by Linda Stasi
What the hell is causing this cold?
I found Terry sitting up, playing with his fingers—not crying—in his crib. “Mama up!”
“Yes, baby. Yes, up!”
Then, “Baba, Mama. Baba.”
“What did you say, baby?”
He immediately repeated, “Baba, Mama, baba.”
I picked him up, and embarrassed as I am to admit it, I was getting a little freaked out by my own son. Did he mean he wanted his bottle? I tried to change him, but he insisted, “Baba, Mama,” quite clearly while grabbing for the bottle. I lay him down and handed him the bottle as he was being changed.
Every time he’d go to sleep, he’d wake up with a new word on his lips. Was it the cold that was making him wake up smart or was he Mozart or something? I mean, yes, his father was a genius, but seriously, this required my mom.
When we finished, I tried Skyping my parents in Africa. No luck, so I e-mailed. After the usual niceties, I asked: Is it normal for a six-month-old to say words? Yesterday Terry woke up saying, “up,” “Mama,” then “cookie.” Well, I think he said that, and today he woke up and asked for his “baba.”
Damn them that they had to go help helpless, single mothers in Africa when here I was, their own hapless, single-mother daughter alone in the city!
I then checked the thermostat in the nursery. Sixty degrees even though the weather app on my phone said it was an unseasonable seventy-two outside. I turned on the heat. Terry and I were both shivering.
As I was feeding Terry his cereal—now both of us with blankets—my cell rang: Mad Dog. “Russo. Wazzup?” Rosenberg thinks he’s one of the boys. He’s not. Well, he was but not anymore.
He was a Queens College wrestler, NYU Law top of his class, street kid made good. He keeps his accent not because he sounds like a tough guy but because the white-shoe lawyers still think of him as a low-rent Queens boy whom they can get the better of, which they never can.
The bigger the case, the fancier their Harvard accents, the worse his Queens accent becomes, and the more he humiliates them in court.
I explained Roy’s story to him. He had read my news story about the stolen relic and the curse with the ten-million-dollar price tag. He asked a few questions and I answered a few, as best as I could. He said the case would be with Nassau County Police Commissioner Randy O’Neil. That was good. They’d gone to college together. Murder suspect? That was bad. Calling Roy in for questioning? That was questionable.
“I’ll call Randy then I’ll call Roy then call you back.” He tended not to take any pauses between words when he was on a mission. The turn-around took ten minutes.
“They got shit,” he said before I had a chance to say hello. “Well, they got shit on your boy anyway. Everybody knows he hated his ole man. Ole man hated him. Tol’ somebody—or many somebodies—every time he went to Smit’s on Old Country Road that he’d like to smutha the bastid. Then after the fact, the morgue assistant decides to say the stiff had classic bloodshot eyes. I said, ‘Jesus Christ, Randy, the father was six hundred years old. Whaddaya expect his eyes to look like? Brad fuckin’ Pitt?’ Randy says the assistant M.E. swears there was fibers in his throat, too, a pretty good sign of a pillow fight.”
In English that means: Morris Golden was very old so naturally he had bloodshot eyes. In addition to the bloodshot eyes, which are a classic sign of smothering, the assistant swore to the Nassau Police commissioner that Morris had fibers in his throat, which would indicate suffocation by pillow.
“So besides Roy telling other drunken sots that he wanted to kill his father,” I asked, almost losing my breath since this didn’t sound good, “how does it lean toward Roy actually going through with it?”
“Like I said, they got shit. Other than the fact that Roy found ’im dead and stands to inherit ten million big ones? Not much. Although, may I add,” he continued at his usual breakneck speed, “nabiz saw Roy’s car there five hours before he called nine-one-one.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh. What they were doin’ lookin’ out the window at that hour I dunno. If I need to, I’ll send one a’ my associates out dere. Prolly not, though. I may go myself if he needs me.”
“Thanks, Dog.”
“It’s fine.”
“Should I come out, too?”
“Do me a favor. Stay the fuck away. Last thing I want is to attract attention. They got nuthin’.”
“You have such a way with words.”
“Whatevah.” He hung up.
I called Roy. “Mad Dog says they got nuthin’,” which he already knew.
Roy told me, “Dog said if it got hairy, to shut up and call him and he’d come down or send somebody.” Mad Dog was headed to court for a client—a hip-hop record producer accused of drugging a female rapper and raping her. It was big news. Just another day in the life of Mad Dog Rosenberg.
In the meantime, Terry was itching to go, go, go. I called Bob’s voicemail, knowing it was too early for him to be in the office, and left a message that I was taking the magic tube to an antiquities dealer and would be in later, failing to disclose the latest info about the murder accusation, Roy’s being questioned, well, all of it. Such a bad move on my part.
Like I said, revealing a friend’s trouble was the columnist’s conundrum and I’d broken rule one: Never let friendship get between you and the story. It’s bound to bite you in the ass. Rule two: if you don’t put friendship first, it will bite you in the ass anyway.
This Roy breach wouldn’t just come back to bite me in the ass. It would come back and bite my head off.
10
Meanwhile, back in reality, I packed up Terry in his stroller, stuck the ten-million-dollar tube and the ruby earring deep into my purse (I’m a New Yorker—what mugger would think a woman with a baby carriage would be carrying the multibazillion-dollar Gospel of Judas with a curse on it around in her purse?), and headed out the door to walk over to Engles Rare Books. The second we stepped onto the sidewalk, however, the skies opened up like Noah was in town for the boat show.
“Shoot! Just what I need!” In New York City, the minute even one drop of rain falls, all taxis disappear and Ubers are as rare as the white buffalo.
As if sent from God, who was rushing toward me, large umbrella over their heads, but Raylene and Dane.
“Oh, honey!” Raylene exclaimed, of course, taking the stroller from me and pushing it under the building’s awning. “It’s pouring out!” No, you’re kidding.
“I have an appointment,” I said, scooting under the awning to join them. “Wouldn’t you know it? It just started to pour. I even left my umbrella upstairs. My app said no chance of rain.”
Dane, ever the gentleman, handed me his oversized brolly, as he called it. “Please, take mine.”
“Gee, thanks. You guys are always in the right place at the right time. And that was a great dinner party you threw last night. Wow!” I lied.
Raylene, who was decked out in some sort of bizarre sequined pants number like she’d knocked over Liza Minnelli’s closet, exclaimed, “Easy peasy!” Of course. Then, “Why not let us watch the baby? He’s such a joy!”
At that, as though he understood her, Terry put his arms up to her. “Up, Mama! Up!”
“Oh, you sweet baby!”
“Oh, no, really, I couldn’t impose.”
“No imposition. I promise! It gives me such happiness. I’d forgotten what…” She dropped the rest of the sentence, and Dane gave her an extra squeeze.
“Up, Mama.”
How could I refuse? And besides, how could I get anything serious accomplished with Mr. Engles if Terry started squawking to be picked up? (Although he seemed to be squawking for Raylene, not me, lately.)
“Really? You’re sure you don’t mind?”
Dane’s look said it all: Terry is the grandson Raylene could have had if our son hadn’t passed. Wait, she never did say it was Dane’s son, did she? She had said, “I had a son,” not “we had a son.” Hmm.
&nb
sp; “So where are you headed this morning? How long will you be?” Raylene asked. “Not that we’re in a hurry to give him back!”
“Oh, I’m going over to that bookshop I was telling you about last night.” Oops.
“But didn’t you say you had to be there bright and early? We just thought you’d already come and gone,” Dane said.
Shit! I forgot about that lie.
“Ah, Mr. Engles’ trip was canceled. He said to meet him later.”
“Well, how about if I accompany you?” Mr. Buttinsky said. Raylene had the look that said: “I’m doing you a favor here, the least you can do is indulge the old guy and get him off my hands for a bit.”
“Ah, um, sure, let’s go.”
“For heaven’s sake, where is the tube you spoke about?” Dane asked, peering into the stroller as though I’d given it to the baby as a rattle.
I tapped my giant shoulder bag. “I can fit a washing machine in here if I had to.” I gave Raylene all the instructions as though I were going off to war, and she happily marched Terry inside as Dane and I sloshed through the rain to Engles Rare Books.
Mr. Engles, a man in his eighties, was waiting inside his shop, which had to be one of the only rare book shops left in New York that looked like a rare book shop should look. Like something out of Dickens on Lexington and Thirty-First, while all around him, the city had turned into an ugly, soulless, sun-blocking glass-and-metal mess of Gaps, H&Ms, Banana Republics, Sephoras, Starbucks, and cell phone stores. It was only a three-story building, occupied by Engles on two floors and a tax accountant/lawyer/notary on the third.
When we entered the beautiful old shop lined with rare treasures, the leathery smell of polished bindings hit me. There was even a bell over the door.
“This is what people think New York is still like,” I said, reaching out to shake Engles’ hand. He even looked exactly as you’d expect a rare bookseller to look. Small, gray, trimmed beard, slight English accent, and elderly, but spry.
“This is what New York should still be like,” he said. “Ms. Russo, I take it?”
“Yes. Thank you for meeting me this morning.” I was praying he wouldn’t say anything that would give me away about the fake reverse trip I made up. “This is my friend Mr. Judson. Dane Judson.”
As they shook hands, Engles cocked his head inquisitively. “Mr. Judson, you look so familiar. Do you deal in rare books? Antiquities? I know our paths have crossed at some point—no?”
“No.” Dane smiled benignly. “I doubt it, Mr. Engles. I’m just an old Commie. Alternative natural medicines was my field.”
Engles still looked doubtful. “I could swear … You never came to me looking for a copy of the Voynich Manuscript?”
How many times is this damned book going to come up this week? I thought to myself.
“Many years back,” Engles continued, “maybe even twenty-five, thirty years ago?”
“How can you remember anything from so far back?” Dane laughed. “I wish I had your memory, sir!”
“I remember it because in my fifty-five years in this business only two people have ever asked me for the Voynich Manuscript.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Dane replied. “Unless it had magical medicinal remedies of the peyote kind,” he said by way of a joke that fell flatter than Gwen Stefani’s abs.
“Well, yes, it’s said to have great medical secrets,” Engles said, still eyeing Dane, desperately trying to place him. “It’s said to even hold the secret to life and death.”
“Well, that’s a showstopper,” I said, grimacing.
“Ah, not to worry, Ms. Russo. The thing is, no one has yet been able to interpret it.” I deliberately didn’t mention the fact that I was holding on to that book in my apartment. Besides, something told me to hold off and see for myself where this was going.
“No one’s figured it out even with a computer?” Dane asked, as though he already knew the answer.
“Yes, perhaps. A professor at the University of Bedfordshire claims to have cracked the code. But there was only one or possibly two in existence. One is cataloged in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, and a Spanish publisher is making a limited edition as well. But it’s impossible to know if another is hidden in a private collection somewhere.”
“Sounds positively fascinating,” Dane said, somewhat dismissively, I thought.
Engles ignored him or didn’t catch it, and answered, “Thank the dear Lord, I was always led to believe, anyway, that the incantations in the Voynich Manuscript alone weren’t sufficient to create life or raise the dead.” Then, realizing that he sounded a bit loony, he added, “I guess that’s true, because I personally haven’t heard about any resurrections since Jesus!”
“As far as you know, Mr. Engles,” Dane said, again trying for humor and landing on his ass, totally unaware that he had no sense of humor. We both looked at him. Instead of humorous, Dane’s remark had come off as oddly and unnecessarily aggressive. Especially for Dane, the love, peace, and granola man.
“But as I said, only two people in fifty years ever asked me for it,” Engles continued, attempting now to bring the temperature down a bit. I figured here was a businessman who wasn’t about to let an uncomfortable moment ruin what could turn into a perfectly good multimillion-dollar deal. “In fact,” he continued, moving behind his beautiful antique desk to turn on his state-of-the-art Mac Pro, “I managed to acquire—after years of trying—maybe the only remaining copy—for my client,” Engles said, trying not to stare uncomfortably at Dane.
“And who was that?” I asked as Dane suddenly started busying himself perusing the bookshelves.
“It was a man named Morris Golden,” Engles said, spreading his hands out on his ancient desk and motioning for us to have a seat. Good thing, because I almost fell down. Dane hovered without actually taking a seat, and instead moved to study the framed, signed letters lining the wall in back of Engles’ desk.
Engles said, as he logged into his Mac and scrolled down, clearly uncomfortable with Dane over his shoulder, “If you go back to the left, back there, I have a signed letter from Alexander Hamilton.”
Dane nodded behind Engles’ back, but clearly was more interested in snooping over his shoulder to see what Engles had been searching for. I was beginning to feel like I was in the middle of an old man pissing match.
Good thing old guys can’t piss far.
Just then, Engles cried out, “Bingo! I knew it!” as he pointed to his screen. “I made the sale to Golden on March 10, 1985. It was a Sunday. I remember because normally I’m closed, but for a big sale like that, I would have opened more than just my shop. I would have opened Fort Knox!”
“How much is ‘big’ if I may ask?”
“You may not,” he said, all business now. “Client privilege. So what have you brought me, Ms. Russo?”
I hit him with the big one. “Mr. Engles,” I said, pulling out the tube, “Morris Golden is the very reason I’m here. He had the missing pages from the Gospel of Judas! That’s how I came to have them in my possession.”
He was visibly taken aback, and actually stopped breathing for a few seconds. “Morris Golden? From Hicksville, Long Island?” He gasped.
“Yes, one and the same. But you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Engles raised his eyebrows in an “as if” gesture.
“Mr. Engles, I assure you,” I said, to try to calm him down, “if it’s Morris Golden you’re worried about—that you gave away his secret or anything—don’t worry. Mr. Golden passed away.”
I wish Dane would stop trying to peek at Engles’ screen, dammit! I shouldn’t have let him come with me!
“Look—in this business you come across all kinds,” Engles said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial kind of way. “It’s rife with international black marketeers. You have no idea. But that one? Golden? He was a meek bank manager, but when he came back to pick up the book, he came in like a real thug.”
“A thug?” I asked, surp
rised.
“A thug,” he continued. “The man had a pistol in his bag! He had insisted the transaction be in cash, which is not really a legitimate way to do business. Not for that kind of money certainly. Then—and here’s what’s even more disturbing: that night my shop was broken into and my safe cracked! I couldn’t make the accusation that it was him, but…”
“Did they get the money?”
“I’m smarter than that, Ms. Russo. I had an armed escort bring it to the bank immediately after Golden’s car pulled away. My personal banker opened up just for me that day.”
I was desperate to know how much we were talking about, but I’m a reporter. I know when somebody’s done spilling for the day.
“Back to your tube,” he said, rolling it around in his ancient hands like he was holding a ten-million-dollar piece of delicate crystal, not a heavy brass tube. “This inscription here on the end? It’s Arabic. It means something like, ‘The world is owned by Victor.’”
“Victor? Who is Victor?”
“I can’t imagine,” he answered. “Maybe a friend. Maybe someone who has a claim to it?” Then, “Speaking of which, to whom does this Morris Golden treasure belong now?”
I explained the circumstances, how Roy had inherited the pages, eliminating the part about him not being able to come, seeing as how he was even as we sat there probably in some precinct telling cops how he didn’t kill pistol-packing Morris the Miserable. “He’s with his lawyer,” I said, fudging the truth that he wasn’t with a lawyer of the estate kind, but of the criminal kind. “He couldn’t be here,” I continued as Engles examined the tube.
“Oh, and this was taped to it,” I said, handing him the little envelope. “It’s just an antique earring,” I told him, pulling it from my bag.
Engles emptied the envelope and took out the earring. “Hmm. Very interesting,” he said, picking up a magnifying glass and looking at the earring and then looking at the tube.
