?”
“I guess,” she responded.
A rope prevented the Carlsons from venturing any farther inside. Nearby, an old man sat in a chair and smiled at them. Next to him, in shaky handwriting, was a sign that asked visitors to pay fifty cents to take a picture. Vicki immediately opened her purse, fished out two quarters and turned them over to the old man. She then stood next to the closest woman making cookies and smiled. Jerry snapped a picture on his phone and on Vicki’s camera, for which the old man asked for another fee.
Jerry started to grumble.
“Just pay the man,” Vicki ordered. “It’s only fifty cents.”
Jerry grabbed a bag of cookies, handed the man four dollars and fifty cents and then whispered, “Chasing Chinatown.”
The old man nodded, stood up and walked to the back of the factory. A minute later he returned and handed Jerry a red fortune cookie. Jerry cracked it open and read the fortune before turning to his wife with a grin on his face. “We have our answer.”
Chapter 10
The neighborhood I called home, North Beach, had the nickname “Little Italy” thanks to the large number of Italian immigrants who had settled there long ago. It’s still home to numerous Italian restaurants and delis, my favorite being Fanelli’s on Columbus Avenue near Washington Square. We lived a couple of blocks away from the square in an old Victorian on Pfeiffer Street. I liked the area. It was quiet, and the neighbors were nice and respectful. It felt like home to me.
I parked my Impala directly outside our house, like I always did. Before I made it to the front door, I could hear Lucy laughing inside. I looked at my watch: 8:00 p.m. She should be getting ready for bed.
I opened the door and spotted my little one sitting on the stairs in her PJs.
“Hi, Mommy,” she said as she waved.
I brought my left wrist up and tapped at my watch. “Shouldn’t someone already be in bed?”
“I was waiting for you to come home.”
That’s all she needed to say to have me ditch the tough Mommy attitude. I put my purse down and climbed the stairs with my arms out to give her a long hug. “Mommy’s missed you. Have you been good?”
“Yes,” she said with exaggerated nods.
“Did you finish all your dinner?”
More exaggerated nods.
“Have you brushed your teeth yet?”
That time she grinned and shook her head. “Nooooooooo.”
I pointed to the top of the stairs. “Get moving.” I patted her behind. “Brush your teeth. I’ll come by later to tuck you into bed.”
I watched her scramble up the stairs until she rounded the corner before I headed into the kitchen, where I knew I would find Po Po.
“Oh, you home. Good. I made noodles for dinner. I warm some up for you.”
My mother-in-law practically lived in the kitchen. Having her bedroom next door only encouraged it. I knew it was nearing her bedtime, so I told her not to worry. She had already changed into her nightwear. Maybe. I should really learn the difference between that blue dress and that blue nightgown.
I usually try to get home by 5:30 p.m. On days I’m running late, which I try very hard not to do, I call and give her the heads up. Being late means I most likely missed out on walking the kids—well, Lucy anyway— home from school. On days I was able to meet them at school, Ryan took the opportunity to walk home with his friends. If work was hectic, I would text him, and he had the responsibility of walking his sister home before he could hang out with his friends. It would be that way until Lucy was eighteen.
Po Po ignored what I said and put a plate of noodles into the microwave. “While that’s warming up,” I said, “I’ll tuck Lucy into bed and check in on Ryan.”
“Don’t take long. Microwave only need three minutes.”
I hurried up the stairs. Lucy had just walked out of the bathroom, so I made like a monster and chased her into her room.
“How come you’re home so late?” she asked as she climbed into bed and slipped under her covers.
“Mommy had to go to Muir Woods. Remember the park we went to with the really tall trees?”
“Oh, yeah. My neck hurt from looking at them.”
“That’s right; it did.”
She yawned, and I took that opportunity to bring the covers up to her neck before giving her a kiss goodnight. Her eyes were slowly closing. Yes! I stood up and turned off the lights. “Sweet dreams.”
I closed the door behind me and let go a couple of fist pumps. It had been a while since I’d had one of those right-to-bed moments. Usually she pummeled me with a series of “why” questions, or begged for a story, or the infectious giggles would attack her. But as she got older, the stalling happened less and less. Even the tantrums were fewer and farther between. Bedtime was becoming a natural occurrence and not a chore.
She went down quickly, so I was sure I had at least another minute or two left on the microwave timer. I stuck my head in Ryan’s room. Empty. When he wasn’t there, he could be found on the third floor. We had converted half the top floor into a media/playroom, and he had taken to doing homework and playing up there so Lucy wouldn’t bother him. He had her convinced that the floor was haunted, so she never ventured higher than the second floor. I’m sure some psychological damage was taking place, but hey, if it got Ryan to study, great. I would deal with the fallout later.
Ryan sat at the desk, his back to me, while he listened to music on his phone. When I placed my hand on his shoulder, he jumped, and I let out a laugh. “Got you!”
“Abby,” he moaned, “I’m trying to study.”
“And I’m trying to say hello.” I gave him a hug and kiss. “History?” I asked.
“Reading comprehension,” he corrected.
“How’s it coming along?”
“Pretty good. It’s one of my easier subjects. Math is the toughest.”
Ha! Stereotype debunked. I pity the fool that tries to copy off my kid during a math test. He’s following in my footsteps. I pinched myself as a reminder to look into a math tutor for him. I really didn’t want him to struggle in any of his subjects.
I noticed a bruise on the back of his neck. “What happened here?” I asked, pulling his collar down a bit.
“Judo.”
“Someone do a move the wrong way?”
“Sort of. We were practicing flips, and my partner didn’t execute well enough. The back of my neck hit his knee.”
“Ouch.” I touched it gently. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Ryan had come a long way from the little, whiny boy I remembered when we first met. I like to think I toughened the kid up and that his father was looking down at us with a smile. Judo, however, was the driving force behind his newfound confidence. He’d even started to take an interest in coming to the gym and hitting the heavy bag with me. I remember one day he got cocky and suggested we spar. It might have had something to do with him coming home after 5:00 p.m. on a school day and me doling out a week of no Internet, except for homework, as punishment. I told him, “Fine. Let’s go.”
We both entered the ring. Ryan had a silly grin on his face and started moving his feet back and forth like a boxer. He jerked his head from side to side. I suspected he thought I would take it easy on him. I didn’t.
The entire session lasted a few seconds. He threw a jab and came up short. I followed up with a straight right and flattened his nose. I didn’t draw blood, but I had made sure to put a little heat behind it, enough to sting. It was a friendly reminder to never underestimate his mother and taught him a lesson that girls are as tough as boys. That day also had me remembering how my father gave me my first black eye. It was his way of saying, “Come on. It’s time you learn how to box.”
I knew my father loved me, even if his ways of showing it were unconventional. He wanted two things for me: to be independent and to be able to protect myself. “If you can master those skills,” he constantly repeated, “you’ll be able to handle whatever life throws your way.” I liked to think I was instilling the same virtues in Ryan.
As I left Ryan to his schoolwork and headed back downstairs, my phone started to ring. I removed it from my back pocket and answered, only to hear the haunting voice I hadn’t heard in over a year.
“Ab-by.”
The Monster!
The Monster was the nickname earned by one of the FBI’s most wanted. I thought it fitting and refused to call him anything else. That’s what he was, and it’s what he deserved to be called. It had been over a year since I had last spoken to him, right before he slipped through our grasp. We never could confirm whether he left the country or even the state. It was like he vanished into thin air, never to be seen or heard from again. I had just stepped off the stairs onto the second level of our home when I responded.
“I would call you by your name, but you don’t deserve that. They still call you Monster, or is it Prick nowadays?”
“Ah, you still have that mouth of yours.”
“And you’re still a scared man on the run.” I moved quickly down the hall to the window that looked out over the front of our house. I gently parted the curtain and peeked, watching for any sort of movement in the shadows. Part of me thought he might have never left the city, but I knew that was unlikely. We had his picture blasted on every news station and newspaper in the state of California. Someone would have seen him. Hearing his voice again had me wondering how he had stayed underground for such a long period of time.
“Run? Who’s running?”
“You mean to tell me you’re still in the country?”
“Country? Why, Ab-by, I’m in your backyard.”
My stomach dropped, and my heart lurched from my chest. I spun around and bolted down the hallway, then down the stairs two at a time. I still had my weapon holstered underneath my hoodie, and within seconds, I had it drawn. I sprinted by Po Po, telling her to stay in the kitchen. I didn’t bother peeking out the back door, choosing instead to flip the light switch and burst onto the screened-in porch. It took seconds to clear the area before I moved into the yard itself. My heart thumped against my chest, and every sense I had remained on high alert. My breathing was elevated, but I remained focused. I hoped he had made the dumb mistake of showing up at my home. If you had asked me earlier how I would have reacted in this situation, I couldn’t have told you. But that n
ight, I discovered I was angry. How dare that bastard come onto my property and threaten my family and me?
I could hear the faint sound of laughter as I turned around searching the yard for him. It took a moment before I realized he was still on the phone I had shoved into the front pocket of my hoodie.
“Ab-by? Can you hear me?”
I brought the phone up to my ear.
“Guess what? I’m not there.” More laughter. “You want to know what the best part is? The next time I call, you won’t know whether I’m toying with you or not.”
Chapter 11
That same night Jerry and Vicki were out on the town, taking in San Francisco’s eclectic nightlife. They had caught a show at the Curran Theater and were enjoying a few cocktails at Bourbon and Branch, a speakeasy on Jones Street.
“What a charming bar,” Jerry said as he looked around.
It certainly wasn’t typical. For one, reservations were needed to receive a password to get in, as well as to receive the address. From the outside, a passerby saw only an unmarked door: no window, no sign, nothing. However, inside was quite the opposite. It was plush and ornate. The floors, booths, bar, and built-in bookcases were all fashioned out of polished wood. The wood finishes played up the era of Prohibition, but the lighting and crushed red velvet patterns lining one of the walls kept the vibe current and hip.
Unlike a bar packed with standing room only, this one had individual booths. According to the house rules, standing wasn’t allowed around the bar—sitting only. And patrons took the term speakeasy literally. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, much like Jerry imagined they had back in those days.
Vicki beamed back at her husband. “Isn’t the whole secret entrance so cool?”
“It is. I quite like it.” Jerry looked at his watch before picking up his glass and swirling the amber liquor around.
