The ballad of two
Part two
Prophets and fortune cookies

/ / /

"There is still something that I don't understand."

The silence in the room was broken. To Joey Russo and Mike Silver, best friends for over twenty years and career cops both, the silence had lasted the eternity of an eye blink. Time could be strange like that. Lost in the moment neither Joey nor Mike had noticed the passage of time, or the lack thereof; for them there was nothing but the moment. A split second or an hour could easily have passed them by and they would not have noticed the difference. For David Johnson, however, an 'outsider' in both the sense of the familiarity between the two men that was almost tangible and in terms of whatever had passed between them, unspoken, the time had passed uncomfortably.

An intelligent man, top of his class – every class – since junior high, David Johnson knew that the problem was his own. The chip on his shoulder, so to speak, had been there for as long as he could remember. No matter where he was, or what he was doing, he felt that he had something to prove. Felt that he had to live up to the hype that surrounded him. Being the best in his field simply wasn't enough for him, coming first didn't satisfy his urge to compete; he still felt that he had something to prove. Worse than they he thought that everyone around him felt that he had something to prove as well. The irony wasn't lost on him though, he had never really had to work to get where he was, it had all came easily – too easily perhaps – and so it was fair to assume that he would be confident; egomaniacal perhaps. The truth was that he wasn't. Quite the opposite in fact.

… and so to stand ignored in the shadows, figuratively speaking, while two giants of his chosen profession seemed to telepathically communicate about his very first case, grated on him. The little voice in his head, the same one that always goaded him to 'try harder', 'do better', pushed him into speaking a little louder than he intended and he could feel the flush rising up from his neck to encroach across his ebon cheeks as both men slowly turned to look at him.

/ / /

Both men turned to look at him and Ember as he opened the door, the bell above it chiming out its own welcome and he couldn't help but smile, a little, at their reaction. Even after all this time he still took delight, admittedly and unashamedly perverse but delight nonetheless, in seeing the rapid change of emotion that played across people's faces when they saw him.

A blank expression was normally the first thing that he saw, whenever people noticed him. Either that or expectation, a word of greeting already being formed on lips that were almost smiling in the anticipation of seeing someone they knew. The word would be choked off, swallowed whole, and the smile covered up, aborted like a deformed embryo when they realised that Ember was not who they were expecting. Not even close to what they were expecting. The clichéd comedy double take came after that, but in real life it worked so much better than on the sliver screen. No matter how many movies Ember watched, how many books he read, he had never found anything that could even come close to the reactions of reality. Then again when the day came that a faceless writer could actually capture the myriad intangibles, the endless potentials, of life itself Ember knew that perhaps he would gladly change his existence from reality to fiction. Thankfully that day hadn't yet come and so he knew that he just had to get on with it. Ignoring the veiled look of shock, the fear that was quickly masked behind a veneer – thin and already cracking – of welcome and civility, on the faces of the waiters … reactions that he had seen play out so many times that he could predict it with greater success than even Nostradamus himself … Ember fixed a façade of a smile on his own face, knowing that the shape of his lips were visible through the material that covered his face, cowl like. Knowing, too, that due to its malleability and colouring the term 'cowl' was exactly apt as the mask resembled nothing less than a featureless layer of skin.

Allowing the door to close slowly behind him, cocking his head slightly, listening to the bell chime out once more, he walked into the darkened foyer of the Chinese restaurant.

"Can I help you?"

It was impressive, Ember silently admitted to himself, the level of control the older of the two Oriental men had over himself. The initial shock of seeing a man who resembled, literally, an apparition walk into their midst had not shaken him as much as the younger who was still staring, wide-eyed, at the alabaster skinned man dressed all in black. Even the elder's voice hardly shook, and Ember gave a small nod of acknowledgement as he approached them both. One thing that he respected, possibly the only thing, was strength. Not physical strength, for any idiot could lift enough weights and train his muscles to obey him, but mental strength, emotional control, was different. Forcing a mind to stay calm in the face of fear, demanding control over every action, and reaction, was something that he had devoted time to mastering and seeing that – even if only a fraction of his own ability – mirrored in others, was something rare.

"A table for one please, zu fu." The elder Chinese man's eyes widened slightly as he heard the honorific term spoken by the man standing in front of him. The fact that most Chinese had long forgotten the respect owed to their elders while this man didn't surprised him enough, but the fact that his dialect was as pure as if he had been born in China himself threw him nearly as much. With a low bow he stepped forward and indicated a corner table, shrouded in a cubicle. Taking his jacket from Ember, the older man draped it over one arm as he folded the preferred scarf and placed it inside the hat that followed. Ember sat down, pretending to ignore the stares of the younger Chinese man now that his concealing layers were off. Steepling his fingers in front of him, casting a shadow over the small stone-like object that sat beside the ornate chop-sticks, Ember paused, resting his arms on the table.

/ / /

Resting his arms on the table in front of him Joey sighed and rubbed one large hand across his face, his skin rubbing against his five o'clock shadow – though it was only shortly after eleven in the morning – sounding like sandpaper. He had only met the kid … God he thought to himself, you are getting old if you are calling him a kid … a week ago and already he was grating on his nerves. It wasn't anything personal about the kid … young man, he corrected himself silently … it was just that he wasn't used to having to work with anyone else. Over the years since Mike had been promoted he had gotten used to working alone. Seen as a maverick by some, and as an anachronism that simply refused to realise that its time had not only come but also passed, to others, Joey Russo hadn't had a partner.

Until now.

Until this case.

Until one week ago when his best friend, who also happened to be his boss, had walked into his office and dumped not just a case that he didn't want to deal with but also a partner that he didn't want. Period. All of his protestations had fallen on deaf ears, though, and while he had run the full gamut of arguments – from calculating to petulant and from irate to pleading – none of them had made any difference. Mike had just sat there, in silence, and waited until Joey had run out of steam and excuses. Then, with a small smile, he had simply asked if Mike had finally finished and when he got a curt nod in response he said that things were settled. The case, and the rookie, were his.

… and for the last week both had given him the mother of all headaches.

"What don't you understand, Davey?" Joey couldn't help the irritation that came out with the words and just hoped that Davey hadn't heard it but, when he looked across the table and caught the disapproving glance of his captain, Mike, he knew that he probably had.

"Listen kid, I don't mean to snap, but we have gone over this time and time again and haven't got anywhere." It was as close to an actual apology that Joey had come to giving to anyone in nearly five years. Joey and Davey stared at each other across the table, and for a moment neither spoke and then, with a cough to clear his throat, Davey broke the strained silence again.

"Look, I understand that we have a missing persons report from nearly two years ago," he began, somewhat hesitantly, "and that there was a weapon found covered in his blood just last week …" He trailed off, looking from the face of Joey to Mike and then back again, as he held up a thin file in front of him, staring at it perplexed.

"But?"

"… but" Davey replied to Joey's prompt, "that is all we have. No body, no other evidence, nothing at all to go on." He stopped again, opening the file and staring in bemusement and the very few pieces of paper contained within. "I just don't understand how, if this guy really has been killed, we haven't found any other trace at all. It just doesn't seem …"

"… yes?" Joey sat back, a gleam of interest in his eyes as he silently willed the younger man to follow his train of thought through to the end. He had read his file and knew that, on paper, he was mean to be something of a prodigy. Everyone that had taught him, or worked with him, said that they knew that he was special and that he was a name to remember but Joey didn't take too much stock in that. Never one to follow the crowd, or listen to platitudes, he preferred to make his own decisions based on what he knew for himself. So, instead of just accepting the prophecies of Davey's past Joey wanted to see the reality of his future. For the past week he hadn't seen anything special in the younger man at all. Diligent and punctual yes, but nothing that lived up to even half the hype that surrounded him. Until now. Finally he was thinking for himself, outside of the box of his training, and doing something that the textbooks hadn't taught him.

"It just doesn't make any sense." Davey almost spat the final word out, as if he had to force himself to question the evidence when neither of the other two had. His world had always been neatly ordered, every question had a ready answer, and the last week had rocked the foundations of his belief system to the core and challenged him in ways that he had never been challenged before. Looking at them both he realised that they were staring at him intently and another flush of embarrassment coursed across him.

"Sorry, I will shut up now."

"The fuck you will," Joey exploded and then grinned, "'scuse my French, but no you won't shut up kid. Keep going."

The tension in David Johnson left him with a laugh and he sat back, choosing his words carefully, before a growing sense of confidence allowed him to speak more clearly.

"If someone really did use a straight razor to kill our missing wrestler, and was careless enough to discard it where it would be easily found," he said confidently, "then where …"

"… is the body?" Joey finished the sentence for Davey and then smiled as they saw the look of shock on his face.

"Hey, don't look so surprised. While I admire the fact that you are thinking this through, kid," Joey said sincerely, "we have already thought about that ourselves."

"So, what did you come up with?" Davey asked, any irritation about being two steps behind the others forgotten in his desire to satisfy his curiosity.

"We don't know," Joey admitted, sheepishly, "you are right, it doesn't make sense."

/ / /

"It doesn't make any sense."

Ember pushed the plate of almost untouched food away from him and picked up the small stone-like object. Holding it in one hand he caressed the creases on its surface, turning it over as his eyes followed the furrows that never seemed to end.

"Sorry sir," the young waiter said quietly, breaking Ember out of his reverie "is there something wrong with the food?" In the hour that Ember had been in the restaurant the waiter had become, if not more comfortable, less agitated in his presence. The moment that he had seen Ember raise the mask slightly, exposing his mouth so that he could sip at the glass of chilled water that was brought to him, was the moment that he seemed to realise that he wasn't facing one of the many demons from his childhood stories. Even despite this he wasn't fully convince, simply because the colour of the man's skin was the same ivory grey, almost translucent, as the mask itself.

"No, it isn't the food, child," Ember said, softly, still turning the object over in his hand, "it is just me. I don't seem to have any appetite at the moment." Holding the object up so that the waiter could see it clearly Ember looked up at him and, even though his eyes were covered by the mask and hidden behind the white hair that feel in waves, curtain like, in front of him the waiter knew that he was looking directly into his eyes. The young man shivered suddenly, unable to help the sudden thought that the strange man in front of him was not just staring into his eyes, but his very soul.

"Do you know why these are served?" Ember asked. The question obviously took the waiter by surprise, so unexpected, so mundane, was it, and when he suddenly realised that he hadn't misheard but that he was indeed being asked about something as simple as the cookie he relaxed slight and smiled.

"Yes sir," he said with a grin, "they are to keep the customers happy. When they get a good fortune the tip more." The wink that he gave to Ember made him look even more youthful than before and Ember sighed inwardly, sitting back into the chair and just staring, quietly, at the young man until his smile faded.

"… and what happens if they don't get a good fortune," Ember asked, the hint of disdain in his voice clearly evident, "what if the prophecy for their future isn't to their liking?" The waiter looked around him, realising that he was alone in the main restaurant with this strange man. His grandfather was still in the kitchen and there were no other customers. The fortune cookies were meant to be a secret of the family but he realised that he had already said to much and also knew that he couldn't stop himself from telling the strange man anything – everything – that he wanted to know.

"That cannot happen, sir," he said, trying to force a smile to his face but failing and looking sick instead, "we make the cookies here and fill them with only favourable fortunes. We check each one and ensure that it is a good fortune. That way the customers will always get something that makes them happy."

"You will have gold pieces by the bushel," Ember quoted in a falsetto voice; "your planning will bring rich rewards". He slammed his hand down on the table, the fortune cookie shattering into a thousand pieces beneath his palm, as he almost growled at the young waiter. "You peddle those sort of lies to the weak and the witless, who are only too pleased to get those sort of empty platitudes rather than face the possibility of something that they don't like!" Standing up, his hand still firmly pressed on top of the shattered remnants of the cookie, Ember leant forwards, his face nearly touching the young man who stood there motionless.

"Your ancestors used these little cookies – these seemingly innocuous and meaningless morsels – to carry secret messages that would coordinate the overthrow of their oppressors," Ember whispered, almost sibilantly, "they put messages of worth and meaning inside these things, messages that led to the demise of the Mongul rule in China and the rise of the Ming Dynasty. You took a weapon of a whole generation, you took a real prophecy of change and turned it into nothing more than a stale cookie with a trite platitude to make you money!"

"We just wanted to give people what they wanted."

The quiet voice from behind them both stopped both Ember and the waiter and they turned to see the older man standing at the entrance to the kitchen, holding Ember's coat. Suddenly Ember almost seemed to deflate, the sudden and bizarre anger drained out of him, and he walked away from the table, grabbing his coat and hat from the older man on the way past. Taking a handful of notes out of his pocket he pushed them into the younger man's hand.

"Here you go," he said tiredly, "your tip from a 'happy' customer." Walking straight to the door he pulled it open, the bell chiming above him.

"Wait," the young waiter started, "don't you want your fortune?" His only answer was the chiming of the bell again, mockingly, as the door closed behind the departing Ember who didn't even glance backwards. Looking down at the table, and the debris from the crushed fortune cookie, the waiter blinked and his face went ashen as he saw the small, creased piece of paper that had been inside it.

… and realised that it was completely blank.

/ / /

To be continued