by E. Z. Rinsky
How is Courtney attracted to this crabby woman?
“Gotcha.”
A few minutes of silence. I’m a little worried about Courtney, but probably shouldn’t be. In my experience, he just doesn’t commit mental errors in the heat of battle. Especially when he doesn’t have to talk to anyone. For probably the twentieth time since getting in the car, I check that my knife and Magnum are still strapped around my ankles. Mindy checks her watch for the fiftieth time since we parked. She can’t stop fidgeting.
“So . . . you’ve been working from photocopies since the books were stolen?” I ask.
“No,” she answers immediately. She likes talking about the books. “All I have are about twenty pages I meticulously hand-copied. It can’t be photocopied.”
“You mean Sampson wouldn’t let you?”
“No, no. It quite literally cannot be photocopied faithfully. It’s written partially in shades of near-white ink which are visible only from certain angles. Some backgrounds are filled in with tight multicolored patterns. It’s a technique called prismatic coloring, which makes documents difficult to forge. When a machine tries to photocopy them it blotches the shapes and colors. It’s used when printing things like passports or driver’s licenses, but to my knowledge these books are the only known example of such a sample being produced by hand. Of course, my hand copies aren’t perfect, but they’re good enough to try to decipher.”
“So,” I say, “how do you account for one guy, a guy in prison no less, being able to create something like this? In a made-up language? He’s just some kind of freak uber-genius?”
Mindy rubs a hand through her hair, rustling up the scent of lemony shampoo.
“I’ve given a lot of thought to it, and my personal belief isn’t totally scientific. Essentially, it can’t have been written by just him. The sheer scale is simply inconceivable. The layers of even a single page are like an hour-long orchestral score. And the language itself—as I explained most linguist theorists agree that even a team of a hundred academics, working for a hundred years, wouldn’t be able to compose a language as wholly original as this.”
“So—he must have some pretty brilliant colleagues in Saddleback Correctional Facility, eh?”
Mindy is silent.
I prod: “I suppose Sampson would say that it all came from a higher power or something.”
Mindy doesn’t respond.
“Do you believe that?” I ask. After a long pause she says:
“Let’s just say, I haven’t ruled it out.” Mindy finally turns around to look at me with suddenly soft brown eyes. “I suppose you think that makes me a fool?”
“Actually no,” I sigh. “I kinda get it.”
She narrows her eyes, surprised.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat. “Courtney and I had a case together. About five years ago. Made me reconsider some of these things myself.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“What happened?”
I bite my lower lip. Would certainly like to get some of that off my chest. But I should probably wait for a conversational partner who’s bound by doctor/patient confidentiality.
“Some other time. We have to go,” I say.
We put on our yellow raincoats, lock up the Humvee and proceed out of the garage. We’re in what seems to be an upscale shopping/touristy district. Light foot traffic—although ever since I left New York five years ago, anything less than a total mob on the pavement feels light.
I use the phone to guide us toward the Trattoria, passing retro furniture stores, craft beer pubs, Starbucks. Almost everyone is white. Most of the men have facial hair. The women don’t wear heels. A lot of people are smoking pot in the street.
The pink duffel packed with money is strapped over my shoulder. I grip it like it’s a small child, not wanting to even think about scenarios where we get mugged.
The air is hot and dry on my tongue, and I’m already sweating inside my raincoat. Just a few blocks away from the restaurant, I pull the photo of Rico that Sampson provided from my pocket and refresh my memory for a few seconds.
“I’ll recognize him,” says Mindy.
I glare at her.
“Let me do my job,” I say.
She seems to consider a retort, but swallows it.
I’d underestimated how visible the pink bag and yellow raincoats would be, and I’m definitely feeling exposed. If Rico has a pal here reconnoitering, we’ve been spotted already. I grip the duffel tighter to my chest.Six minutes till we’re supposed to meet, and nothing else from Rico. Guess that means we’re on for the Trattoria.
My adrenaline finally fires up. I’m nervous. Haven’t done anything like this for five years.
“Make sure you don’t give him the money until you have the books,” she says.
“Wow. Good thing we have a PhD here.”
She wrings her eczema-pocked hands.
“I’m just saying, don’t fuck this up.”
“I’m not trying to be an ass,” I say in a low voice. “But please stay out of my way and let me do this. That’s what I was hired for. All you have to do is tell me if they’re the real books. That’s your only job. Don’t say anything to him.”
She mutters something unintelligible under her breath. She’s breathing fast, and trying hard to hide her anxiety.
We turn onto the busy outdoor mall that contains the Trattoria. I hug the bag to my chest as we navigate past shoppers and families. Two kids with ice cream all over their faces sit on benches and cry, a street performer plays guitar, singing so softly that he’s nearly inaudible.
Trattoria de Marcos is nestled between a trendy bookstore and an expensive-looking macaron boutique. The Trattoria has a green awning and well-groomed waitstaff. A family of four is eating outside, and that’s it. Not dinnertime yet.
I can’t decide whether I want more people around or fewer . . . depends how likely Rico is to just whip out a gun in broad daylight, I suppose. We approach the maître d’, a young man with greasy hair.
“Two for inside, please,” I say, and try to smile.
“This way,” he says. Leads us into an interior kept dark by heavily stained windows. “Booth or table?” he asks.
“Booth,” I say, quickly scanning our surroundings. There’s an elderly couple silently picking at what looks like tiramisu; a pair of blonde girls speaking what I think is Dutch and looking at a street map; a family comprised of two parents, an infant and toddler sharing a pizza; and Courtney, with an untouched espresso, absorbed with a crossword. I don’t think he’s going to sound any alarm bells with Rico.
Maître d’ leaves and a high-school-aged girl approaches our booth and brings us water glasses.
“You can still order off our lunch menu,” she explains, as Mindy and I sit down across from each other. “Dinner doesn’t start until six. Would you like to hear our specials?”
“No,” Mindy snaps.
“You sure? We have a great duck lasagna—”
“No, we’re fine,” says Mindy, gripping a handful of hair and pulling so hard that her eyes tear up.
The waitress takes a step back.
“So,” she says weakly. “Anything to drink to besides the water?”
“We’ll just take a moment with the menus,” I say. “Sorry about my girlfriend. She’s hungry, but also just a generally unpleasant person.”
The waitress smiles uncomfortably, then rushes away. Mindy’s hands are shaking.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Take deep breaths. Have some water.”
She’s shaking so badly she struggles to bring the cup to her lips.
I check my phone. It’s three minutes after six and no missed calls. Mindy unzips the chest of her yellow slicker to let herself get some air.
“Are these really necessary?” she asks, looking around the restaurant. “He’s not bloody here. I know what he looks like.”
“He could have a pal here doing reconnaissance. We want to look cooperative.”<
br />
Mindy peers at me over the top of her black rims like I’m an idiot, then makes a show of looking around at our fellow diners.
A different waiter comes to our table and tops off our ice water, glances at our yellow coats, but doesn’t comment. I stare at the phone, unsure if I’m hoping it rings or not. Three minutes pass. I’m just starting to feel that this has been nothing but an exercise in humiliation, when the phone buzzes. Not a call, a text. From a different number.
aquarium. Come str8 here. Confrm.
I show it to Mindy.
“There’s an aquarium in Denver?” I ask.
“One of the biggest in the country,” she says. “About a seven-minute walk away.”
I’ll be there right away.
I shoot to my feet and make a quick hand gesture on my cheek for Courtney: Second location. I’ll call him in a few minutes and he’ll follow. He’s probably being paranoid, I could probably just show him the text. But once in a while, Courtney’s paranoia turns out to be founded.
The maître d’ tries to ask what’s wrong, as I brush past him.
“You know where the aquarium is?” I ask Mindy, outside the restaurant.
In response, she just leads the way. We cross the walking mall, turn right onto a street that’s busy, but in a quaint flyover state kind of way. I keep the pink bag squeezed into my armpit. Mindy chews on an already badly mauled thumbnail as we walk.
“It will be fine,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
I check the phone. No new calls or texts. I badly want to reach down to touch my weapons, but resist. I plug in the earbuds attached to the walkie-talkie in my pocket and buzz him.
“Court, we’re headed to the aquarium.”
“Okay. I’m a few minutes behind,” he says.
We rush across the street, take a left, and what must be the aquarium comes into view. It’s a giant building the size of an enclosed sports stadium. Denver Ocean Journey, proclaims enormous lettering. We stride across acres of parking lot. I’m sweating heavily from the baking sun on my raincoat. We’re in serious field trip territory here—a fleet of yellow school buses is clustered near the front entrance. Little kids in double-file buddy-system being led in and out of the hive by exasperated, hoarse teachers. There’s an all-American eatery clumped onto the complex, and pasty families in baseball hats are enthusiastically streaming from the aquarium exit into the restaurant.
The line to buy tickets isn’t too long; probably because it’s already late in the day. I buy us two all-access passes with Sampson’s credit card, which come in the form of orange paper bracelets. Then I grab Mindy’s arm and pull her behind me through the entrance.
Shit.
There’s security.
Probably why Rico picked this place. Let someone else make sure we’re unarmed.
We’ll have to put the bag through a conveyor belt x-ray machine, and also step through a metal detector.
“Go ahead and wait for me,” I instruct Mindy. “Take the bag as soon as it comes out of the machine.”
I watch her walk through the metal detector without issue.
I fight the tide of kids and tourists back to the front entrance, and step back outside. Pretend to tie my shoe and pull my Magnum out of my ankle holster, then drop it in a blue recycling bin near the entrance. I buzz Courtney.
“There’s security,” I say. “Maybe I could get the gun in, but don’t want to risk it.”
“Crap.”
“I dropped it in the blue bin next to the entrance. Don’t come in. Stay outside with the guns. You can listen in. If anything goes bad you can catch them on the way out.”
“I don’t like that.”
“I’ll still have my knife. That’s why you get ceramic. And we have the tracer in the bag. How far away are you?”
“I’m across the parking lot. Don’t want to get too close to you.”
“I’m going.”
I rejoin the steady flow of eager fish-watchers inching their way forward. Mindy is on the other side of the x-ray machine waiting for the bag. I wave to her to make sure she’s ready, and put the pink bag on the belt. My chest tightens as I let it go. I consider the possibility that this has all been an elaborate ruse by Mindy, and she’s just going to snatch it up and disappear.
I watch the machine attendant’s eyes as the bag glides through. I doubt the bonds will be a problem—just paper—but the tiny GPS tracker might look weird on there.
No issues. Mindy grabs the bag on the other side. I rush through the metal detector to join her. It’s a relief to take the bag back from her.
“What were you doing outside?” she asks.
I pretend I didn’t hear her. Check the phone. A new text:
Come to Otters. Text when ur there.
Ok
I scan our surroundings. Signs indicate different walking paths: You choose to follow the path of a river, and get to see all the wildlife and fish that occupy their ecosystems. Choices are Colorado River, Kampar River, or African and South American freshwater creatures.
“Where are otters from?” I ask Mindy. “Africa?”
“You can’t be serious. God, American schools are terrible,” she says, and points to the Colorado River path. We enter into a narrow hallway. Walls and the arched ceiling are all glass, behind which swim what I guess are Colorado fish immersed in grainy, yellow river water: something that looks like bass, maybe a salmon? Walking through a parted sea. The water that surrounds us is not still, rushes like a river, sweeping the googly-eyed creatures first up over our heads, then back down. Kids have their palms and faces pressed hard against the glass.
Air is damp and smells like seaweed. The stone under our shoes is slippery, and I nearly stumble as Mindy and I wind our way through the aqua-tunnel. We rush past an animal-free exhibit that illustrates the phenomenon of flash floods—a huge spout of white water gushes into a rocky crevice and fills it in an instant.
An interactive station where you can actually touch real crabs . . .
Can’t believe that’s a draw.
And finally, the otters. Their habitat is amphibious: half rocky shore on which to flop around on their leathery stomachs, half yellow-colored pool. It’s structured so you can watch the otters both while they’re on land, and while they’re swimming around; they’re infinitely more graceful when they’re underwater. I look around, probing the crowd for Rico. There are only around thirty in this otter-viewing space, and he’s tall enough that he should stick out. I think I spot him from behind for an instant—recognize the buzzed head—but the guy turns around and is about seventeen. I pretend to tie my shoe again, and this time unstrap my sheathed ceramic knife. Tuck it next to my butt, under the elastic band of my decaying jockey shorts, then pull the back of my shirt over it.
I pull out the phone. Nothing new.
We’re at the otters
My stomach clenches, waiting for a response. It comes quickly.
Trn around and come through ylw tape.
“What did he say?” asks Mindy. I ignore her, and search for yellow tape. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s talking about. There’s another hallway that branches off the otter exhibit, but is cordoned off with yellow “under construction” tape.
To buy thirty seconds, I text back:
What tape?
Then plug my headphones into the walkie-talkie in my pocket and buzz Courtney.
“Meeting him now. I’ll keep the walkie on so you can hear what’s going on.”
Courtney’s voice is solemn:
“Make sure you don’t go anywhere private, Frank.”
My phone buzzes.
Yelow tape across frm otters
I approach the temporary plaque beside the taped-up entranceway explaining come fall, this will be a beaver sanctuary. Behind the tape is a narrow, cavelike tunnel.
I call Rico.
“Where are you?” he answers instantly. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice unfiltered. It’s strained,
desperate.
“I’m not going in that tunnel,” I say. Beside me Mindy gapes in disbelief. “The whole point was to meet somewhere public. We’ll be next to the otters. You have five minutes to come out and meet us, or else we’re leaving.”
I hang up before he can reply.
Mindy is staring at me, flushed from exertion and nerves.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“He wants this deal to happen as much as we do,” I say. “He’s the one getting forty-eight million. He’ll come out.”
I lead Mindy to a bench beside the otter exhibit. A gaggle of ten-year-old kids laugh as one of the animals flops around on his stomach. The glass doesn’t extend to the ceiling, so we can clearly hear them barking and splashing. Bright red signs dissuade aquarium-goers from tossing food or anything else over the wall, threaten violators with prosecution.
“What if he doesn’t come?” Mindy mutters. “Sampson will not be happy.”
“Then we’ll pick a different location for tomorrow. Sometimes it happens like that.”
It’s pretty crowded in here. I scan the faces around us for Rico, squeezing the pink duffel against my side. Mostly kindergarten age kids, here on field trips. Tourist families, quickly snapping pics of the exhibit then moving on, as if their role here is strictly documentary.
There are self-guided tours, the ones where you rent headphones and follow them through the aquarium. A couple families are doing that. There are also real tours. A group of five men who look like they’re in a Gap commercial—short-sleeve button-downs, khakis—are listening raptly to a college-aged girl explain how smart otters are. Weird choice of corporate team-building activity.
“It’s been four minutes,” Mindy snaps. “Just do what he says.”
I grab her wrist. Rico just poked his head out of the yellow tape, and is looking for us.
“There he is,” I say without taking my eyes off of him. “Just relax. This shouldn’t take long.”
Rico spots us and makes his way through the crowd. He has a green duffel bag slung around his shoulder. He’s wearing a high black turtleneck and winter jacket, despite the weather.
