DEAD AT SIXTEEN (THE KNOWERS Book 1)

by D. A. E. Jackson

“Okay, then people,” Mike said excitedly. “Let’s get going! It’s our first dinner in New York City and the world is our oyster!” That earned him enthusiastic “Whoops!” from Jamie and Mom as he scooted us all out the door and switched off the light. Once I was out in the hallway, I waited for him to close the door.

  “I don’t suppose you remember any of the restaurants Ansel and Ingmar ate at, do you?” I asked Mike quietly as we followed the others to the elevator.

  “Not yet, but if I see one, I think it might ring a bell. Let’s keep our eyes peeled and try to stay open to any feelings or Knowledge that arises,” he suggested.

  “I take it you’re still talking about restaurants?” I said, just as we entered the elevator with the rest.

  His mouth opened to respond to me but then he glanced from side to side at the others waiting for us and instead said, “Let’s go!”

  As we walked down 34th street toward the Empire State Building, I tried to stay open to any memory that the sites might conjure. The cityscape became a strange double-exposure of old and new—street lights, store fronts, and buildings from then and now. They were all existing together, overlapping each other, and co-existing in my mind. Many of the buildings were identical with different interiors that were visible through the windows. I looked over at Mike and wondered if he was having the same, double-exposure experience. There was a look of fear mixed with excitement on his face that I figured must be evident on my face as well. That’s when I saw it: Paddy’s Clam House. There was no double-exposure view and I knew there was something significant about the place. I nudged Mike and pointed across the street toward the restaurant. He followed my gaze and actually stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk. Then, we both began to smile—big silly grins spread across our faces. “Oh, wow,” he said quietly.

  “Hey, guys!” I yelled to the others, who had continued down the sidewalk. “I think we found the place to eat!” Mike and I began to cross the street and then realized the traffic on 34th Street was too crazy to be fooled with, so instead we hurried to catch up with Jamie and my parents and crossed at the light.

  Paddy’s Clam House was a bit dingier than it used to be, but the chrome still sparkled. At least I think it did, the glow of this place in my memory made everything pretty shiny in my eyes, anyway.

  We were seated and told that we could have lunch pricing if we ordered in the next 15 minutes. By that time, it was a quarter to five in the afternoon. The lunch special was clam chowder, broiled fish, pie, and coffee—all for three dollars! I thought it was around 99 cents the last time I ate there. No. Correction: the last time Ansel ate there. Mom, Dad, and Jamie all looked confused by our restaurant choice but not me and Mike. We were practically goofy looking over the menu, advising everyone what to order and figuring out if we recognised any of the waiters because every one of them looked like they were about a 100 years old. I brought everyone up to speed by telling them about staying at the Hotel Pennsylvania after the war while I waited—no, dang it—while Ansel waited for Ingmar’s military discharge. I recounted how I’d eaten lunch at Paddy’s Clam House almost every day for at least a month—many times with Ingmar—before he was offered a job in Washington D.C. and we moved together into an apartment there. That was all a new memory that suddenly became clear simply because I’d sat down at the table in this specific restaurant. This was turning into a better day after all.

  Our waiter appeared at our table, order pad in one hand and pencil in the other. Like the other elderly waiters we’d seen here, he looked like he’d lived and grown old at Paddy’s. His graying hair receded radically at his temples and he had an equally gray pencil mustache. His build was lean inside his worn, red waiter jacket. He addressed my father when he spoke, saying in a montone rush that made Jamie smirk, “Welcome to Paddy's do you have any questions or are you ready to order?”

  “I think we’re ready,” I said before George could say anything. “It’s still lunch time, isn’t it?” I asked him. Then he turned to me and that’s when I saw it: the slight tilt of the head with the soul-staring look into my eyes: he knew me. “I think we’d all like the same order,” I managed to blurt out. “We’ll take the fish chowder, the broiled fish, and, uh, the pie and coffee, please.” I was feeling embarrassed by the penetrating look the waiter was giving me and didn’t want to make further eye contact with him while I ordered. I’m not sure he even heard me order. I finally looked up at him again and, to my growing annoyance, he was still looking directly at me.

  “I beg your pardon, but do you know me?” He finally asked when our eyes connected again. The question seemed weirdly inverted but I’d learned recently that this was a common greeting between Knowers when they met people with whom they thought they’d shared a history. It was a polite, neutral way to confirm a connection rather than saying outright to a complete stranger, “I’m sorry, but did I know you in a previous life?”—especially if you were wrong.

  I decided that I had to give the waiter the look in return. It was the first time I’d tried this with someone I didn’t already know. I found it was a surprisingly intimate thing to do with a complete stranger—especially with this old guy who smelled of fish. Anyway, my eyes locked with his, my head began to tilt, mirroring his, and suddenly the man standing there in front of me was replaced with a younger version of himself. This one had a full head of brown, wavy hair, bright, excited eyes, and a trim, athletic body. His name was Carl and he had been my waiter the first time I’d eaten here as Ansel, back when I was still in uniform. We’d clocked each other as Knowers right away, but we hadn’t known each other in any previous lives. I’d returned frequently, and most days he’d been there, taking my order, bringing my food, chatting me up. He was an unstoppable flirt as well, always asking me to the movies on 42nd Street or back to his room after his shift. He would also slip me an extra bowl of clam chowder when the manager wasn’t looking. He knew I was waiting for Ingmar but that didn’t stop him and, anyhow, I think I—I mean, Ansel—liked the attention and the free chowder, so he kept coming back. Once Ansel and Ingmar began coming in together for lunch, the free chowder stopped, but we did all go to the movies together and Carl showed us the city in ways we would not have seen without him. He was our only friend here. Then we moved to D.C.

  “Carl,” I said, coming back to the present with a smile, “My name’s Philip.” I introduced him around the table, saving Mike for last. “And this is Mike,” I added with emphasis, “You should take a look.” After pausing for the by-now-familiar head tilt, Carl blinked, and shook off the faraway feeling.

  Under his breath, he murmured, “Of course.” Then, louder, he exclaimed, “Well, you two are definitely a blast from the past.” He seemed to force a smile, “Those were the good old days, right?” He glanced from me to Mike but raised eyebrows and shrugging shoulders stopped his reminiscing. “Well,” he went on less enthusiastically, “You might not remember it all, but take my word for it: it was a better world then than it is now.”

  “Carl knew Ansel and Ingmar, after the war!” I said to the rest of the table who were watching and seemed to be waiting for an explanation.

  “What brings you two back to your old haunts?” Carl asked. “ A bit of the old self-discovery tour?”

  “Actually, no.” Dad interrupted. “This place was just a bonus stop for the boys. We’re here on a serious matter, for an important cause—“ He trailed off, thinking things over. “You know, I’m thinking now that Carl might be able to help us out.” He looked at Mom and me to see if we were following him but we really weren’t sure what he was up to so we just said nothing. Then, Dad asked Carl, “Could we meet with you later? Someplace private where we could all talk safely?”

  Carl finished writing on his pad and then replied, “Well, let me get your orders in—before the price goes up. Then, we’ll talk.” He tucked his order pad into his jacket and walked speedily away from our table.

  “That was so weird,” I said. “Do you remember him?” I as
ked Mike.

  “I didn’t at first but then I recalled riding the subway with him out to Coney Island, I think.” Mike was remembering more of his time as Ingmar.

  “Carl is a Knower who worked here back when Ansel used to come in every day for lunch. Then, when Ingmar showed up, Carl was our volunteer tour guide before we moved to D.C.,” I informed everyone.

  Just then, Carl showed up with everyone’s fish chowder. He smiled politely but didn’t say anything to us while he set out the bowls. In fact, he didn’t say anything to us at all while serving us our dinner. The food was fine but I think we were all getting a little nervous about his obvious silence.

  After dinner, Dad asked Carl what time he got off work that evening and if we could meet with him then. “We’re staying at the Statler Hotel around the corner. Could we meet you in the front lobby maybe?”

  Carl didn’t reply at first and there was an awkward silence. Then he said, “Sure, I’ll meet you there around ten-thirty.” He abruptly turned and walked up to another table and started talking to them.

  “Well, that was awkward,” Mom said as we left Paddy’s and gathered on the sidewalk.

  “What a grumpy old man!” Jamie replied. “What was his problem anyway?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mike said. “Maybe we’ll find out later. Anyway, we’ve eaten dinner and we have a plan for later on. What does everybody want to do now?” We all looked at my dad.

  “Hey, don’t ask me!” he said. “I don’t know the first thing about this city! Jamie, you’re the savvy researcher. Do you have any ideas?”

  “As a matter of fact,” she responded, “I do. Macy’s and Gimbels are right across the street,” she glanced in the direction of the famous New York City stores, “Does anyone feel like doing some serious, big-city shopping? Oh! Hey! The Empire State Building is just down the block. I say we start there first.” Jamie was flipping through a New York City travel guide she’d picked up in the hotel. “This thing says that the best view of the city is from the top of the Empire State Building. Getting a look from above will also give us a sense of where we are and where everything else is. That seems like a good place to start. I think we definitely should go. Are we going?” She looked at us expectantly.

  We all agreed, following Jamie down the sidewalk until we got to the ornate Art Deco doors. There was a sign on the sidewalk near the entrance directing us to “Enter Here” for the elevator that would take us to the top. After we bought our tickets, we had to wait with a small crowd for the elevator. Mike and I were among the first ones in and I ended up pressed against the back of the elevator with Mike right in front of me. He stepped back closer to me, then again, until the back of his body was pressed pretty snugly against me. I think I held my breath. He was taller than me and my nose came to the base of his neck. When I remembered to breathe, I realized he smelled like salt and shampoo and sweat—like Mike. Then I felt his hand reach back and take mine, which had been rigid at my side, as uncommitted as the rest of me. He brought my hand forward and placed it on his hip. No one noticed. I felt like I was going to pass out, which could have been because of the rapid acceleration of the elevator. My ears popped and my head spun. I felt like my knees were going to buckle. Then, just as the elevator doors opened, I gave one very daring pull back on his hip while I pushed forward, squashing us together and inhaling his scent again. I had to put my hands in my pockets as we exited the elevator because, well...

  The five of us spent at least 30 minutes running back and forth between the four sides of the building, identifying all the famous landmarks with the help of the signs posted. Of course, Mike, Jamie, and I had to stick our heads through the bars and spit off the top of the Empire State Building, of which Mom clearly disapproved. We saw the Williamsburg Bridge, which leads to Greenpoint in the northern part of Brooklyn—home to Alfred Kominsky and our probable destination—Jamie’s the one who reminded us of the seriousness of our mission.

  “A murderer lives over there,” She said somberly pointing toward Greenpoint. “Together, we’re going to bring him to justice. We’re a team, and we’ve got some crazy good skills. When we work together there’s almost nothing we can’t do!”

  “We’re a team, Ansel. When we work together there’s almost nothing we can’t do.” Ingmar has his hat in his hands due to the strong winds today up on the top of the Empire State Building. The reason for his exuberant expression is because this morning I finally agreed to move with him to Washington D.C..

  “Ingmar, you’re right, and we’re going to have such incredible adventures together that I can’t wait!” I say, then my smile gets even bigger. “Now, do you wanna take advantage of what might be your only chance to spit off the top of the Empire State Building?” We run to the building ledge, laughing.

  I shook the memory off and rejoined the others. It was very windy and much cooler far above the hot pavement of the city. After we had all seen enough, Mike and I decided to walk over to the Broadway theaters we could see were not too far away. After we got back down to earth, Mom, Dad and Jamie decided they wanted to visit Macy’s. So, once we were outside again, we split up with the understanding that we would not get into any trouble on our own.

  Mike and I talked as we walked north up Broadway. We talked about the posters for the Broadway shows we saw along the way. We saw ads for West Side Story and Barnum and another one called A Day in Hollywood/A Night in the Ukraine, which looked pretty interesting to me. We reminisced about our recent production of The Crucible and how it was probably different from a Broadway show. We decided that Broadway actors definitely didn’t paint their own sets. We chatted about everything except why we were here and what was or was not happening between us. When we arrived at the intersection of Broadway and 42nd Street I received quite a shock. The street I’d heard about in songs and seen in movies was in real life not at all the way I’d imagined it. I’d really wanted to walk down 42nd Street but it looked pretty scary, so we kept on going. Up ahead was the heart of Times Square. In front of the giant Coca-Cola sign, we spotted a little triangle of land with a statue and some benches in it, so I suggested that we stop and sit down there. On a patch of cement there was a man with a cart selling flavored ice cups. I waited on the bench while Mike bought us each some shaved ice—mango for me and peach for him. This may sound crazy, but I’d never tasted mango before. This trip seemed to be partly at least about trying new things, so I picked mango. It was good! Sweet, cold, delicious!

  Mike and I just sat there quietly for a while enjoying our ices, watching all the people go by. So many people! I swear, I must have seen more people that evening than I’d seen in a year back at home! The flow—and the noise—just never stopped. We sat eating our ices, not talking at all, just living in the moment. There was so much going on that I was a bit overwhelmed. The tourists speaking every language around us were somehow unnerving. There was a group of teenagers on their bikes hanging out at the public phones mounted on the sidewalk near our bench. They stood there yelling at each other and I realized I was suddenly feeling itchy and irritated and just needed to get out of there.

  I looked over at Mike and said, “Can we go?” I got up quickly and started walking back the way we’d come without waiting for him to reply. I had to stop behind a crowd waiting for the light and that’s how Mike caught up with me.

  “What’s up?” he asked, concerned.

  “I don’t know,” I replied uneasily. “I just felt like I had to get out of there. Let’s just walk, okay?”

  So, we walked. I took the lead this time and turned down a street with fewer people on the sidewalks. Here were some Broadway theaters! I stopped across the street from a small theater with signs for a show we’d seen ads for: A Day in Hollywood/A Night in the Ukraine. The itchiness disappeared. I decided to go inside. I grabbed Mike’s hand, which I’d never done before, and crossed the street with him in tow. I opened one of the shiny brass doors and stepped inside the narrow box office area. We were hit with a wall of coo
l air, which felt nice after the heat of Times Square. There was one other person in the small lobby, a middle aged woman who was standing in front of the brass ticket window. She was waiting for the man behind the window to complete her purchase of tickets. After she’d gathered her tickets, tucked them into her purse, and closed it with a snap, she glanced up at us and quickly left the lobby. The man behind the brass window stared at Mike and me, waiting for us to approach the window. When we didn’t, he turned his attention to something else. I just stood there and Mike was looking at me questioningly.

  “Uh, Philip, why are we standing here?” he asked quietly.

  “Just give me a minute.”

  “You’re acting very strangely,” he said. “Should I be worried?”

  “We’re here because, um…” I paused, “I’m not sure why yet but there’s a reason. We were supposed to come in here.”

  “Are we supposed to see this show? It looks a little pricey,” he said, pointing to the ticket pricing chart on the wall.

  “I don’t know. Just give me a minute.” Nothing was coming to me and I didn’t know what to do. I knew I was supposed to be at that theater and I felt like it was really important but I didn’t know anything else. Instead of just standing there feeling lost, I went to the window and asked the man, “Excuse me, do you have a hand-out of some kind for the show?” Rather than replying, he leaned over to his left, where I couldn’t see him, and came back with a glossy page and slid it under the bars to me. As I reached for the paper, my knuckles grazed one of the brass bars and I felt a sudden shock like one blast of a strobe light. Just as quickly, the sensation was gone. I just stood there dumbfounded with the sheet of paper in my hand. I may have mumbled “thank you” as I turned away from the window but I’m not sure. I walked over to Mike, took his hand again and reached for the door with my other hand. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” I said as I opened the heavy glass and brass door.

  Out on the sidewalk we were hit by the heat again and the foot traffic was beginning to pick up as it was getting closer to evening showtime. I was still pretty shaken, so I don’t remember much about our walk back to the hotel. I asked Mike to lead the way. I trusted him to not get us lost. I certainly didn’t trust myself.