by Brian Meeks
“No, I was hoping he might have a few minutes,” Henry said. He knew now she wasn't aware he wouldn't be coming in.
She opened another envelope. The phone rang, and she answered and then said, “Excuse me, but are you Mr. Wood?”
“Yes.” This caught Henry off-guard, although he was clever enough to put on his nonchalant expression. He assumed she would elaborate. He was correct.
“Mr. Alexander apologizes for being late; you may wait in his office. He will do his best to get here as quickly as he can.” She hit a button under her desk. There was a low buzzing sound, and she stood up, opening the door and showing Henry inside.
The office was nicely decorated. There was a large art deco desk and bookshelves along both walls. Henry noticed two plants, of equal height, in each corner behind the desk; in fact, everything was exactly where one would expect it to be. Luna had described her father as meticulous, and now that Henry saw where he worked, he understood. The desk was free of clutter, save for the new pad of paper by the telephone. The phone was placed so it was parallel to the edge of the desk with the cord draped neatly over the side. Next to the pad was a group of six pencils, which were all lined up next to one another. They all looked to be the same length, and, as Henry looked closer, he noticed something odd. Every pencil was rotated so the brand name was not showing except one. Henry looked around the office and didn't see anything out of place.
Having spent his entire Sunday fastidiously measuring and re-measuring every single cut and drill hole, he was feeling like he understood what it was like to be so precise. Though he wasn't normally a neat and organized person, he appreciated its advantages and the aesthetic. Leaning forward, he carefully rotated the pencil. On the other side was a set of six numbers. He read the numbers to himself: 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, and 23. He put the pencil in his pocket and pushed the other ones together. Just then, he heard the buzz of the door. He quickly sat down.
The secretary walked in and said, “Mr. Alexander just called. He is sorry, but he is not going to be able to make it into the office. He asked me to apologize for not being able to discuss your numbers.”
“Thank you” Henry said, as he stood up to leave.
“Do you mind me asking; are you a client of the firm? I thought I knew all the clients.”
Henry, quick on his feet, said, “I am considering this firm. I met Mr. Alexander recently, and he offered to go over my books. He said that each partner has different strengths, and he would advise me which one might be best. I won't give my business to just any firm.”
She smiled. This seemed to satisfy her.
While Henry rode the subway home, he thought about the numbers. What did they mean? Obviously Mr. Alexander was still alive and well, but what was he up to? How did he know I would be there at 8 am? How could he have known I would find the numbers? Henry had gone into the city looking for answers and only found questions. The detective in him decided he needed to think, which he did best while tidying his workshop. Mr. Alexander's office had rubbed off on him. He could clean and think. Plus, he needed to find a place of honor to store his dado routing jig.
CHAPTER 4
A rotund man sat at a typewriter, his sausage fingers dancing over the Underwood. He put down his thoughts, “his gospel” some said. He was revered or feared by all. There wasn’t a middle ground. He was the restaurant critic for the Brooklyn Daily News. If he liked a new restaurant, it would become an instant success. If he unsheathed his poison pen, the restaurant owners would be spending their days in the serving line of the local soup kitchen.
The clicking of key strikes was like a symphony to Francis Le Mangez. Today, he was happy and full. “The soup was a delight and made me want to weep with joy. The Singe Café's famous monkey flambé, in a white wine sauce, tasted as if angels had prepared it, and I savored each bite. If you go out for monkey only once this year, make it the 'Singe Café'.”
Francis had an office across from The Henry Wood Detective Agency. Henry likes Francis and they occasionally discussed food, politics, and baseball while throwing back highballs at the bar on the corner. Francis was a food snob, but he also appreciated a greasy burger and a beer.
As Henry put the key in his office door, Francis popped his head out and said, “Your cop friend was here looking for you. I took a message.”
“Really? What did he want?”
“Tell Henry to call me as soon as he gets back,” Francis said with a scowl as he handed the tiny piece of paper to Henry. Francis and Mike McDermott didn't get along.
“Thanks,” said Henry, “Eat anything good lately?”
“I had a wonderful dinner at The Singe Café on 17th Street last night. I am writing it up now,” he said and turned around, disappearing into his office.
Henry walked into the Wood Detective agency and put his hat on the hook by the door. He took off his overcoat and hung it next to the hat. Sitting behind his desk, he put his feet up and looked at the pencil. The numbers, so neatly written, were a message. He felt it was a message specifically for him, but he didn't know what it was or what he was supposed to do with it.
Henry picked up the phone and called Mike. Mike McDermott had been in law enforcement for as long as Henry could remember. He solved more cases than anyone in the five boroughs by using his razor-sharp analytical mind and sometimes massive right hook. Mike loved chess and music. He owned every bit of vinyl by Enrico Caruso. He also enjoyed gardening and had an encyclopedic knowledge of root vegetables. When he was young, his nickname was 'Yam'. He was called 'Yam' until a couple of fights and a growth spurt between ninth and tenth grade. After that, he was called 'Big Mike'. Henry just called him Mike. Mike McDermott didn't have any use for private dicks, but he liked Henry.
The phone rang once. The voice on the other end bellowed, “Mike here...go.”
“Mike, I heard you were looking for me.”
“So, Frenchy gave you my message. I'm surprised.”
“He isn't so bad, sort of an acquired taste.”
A grunt came over the line. Mike continued, “Word on the street is that you're poking around the Smith, Havershome and Blickstein law firm.”
“So what if I am?” Henry played it cool. He didn't want to tip his hand. He actually didn't even know which cards he was holding, but he figured if Big Mike had gotten wind that something must be up.
“Listen, Wood, this is serious business you are sticking your nose into. If you know anything, you best come clean before you get hurt,” Mike said, trying to be intimidating. He didn't have to try very hard.
“You threatening me, Mike?”
“Not me, but there are some dangerous people involved. I'm trying to look after you,” he said. His tone softened.
“Dangerous people, eh?” Henry said, trying to sound confident and hoping Mike would give him a clue as to what was going on. Henry needed a clue.
“I'm talking about the Italians. The word is some accountant has gone missing, and they're anxious to find him. He knows things - things that could make a lot of people unhappy.”
“Thanks for the heads up. I will try to keep my head down,” Henry said and hung up the phone.
Mike made a good point. Henry made his living battling unfaithful husbands not angry gangsters. He wondered if he was getting in over his head. It didn't matter, though; he had given his word, and he was going to follow through.
Henry was unsure of his next move and decided to head home. When he checked his magic closet, he found another gift from the future: a plastic case with a silver disk in it and a thing called a DVD player with a tiny screen that looked sort of like a television. The DVD was entitled Tage Frid. It appeared to have come from 1997 as that was the copyright date on the back. Henry was pleased with his gift from the mysterious closet, and, when the screen came to life, he marveled at the picture. It was in color.
Tage Frid came from Denmark in 1948. “After a couple of thousand students, I learned a few things,” said the voice from the tiny speakers, and, afte
r 75 minutes, Henry had witnessed the charming old man teach him how to cut dovetails, fix a mistake, build a drawer for a perfect fit, glue up pieces, and discuss his thought process in design. Tage Frid used a jig he built 30 years ago. This part showed Henry how important details were to the old woodworker. Henry liked the Danish woodworker's style. He thought about the DVD. It was made 40 years in the future about a man who was old, but, today, in 1955, Tage Frid was a young man who had just arrived in the US a few years ago. Henry watched the DVD twice and marveled at the beauty of Tage Frid’s furniture. He wondered if the closet would send him more of these DVDs as they were very entertaining. He wished he could show someone his new toy, but he never told anyone about the time portal in his closet. He feared if he did that it might disappear.
He tried to imagine what Francis would say, what sort of review he would give this Tage Frid show. Henry knew that his recommendation would be an A+. He carefully put the DVD back in its case and put it and the player in a drawer under a blanket. He went to bed thinking about Tage Frid furniture and the numbers, 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, and 23.
CHAPTER 5
Jerry McMurry stood five feet eight inches, weighed a buck twenty, and had two miserable kids and an awful wife. He liked to gamble. It was hard to tell if he lost more at the track or at life, but, whichever was worse, it was clear he never caught a break. Nor did he really deserve one.
Tommy 'The Knife' made a point of knowing these kinds of particulars about his customers. A little bit of knowledge helped persuasion go more smoothly. Many a man would take a beating but crumble at the thought of something happening to the wife and kids. Tommy was different than the other bosses as he wouldn't hesitate to kill a guy's wife just to make a point. To the other families, this meant he lacked honor, and honor was everything.
The problem today, though, was that Tommy was sure threatening Jerry's family would be pointless. He could kill them, but he didn't think Jerry would care. It might even be doing him a favor. He flashed a cold smile at Jerry.
“I'm gonna pay, Tommy, I just need a little more time.”
“Where you gonna find fifteen large?”
“I'll get it. Just give me a few more weeks.”
“Jerry, you are a stupid mick and a degenerate gambler. You couldn't pick a trifecta box in a three horse race. Furthermore…”
“But, but, Tommy...”
“Don't interrupt!” Tommy calmed down and said, “I would normally explain to you the terrible accident which might befall your family, but I have seen your family, and I don't feel like doing you any favors.”
Jerry shrugged.
A couple of large guys standing by the door laughed. Tommy smiled at their chuckles.
“This guy,” pointing at Jerry, “The only thing Jerry is worse at picking than horses is broads.”
They all roared. The phone rang. Tommy answered and listened briefly, then gave a short list of instructions and hung up.
Jerry began to shake.
“See, the problem is that I know you can't pay. In fact, the whole world knows you can't pay. You might even take off, and I would have to hunt you down like the dog you are. My first inclination is to dump you in the East River and be done with it.”
“Come on, Tommy, we’ve known each other since the neighborhood,” Jerry pleaded.
“You were a punk back then, and you still are. Now you made me lose my train of thought…”
“Boss, you’z was saying we should dump his no good, broke, loser ass in the East River.”
“Ah, yes, that was it. I like the idea. I like it a lot, but I am a businessman. If you’re dead, you're no good to me.”
Jerry, sensing a break, said, “Thanks, Tommy, I just need a little longer to get straight.”
Tommy walked around Jerry and patted him on the shoulder. “What we are going to do is work out a little advertising campaign. The best part is you are da star.”
Jerry looked a little worried. He might have been dumb, but he wasn't stupid. He knew this wasn't good news.
Tommy waved his hand at the two thugs by the door, “My business associates are going to fix you up with some bruises and broken bones. Then they’re gonna take you down to Aqueduct and leave you to spread the word about what happens when you don't pay.”
The thugs cracked their knuckles.
Jerry went white as a sheet as the two men placed their hands on his shoulders.
“There is good news, Jerry. While you are in the hospital, I am going to waive the vig.”
One thug said, “That is very generous of the boss, isn't it Jerry?” then smacked Jerry in the head. “He must really like you.”
Tommy, “Now that you mention it, I don't like him. The vig stands. That is $3000 per week plus the $15,000. Now, get this piece of shit out of here. He is stinking up the place.”
Over the next two hours, Jerry, who was not religious at all, prayed for death. Tommy's men were professionals, though, and they simply broke bones and pounded his face until one eye was swollen shut and the other was nearly closed. They dumped him in the parking lot just as the crowd was coming out after the last race. The regulars who knew Jerry barely recognized him. Somebody called an ambulance. Word about Tommy ‘The Knife’ spread quickly.
CHAPTER 6
The next day, Henry arrived at his office bright and early. Francis wasn't in yet; he preferred to roll out of bed at the crack of noon. It was quiet, and Henry took out Alexander’s pencil and a pad of paper. He looked at the numbers again, then used the pencil to write down 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, and 23. Adding the numbers equaled 41. Next, he assigned each number a letter: a, b, c, e, g, w. Leaning back in his chair, he pondered his first two attempts, scratched his head, and dismissed them.
Twenty minutes and three more dismissed theories later, the sound of heels on the hardwood hallway floor caught Henry's attention. He was a bit of an expert on the gait of people. He could tell when it was Francis, he could tell when Big Mike was coming, and he could tell that a woman who strode with confidence was about to enter his office. The door opened. She stood there momentarily as if to say, 'I am here, take me in, I am marvelous.' She wore a Dior dress that would make an hourglass self-conscious, and she knew it. The woman walked in, set her tiny purse on the corner of the desk, and asked, “Are you Henry Wood?” in a dark and hypnotic voice.
With a nod, Henry motioned to the chair. She sat down and crossed her legs. Boy, could she cross a leg, Henry thought. Henry got up and checked the thermostat. “It seems you have me at a disadvantage?”
“I am Miss Culberson. I need your help and your discretion.”
“What exactly do you need help with?”
“My father recently passed away,” she said, adding a pause for a respectful sigh.
“I am sorry,” Henry said.
“It is okay; it has been a month now. I have grown accustomed to the emptiness of the house. The reason I need your help is there are some issues with the estate.”
“Issues?” Henry said with a voice he reserved for those occasions when he knew he was being fed a line but didn't want the feeder to know. It was slightly lower than his usual tone and had just a smidgeon of empathy.
“Mr. Wood, my father may have occasionally been creative with his books, but he was a good man. There is a man at the law firm we use who seems to have it out for my father and now me.”
“Which firm is that?”
“The Smith, Havershome and Blickstein law firm here in town. The man is Mr. Alexander. I think he is an accountant or something,” she said with a casualness that was a bit too casual.
Henry considered taking offense at her remark about Manhattan being 'in town' as if Brooklyn weren’t, but her legs were really well crossed.
“Why do you think he is out to get you?” Henry asked, while trying not to look at her legs and intrigued that yet another person was looking for Mr. Alexander.
“He has been keeping a journal.”
“An accounting journal kept by an accountant seem
s pretty standard, wouldn't you say?” Henry asked, hoping to pry something out of her.
“I believe he found some irregularities in my father's books, some tiny, little omissions, and he wants to ruin my father's good name and me in the process,” she said with another, albeit sadder, sigh. Apparently, the thought of losing her inheritance was worse than losing her father.
“Why don't you just go to the partners and ask them to straighten him out? Surely, they wouldn't want to lose you as a client,” Henry asked. He knew she would have a polished and prepared answer, but he liked to hear her talk.
“They don't know where he is. It seems he didn't show up for work yesterday. I need you to find him and get that journal!” she said with an air of entitlement.
“What makes you think I can find him?”
“I have been told you are looking for him already. I just ask that when you find him, you bring the journal to me. I will pay you five thousand dollars. Here is half now and half when you deliver,” she said. She stood and handed Henry a plain envelope. As Henry looked through the envelope, she grabbed her purse and left.
Now he had one job, two clients, and six crazy numbers. The rest of the morning consisted of a trip to and from the diner for a cup of joe and lots of dead end ideas about the pencil clue. Shortly after noon, Francis was coming down the hall with his buddy Don, a photographer at the Brooklyn Daily News. Henry popped his head out of his office and said, “Hello, gents, any good news today?”
“Is there ever?” scoffed Don. He spent most nights prowling the streets looking for seedy scoops. Francis just shrugged.
“Hey, let me ask you guys something,” Henry said, nodding towards his office.
“Sure, ace, what is it?” Don usually called Henry and everyone else ‘ace’ as it meant he never needed to remember names. He was really bad with names and faces and geography, too. In fact, he was really only good at photography.
