DEAD AT SIXTEEN (THE KNOWERS Book 1)

by D. A. E. Jackson

  “Whoa!” I said. “Back in 1920. I was here. I mean Vincent was here. After the fire that killed Virgil happened,” I was still putting it all together. “He ran errands for a woman who worked out of the public bathroom around the corner from here—” They both gave me funny looks. I laughed, “No, not like that. She cleaned it, I guess. She kept it nice for the patrons and paid Vincent in nickels to do small jobs for her.” I paused, remembering his pain. “He was miserable. He couldn’t use his left hand because it was badly burned in the fire and I think he was close to starving.”

  Then I started to cry—right there on Fifth Avenue, in the middle of New York City. I tried to keep it in but I couldn’t. I was simply overwhelmed by grief. Then, a beautiful thing happened: Jamie and Mike came over and gave me a huge, double hug with all of our foreheads touching, me crying, and them comforting me. “It’s okay, Philip.” Jamie said gently.

  “I know. Some of our lives have been hard. I’ve cried about a few of my pasts, too,” Mike said softly, so only the three of us could hear. We stood there in our little circle—and just held on. It took a minute, but I did pull myself together. We had work to do.

  “Thank you, guys,” I told them. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Vincent seemed so lost. He was in this enormous city and he was so very alone. He missed his brother Virgil more than I think I can even understand.” I looked at Mike. I opened my mouth, but I had no words.

  “Now, do you understand?” he asked me.

  “I think I’m beginning to,” I replied, shaking myself off. Then I let out a slightly embarrassed laugh and said, “Okay, that was intense. I’m really glad I have you guys.” We still had our arms around each other and were still standing in front of those wonderful stone lions. Jamie leaned up and kissed first Mike, then me on the cheek.

  “Are you guys good again? I hope so, because you’re like the definition of ‘Meant to be together.’ You’d better know that by now. You do know that, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “This is the best trip ever, right?” We all laughed, then we crossed the street and got to work.

  It took less than five minutes for Jamie to figure out that The Gin Game and A Day in Hollywood played at the same theater—the John Golden Theatre on West 45th street. Jamie also discovered that, at the time of Mary Louise Keller’s disappearance, a production of Cyrano de Bergerac was playing at the Bucks County Playhouse. She showed us a program from the production that included pictures of the actors.

  “Can I see that?” I asked, taking it from her hand without waiting for her reply. “I know that guy!” I exclaimed, pointing to the star of the show. “He was in Zotz!”

  “What?” Jamie and Mike asked, puzzled.

  “It’s a movie. I watched a lot of television while I was lying in bed with a hole in my chest. Remember?” I explained, “The guy who played Cyrano—Tom Poston—he’s in this terrifically bad movie where he uncovers a magic word that lets him do anything he wants. He wants to do good in the world but some bad guys want him out of the way. He has a magic coin—” The other two were looking at me with surprise and concern. I decided to wrap it up, “Anyway, that’s the guy—Tom Poston. Zotz!—That’s the movie. Um, with an exclamation point for emphasis—Zotz!”

  “Okay, good to know,” Mike smirked. “Maybe we should check out the Golden Theatre and find out what was happening there in ‘72?” It only took a few minutes for Jamie to find out. Man, she was a good researcher. It turns out, there was a production called Sticks and Stones at the Golden from February through October of that year and the kidnapping in Bucks County Pennsylvania had happened in April of 1972. We had started to think that there was a connection between the theaters, but having both theaters running with shows at the same time didn’t help that theory at all.

  Trying to find Andy was a lot more challenging—even for Jamie. We learned that The Gin Game had played from September, 1977 through December, 1978. We really only had a first name and a few other minor details, but we received suggestions from a sceptical librarian that directed us to a few source materials that might help us to locate a missing person. After working for thirty minutes and getting nowhere, we gave up. We realized that to narrow down the search, we needed more information. So, we decided to head to the Golden Theatre and see if we could find someone who might remember Andy.

  On our way to the theater, we passed several more ads for A Day in Hollywood and I began to get that weird, itchy feeling I’d gotten eating my mango ice the day before. It was mid-morning when we arrived and this part of the city was quiet. We stood across the street from the theater and just stared at the building. The exterior was rather plain—mostly red brick with a few arches and six polished brass doors that opened onto a small lobby with the box office windows I’d been drawn to the previous evening. Off to one side of the theater was a sort of alleyway with a large steel gate, which was standing wide open. Most of the people walking down the street were going and coming from the alley.

  I don’t think any of us quite knew what to do. I was waiting for the itchy feeling to direct my feet somewhere, but I was getting nothing. We hesitated to join the flow of people without some kind of information. Then, Jamie said, “Okay, guys! Let’s get this show on the road!” She clapped her hands once and started across the street toward the alley. “We have to go in there, like it or not,” I heard her mumble. She must have felt something, gotten some Knowledge, as she seemed to know exactly where she was going. Just past the gate inside the alley were several signs painted on the brick wall. One of them said, “Golden Theatre Stage Door.” Jamie pointed at it as she passed it, then she motioned for me and Mike to follow her. It was dark and cool in the alley, which felt more like a tunnel because a building had been constructed on top of it leaving about ten feet of head room. Jamie walked right up to the door marked Golden Theatre Stage Door, opened it, stepped in, and held the door for us. It must have been the old movies I’d seen, because I was expecting an old man to be sitting just inside, smoking a cigar, nodding at us as we entered. Instead, there was no one. There wasn’t much room inside, so we stood by the door and glanced around. Just then, a man in a t-shirt and work pants who looked like Robert De Niro approached us from the alley.

  “Can I help you kids?” he asked. We parted to let him pass.

  “Yes,” Jamie replied. “I’m looking for my friend, Andy. I think he works as a dresser at this theater. He told me to look him up if I was ever in New York and here I am!” She finished with her arms wide in a flourish. I’d never seen her do anything so dramatic before and it almost made me laugh. Even Jamie was getting into acting now.

  “Andy? The dresser? I’d guess you haven’t seen him in a while, have you?” he asked.

  “No. I suppose it’s been a couple years now. So, he still works here?” she asked expectantly.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Miss, but your friend’s gone—disappeared. We never heard from him again. It made the news for a while when he didn’t turn up, and I met his folks when they came to town to look for him. Seemed like nice people.”

  “Really?” Jamie replied. “That’s so weird. Where did he go? Did anybody get the police involved? What did they say?”

  “I don’t know much about that.” He thought for a few seconds and said, “Wait a minute!” He turned toward a bulletin board with layers and layers of papers tacked to it. He dug through the chaos of paper, popped out a few push pins, and pulled out a sheet of slightly-faded, white paper with multiple thumbtack holes in it. In the center of the flyer was a photocopied picture of a young man. The text above the picture in large, bold letters read, “MISSING.”

  “Here,” the man said, handing the flyer to Jamie, “You can have this. I think it has everything on it. Sorry about your friend.”

  “Thank you so much,” Jamie said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “No problem,” he replied, shrugging slightly. “Hey, wanna see the show while you’re here?” He reached onto a shelf st
acked high with flyers,newspapers, and trashy paperbacks and brought back a handful of small green slips of paper. “These are vouchers for 50% off ticket price. The show’s not selling too great but I like it. It’s got tap dancing.” he explained, smiling.

  “Well, thank you! Maybe we will.” Jamie said politely, taking the vouchers. Then she turned to Mike and me, kind of raised her eyebrows, and we took that as our cue to leave. We exited through the alley and crossed the street to where the sidewalk was relatively empty. Jamie stopped and spun around, facing us while flattening the flyer with Andy’s picture on it so we could read it together. In the photo, Andy looked to be in his mid-20s. His hair was light, probably blond, and he was smiling broadly. The text under the photo read:

  Andrew Delacroix

  28 years old - 5’9” - 160lbs

  Blond hair - Brown eyes

  Last Seen - Friday, June 23 1978

  Area - Boarding Subway in Astoria, Queens

  Wearing - Jeans and White T-shirt

  Residence - 21st ST, Astoria

  Work - Golden Theatre, W 45th ST NY, NY.

  REWARD OFFERED

  Please call Police with Information

  At the bottom of the sheet was a phone number. We read the flyer a few times, each of us holding a corner of the paper.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel and figure out our next move,” Mike suggested. “It must be lunch time. If your parents are back from Brooklyn we can all talk about what we’ve discovered this morning.” I was mysteriously both attracted to and repelled by this theater, so the sooner we were away from it, the better, as far as I was concerned.

  Mom, Dad, and Carl had returned from Brooklyn and were waiting for us. My parents were sitting on their bed and Carl, who seemed tired, had claimed a chair in the corner of the room.

  “Well,” Dad said, “I hope you had a better morning than we did. What all did you uncover today?”

  “Oh man! so much!” Jamie replied as she removed the “MISSING” flyer from her pocket and handed it to Carl. “Check this out. We got it from a guy who works at the Golden Theatre. Is that the one you saw two years ago?”

  “Sure is,” Carl answered. “Did you find out what happened to him—to Andy?”

  “Not yet, but I bet if we call that number, we might.” Jamie started pulling more crumpled and folded papers from her pockets. Apparently, she’d photocopied a bunch of the more interesting items we’d found at the library that morning so that we could add it all to our folder of possible victims. “We found there was a production of Cyrano de Bergerac playing at the Bucks County Playhouse at the time that Mary Louse Keller disappeared. Oh! We learned that the lead in the play was Tom Posten. He’s also the star of a movie called, ‘Zotz!’—with an exclamation point.” She directed that last bit toward me but I was biting my tongue. “Oh! One last thing,” Jamie said as she pulled another piece of paper from her pocket and flattened it out. “I just love libraries, don’t you?” She continued straightening the paper.

  “One last thing?” Carl asked, a bit confused by Jamie’s stream of consciousness delivery.

  “Oh, right!” She exclaimed. “This is important. The theater where The Gin Game played and where Andy worked the day before he disappeared was—maybe not surprisingly—the same theater where A Day in Hollywood/A Night in the Ukraine is currently playing.” She paused to see people’s reactions to the information. Then she asked, “What did you guys find out about our Mr. Kominsky?”

  “Pretty much a whole lot of nothing,” Dad said. “Thanks to Carl for taking us, though, because without his help, we never would have found the address.” I had a flash of a much younger Carl pulling Ansel along saying excitedly, ‘Come on! We’re almost there! Hurry up! You’re gonna love it!’ Then the vision was gone.

  “We took two trains and walked ten very long blocks through Brooklyn to find the building. We did go into the vestibule and found a mailbox with the name “A. Kominsky” on it but that’s it,” he told us. “Oh! We went across the street and had some very nice European pastries, which we ate while we watched the building. No one went in or out the entire time we were there, though. The girl behind the counter at the pastry shop, who didn’t speak very good English, seemed not to know if there was an Alfred who lived across the street. Anyway, that’s it. Other than some delicious pastries, we got a great big nothing! We left Brooklyn and came back here to wait for you guys.”

  “That’s too bad,” I told him, mostly just glad that they hadn’t run into Kominsky on his doorstep. “I think the first thing we need to do is call that number on the flyer and see if Andy was ever found.”

  “And the second thing we need to do is get lunch,” Jamie said. “I’m starved.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Carl? I think you should make the phone call.”

  We all thought that Carl should do the calling since he was the New Yorker among us and had an actual connection to Andy. The rest of us sat on the bed and floor waiting and listening.

  “Hello,” Carl said into the phone, turning his back on us after someone answered, “I’m calling about a missing person from a few years ago. I was wondering if I could get an update on the case? Uh huh, yeah: Andrew Delecroix. Yeah, June 23rd, 1978… Uh huh, sure August 15th. Oh, wow! Okay. No, no information. Okay, thank you very much.” He hung up the phone and turned back to face us. “Well, the case is closed because they believe they found his body on August 15th. That's about two months after he disappeared, right? They said they can’t be completely positive it’s him because the body they found, um,” he cleared his throat nervously and then said, “it didn’t have a head.” Shocked, we all began speaking at once.

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Oh! That’s so gross!”

  “Poor Andy.”

  “That man’s a monster.”

  “Alright, everyone!” Carl shouted above the commotion his news had caused. “Let’s all calm down and go get some lunch. What do you say? Then maybe you all could get some tickets to the show tonight. If you think there’s a connection between the Golden and all of these people’s deaths, you ought to at least catch a show there. Am I right?”

  ◆◆◆

  The next thing I knew, we were tromping out of the room and heading to a local diner Carl had recommended. I was walking behind him on the way to the restaurant when the double-exposure vision started again: I could see Carl now—a small, older guy with slightly bent shoulders, graying hair, and a mustache—as well as Carl then—a young man with a full head of curly hair and a bounce in his step. The multiple views were causing me less and less discomfort as I became used to the experience but that didn’t make it less weird.

  I was also beginning to love the food in New York. Eating the tuna melt sandwich with fries and the vanilla shake I had at the diner was like discovering food for the first time. I was really going to miss New York City restaurants when we left. After lunch, we all walked to the theater. Jamie still had the half-priced ticket vouchers, so we went straight to the box office window. Carl was heading to work, so we didn’t buy him a ticket. We were waiting for my dad to step up to the ticket window when I noticed that Carl was gone. By the time Dad completed his purchase, Carl was back. I wasn’t sure where he’d gone or where he’d come from.

  “Carl, where’d you go?” I asked.

  “I went around to the alley and down to the stage door. I asked a fella back there if Alfred Kominsky worked here. Get this: the guy said he was due in later. Can you believe it?” Carl said, clearly pleased with himself. “You were right about this place, Philip. Then he asked me if I was one of Al’s drinking buddies, which was a weird thing to ask, right? So, I asked him what he meant and he told me that Al calls in sick more than he should and that he always thought it was because of his drinking.”

  “We need to leave here,” Dad said, as he handed the tickets to Mom. Then, he said more emphatically, “Now.” He headed out the door, walking quickly in the direction of Times Square. We all followed close b
ehind him, with Mom bringing up the rear as she struggled to put the tickets in her purse and keep moving. Once we got to the crowded sidewalks of Times Square, my dad gathered us close to a building and as out of the way as we could get. “While I was buying those tickets,” he explained, “I got a very strong Knowledge of danger. I think our Mr. Kominsky knows we’re here—somehow.”

  “I think it’s time to call the police,” Carl replied. “Besides, I don’t want to see any of you get hurt—or worse.” He seemed to direct that last bit to me. “You’ve found him. You know where he works. That’s all the information you need. Isn’t that what you were looking for? Tell the police.”

  “Carl’s right,” Mom said, “There’s nothing else we can do. Remember, this man will kill us if he thinks we’re a threat to him.”

  “I’m sorry to leave you like this,” Carl said, “But I have to get to work now. Lydia’s right: please be safe.” He looked straight at me. Then he turned and said, “Bye!” over his shoulder and hurried away, expertly dodging the tourists clogging the sidewalk until he disappeared into the crowd.