by K. T. Tomb
Does the fabled lease exist as many believe? If it does, can it be found?
Chapter One
Meet the Mayor of New York City, Vincent Patch
Mayor Vincent Patch sat behind his stately oak desk. It was a knock-off of the ‘Resolute’ desk used in the oval office by the President of the United States, although the seal was different. Though Patch thought that it could have used some ergometric adjustments, it was the one the City provided. Paperwork surrounded him, stacked in piles that took up all the space around him, and all in urgent need of his attention. To some it would appear to be a huge mess but he viewed it as organized chaos. Staff assistants swarmed around him as they awaited his coveted signature, which coincidentally was no more than a scribble; his elementary school teacher would have given him an “F” for that penmanship.
He turned his gaze to one document in particular. It was from New York University’s School of Native American Studies. He knew the seal well and briefly remembered his days living in Greenwich Village. It was when he had fallen in love for the first time and becoming mayor was still only a dream. Quickly, he snapped himself out of his reverie.
“Central Park?” he stated emphatically. “What is in Central Park?”
A bleary-eyed assistant answered.
“Maybe she has the wrong park, Sir.”
“Well, maybe if she’s looking for sacred heroin needles, it could be; but if there’s some nefarious reason behind this request, it’s not getting beyond my desk. She’ll need to come up with more specifics before I allow anyone to go tearing up an otherwise fine park. We just started to get a handle on that place.”
Patch picked up his stamp marked “Denied” and pounded it on the application. The pile for those matters towered over the papers which had been passed for approval. Patch continued with business, which was fast-paced and dynamic in the mayor’s office. Many had referred negatively to his open door policy and there were certainly times that he wanted to slam it shut. He carried on in stride, effective as always.
He always appeared to be handling his duties effortlessly. It was a part of his reputation, his persona. By remaining calm, he put those around him at ease. As usual, there was a throng of press waiting for him at the entrance to City Hall, but Patch considered himself to be a man of the people, so whenever possible he exited through the formal portico. It gave the reporters access and his security staff absolute fits. Reporters were forced to stay on the steps; post 9/11 getting inside the building had gotten tricky. A throng of news media clamored around him and asked for his comments on the current police strike. Amid the chaos, Patch noticed a raven-haired beauty. She was dressed in professional business attire. Black heels gave way to lovely legs and a sensibly cut skirt. She was asking about her recent request for an anthropological dig and the reason for its denial.
“I assume that you’re the anthropologist?”
Somehow, he couldn’t ignore her. Her beauty took him off-guard; he hadn’t expected that.
“That would be me. If you would listen to my request personally, I’m sure I could convince you that the project has vital historical importance.”
For a moment, Patch forgot about the mob and focused on her. Her hair was long and pin straight; olive-skin that was flawless. Her almond-shaped eyes were laser focused, missing nothing. She dressed conservatively in a perfectly tailored blue wool suit accented by minimal jewelry. It was obviously hand-carved one of a kind stuff. She did not wear a wedding ring, he noted.
“Look,” he said.
He didn’t use her name; he didn’t know it.
“I can’t have some scientist prowling around Central Park with a shovel. As far as I am concerned, whatever is buried there can stay buried. Who knows, maybe you’ll start a trend and we will end up with a heap of dirt in the center of the city. Sorry, but I cannot help you. I’m very busy.”
Patch pushed past the woman. In the bustle, he grazed her hip with his, which unexpectedly caused him to blush. He came across as rude but he was merely being efficient. She was infuriated as she watched Patch leave.
***
Patch stepped into his penthouse suite.
The massive dwelling was home but it had never felt like one. He lived alone except for his loyal golden retriever Spike. His dog had never resembled the perfect specimen of its breed often shown in the hunting magazines; posed expertly with a duck in its mouth. Spike was a city dog; slightly out of shape and tonight he held a leash in his mouth. Patch collapsed on a chaise in the foyer as he thumbed through his mail. Most of what he received at home was junk mail since the majority of his correspondence went to City Hall or the post office box he used to keep the lunatics at bay. There was a fat envelope from his ex-wife with photographs of his seven-year old daughter. He paused for a moment and sighed deeply as he considered how much she had grown. The letter from his ex, Juliet, was unpleasant; they always were, and once again Patch found himself wondering why she didn’t just send him an email. She railed on about Hillary. She accused him of having no time for her and blamed that for the breakup of their marriage. Being the wife of the mayor took commitment and a unique mindset, just as the position of mayor made him a busy person. Juliet had been self-consumed at the best of times and when he had taken office, it had become clear that she was not well suited to being a helpmate. The epistle of complaints ended with the usual request for more money.
Patch grumbled, “What else is new?”
He put the photographs of Hillary aside and crumpled up the paper. The stationery was expensive, made of fine parchment embossed with an ornate monogram. It was a “P” for Patch. She enjoyed the benefits of his last name.
“Only the best for Juliet,” he said to himself, as he scratched Spike on the head.
The fluffy dog was patiently waiting for his walk. Patch was six feet tall and particularly handsome with prematurely graying hair playing at the sides of his head. He was quite recognizable around the city so he always went incognito when out on his own. He pulled on a Mets baseball cap, which would help a little to conceal his identity.
One of the prerequisites of office was the location of his penthouse not far from Central Park. He and Spike headed down Seventh Avenue, which had recently gone through rehabilitation. It had been a predominantly gay neighborhood. It still was but previous mayors had made the area more family-friendly. It was good PR to have his residence in an emerging neighborhood. Naturally, he and Spike headed to the ice cream shop.
Once at the shop, which had a heated patio for patrons with dogs, they caught the attention of a group of women. Patch was flattered until he realized it was Spike garnering the attention.
“Geez, what’s your secret boy?”
He gave Spike the last lick of his cone. Spike was on cloud nine after the treat and getting more attention than he had during the day in the penthouse. A trail of drool hung from the dog’s mouth along with his tongue.
“Don’t suppose that look would work for me.”
Soon they were back on the street ambling around the perimeter of the park; best friends taking a stroll enjoying the hum of the city. It was noticeably quieter than during the day but there was still palpable action. They passed by some of the city’s less desirable residents; the winos, drug addicts and misfits. Spike growled as they walked by the strangers, they in turn kept their distance. His mind wandered back to the pretty anthropologist who had proposed a dig in the park. What an absolutely absurd notion. Patch shook his head. They wandered into the park, against his better judgment. He, more than anyone, knew the crime statistics for Central Park after dark.
Patch noticed a light emanating from behind a thicket of trees. The glow was unexpected and even though every fiber of his being knew that he should avoid the source, curiosity got the best of him. He reached through the tangle of branches to reveal two over-sized men with shovels, who were digging furtively.
“What the hell?” he rhetorically whispered to his dog.
Chapter Two
The men in the woods looked like cartoon characters. Bruno was the taller of the two. His complexion was rough and his voice was even rougher. He was Italian which was not out of place for New York City; a stereotypical tough guy with a nose that had been broken several times and an overall look that told he’d had a tough life. He appeared to be in his fifties and it was obvious he didn’t intend to be seen because he was dressed in all black. Bruno was exhausted from digging so he leaned on his shovel.
“Do we have much more digging to do? I could use a beer and my back is killing me. I’m getting too old for this type of work. I should be lounging on the beach somewhere. Things surely haven’t turned out like I thought they would.”
Leonardo, or Lenny as they all called him, was more compact than his partner. He looked like a small tank and appeared as if he could lift a bus. Lenny had a scar over his left eye that looked like a chink in his armor adding to his tough-guy demeanor. He was intimidating; with fierce bulging eyes and a shaved head and could have been a prison escapee from the looks of him. He placed a flashlight in his mouth, which he gripped with his chipped teeth. He couldn’t make sense of it but he believed they were in the right place. He spoke to Bruno roughly.
“Quit your stupid dreaming about sipping piña coladas and dipping your toes in the ocean. If we go back to Gino and tell him we can’t find it, you will be going for a dip in the water all right – face down in the East River. Keep digging.” Lenny snapped.
Patch absently reached for Spike. His hand hit empty air. Spike was gone. With a panicked look, his eyes darted around searching for his dog. He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted him squatting beside a tree. He heard a burst of air coming from the dog. Disgusted and slightly amused he spoke to the pooch.
“No more frozen treats for you. Don’t worry, Spike. My system is sensitive too.”
Spike shamefully hid his face between his paws and Patch turned back to the action. The men had disappeared with their shovels.
Patch instantly grew nervous, as everything around him went suddenly quiet. A crunch of leaves shattered the silence. The sound was coming from behind him and he quickly whipped around. From his crouched position, he looked up slowly. The two men were standing over him with their shovels in hand. Lenny and Bruno did not look happy. They were holding their spades like weapons now, not like digging implements as they had before.
Lenny was the first to speak. The veins next to his temples were throbbing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” He spit when he spoke.
Patch stood up. Running for political office had prepared him for high-pressure situations.
“Calm down, guys. I’m just looking for my dog. Did any of you happen to see him?”
He cleared his throat and called out.
“Here, Spike.”
Bruno looked down at his shorter cohort and grinned menacingly.
“There ain’t no dog, Lenny. This dude was spying on us. He’s looking for you-know-what too. This wise guy thinks he’s gonna find it before we do.”
“Christ, don’t use my name. You might as well be sure to spell it out for him and give this guy my full address too. Stop talking about what we’re looking for.”
Lenny, who had revealed himself as the leader of the two-person gang, tried out his Ricky Ricardo voice.
“Mister, you got some splainin’ to do.”
A suspicious look appeared on Lenny’s face as he sensed that something was amiss. He reached out with his pudgy hand and yanked the Mets cap off Patch’s head. The men aimed their flashlights at his eyes, making the mayor blink.
“Holy shit!” Bruno exclaimed. “Lenny, it’s the mayor. I’ve seen him on TV.”
SMACK! Lenny hit Bruno upside the head.
“Quit using my name asshole. Holy God this is getting worse by the minute.”
Lenny took a moment to think. He knocked his own head as if he were hammering an idea together in his skull. He tossed his shovel at Patch and pulled a gun from his jacket.
“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
