Lost Things: Three Adventure Novels

by K. T. Tomb

  “Start digging, Mayor.”

  Patch nervously picked up the shovel. Suddenly the two men went from rag-tag thugs to deadly criminals.

  “Um, what am I digging?”

  “Your grave,” Lenny snickered.

  As if on command, Spike flew out of the brush with his lips bared and fangs glistening. He chomped down on Lenny’s hand causing him to drop the gun. Bruno raised his shovel but he was unable to make contact with the dog. Patch was also holding a shovel and lowered it on Bruno’s skull. The tall man fell over. He touched his head, making sure it was still on his neck. He was dazed and tried to clear the cobwebs by shaking his assaulted noggin. Blood flew everywhere like water from a dog after a bath. Patch hit him again, delivering the knockout blow.

  Spike was still gripping Lenny’s arm and though he fought furiously, he was unable to get loose until Patch called the dog off. He shook Bruno conscious and the men ran or rather limped away.

  Patch and Spike were left bewildered.

  “Good boy, Spike. I didn’t mean it about the ice cream. I foresee many cones in your future.”

  Patch watched as the men disappeared, trying to gauge where they were heading. Patch stood up and asked. “What the hell were they looking for and what is going on here? There is something very suspicious going on in Central Park.”

  Chapter Three

  The Next Day

  The next morning Patch attended a meeting regarding the police strike followed by a couple of hours in his City Hall office. He wasn’t roughed up at the park the previous night but he was very distracted. Patch decided to pursue the matter further with a visit to Professor Ebert Abernathy, a distinguished historian at NYU. Patch was attempting to shed light on the recent happenings surrounding Central Park. He had to clear his schedule, which required the help of his office assistant. Nadine was tireless when it came to organizing Patch’s schedule.

  She had been with Patch since his early days running for city council and had worked at the espresso cart in the basement of the Municipal Building prior to that. After volunteering for one of his campaigns, she had received work stuffing envelopes and continued to advance through the ranks. When Patch was wading through the muck of his divorce, she had made things easier and had never said a word to the press. Cognizant of the times when he had spent the night sleeping in his office and she always kept a clean suit for him in the closet. He summoned her over the office intercom.

  “Dini, I am going to have to ask you a favor.”

  Dini was the pet name he called the 28-year old. She was an attractive young woman and there had always been the usual office gossip that there was romance between them but nothing could be further from the truth. He was 20 years her senior, which wasn’t really the issue; but she was engaged to a police officer with the NYPD. She was more like a daughter to Patch than anything else.

  “Anything Mayor. I’ll take care of it. Will you be exiting from the rear of the building?”

  “Yes. Have my driver pick me up. I’ll be going over to NYU in the West Village. Remind me to tell Van what a great woman he’s marrying.”

  Nadine smiled.

  ***

  The drive to the NYU campus was arduous. Patch would have gotten there quicker if he had walked but after the night he’d had, he needed the time to re-collect himself. Mid-day traffic was a mess so he had plenty of time to think. It was comical observing the taxi drivers have a running dialogue with the other vehicles. Patch couldn’t hear what they were saying but he could tell by the movement of their lips that they were profanity-laced diatribes. It was a good thing that he had learned to meditate. Things like traffic couldn’t make his blood pressure rise when he thought those serene thoughts.

  As Patch entered the professor’s office, Abernathy was sitting behind his desk wearing an elaborate chieftain headdress. He would have fit in perfectly on the pages of National Geographic. The aging professor looked ridiculous. It was an unexpected visit and he had walked in unannounced. Abernathy saw Patch and quickly removed the headdress, acting like a man who had just been caught cross-dressing. He was stammering and his face turned a vibrant shade of red as he offered a lame excuse for wearing the thing. Abernathy’s office was littered with artifacts like arrowheads, handcrafted jewelry, tomahawks, boomerangs, pottery carelessly strewn about on the various ledges and tables about the space. It was a glorious mess showing years of travel and study.

  Patch wasted no time getting to the point of his visit. As mayor of New York City, he’d learned to be direct. It saved precious time.

  “Professor, tell me why an anthropologist would be interested in excavating Central Park for Native American interests?”

  Abernathy had a quick answer.

  “After the Canarsee Indians’ near destruction at the hands of the Mohawks, they fled the New York area. Very little was left behind except their most famous artifact.”

  Interested, Patch leaned in

  “Which was?”

  “The deed or some other official documentation of Manhattan’s sale to the Dutch in 1626. According to Canarsee tradition, Manhattan was not sold, but rather leased. If this document were found and actually provided proof that it was a lease agreement, it would give the Canarsee legal claim to Manhattan Island.”

  Abernathy was proud that he was able to provide the mayor information. In his profession, it was an honor to feel relevant.

  “As we speak, the members of the Canarsee Nation, and it should be noted that there are not many left, are gathering outside the city. It’s one of the rare times all the remaining members have had a reason or the opportunity to meet.”

  “What is the occasion?” asked Patch.

  Abernathy shrugged.

  “No one knows a thing. Only Canarsee Indians can attend so that leaves us out, Patch, unless you have some Canarsee blood running through your veins that I don’t know about.”

  Chapter Four

  The Next Morning

  Patch hit the snooze button on his alarm clock at five a.m. His head was in a fog. He’d had dinner with the lieutenant governor and his wife and although it was supposed to be a social meeting, they had talked politics the entire time. As a rule, he did not drink much except for the rare occasions he got together with his buddies. What he had was not a hangover from the dinner wine or even the delicious brandy he had sipped afterwards; it was from the general pace of his life. He was on the fast track and the speed was increasing, so that morning he would take the extra eight minutes afforded him by the snooze button. He only had to throw on a t-shirt and shorts for his planned run with his brother Nathan at six a.m.; nothing fancy.

  Nathan Patch was five years older than his brother was, but he was taller; in fact, Vincent Patch towered over him. Nathan did not have the mayor’s hair – he had no hair. They did not look like each other but they shared a strong resemblance, that odd familial kind that you found in distant relatives. Nathan was an attorney. He was good about keeping some people out of jail. When it came to himself – not so much.

  Patch was meeting Nathan in Battery Park in front of the National Museum of the American Indian. The coincidences were beginning to pile up but at least they were avoiding Central Park.

  “Hey, Bro, is that a paunch I see forming beneath that shirt?”

  Nathan always ribbed his brother.

  “I doubt it, Nathan. I don’t have much time to eat and the chocolate drawer in my office has been restocked with healthy snacks for months now. I can identify the flavor of the granola in each packet blindfolded. Nadine is keeping a keen eye on me. She doesn’t know about my all too frequent stops for ice cream. Spike does, but he will never tell.”

  The pair laughed as they started their three-mile run. Patch had security detail at all times. When he looked over at them, they were more than ready to keep pace with the mayor and his brother. They tried their best to keep a low profile but Patch knew who they were. A gun holster was bulging from every baggy t-shirt and he could see the tiny commu
nication buds in their ears.

  “I’ve wanted to tell you about a huge opportunity that I came across recently. It’s a gaping loophole regarding parking contracts. We’d stand to net a great deal of money if we do it right.”

  Nathan was enthusiastic, as he always was, when he was involved in an opportunity.

  “Forget it Nathan. I took an oath to uphold the laws of this city. I don’t want to be forced to throw you in jail – again,” Patch said.

  Nathan was crestfallen.

  “Technically it’s not a crime. There just happen to be some lazy folks out there. We would be doing them a favor because we’d essentially just be showing them that they need to pay closer attention.”

  Patch completely ignored his brother’s comments. They got the usual amount of attention as they continued jogging their route; receiving mostly cheers and a few jeers from passers-by. Occasionally, a few people would flip him the bird or make some other gesture. Whether he was loved or loathed, New Yorkers knew who he was. Patch usually wore an “I Love NY” shirt or a cap from one of the local sports teams which he had to cycle through so he wouldn’t be seen as showing the Mets favoritism over the Yankees just as he couldn’t favor the Rangers over the Islanders. If he wore anything remotely controversial, it would be on the cover of The Post.

  “I have one for you to mull over, big brother.”

  Nathan perked up. He loved giving advice. Even a brother could get a little star struck when the mayor of New York asked for counsel.

  “I am all ears.”

  “This whole thing might sound zany but I’ve had two encounters in the past couple of days in which individuals are trying to dig something up in Central Park.”

  “What the hell are they looking for?” Nathan asked. “Why don’t they join the ranks of the rest of the hopefuls who spend their time using their metal detectors? I’ve actually thought about doing that myself.”

  Patch told him the story of the lease, the beautiful anthropologist, the thugs in the park and Professor Abernathy.

  “You see, Nathan, if there is such a lease and it is found New York City will owe back rent in the amount of seven trillion dollars.”

  “That is a lot of cash. If you find the lease first and destroy the thing, then there’s no problem, right? Nathan asked.

  “My entire tale is based on conjecture. I don’t know for sure that is what they are searching for.”

  Nathan was intrigued. “Then you need more information, Bro.”

  Patch nodded in agreement.

  Chapter Five

  Hempstead, Long Island

  The meeting of the Canarsee Indians took place in Hempstead on Long Island. The area had historical significance to the Canarsee. They had access to a large field and a mid-sized conference center there on the grounds of Hofstra University, not far from Jones Beach. They danced with zest to chants they had memorized and music from unique instruments played relentlessly as the men and women danced around, their long black hair flipping wildly in the wind. It was a celebration of their culture and tradition. It looked like a swarm of flies hanging above them. Everyone had long hair; many of them let it grow to their waist. They danced around bonfires and somehow never caught fire.

  Patch and Nathan were observers to the gathering. They positioned themselves in the parking lot adjacent to the action. It was a lot to take in. Patch had seen pride displayed in New York City but this was on another level.

  There was an area for over-night campers where modern day tents, traditional teepees and the occasional wigwam were already erected. Dotting the area were smaller campfires. Some had a jerry-rigged spit hanging over the coals to hold animal carcasses. The Canarsees had a tradition of being skilled hunters; other tribes relied more on farming for food. One fire appeared to be cooking a deer that could easily feed Patch and Nathan for months. Patch adjusted his ornate and heavy headdress and Nathan did the same to his wig with the long ponytail. They had acquired the authentic costumes through Professor Abernathy who was proud to share his collection with the mayor and his brother.

  Hunger and curiosity got the best of Nathan. He was anxious to join the crowd and get something to eat. He approached a group sitting around some freshly sliced venison. They were adding the meat to what looked like tortillas.

  “A taco? If we are going to blend in, we should do as they do. Let’s eat.”

  Patch followed his brother. They were a group of young men and women who were very welcoming. The Canarsee were noticeably more respectful of elders than kids in general.

  “Welcome, please have a seat. I’ll fix you some grub. While your’e waiting, have a piece of this fish jerky. Careful, because it is very spicy. I guess you are here for the important stuff. We hear Linda Lightfoot is leading the meeting. It is something about reclaiming our homeland.”

  A young man named Willful One, Will for short, had taken it upon himself to bring the newcomers up to speed on the proceedings.

  “I know I should care about the past but as far as I am concerned, my homeland is in Erie, Pennsylvania,” he said, following his quip with a hearty laugh.

  The crowd joined in on the laughter. Nathan and Patch spent some time with the youngsters, enjoying themselves immensely even though they eventually began to feel the slightest pang of guilt for how much the white man had taken from the Native Americans. Soon it was time to go play with the grown-ups, so the two “Native Americans” left, grateful for the food and hospitality.

  ***

  Nathan and Patch made their way through the crowd fussing with their costumes. They were certainly the real deal and made them fit in with the attendees that were wearing ceremonial garb. The crowd was buzzing and Nathan was enjoying himself. His smile was broad as he went around greeting people as if they were lifelong friends.

  “Hey, Nathan,” Patch whispered in his ear. “Remember, this is a fact-finding mission. You are just an ordinary white boy from Queens, not some Indian chief.”

  Nathan scowled but. Patch didn’t care; he was beginning to get a headache from the weight of his headgear. The Patch brothers turned a corner and ran headlong into Linda Lightfoot and a well-muscled Native American man. All four of them tumbled to the ground. It turned out that the big Indian was the last one they wanted to irritate. He sprang up first, looking down at Patch and Nathan, who suddenly appeared miniscule and rather foolish.

  “Watch where you’re going, you clumsy oaf.”

  The man’s voice was booming.

  “I am terribly sorry. My pal and I were chatting. We weren’t looking where we were going. Please, accept our sincerest apologies to you and the lovely lady.”

  Patch reached down to lend her a hand in getting up; catching a glimpse of perhaps the most beautiful thigh he had ever seen. He looked into her eyes. He would have known those eyes anywhere. He hoped she did not recognize him and quickly looked away to ensure it. Linda stood out amongst the others in her Western attire. She was wearing a suit and heels like the first time he saw her. Patch was embarrassed. The big Indian gently escorted Linda away. As she moved along with a look of confusion still in her eyes, she glanced back at Patch. It was sheer luck that she did not recognize him.

  “Nathan, we can’t risk anymore screw ups like we just had. Watch where you’re going and stop playing with your hair.”

  Patch spotted a large teepee in the center of the arena. If Indians lived in such structures in modern times, it would be like a mansion. Turquoise and white beads formed intricate patterns on skins that were pulled tightly over branches. Patch thought of Abernathy; he would pay good money to see something like this. On second thought, he probably had. Patch fingered the phone in his pocket, which he was going to use to take a photograph of the structure, but he thought better of it.

  The teepee appeared like the place to be. Patch kept a sharp eye on his brother. He lifted the flap and eased in among the people who were in the back. Linda was perched on a platform, leading the gathering of about seventy people. She called
the meeting to order.

  “First, I want to thank you all for being present at this important meeting. The traditional garb is cute.”

  Patch heard the word and he knew what she meant. He almost laughed aloud.

  “I want to impress upon you the seriousness of this situation. We are playing with the major leaguers here, they don’t appreciate our traditions. They should not care because these are not their traditions. They don’t walk about dressed like pilgrims and in the same breath we have to know when it is appropriate to bring out the ceremonial attire.”

  Linda had made her point. She was so uniquely beautiful that it was hard not to listen to her. The two imposters tried to find a comfortable spot behind the oversized speakers where they could stand and observe while remaining inconspicuous, and then Nathan let out a belch.

  “Must have been those taco things. Sorry, Bro.”

  As Patch was fighting off the urge to give his brother a swift kick, he became tangled up in the wires. In an attempt to release himself from the boondoggle, he ripped a wire from the wall. Nathan looked at Patch in amazement as a small fire ignited, followed by a loud popping sound. Nathan was laughing at that point as the nest of wiring exploded and Patch’s leather trousers caught fire.

  “Holy shit, Patch. What happened to keeping a low profile?”

  Patch swatted his pants, extinguishing the fire and leaving a heavy cloud of smoke. Eventually, the smoke cleared, leaving Patch standing alone in the dust as though he’d appeared from nowhere. Everyone stared at him; some with wide-eyed alarm, others with curiosity. Nathan stood to one side not quite knowing what to do.

  Linda Lightfoot stopped her comments. She was not happy about the disturbance.

  “Are you in the right place?” she asked. “The younger kids are having a magic show in the teepee down the way.”