He pushed the appropriate buzzer, but was not admitted. He tried again, but nothing. He thought that very odd and in the end he had to wait for someone leaving the building to open the door for him, which in itself was a trial, she (the one exiting) having apparently had her nails done, refused to use anything but her elbows to pull the lever which released the door (and it was not an elbow friendly lever). There was no elevator that he could find so the steps (steps, steps, steps the bane of my life!) it was for him yet again. Surprisingly, the top or fifth floor somewhat resembled something nearing professional. Unlike the lower floors, this one was spacious and uncluttered by small, peeling, mostly gray doors; additionally the carpeting was deep red and unworna circumstance which oddly enough began on the third step up in the tenth flight of stairs. Here now two very tall oak doors stood closed and unlabeled. So, positive (mostly) that he was in the right place, he opened the doors. Inside and across from them on the left was a large desk forming an inverted ‘L’, facing that on the right were three hard chairs and a table strewn with magazines. There was, however, no receptionist; must have stepped to the potty. Monday morning, oh well.
Nicolai sat down to wait and thumbed through some of the magazines; one, a dentistry periodical, caused him to shudder. Odd one, that being in a lawyer’s office. He thought of the word “abogado” for no particular reason; advocate, for whom the word did not specify. He took to looking around the room, besides the fact that a receptionist’s return (return because a petite woman’s coat hung in the corner) should have been but did not seem imminent, he noticed only one or rather two other things, those being two closed opposing oak doors.
He had no idea what time it was, but it was certainly later than he had intended, for sleep did eventually take him that morning and having been withheld so long prior carried him into the double-digit hours of the day. Probably should have called, no matter, Contrari had said they’d be expecting me. Most likely, he thought, they’re all out to lunch (without her coat?) and will return shortly. Even better, though less probable, they areexpecting my arrivalhurriedly getting some funds together with which to stipend me until matters can be arranged in an acceptable manner. Nicolai imagined that there would be profuse apologies and requests to keep the whole thing quietwhich he would. I’ll have a little fun with them first though, just to put the fright into them. In all, he expected his situation to improve, somewhat if not considerably. The main doors opened just then and a suited man entered the room and made for the door to his left (Nicolai’s right) without notice of Nicolai. It all happened too quickly for him to act and the other man was in his office (presumably; presumably his office, that is) with the door closed almost as soon as Nicolai had seen him. Convincing himself then that the man would be out momentarily to admit him, he remained where he was, seated and at least a bit nearer his goal. An article in one of the magazines caught his eye. It concerned the rebirth of the Broadway musical and he could not help wondering how Stinky and the others faired. No doubt Stinky was already knocking on doors searching for the prized audition; and the others? They probably spent a cold night in the park: hungry, scared, sad; and now (if they have not already found it) are certainly searching for a way back into their old lives.
Exactly then, then, as his mind pondered those others’ fates and Stinky’s fame, the door so recently closed opened, and hurriedly, with definite purpose, Franz crossed the short distance to the exit and left. At least Nicolai thought it was Franz. He only had the opportunity for a brief glimpse, but it wasn’t so much any visual clue that cued him to the man’s identitythat, in fact, was more dissimilar than similar, better groomed, thinner, could be any number of chubby, bearded Americansrather it was a certain chill that accompanied him as he crossed the room. Nonsense, he thought. Even if it was he, why shouldn’t he be here? Franz, no doubt, would be subject to similar problems of dealing with banks and such in Europe, and these Shyster and Crooke being associated with a European firm and probably (he hoped) reasonable feed, would be a natural choice for representation. Nonsense, could as easily have been Stinky, showered, dressed, and reacquainted with society. The real question, of course, was why was Franz, or whoever he was, in the office alone, before the lawyer himself had appeared. To this he had no answer, he had, after all, been plagued with sightings of the man since his arrival. More importantly, however, the door to the office was left open. “Hello?” He knocked lightly on the open door. The man who had entered before looked up from some folders. “Mr. Shyster?”
“Crooke. Alabaster Crooke. Is there something I can do for you?”
Nicolai entered the office and examined him for a moment. He was much older than he’d first thought, possibly seventy or sixty-five and yet with hair as black as any younger man’s, his skin though was old and even yellowed with age. “I’m Nicolai Vicoff.” Pause, no reaction. “I’m a client of Giusseppi Contrari, that is my uncle is, or was. I spoke with Contrari last evening and he being unable for various reasons which he outlined to assist me any further, recommended me to you and had said you might already know something of my situation?”
“Ah yes, Contrari you say?”
“Yes, you do know him, right? Giusseppi Contrari?”
“Oh Contrari, of course, of course. Well, let’s see what we’ve got here. Sit, please. And you are Nicolai Vicoff? Doesn’t sound familiar but...let’s see, Vicoff, Vicoff,” he shuffled through various papers on his desk in search of a clue, “Vicoff. Hmmm, what is that Polish?”
“Russian.”
“Of course. I know there was a Russian name in this mess somewhere. Here we are, Rificanov”
“I’m sorry?”
“No, different case. Tragic business, tragic. Ah yes, Vicoff. Dead uncle, inheritance, hmmm, mumble, mumble, mumble.” He said the words with perfectly clear enunciation and looked at Nicolai warily. “Doesn’t look too good. Looks like there’s been some problem with the investigation.”
“That’s exactly what I don’t understand, what need investigation? The man was over a hundred bloody years old!”
“Well I don’t know all the ins and outs of the thing, but it’s not too unusual. These European detectives get so few homicides they always hold things up. In that case there really isn’t very much that I can do for you, but things usually blow over in a couple of months. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. The real problem will be getting your money out of the country. It would have almost been better if you had gone straight there, but you didn’t. Therefore alongside the hefty estate tax to be paid in the country of origin you will also be hit with a sizable import tax; if you get the money at all, there will be questions naturally about your immigrant status. These are all things we can work around.”
They were interrupted by the receptionist. “Mr. Crooke, your one o’clock is here. I’ve escorted him into Mr. Shyster’s office.”
“Thank you, Lucille, I’ll be along in a moment, have Jack begin without me, I’m almost through.” He turned back to Nicolai and continued talking, Nicolai however was still looking after the receptionist, who after all, was the pretty young lady he’d seen on the train. It’s all quite clear to me now. That Franzesque man, he thought, must be Shyster and it was he (Nicolai now recognized) who had met her at the train. Difficult questions, lucid solutions. “Mr. Vicoff,” Nicolai’s attention was now drawn back to the lawyer, “As I was saying, why don’t we at least begin with your visa application, since I assume you are intending on remaining in this country.”
“Fine, fine, in the meantime however, Contrari had mentioned that you might be able to help me financially. I am, as they say, scraping bottom.”
“Hmmm. I’m afraid I really won’t be able to help you there. If you could perhaps have Giusseppi send us written authorization for such a transaction we might be able to extend some credit. As it is though...you understand. Look, I’m late for an appointment, so if you’ll excuse me. I’ll have Lucille bring in the forms for the application. Feel free to
work at my desk. Also leave a number we can reach you at and I’ll call if there are any further developments. You might, incidentally, attempt to contact the officials in your uncle’s town, perhaps you’ll be able to speed things up.” He began to leave and then, thinking better of it, returned and collected the files on his desk and locked them in a cabinet. A moment later, the girl came in and handed Nicolai some forms. These he took a half an hour to fill out and consisted of such diverse and intricate questions that in the end he was not sure to have done them correctly. He did not however take the pains to go over his work a second time because he knew that citizenship would not be granted him in this, his poor state, but would be a simple matter when a man of wealth and hence esteem and with that wealth the natural and proper garnering of an American wife; from these two is where he hoped to attain his status. Crooke had seemed to think it important however so he compliedand not halfheartedlybut any answers which he could not verily supply at the time were no more likely to spring from a re-examination of the questions, themselves comprising not so much a test as a detailed biography extending so far to request the useless (except perhaps to a numerologist) fact of time of birth (10:12 AM, GMT).
Promptly, as he finishedthough unso for the intent of itthe receptionist came in again and offered him some coffee. He declined, handing her at the same time his completed forms. Today she was dressed entirely differently. The bold feet, once hidden from him behind soft leather, had transformed into delicate and desperately pale ones resting gently inside heeled shoes. The paleand it was that white, white pale without the stain of blue veinsextended up to just below her knees where a black polka-dotted, pleated skirt took over and that in its turn, at a thin waist, after widened hips, gave leave to a white silk blouse which hid itself in a loose dark jacket; as a nice garnish some faux pearls hung loosely at her breasts. The skirt flowed nicely when she walked. He thought to try his luck with her (sad as it was of late), but was prevented by her taking the advantage. She was sorry, it seemed, about the coffee, but would he be open to a reparation of that error say, oh, around three when she would be getting off work? Who was he, he thought, to deny so pretty a creature his noble company and accepted, arranging to meet out front, promptly (“Of course,” “Naturally”) at three. As she showed him out he played nervously with the ring on his finger and knew the reason for her friendliness and did not mind it one little bit. He thought as they said good-bye, you will be mine for a night; and as if she heard him she smiled and said, “Three.” No, darling, just the one will be all right for now.
On the street, a man standing on a soapboxthough where he got an actual soapbox in this day and age Nicolai knew notwas screaming into a microphone and what he was saying was: “God save us all.” This he repeated about six times before finishing with: “From the timpani of men.” No, no that wasn’t it at all, tyranny, got to be tyranny. No end of characters in this city and to be honest I’m bloody sick of them. Nicolai had about an hour and a half before he had to meet Lucille and a small bench in front of a café on the corner afforded him a diversion which he would not let his wallet do in its lightened state (shirt pocket I should say, really ought to start putting that wallet to its task someday). Perhaps I should avoid this meeting. The ring had not proved so benevolent before. Am I toying with something beyond my control? He lit a cigarette. Of course not, just a ring of steel, if, more likely tin. The man on the box presently produced a timpani from a case and began to play a beat upon it. Timpani it is after all. The combination of a poor sound system and a thick Asian accent made most of his words indeterminable. He was in a real pickle now, if the money didn’t come through...well that was it. Can’t get a job in America, he thought, not enough cash (and no credit left) to buy a ticket back to Britain, and no job, house, or automobile if I do get back. No relatives abroad to send money, and with Rifka gone, no source on this side of the ocean either. If I conserve, if, I’ll get through next month’s rent, which gives me about a month and a half. He decided he would call, would have to call someone in Rooka’s town and clear up things lickety-split; a brief word from him ought to do it, Crooke had said so.
“Son, son, son, are you a Christian man?” Nicolai stared back without answering. “Turn away from the tyranny of men!” Tyranny, timpani who the hell knows. All right, Chong, whatever you say. “The evil one has sent up his angels,” somehow he made angels into three syllables, “has sent up his angels to confound you. God save you. God save you.” Nicolai didn’t mind this admonition and watched him with indifference. He had been accosted in assorted and many more personal methods before and though the man went on and on, Nicolai showed little interest. Something else though did catch his eye. Everyone has heard tale of the proverbial hotfoot, and Nicolai had too, but he had not ever seen one, had not even believed it possible or functional. The basic gimmick of course is that someone, some prankster, intent on garnering huge laughs and acclaim, places a stick, perhaps a long matchstick, in a hole in someone else’s (the prankee’s) shoe. This fig or fag or what have you is lit, the pranker retires to a hidden refuge, the prankee howls with pain, and the observers laugh. Simple, precise, impractical; so Nicolai thought, however as he watched this thirteenth (and in that, unlucky) apostle proselytize, his attention was drawn by a little man (as opposed to a little person, though he was almost) creeping up behind the preacher, placing such an item in such a hole and with a flicked Bic stepping back behind a parked car to watch the action. Amazingly, the stick held its spark and the preacher, screaming with pain (into the microphone mind you making it doubly loud) jumped up and down in a silly fashion until the fire went out. This done, he looked around, wiped some beads of sweat from his brow, and holding up a tightened fist yelled, “I get you someday, Rasputin!” He then picked up his box and sound system and left. More amazing to Nicolai than any of this, however, was the fact that the little prankster was garbed head to toe in a red devil’s costume.
As the preacher disappeared down the block, fist still flagellating, the little devil came out from his hiding place, giggling (snickering) like a school girl (devil). He asked Nicolai for a cigarette, it was given and he left; Nicolai never saw him again in this life, though he might have if he tried. Any forensic specialist will testify to the fact that whenever a person leaves a room, area, &c., they leave something of themselves behind. This something could be a hair, a piece of dead skin, fiber from their clothing, or any other identifying particle; that is, of course, the basis of forensic science. And this was true of the little devil, in his wake, however, was left the most distinguishing item of all: his business card. Nicolai picked it up. It identified him as Ken Robinson, Regional Sales representative, National Accounts, Standard & Poor’s Corporation. Nicolai added it to his collection of little cards and pursued the matter no further. He inquired the time of a passerby and discovered that he’d only passed about fifteen minutes, leaving just under an hour and a quarter until his date; just a bit more than an hour until that bedazzling little creature would step from the confines of her daytime Bastille into the paws of Nicolai’s passion, and Bombadil’sor the Earth knows who’spowers of enchantment. Funny that the thing had actually worked, that the powers of the seventh sphere could be entrapped in a little ring of metal. Course (of course) they weren’t. I’m a relatively attractive man, he thought not for the first time, no atrocious scars, a pleasant face, healthy (if somewhat loose) body, and I’m a charming rogue, women naturally flock to me. Not all women, mind you, but for a small subset of the gentler gender I amor fit the form ofthe male paradigm. This one in particular had been attracted to me on the train, before she’d ever even seen the ring, at a timenotewhen another woman had already taken it to her grave. Which fact reminded Nicolai of an earlier unanswered question: how the hell had Tomif that was his nameretrieved it? What connection had he to Rifka’s demise? And if he was, as he said, intricately wrapped up in the fate and action of the ring, what part did he play in this its
(supposed) latest enchantment? Nicolai was no closer to answering these queries when he felt a dribble on his left hand. Rain? No. Some untrained birdie had thought to let loose its dirty doodie in (for Nicolai) an inopportune moment. Bloody hell. He threw away his soiled cigarette and began to wipe his hand off on the bench. He was smelling it, checking for unappealing odors, when a sweet voice said, “Hello.”
“Oh, hello. You’re early. I think.”
“Everything all right?”
“Oh, yes, yes, had a run in with an aberrant bird.”
“Ravens. We have a terrible problem with them in mid-town.”
“Ravens, really.”
“Yes, really. Should we walk? I’m not very hungry if you don’t mind. Maybe we can get some coffee to go and just, well walk.”
That they did, they did, they did, and to Nicolai’s unexpressed dismay she guided them directly into the park, stopping once along the way to ogle a dress in a window.
She chatted a little bit, talked about this and that; Nicolai didn’t pay it much mind, his attention was on every white, black, and blue for that matter, clad passerby. Every mutt was a madman in disguise, every loose leaf a floundering stag. They were following an unsettlingly familiar path. “I just love Belvedere Castle. They have a lot of castles where you’re from don’t they?” Nicolai told her the only time he’d seen a castle was on a school trip somewhere in Kensington, oh yes, he mentioned, and Uncle Rooka’s, which he realized was probably his now. “You own your own castle?” Yes, he supposed, yes. Perhaps, she wondered, she could see it sometime, please, oh please? Perhaps.
What then of Rooka’s castle? Nicolai never aspired to it, all he wanted was a high-rise with a nice balcony and maybe some maid’s quarters. Though, it would be interesting to finally get a chance to examine some of the restricted areas, the contents of which he only imagined. A fancy struck him that there might be a chamber deep in the bowels of the castle where fifty beautiful women waited, enchanted, for a stately young prince to come and entertain them as he would; and he would. In any case, I can sell the thing, if anyone will buy. Nicolai came back to the moment quite suddenly when he realized that the reason she had mentioned castles in the first place was that they had come upon one, and Nicolai knew very well which one it was. Today, however, they approached from the other side and the mild weather together with the slight crowd made it seem much less ominous; they were normal people too, most of them eating sandwiches.
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 14
