The Mysterious Messenger

by Gilbert Ford

  Maria smiled and attacked the tray, tearing off a large chunk of bread and stuffing it into her mouth.

  “After our last visit, I decided to get the old piano tuned and try my hand at it a—” Mrs. Fisher gasped and brought her hands up to her face. “Good heavens, child! If I’d known you were this hungry, I’d have brought you a proper meal!”

  Maria realized she must look desperate. Her mouth was full, and bread crumbs speckled her lap. She brushed them off and decided to chew her food slowly so Mrs. Fisher wouldn’t ask questions. Maria swallowed her bread and dug into her pocket, unfolding the riddle Edward had given her the week before. “This is the clue,” Maria said, and bit into an apple slice. “It’s about artists, I think. The treasure is behind one of your paintings,” she managed, with her mouth full.

  “I dust these paintings every so often. I think I would know if there was something hidden behind one.” Mrs. Fisher’s eyes traveled over the message several times.

  Maria swallowed the apple. Now what? she thought, and poured some tea. Mrs. Fisher put on a record where a wild trumpet spun behind her voice on the scratchy disk.

  The black cat hopped from the table of books and meandered his way to the cart with food. Maria placed the cup on the trunk and waited for Mrs. Fisher to look up from Edward’s clue.

  Finally, Mrs. Fisher brought the paper down before adjusting her glasses.

  “Well, is it a clue?” asked Maria. “Something to do with the stuff on your walls?”

  “Where … did you get this?” asked Mrs. Fisher.

  “I told you—a friend.”

  “Yes, I know. How old is your friend? He’s not a boy, is he?”

  Maria tensed. “I’m not sure, exactly. Why?”

  “Come now, Maria, you show up out of nowhere and then you bring me this.”

  Maria popped off the sofa and began to study a mask that hung on the other side of the living room. The face was round and funny, with two tiny dots for eyes and a giant mouth. Maria wasn’t sure what to say. Telling Mrs. Fisher about Edward seemed risky.

  “How did this message come into your hands?” said Mrs. Fisher.

  “My friend gave it to me.”

  “What does this friend look like?”

  Maria tilted her head at a skinny mask with floppy whiskers. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen his face. We talk, but I … I don’t know much more about him.

  “This handwriting looks unusual. It’s old-fashioned. Is he a teacher? A neighbor? A relative?”

  “I don’t have any relatives,” Maria said without any emotion. “Well, except for my mom and Mr. Fox.”

  Mrs. Fisher’s cat rubbed against Maria’s leg. Maria swooped down to pick him up and caught her reflection in the large full-length mirror not far from the piano. Maria imagined that the cat was hers.

  “What’s your cat’s name?” she asked.

  “Archimedes,” replied Mrs. Fisher in the mirror’s reflection. “This poem seems familiar to me, and I may very well know the man that sent it.”

  “I don’t think that you do. Edward would have told me,” said Maria. She let go of the cat, wiping off the fur from her shirt.

  “Edward?” Mrs. Fisher said quickly.

  Maria froze. She hadn’t meant to mention Edward. A wailing trumpet cut through the silence while she tried to think of an answer. Maria needed to keep her mouth shut. Just focus on the treasure, she told herself.

  Mrs. Fisher poured Maria more tea. “And what is his last name?” she asked.

  Maria took the tea and retreated back to the wall with masks. Mrs. Fisher eased off the sofa and flattened her skirt. “I’ve known a lot of artists and writers in my life,” she told Maria, and moved closer to her.

  “I don’t know his last name,” Maria said. She darted to the open window by the sofa and peered over the street. A couple of people were talking below. A cab honked, and a bus screeched to a halt. Then Maria groaned. Standing at the corner below, in his red ball cap, was Sebastian.

  Maybe it was a bad idea that she came.

  “I don’t mean to frighten you, Maria. No more questions, then,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Let’s enjoy our tea.” She clapped her hands and motioned Maria back to the sofa. Then she offered her some more slices of apples on a tray.

  The two eased back onto the sofa. Mrs. Fisher pointed to the record player. “You hear that trumpet?” she asked.

  Maria shrugged. “Sure.”

  “That’s Dizzy. Dizzy Gillespie. He was a jazz musician, and he’s the first mentioned in the poem.”

  Maria nodded. “Did he play in the Village?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Fisher. “The Village Vanguard, and it’s not far from here. Perhaps you should look for your treasure there.”

  * * *

  Maria stepped outside Mrs. Fisher’s building into the sunny autumn morning.

  Sebastian jerked his head up from his phone at the slam of the door. “You were supposed to take me along with you! I’m the one helping you, remember?”

  Maria sighed. “Sorry. I got another clue at Mrs. Fisher’s, but I actually do need your help this time.”

  Sebastian shoved his phone into his pocket, then slowly leaned against the facade of Mrs. Fisher’s building. “So NOW you need me,” he said, folding his arms.

  Maria exhaled. Then she looked away for a second. “Okay. What do you want?”

  “I want half.”

  “Half of what?” Maria laughed.

  “The treasure. If I help you, then we’re partners.”

  “Partners? Ha! It’s not MY treasure. It’s Mrs. Fisher’s. I’m only helping her—”

  “Partners,” Sebastian said louder, with a nod. “There’s no ‘Oh, sorry I forgot to take you with me to find the treasure, Sebastian’ or ‘Go away. My mom hates visitors, Sebastian.’”

  “She does hate visitors!”

  “I don’t care!” Sebastian stood upright.

  Maria was surprised at how tough Sebastian could appear when he was angry.

  “Look. If we’re gonna be a team, you have to keep me in the loop. I’m not gonna get stuck with a raw deal.”

  “Fine,” Maria said. “We’re partners, then.”

  “Pinkie swear,” Sebastian said, holding out his smallest finger for Maria to shake.

  “What’s this?”

  “Hold out your pinkie.”

  Maria extended a pale fifth digit and locked it into Sebastian’s.

  “Okay,” Sebastian said. “We’re good.”

  “Then get your phone and pull up directions to the Village Vanguard.”

  12

  Culture Vultures

  Sebastian and Maria hiked up Sixth Avenue, passing the West Fourth Street subway stop. A crowd cheered when a basketball made it through the net in the fenced-in court. Maria paused at the corner to consider a street vendor’s books again, but Sebastian pulled her away. They turned left, walking up West Fourth Street, until it hit Seventh Avenue. Sebastian checked the GPS, and they turned right. After stopping to pet a Pomeranian on his walk, Sebastian and Maria arrived under the red awning of the Village Vanguard.

  “Now what?” Sebastian asked. “The place doesn’t look like it’s open.”

  Maria beat on the door.

  Nothing.

  They waited for a few minutes before the door creaked open and a young woman with short red hair pulled out a heavy sack of trash.

  “Excuse me,” said Maria. “We’re on a mission to find a treasure, and one of the clues is to search the Vanguard.”

  The young woman ignored Maria while she hefted the sack and wobbled to the curb before dropping it on the street. “SHEEESH!” She exhaled and wiped the sweat from her brow. After a moment, she acknowledged them, and said, “Oh … are you kids on a scavenger hunt?”

  Sebastian shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I didn’t know we were back on the list. And usually it’s college kids competing with one another,” she said. “But that’s cool.” She jiggled her keys before
opening the front door. “We don’t open until the evening, but the owner’s out. I’ll give you five minutes to find the clue.”

  Maria couldn’t believe her luck. They followed behind the woman into the dark club, where they descended a bunch of stairs and entered a cramped basement. The woman disappeared before the overhead lights flickered on one at a time.

  The space was triangular, with the narrowest part a raised stage containing a piano and a few microphones. Red curtains draped against the wall of the stage. The rest of the club was packed tightly with tables and chairs. The walls were filled with black-and-white photos of musicians, and an old horn rested in between the photos. Maria could detect a musty smell mixed with the scent of pine soap in the mop bucket.

  “What are we looking for down here?” whispered Sebastian.

  “Either Dizzy Gillespie or some kind of clue,” said Maria. “Let’s start with the photos.” Men with saxophones and women in ruffled tops and tight skirts danced in some of the images lining the wall. Maria pushed some chairs aside to get a closer look.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” Sebastian asked.

  “How should I know?” said Maria. “Did you ask the lady who let us in?”

  Sebastian jetted past the tables to the back, turning a corner and knocking a photo off the wall.

  SMASH!

  Maria and Sebastian stopped.

  Then Maria darted across the room to the fallen photo. “Go, clumsy!” Maria said, shooing Sebastian with her hand. “I’ll clean it up before she finds out.” Maria squatted and carefully lifted the frame from the floor. Shards of glass hit the ground, and the photo slipped away from the frame.

  Maria turned the picture over to discover a group of men in suits seated at a table. There was a woman seated next to an older, balding man. The two figures looked familiar to Maria, like the couple in the photo in Mrs. Fisher’s apartment. Maria turned the photo over to discover some cursive writing in blue ink.

  To Max,

  May your doors stay open from here to eternity.

  From your pals,

  Neal, Jack, Allen, and the Fishers

  It was Mrs. Fisher! Maybe this was the clue they were looking for! Maria dug Edward’s riddle out of her pocket and read it again:

  Neal, Jack, and Allen beat the Times Square Hustle

  With poetry.

  Squish. Squish. Squish.

  Squeaky sneakers on a sticky floor crept up behind Maria. She turned around.

  “What did you find?” asked Sebastian, now calm after his bathroom run.

  “Look,” said Maria. “The names of these men at the table are the same ones in the poem.”

  “Do you think this is what the poem was talking about?” asked Sebastian.

  “It could be,” said Maria. “The lady at the table is Mrs. Fisher.”

  They heard a dustpan hit the floor. “All right, kids,” said the young woman who’d let them in. “Time’s up. I gotta send you back—” She stopped and then her voice sank. “Uh-oh! What happened?”

  “There was a small accident,” said Maria. “But do you know who these people are?”

  The young woman sighed and snatched the photo from Maria. After a few seconds, she said, “Sure do,” and handed it back. “They’re Beat poets. Studied them in school. That’s Jack Kerouac,” she said, tapping the face of a dark, handsome man seated in the middle. “And the guy with the glasses is most likely Allen Ginsberg.”

  “I knew it!” said Maria. “BEAT the Times Square Hustle! Another clue from the riddle. We’re so close to finding the treasure.”

  The young woman ran her hand through her hair. “Four years of school and a degree in comparative literature, and now I’m helping kids on a scavenger hunt. What a riot!” She turned around and retrieved a broom. “By the way. This is a jazz venue, not a bookstore,” she said, and started sweeping. “If you’re looking for poets, I suggest you go to the library and let me clean up this mess.”

  “I’m sorry about the frame,” said Maria. “Would it be okay if we took a picture of the photo?”

  The woman shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” She swept the glass into the dustpan and emptied it into the can.

  Sebastian positioned his phone over the photo until it was in focus and took a snapshot.

  “Okay, out you go,” said the woman, and ushered the kids up the stairs. She opened the door before pausing. “I … actually, wrote a paper on Kerouac while in school. There’s a bunch of stuff on him and the other poets in the Berg Collection at the New York Public Library on Forty-Second Street. That’s where I’d start if you’re looking for the Beat poets.” Then she closed the door behind them.

  “Now what?” asked Sebastian as they took a few steps away from the building. It was lunchtime, and Maria was distracted by the smell of pizza from Two Boots.

  “Well, there wasn’t much of anything at the club except for the poets. My guess is we should follow the lady’s advice and find out more about them.”

  “Okay,” said Sebastian. “Let me look up directions to the New York Public Library,” He typed something into his phone before he pushed up his glasses. “Let’s take the F train at Sixth Avenue to Bryant Park.”

  * * *

  After a quick train ride, Sebastian and Maria climbed the stairs to find themselves in front of Bryant Park. A cool breeze caused Maria to zip up her hoodie. The park was full of tourists having a bite to eat or hunched over their phones at the tables under the trees.

  They hiked the sidewalk along Forty-Second Street, stepping on brown leaves and spilt food from the vendors lining the block. First, they found the side of the giant library. Then they trudged the rest of the block until they reached the front of the building on Fifth Avenue. Maria gasped at the two stone lions guarding the stairs leading to the entrance.

  “Race you up!” she said.

  They took off up the stairs, Sebastian falling behind her. Maria reached the top first and slipped through the heavy doors. A panting Sebastian trailed, having trouble getting through the door. “No fair,” he said. “You didn’t give me a warning!”

  After inquiring about the Berg collection, they were directed to room 320. They approached the desk and waited for a librarian to notice them.

  “May I help you?” asked a man in his mid-thirties, with hair perfectly parted, and sporting a pink bow tie.

  “We’re researching Beat poets for school and wanted to check out what you have,” Sebastian said. “Isn’t there a special collection?”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” replied the librarian. “This is THE center for Beat research, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to make an appointment.” His eyes darted up and down Maria and Sebastian as if he was trying to size them up.

  “We’re looking for information about Jack Kerouac,” said Maria as confidently as she could.

  “Well, there are books that he’s written that you can check out from the regular library,”

  “We’re looking for a private collection, something that will give us a better clue,” said Sebastian. “Personal photos, even.”

  “Well—er, the collection is not exactly for kids,” said the librarian. “We would have to retrieve it and bring it up to you.” He straightened his tie before adding, “And it’s really more for scholars. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we try to only see scholars who make appointments.”

  Maria grew uneasy. This couldn’t be a dead end. “Show him the photo on your phone,” she said, nudging Sebastian.

  He pulled out his phone and brought it up to the librarian. “We found a picture of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg at the Village Vanguard,” said Sebastian.

  “And seated with Mrs. Fisher, who I personally know,” added Maria.

  “A photo of him at the Vanguard!” said the librarian, his face lighting up. He took the phone and examined the photo.

  “Yes,” said Sebastian. “And we’re trying to locate something valuable for Mrs. Fisher, and this may be our only clue.”

  The libr
arian paused for a second to think. Then he said, “Wait here a minute.”

  After ten minutes, he appeared holding a box. “Follow me, kids. I’ll give you a quick show-and-tell, but DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING.”

  They trailed behind the librarian until they stood at a table with a lamp at the far end of the research room. The librarian put on cloth gloves and carefully removed the lid to the box. He reached in and pulled out old black-and-white photos and papers covered with type and scrawled handwriting. He held them as if they were made of delicate glass, capable of breaking at the slightest movement. “Now, you say he was friends with a Mrs. Fisher?”

  Maria nodded.

  “We don’t really have her in here—that I know of. You know, Jack was married three times.” The librarian continued to pull out more stuff from the box: some old drawings that looked like book cover sketches, a scroll filled with tons of text, more photos, and stacks of manuscripts with Xs drawn through them.

  “What’s with the scroll?” asked Sebastian.

  The librarian stopped. As if he was holding his most prized jewel, he carefully unrolled the scroll, revealing a continual flow of words. “Kerouac wrote in a stream of consciousness,” said the librarian, excitement bubbling in his voice. “He’d adopted Eastern spirituality and believed he could channel a manuscript’s truest form through one take, without stopping for any revision.”

  “So he typed all that out, without knowing what he was going to say and without messing up?” Sebastian asked, clearly impressed.

  “Well,” said the librarian, a slight smile forming, “it was more like he kept going. The same thing was happening with jazz improvisation at the time,” he said, before rolling the script and placing it in the box. “Rumor has it that there’s more work by Kerouac and other Beat poets, like Allen Ginsberg, missing from our collection. We’ve been unable to locate the materials.” The librarian held the phone with the photo of the Fishers with the poets. “You said you visited the Village Vanguard, right? Well, it makes sense that Kerouac and Ginsberg were there, considering their philosophy was close to the way the musicians would keep playing. Sometimes it came together, other times it didn’t. But when it did, you really had something.”