F3: ‘Fortune Cookie’

I know it’s been a couple of weeks since I remembered to take part, but here’s a new entry for Friday Flash Fiction.

FORTUNE COOKIE

To Noah, the Chinese restaurant channelled clips from a hundred badly dubbed kung fu movies. There was the tank of exotic fish into which the katana-wielding goons would be thrown; here was the frosted plate glass from which the elderly kingpin would plummet to his death; and there was the door with the ‘no entry’ sign which would inevitably lead to the ill-lit underground headquarters from which the family coordinated their money laundering / prostitution / drug smuggling activities. He tried explaining this to his date, but she seemed less than entirely convinced.

Clearing her throat, she explained how it was more likely that the fish tank was made from shatter-proof plastic, and how it would be impossible for anyone – even an elderly, moustachioed master criminal – to die from injuries sustained in a fall from the ground floor. She was smiling, though. So perhaps, on some level, she understood what he meant?

He told her about the full extent of his Wuxia collection. She told him about her job in publishing. He explained how it was cheaper for him to live in his parents basement, which was actually quite spacious now that he’d moved the boxes. She smiled encouragingly.

But his suspicions about her were properly confirmed when, in a lull in the conversation, she gestured for him to lean in. Glancing sideways at the waitress, who hovered in the background like some kind of vulture, Noah’s date closed her hand on his. She believed him. And If Noah was willing to distract the girl, she’d go and investigate the underground headquarters, allowing him to follow later. Say, in half an hour. Heart thumping, Noah nodded. He ordered another glass of lemonade, and a couple of fortune cookies. The waitress disappeared into the kitchen, and Noah’s date made a beeline for the door. Glancing back over her shoulder, she winked, and the door swung shut behind her.

The fortune cookies came, along with the drink, but Noah’s date was nowhere to be seen. What if she’d been captured? After twenty-two minutes, he could bear it no longer. While the waitress was engaged in argument with a heavy-set gentleman on a table in the far corner, Noah stood up slowly, sidled over the door, took a deep breath, and leapt into the cleaning cupboard.

There was a mop, a bucket, and several bottles of cleaning fluid. The window was open, and someone had stacked a couple of boxes against the wall. Noah sighed, explained to the irate waitress that he’d simply been looking for the toilet, and returned to his table.

So much for the criminal gang. Heck, so much for his date. Momentarily losing himself in the pattern of gas bubbles rising in his glass of lemonade, Noah broke into the larger of the fortune cookies. Now, that was odd – instead of a piece of paper, there was a small ziploc bag, which seemed to contain some kind of … white … powder.

Shit, thought Noah, as he met the less-than-friendly gaze of the guy at the other table, Not again.

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This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.