The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

  On her way out, she slowly, slowly passed the guards who had let her in; her patience to play it out to the very end was rock solid. The surly guard turned his head to the other guard at the gate. “That old lady comes here every week. Huh, I guess even the assholes have mothers,” he said shaking his head, making his friend bark out a harsh laugh.

  CHAPTER 17

  “O, we must be careful.”

  My thoughts were consumed with the details that were brought to light over the last few days as I tried to concentrate on the final arrangements of two community projects coming up. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to get back to Michigan. I wasn’t sure I was ready, but my anxiety was mounting. I needed to figure out some clues that were just out of reach of my grasping fingers. I hadn’t had time in Michigan to dig through the house nor to look in that safe to which my parents had given me the key. But I knew I’d find answers there to the mystery of what my parents were really involved in; if not answers then at least more clues. And perhaps there would be a link that would help us figure out this new gangster in town, who had a proclivity for sending red envelopes, and what he might ultimately be wanting to accomplish.

  I could find answers there in Rochester, but what else would I find? I generally thought I was a level-headed person, but there had been a visceral and emotional response evoked in me that I was unable to keep in check. It was compelling and overwhelming, like it was devouring me. And the scariest thing was that part of me wanted it to. And then . . . there were my memories that were so completely centered on that beloved house. My house. My home. And when I dreamed about my old home, my heart ached for the safety of my parents, for the sense of belonging that was taken from me, for a known and understood home and childhood.

  As I finished the final note on my work and slapped the folder shut, Roarke came into the office. He stopped by my desk, his eyes sparkling, dimples dimpling.

  “What are you up to?” I said with a searching squint at his face.

  “Me? Up to something? Never!” he exclaimed with mock innocence.

  There was a long silence, just grinning. “So you’re not gonna spit it out, Roarke?”

  “Nope!” An eye roll from me.

  “Unh,” I said as I smacked my forehead with my hand and leaned on my desk.

  He chuckled, “I’m just stopping by to say hello. You know I enjoy our bantering ways, Lane.”

  “I know,” I said in a long-suffering manner. “Hey, Roarke, I have an errand to do today, do you want to come with me?” My tone when I said errand piqued Roarke’s interest as his eyes glistened with excitement.

  “Wouldn’t miss it!”

  After work, we met up and took the train uptown, then walked over to Central Park. There was a peanut cart on the sidewalk by 70th, so we bought a bag of the hot, toasty nuts. The peanut seller had an engaging demeanor, reminding me of an eccentric circus performer who might at any moment walk across a high wire or do a backward flip. He didn’t speak much English—mostly Italian. He was cheery, with a huge black mustache and bushy brows and he chattered away in his native tongue, clearly happy that we had bought something from him.

  Once again we entered the park via Cedar Hill, finishing up our snack and tossing the bag in the trash can, ready to get down to business. I had taken the time between work and the park to fill Roarke in on everything. I even told him about my dream with the gold pawn and the photograph of the ghostly white hand that reminded me of one of the fortune-teller machines down in Coney Island.

  “. . . and I really want you to see the bridge up close. See if you notice anything else we might have missed.”

  He nodded smartly, always game for a good intrigue. As we came up to the bridge I pointed out the pawns, the scrolls, and the larger pawns in the middle.

  Roarke was nothing if not thorough. For the longest time, he walked back and forth, looking at everything up close, then farther away. Once he even stood up on one of the railings, compelling me to scold, “Careful!”

  At first I had followed suit scrutinizing the bridge, but after a while I gave up and leaned against the railing. I drew the haunting blue and gold Book out of my bag, picking up where I had left off. The volume had strangely started to carry the importance of a capital letter.

  Roarke’s perseverance paid off. “Wait a minute!” he yelled from below, almost into the tunnel beneath the bridge. Then he came bounding up the ramp to the top of the bridge where I was standing with my hands on my hips.

  Roarke was pointing to the last of the seven larger pawns that had been marked with an X. “Here! Right here! There’s something else marked on the bottom. I caught a glimpse of something from below. It’s on the back, on the side facing out to the lawn.”

  We both knelt down. Because the pawns were so close together, we couldn’t get our heads through to look at the other side. I took out the mirror in my compact from my purse. I held it out through the railing, scraping my knuckles on the rough cement, and there, reflected back to us was 1-22-23.

  I pulled my hand carefully back through, clipped the compact shut with a snap, and sat down with my back leaning against the railing, a deep chill running right through me.

  “So . . . it’s a code or a combination or something?” asked Roarke.

  “No. No, it’s not a code,” I stated with an exhale.

  “What is it then?” he asked, sitting down next to me, shoulder to shoulder.

  “It’s a date. It’s the date my parents were killed.”

  * * *

  “What does that mean?” bellowed an outraged Fiorello. He had stopped by our place on the way home from work, conveniently at dinnertime. Marie and the kids had gone to visit her aunt for the week, so he was a bachelor this fine Tuesday night. We had roasted chicken with some of the dried rosemary from Mr. Kirkland’s garden and lemon and garlic. It was tender and delicious.

  Roarke stayed, too. Of course.

  I was starving as usual and ate my dinner with total enjoyment, but my mind stayed focused on turning around and scrutinizing the events of this week. Evelyn had said my name and I realized all eyes were on me.

  “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. Did I miss anything good?”

  Aunt Evelyn replied, “We were just talking through possibilities of what all this means. I take it from your face you’ve been doing the same and come to the same conclusion we all have: We don’t know anything yet.”

  Mr. Kirkland barked out a laugh.

  Fio chimed in with, “Well, I think we ought to send Finn the information you found. Do you want me to send it or would you like to?”

  “I can do it tomorrow on my way into work,” I said as I slathered more butter on another roll, my mind already picking up where it left off when Aunt Evelyn broke into those thoughts.

  I could feel Roarke looking at me. “Lane . . . You look like you’re thinking about something specific.”

  I put my elbow on the table and pensively rested my chin in my hand. “Well, it’s obviously alarming that the date of my parents’ death is marked on a monument that is supposedly for the Red Scroll members. It makes me worried that they were involved in more than we thought. I don’t know. It just feels like we are only seeing a small part of the story. And I can’t shake the feeling that the only way to get the big picture is for me to go back to Michigan.”

  I expected an indignant ruckus from that statement. Fio, Kirkland, and Evelyn all exchanged glances, but I was shocked to see that they weren’t the outraged mother hen glances that I fully expected.

  “What?” I asked accusingly.

  Mr. Kirkland said gruffly, “We figured you’d come up with that conclusion sooner or later.”

  Aunt Evelyn replied to my astonishment, “Lane, we know that trip threw you for a loop. But we also know you, my dear. We knew you wouldn’t let it keep you down.”

  Roarke pointed at me with the fork in his hand. “Say, Lane, Fio thought we could check up on Mrs. Hambro. See how she’s doing and if she has an
y more tracks for us to run on. I have an appointment set up around lunchtime day after tomorrow. What do you think?”

  “Sure! I’d love to see her again. Fio, this Hambro case is quite the intriguing mystery, but how are you really? He’s your closest friend, are you okay?” Fio was a very sensitive person inside, quite contrary to his rude outbursts. But it was that sensitivity that made him fight for what was right and for the people who needed someone in their corner.

  He nodded thoughtfully as he drank a big swig from his frothy beer. “Thanks, Lane. It’s not easy. Half the time I’m just working this mystery through like a particularly difficult business deal and yet knowing that the more time that passes, the more likely it is that . . . that . . .”

  “Yes, we know, Fio,” said Evelyn sympathetically.

  At this sober moment, Ripley’s pointy ears caught my attention. He was out in the kitchen, just in line with my sight, and his ear tips were on the other side of the counter so that was all I could see of him.

  “Uhhh . . . Mr. Kirkland?” was all I got out before the remains of the chicken carcass slipped from the counter and we heard the unmistakable clatter of dog paws that can’t quite make purchase on a slippery floor, trying to make a speedy getaway.

  Mr. Kirkland had read my amused face, and as he heard the thief’s noises he leaped from the table in hot pursuit. Aunt Evelyn was completely unfazed as she raised a glass to us all as if Mr. Kirkland hadn’t just bounded from the table cussing up a storm. She declared, “To this dear, dear family of ours. Cheers!”

  * * *

  The following day, before I went in to work and sent my telegram to Finn, I had an appointment to make.

  “Hi, Lane!” said Morgan as she opened the door to the luncheonette for me.

  “Hi, Morgan. How are you?” I asked.

  “I’m good. I’ve been busy.”

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow, wondering what kept her busy. She looked up at me with the sublime look of someone who has it all together. Peaceful and assured. Well, that made one of us.

  “Why the funny look, Lane?” she said, reading my perplexed and probably annoyed look.

  “Well . . . My trip to Michigan was weird. I don’t know. I don’t want to bother you with it. It’s just something I can’t quite figure out.”

  She’d ordered a coffee—black—like a forty-year-old, and took a thoughtful sip looking for all the world like a professor about to lecture.

  I put my elbows on the table, clasping my hands together and resting my chin on them. “Yes, Professor? Would you like to enlighten me?” I asked.

  She completely disregarded my sarcasm. “Well, actually, yes, Lane. I think we’re a lot alike. Remember when you talked to me about trusting people? How you have to take that leap?”

  I nodded. “Sure. I trust my friends and family.”

  “Oh, I know. I can tell you trust and love them. But, like you said, you’re used to working on things alone, aren’t you? You see, you don’t have to only trust them, you have to work with them.”

  “But I like working by myself. Sometimes, don’t you have to work alone?”

  She took a bite of her BLT and nodded. After she was done chewing, and patted her lips with a napkin, she said, “Sure. The trick is knowing how and when.”

  “How do you know all this, oh wise and ancient one . . . ?” I dug into my hot brownie with caramel sauce.

  She smirked. “Let’s just say I had a similar situation with my friend Spry—Eric, I mean—and I had a choice to make. I knew I could do this big task on my own, but if I worked with him, I had a much better chance of winning. Well . . . actually, surviving.”

  “A choice, huh?” What on earth had she been involved in? We finished our meal and I felt annoyed yet again. I loved spending time with Morgan. But why did this young street urchin seem to have one up on me? I was the one who was supposed to have it all together. I fancied myself a sort of mentor to her. I was irked that I seemed to be the mentee.

  After my rather scary snack time with Morgan, I sent my telegram to Finn, as well as an airmail letter to him on my way into work. In the longer letter, I tried to work out some of my thoughts, hoping I wouldn’t confuse him too much. For the telegram, I kept it short with just the pertinent details.

  Writing the letter was cathartic. And it brought back more memories with Finn the last couple of months. One day in particular brought my past and my present into a humorous mishmash of my life, which was often stranger than fiction.

  “What’s that?” he’d asked, pointing to the wooden target on the large tree in our backyard.

  I had been waiting for him to see it. It was something I had discovered about myself and my history with the help of Mr. Kirkland. More and more memories about my childhood had been coming back as of late. And a couple of months ago, Mr. Kirkland gave me a mother-of-pearl inlaid dagger for protection. It had been my father’s, and when I had gotten myself in a predicament, I found that I took to it quite readily. I could balance it, knife point up, on my middle finger, then flip it over so the handle was in my grip. And boy, could I throw it. But that part, Finn hadn’t discovered. Yet.

  Even as a young child my parents were always teaching me little things about life and survival skills. My dad took me on several camping trips and I found I had a natural talent for archery and, well . . . handling a knife, apparently. He had me helping him start fires from before I could remember. And with that came handling a Swiss army knife and a small hatchet to break down bigger sticks and branches. And when Mr. Kirkland gave me his dagger, a lot of it came swiftly back. Like riding a bike. I liked the feel of the heavy handle, perfectly balanced with the sharp blade.

  That day, Finn had looked askance at me, and then back to the heavy wooden bull’s-eye that was hanging on the tree. “Have you been holding back on me?” he’d asked with an eyebrow lifted.

  “Oh, it’s just a target for target practice with Kirkland,” I’d said, trying to sound casual.

  “Uh huh. Okay, show me what you got,” he’d said in his accent that comes out more exaggeratedly Irish when he’s preoccupied.

  “Well, we’ve been working on some things my parents taught me. And well, some of the skills came back.”

  “Like what, archery?”

  “Sure. That. And . . .”

  “And . . . ?” he’d asked. I had started to feel a little awkward. It’s not every day that you learn someone has this . . . talent . . . that I have. I felt a little ridiculous.

  He could see my awkwardness and had read it wrong. “Oh, it can’t be that bad, Lane. Where’s your bow and arrow? Just give it a try. Here, I’ll do it first.” He had located the bow and arrows that were resting in the corner and had gone ahead and gotten them, trying to assuage what he’d read in my hesitation as an embarrassing inability to do something I once could.

  He’d taken the bow in his hands, drawn it back, and twang went the arrow and it had landed almost dead center. I was laughing. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  Chunk! went my knife as it hit the bull’s-eye almost dead center, right next to his arrow. I had thrown it from several feet behind Finn. He turned to me with eyes wide, unable to say anything.

  “I know. It’s weird, huh?” I’d said, smiling and slightly bashful. Slightly. And then he’d started laughing so hard he had to sit down suddenly on the Adirondack chair that was right next to him.

  When he’d finally stopped, he managed, “That was very sexy.”

  I felt myself grinning from that memory as I walked through Grand Central, from Western Union where I had sent my telegram to Finn, to the subway station. I adored the Main Concourse. It never, ever ceased to make me pause and enjoy. That soaring ceiling with glittering green constellations, the thronging crowds, the loud noise of hundreds of conversations . . . Soon we would be kicking off the Christmas season and part of the hall would be filled with a Christmas bazaar. Maybe I could find something interesting for Aunt Evelyn there.

  I’d always loved Chri
stmas. And the thought of it coming up in a month made me pause. I pulled off to the side in Grand Central, and leaned up against the wall. I looked at all the people passing by; here I was in the midst of thousands of people, yet having a moment all alone. I thought about the decades of people going to and fro in this very place. The thought of time passing made me think of how my childhood had been cut short, how I had to understand and grasp things way before my time, and I wondered if I looked older than I really was. And then the future . . . I knew I was coming to a point when questions would be answered about my parents’ history; the story would be filled in where it had previously been blank. I knew that I was coming to some kind of juncture. Choices would have to be made. Practical decisions about life, but also deeper decisions.

  I felt like I was walking up a tall ladder that led to a high diving board. I was just getting to the top, where I’d soon have to take that knee-wobbling walk along the narrow board to the end, ponder the cool water far below, and then . . . jump. I looked in my bag to make sure the book was there. Its words were a strange piece of solace as I patted the cover.

  Christmas . . . I wonder if Finn will be home by then. I finished walking through the hall and walked down the steps to my subway platform. I turned my head in surprise as I heard my name called out from behind me.

  “Hey, Tucker! Are you on your way into work?” I greeted.

  “Yes, along with fifty thousand of my closest friends,” he groused as someone pushed past him, knocking him off balance.

  We rode the train together all the way downtown. We didn’t have much time to chat as the train was packed with the morning rush hour. As we climbed up several stairways at the City Hall stop, we got caught up.

  It was cold. I had my wool winter hat on along with my scarf and gloves. Of course, it can be steamy in the subway, so everything I wore had to be able to be peeled off and put back on easily, otherwise you roasted or froze alternatively—a constant issue in the city.