The Cat, The Dragon, and The Maneki-Neko: A Mike Dodge Mystery

The mid-September breeze caressed my newly shorn neck, and I felt like the shit, senior heavyweight class.

At the right-angle gutter between the Dollar Palace and Sandy’s Beauty Supplies, warm, brisk cross-currents had trapped a dust-devil of discarded Rescue Squad Subs wrappers, dead Fireball nip bottles, used vape pods, and even a deceased Trojan kiting about like a Man-of-War in a hydrothermal vent of sadness. The sirocco coursing in from the Beltway bore an incense of double-stacked burger, non-trans-fried chicken, cumin and curry and garlic and soy that offered the consolation that we at least would all die in some state mimicking catatonic happiness.

I rock-jocked “September” as I strode past the XXL-ent Big Man’s Style, the vacant front where they’d thrice unsuccessfully tried to hawk cupcakes (the Central Illinois small business paradigm is built on vanilla hopes and lavender fumes). I stopped dead before The Dragon City.

You don’t meet a viral sensation every day. She was staring at the plate glass -- dazzling green eyes, apricot hair capturing the mid-afternoon sun. I approached cautiously but casually – you only get one chance to make a first impression before the pepper spray comes out.

“Hey there, honey,” I murmured as I edged closer. “How’s the girl…”

She favored me with a side-eye rich with utter disdain before turning back to the window, staring past the painted red/gold dragon and lanterns with something akin to melancholy. Buttercream Coppleson had taken the local social media scene by storm following a Peoria affiliate’s slow-day segment on the Queen of East Commerce Place and a follow-up print piece on the tabby and her obsession with The Lucky Cat.

Buttercream in fact lived in the stylish (circa 1995) Beltway Meadows behind the HyVee and the Jock Clips and the Taste of Mumbai and the fat shirt place and the cupcake crypt. Like most willful starlets, she couldn’t be contained, and she spent most days strutting about the Commerce Place plaza, returning home consistently by 5. She was a beloved fixture, presumably scoring tandoori chicken and pastrami scraps and the occasional spilled Taki or Cheeto, and as a result, she was today a bit more Jennifer Coolidge than Jennifer Garner.

“Who’s a sweet kitty?” I ventured one last time. Buttercream took a pathetic left-pawed swipe at the window, regarded me with fathomless antipathy, and sprinted off. As I popped my knees rising, I spotted a taped placard – “Closed for Good – All Fixtures Must Go. Thanks for Your Patronage.” To the left of the sign, I spotted a young, pony-tailed man hauling a box across the vacant restaurant foyer. I raised a brow toward the door, and he nodded me in.

“What happened?” I asked as I entered what had been something of a sacred space before I’d retired two blocks down the Beltway.

“COVID,” the young guy shrugged. “Well, that was my parents’ excuse to retire, anyway – a year of lost revenues, and a lot of folks still don’t want to go back to the buffet. And a lot of the prime all-you-can-eat demographic doesn’t want to load up at an Asian buffet. Randy Chen, by the way. Like the sign says, everything’s gotta go. You got a place?”

“Sorry, just an old fan. I used to come for the honey pork and coconut shrimp. And those bodacious dumplings.”

“Mom made ’em from scratch every day,” Randy declared with a tone of reluctant pride. The millennial generation had shuttered a half-dozen of my favorite joints. I couldn’t blame them, really, and I noted Randy was wearing an MIT tee. Prodigal son, returned to liquidate and close the books? “Well, shit, you being a loyal customer, maybe you’d like a souvenir. Sorry to say, we just sold the 3-D mural to some urologist for his basement. Hand-carved for Dad when he opened in the ‘90s, supposedly an old fishing village on the Shengsi Archipelago where my great-grandpa grew up.”

“We’d have had to knock out a few walls, anyway. I’ve taken enough of your time…”

“You saw the only visitor we’ve had today,” Randy grinned. “I feel bad for Buttercream. I think she had a thing for the maneki-neko.”

“The maneki-whaaaat?”

“Sorry, the beckoning cat, the lucky cat? You’ve seen ‘em in most Chinese restaurants , though ironically, they’re actually a Japanese thing. Ours was next to the register. Old-school white one, for good luck. Hey, you got a second?” Randy vanished into an employees-only office next to the restrooms. He emerged a few seconds later bearing a plump, goggling ceramic feline with a raised left paw. “On us, out of appreciation for years of loyalty and gluttony.”

“That’s nice of you, but you know who’d probably love it? Buttercream’s, uh, parents?”

“No worries; this is the backup. I gave the original to the Copplesons. After all, Buttercream was a big draw for us the last year or so. Plus, my parents argued about everything, even the Lucky Cats. May it bring you good fortune. Or some such shit.”

**

 “I now understand how Jack’s mother felt,” Sarah stated.

“First, that was a barter deal, cow for beans, from a commodity futures standpoint, a sound transaction. This is a gift from the heavens, a token of good karma for all the General Tso’s I tucked away over the years. C’mon, look at this punim…”

For a Lucky Cat, he actually appeared more worried about dashing diners. “Where do you picture…this…going?”

“Living room, of course, on top of the case with your Snow Angels.” Neither the breezy wit nor analogy helped my case. “My office.”

“Great, the flea market. How about the garage, in the box with the pasta maker and those Danielle Steele books you thought I’d love…”

Neither me nor Mr. Maneki-Neko, who I’d already dubbed Manny, would win this skirmish. “May it bring great prosperity to your sister’s garage sale.”

**

The Lucky Cat went back at least to the 1850s, fashioned from wood, cast iron, porcelain, or stone. I was able to discern the relative vintage and value of my kitty mainly by the battery compartment that powered Manny’s left paw. The Lucky Cat isn’t waving at you, foolish ones – it beckons. Just because Manny had been banished to the Land of Unloved Knick-Knacks didn’t mean he didn’t have some remaining mojo.

“Mr. Dodge? Mike Dodge?”

“Him.” I shifted the iPhone to my non-stirring hand as I added another egg to my ricotta batter.

“Yeah, this is Matt Coppleson.” Coppleson was a commercial realtor, fifty-something, athletic, too much dental work. “I understand you met Randy Chen yesterday?”

“Yeah, nice guy. Gave me a cat.”

“What I’m calling about. You interested in selling it?”

“I thought Randy gave you the original, for, um, Buttercream...”

Coppleson’s voice took on a negotiating edge. “We were thinking it would be nice to have a matching set. The Dragon City was one of my favorites, ate there a few times a week, even took clients there. It’s a sentimental thing.”

“Oh. Well, you can just have him, it.”

“No, no. can’t let you do that.” Matt had the career capitalist’s distrust of something for nothing. “How’s $50?”

“Jesus. Pardon me. How about ten?”

“You’re lowballing yourself, but sure. When can I come get it?”

“Well, we have some errands this afternoon, over on your side of town. Could I just bring it to your house while we’re out and around?”

“No, no.” Guys like this were like telemarketers – intrusion was a one-way street. “There’s no real hurry. Gimme your address and number, I’ll send you a text before I come over?”

Sarah would ADORE that. “Sounds great.”

As soon as Coppleson rang off, I informed Sarah that Manny had brought great fortune into our home.

“And you talked him DOWN to $10?”

There was no use explaining the karmic workings of the maneki-neko.

**

I invited Curtis for cashew chicken next day at The Mandarin Palace just off the Beltway. As we awaited my loaded wonton soup, I related the tale of Buttercream and the maneki-neko.

“Back up,” Curtis muttered. “Which Chen you talk to?”

“Randy, the son. Why?”

“Cause maybe he should have held onto his lucky cat,” Detective Mead said. “His dad went to the Dragon this morning to help dismantle that big-ass wall thing next to the buffet, and found Randy dead behind the cash register. Well, where the cash register used to be.”

“Holy sh-- “ I glanced at a tableful of post-AARP matrons. “They WERE liquidating the restaurant fixtures. So maybe it was robbery. Was he shot or anything?”

“That’s the thing,” Curtis murmured as the middle-aged server deposited a platter of the Mandarin’s signature mini-eggrolls between us. “No signs of violence, though Randy had thrown up.”

“You saying he was POISONED?”

“You talking about Randy Chen?” the server interrupted. The owner’s wife, if I recalled. “I’m Li. Grace Chen’s my husband’s cousin. Horrible thing. You mind?”

Curtis waved her in. “Since you’re not immediate kin, not much I can say. Ask you, though -- anybody you know have any grievances with the Chens, or, and don’t take offense, if Randy had any troubles himself?”

“Randy?” She laughed bitterly. “He was a good boy, smart. Smart enough to get out of town, away from Fred Chen.”

“His dad?”

“Pi yan,” she spat. I didn’t need Rosetta Stone to understand. “Fred is a very cruel man. Controlling, you know? Like the Dragon – Fred let her run the place at lunch while he was at the drive-through Dragon over by the DMV, but he was there every night, ruling his kingdom. They argued about everything, sometimes in front of the customers.”

Li turned to me. “Heard you talking about that Lucky Cat. How much you know about the maneki-neko? If the left paw’s raised…” She clenched her left hand to demonstrate. “… it’s meant to welcome customers. If it’s the right paw, it’s all about the money. That was Fred – all about the money. Grace liked the people, gave customers the coupon price even if they forgot the coupon. ‘With money, you are a dragon; with no money, you are a worm,’ Fred told my Jing one time. Grace accidentally left the left-handed cat out one day, and Fred, you know, hit the roof. Pi yan.”

“So,” Curtis interjected. “What’s your takeaway?”

“Fred Chen is an asshole,” Li hissed. “Randy probably got what was coming to his father. What’d you have? Cashew chicken? Let me see if it’s up. I’ll throw a couple extra eggrolls on.”

I was about eight years past worrying about freebies, but Curtis began to object. I told him I had the check. I had no quid to pro quo for, unless you counted Manny.

“Get done here, let’s go get that cat,” Curtis said. Great minds.

**

“Here’s the thing,” Curtis reported as he ended the call that had taken the entire drive across town. We’d taken the Tucson – no sharesies on his Crown Victoria, he had intel to gather, and the neighbors didn’t need to see Millington PD up in my drive. Manny was nestled on the back seat floor, his left arm jiggling slightly. “Chen’d had a sandwich, probably from that sub joint, and cake, lots of it. Coroner thought he had some kind of internal hemorrhage, but it turned out to be red food dye. Now, at the scene, Chris found four or five gold beads on the floor near the body. Tiny, ‘bout the size of BB shot.”

“Poison pellets?”

“Manner of speaking.” Curtis described the lab’s findings.

“Red velvet and gold,” I mused. “Let’s take a detour to the Dragon.”

**

The Dragon City had been MPD-sealed. Out of what I suppose was respect, Manny and I set up in front of the defunct cupcake shop.

Curtis had taken a fortuitously open stakeout slot as I “lowered” myself to the concrete, back against the cinderblock window wall. Manny beckoned robotically to the seekers of biryani and double-meat subs and follicle gel and double-wide trousers.

After about 15 minutes. I spotted my quarry, lurking about the dollar store before trotting my way. Buttercream froze under the Chen’s dragon, studied me, then crept warily forward. I said nothing — Sarah had stressed that when it came to my mouth, less is invariably more. After a few seconds, the tabby gauged a safe couple fat guy arm lengths away and squatted, studying me intently before turning to Manny.

Buttercream tilted her furry head, and her tail switched a few times. She ventured inside the predatory danger zone and relocated a foot in front of the beckoning Manny. After a moment, B-Cream began to paw — or southpaw — at the motorized feline.

“That’s a girl,” I purred. Buttercream favored me with an expression of artful contempt that seemed to validate Sarah’s theory.

**

As we pulled into the broad, spotless driveway, Buttercream opened one green eye, then nestled back into Curtis’ lap.

“You realize there’s not a chance in hell you can prove any of this,” the cop muttered.

“We’re in a bad paperback cozy,” I suggested. “Cats and dragons and semi-requited amore and cupcakes. What’d the Health Department say?”

“Rat droppings and hair all three times. And, yeah, consistent ‘A’ ratings for the Indian joint, the sub place, and the Dragon. Our guy thought that was weird, though there’s been enough construction in the area to stock a cosmetics research lab. I’m going to have fun trying to sell this to the prosecutor.”

“You don’t have to. C’mon, and bring your new BFF.”

Curtis’ reply blew our shot at a Berkley Books deal.

**

“Howdy, neighbor,” I said, extending Manny.

“You know,” Matt began, drily, “she would have come home eventually anyway. I have a 4 o’clock with a guy looking to buy the old Carpetorium property. What’s this about?”

“Randy Chen,” Curtis stated.

Matt’s lip twitched slightly, then he readjusted his realtor face. “Randy who?”

“You been eating at The Dragon City for years, and they did a TV piece on your kitty’s obsession with Catbot here. Hell, Randy gave you Happy Kitty’s cousin.”

“The wrong one,” I offered. “The right-handed cash register kitty. This is the one Fred Chen had a public meltdown over. The one Grace Chen forgot to replace before the dinner service. Manny was the sock on the doorknob — well, the reverse sock. Your all-clear sign.”

Coppleson dropped onto a sofa arm. “Fuck.”

“Yes. I wondered why an orange cat was named Buttercream. Then Det. Mead here told me Randy Chen died with a gutful of red velvet cake. And by an incredible coincidence, there’s a cupcake shop right next to the Dragon. A bankrupt cupcake shop, three times over. Bankrupt three times over over public health issues.

“How long did it take you to train Buttercream as your rat-bearing trojan cat? Adorable, stealthy, furtive, probably easily mistaken for a shop cat from the other side of the counter. And from the vanilla and dulce e leche notes I’m picking up, guessing sweet treats are catnip to her. At some point, what, you hoped you could get a deep discount deal on the place, fully or almost fully equipped?”

Curtis took it up. “But then, like a bizarro Hallmark movie, love reared its ugly paw. Buttercream became obsessed with Catbot. Shit, you were hanging out at the Dragon so much, your ‘daughter’ probably starting hanging around, too, and discovered the big kitty at the cash register.”

“I have a friend whose cat mimics their labrador’s behavior, and I saw a video about a stable cat in Kentucky who copies the dressage horses’ prancing gait,” I related. “Researchers say mirroring’s a sign of an affectionate bond, and Buttercream bonded with the Manny. The left-handed maneki-neko Grace set out before Fred clocked in for the night shift and kitty wandered home. The maneki-neko you wanted to remember Grace. If the staff noticed any love connection, my guess is they’d have protected her. But Fred must have caught on — maybe spotted the wrong cat more than once, because suddenly he decided to retire and move Grace to Florida.”

Matt slid onto the couch cushions. “Fred got home from Thursday cards a little early one night, and I had to make up some lame BS about buying the restaurant. I don’t think he bought it.”

“Neither did Mrs. Coppleson, did she?” Curtis probed. “Mr. Dodge didn’t mention the gold beads we found near Mr. Chen’s body. Sugar pearls, coated with old-school rodenticide. Had our CSU tech bag up everything in the trash container right outside The Dragon City, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they find the bag or box Randy Chen threw out after the cupcakes Mrs. Coppleson delivered made him sick.”

“God, Renee,” Matt breathed.

“They were intended for that bitch.” The voice from the hallway was accusatory, though just whom she was accusing seemed unclear. “I told him they were for his mom for all the pleasure the Dragon had given us. Well, one of us. So, what, he just gobbled them down? Who does that?”

“The Chens were leaving town,” I said. “Grace Chen wasn’t a threat to your marriage any more.”

Renee Coppleson was a small woman, immaculately put together excepting a swipe of teal frosting on the red apron cinched around her trim waist. But the smile on her face propelled me back a step.

“Marriage? Fuck that. You know how long Commerce Cupcakes has been closed? Five fucking months. The second the son of a bitch started hooking up with that woman, he started dragging his heels getting me my shop. I quit my job for my dream—“

“Jesus, who asked you to?” her husband half-wailed.

“You promised,” Renee hissed. “Get me the fuck out of here. The rest of the paella’s in the fridge, sweetie.” Her smile constricted. “And I made you some dessert.”

My gut did a Tilt-a-Whirl, and I looked away. Buttercream was oblivious, waving back at Manny. Always the kids, I thought, absurdly.