Secrets from the Deep

by Linda Fairstein

  Booker and I were in an Uber at nine thirty Saturday morning, going from my building to the Chelsea Piers.

  “My dad thought it was cool that I had a new interest in rare coins,” Booker said. “My mom’s in surgery. One of the Yankees had a compound fracture of his leg last night.”

  Aunt Janice was an orthopedic surgeon who treated several of the city’s ball teams. His dad was a neurosurgeon who actually had more regular hours than his mother.

  “Mine’s at some meeting about the United Nations,” I said. “She just wants me home at one so we can go shopping.”

  Booker tugged on the leather strap of my bag. “Ask her to treat you to a new one of these,” he said playfully. “I’m getting kind of sick of this pink monster.”

  “That will be top of our list,” I said. “What happened when you tried to call Zee?”

  “Becca said he’d already gone out bike riding with his dad,” Booker said. “I’m pretty sure my uncle is trying to make us off-limits for the time being.”

  It took almost half an hour to get to the Chelsea Piers from the Upper East Side. They were a series of actual piers that had once been home to ocean liners docked in New York. Sam told me that one of them was where the Titanic was supposed to dock on its first voyage.

  Now it was a huge area made up of all kinds of sports centers. It had a golf club with a two-story driving range hanging over the Hudson River, bowling alleys, an ice-skating rink, a gymnastics training studio, and around all of these buildings there was a private marina for yachts.

  “So what are we going to do?” Booker asked me.

  “You know your way around here better than I do,” I said.

  Both of us had been to parties that included sessions on the rock-climbing wall or the ice rinks, but Booker often came down here to hit golf balls with his dad or play soccer with guys from school. The Chelsea Piers was like a Disney World for sports activities right in Manhattan, alongside a really huge river.

  “What does the ad say?” Booker asked. “That will tell us where on the piers the show is.”

  “It says Pier Sixty.”

  “Easy. It’s right in the middle,” Booker said, leaning forward to tell the driver. “The Sky Rink is on one side of it and the golf club is on the other.”

  We got out of the Uber and headed into the long covered building that was marked Pier 60. It was the length of a couple of big cruise ships, and had a parking lot for cars running right through the middle of it. Large cardboard signs on easels pointed to the numismatic show at the very tip of the long pier.

  “We only have to pay for one ticket,” I said, reaching into my bag for a ten-dollar bill. “One of us gets in free because I brought the ad.”

  “Sweet,” Booker said, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. “And I remembered to bring my fake glasses.”

  “Great idea,” I said, smiling at him. “They make you look so mature.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We had worked on a crime at the New York Public Library and discovered that when Booker wore an ordinary pair of reading glasses, he looked so much like a scholar that everyone took him more seriously.

  He turned to face me and bowed at the waist. “Booker Dibble, Master of Numismatic Sorcery.”

  “I’m ready for your magic, Mr. Dibble,” I said. “Let’s figure out what we are going to be collecting.”

  Booker handed the man at the door our ten dollars, and I passed him my copy of the newspaper ad. In return, he gave us two admission tickets and a program. We went in and stood off to the side to study the program.

  I looked over Booker’s shoulder at the floor plan.

  “There are about forty booths,” he said. “American coins are on one side of the floor, then European coins, then Asian medals. This could get very confusing.”

  “We should be looking for Spanish coins, don’t you think?” I asked. “Kind of like the one we found.”

  “We’ll have to do that,” he said, “because there’s unlikely to be a booth called ‘Stolen Coins.’”

  We browsed the cases along the way to get a feeling for what was on display. There were actually lots of kids around, most with their parents. Booker reminded me how many of his friends collected stamps or baseball cards or dead butterflies—and coins. We didn’t seem out of place at all.

  I stopped to look at the huge silver dollars at a booth named Liberty Coins. Some pictured Lady Liberty in flowing gowns and others had just an outline of her head. There were presidential silver dollars and great-looking American Eagles from every period of our history.

  Greek and Roman coins were featured by several dealers and lots of unusual antique medals, too. But I hadn’t seen a single coin from a sunken galleon.

  When we got to the far end of the room, I checked the program to see how many booths were left to go.

  The next one was listed as TTT COINS. The description of the business said rare and unusual antiques from around the world.

  I glanced up at Booker, who was staring at the glass-encased counter in front of him. The man behind the table was tall, really tall, and looked as though he lifted weights when he wasn’t showing off and selling his coins. There was a huge scar across his left cheek, like he’d been in one fight too many.

  Booker nodded to me and I walked toward him.

  Now I could see what Booker had noticed. The sign on the counter spelled out the full name of the company: TRAVIS THAW TREASURES.

  29

  “You have some really great looking old coins,” Booker said. “Are you Mr. Thaw?”

  “Yeah.” The man answered but seemed totally uninterested in talking to two kids our age. He kept scanning the room, like he was looking for an important collector he might be expecting.

  “I’m starting a collection,” Booker said, adjusting the glasses on his nose as he leaned over the case. “My father’s been encouraging me.”

  The man didn’t speak.

  “You really do have rare coins,” Booker said. “Some of these look like they’re hundreds of years old.”

  I picked up one of the man’s business cards from the countertop.

  “This says you’re from Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket,” I said. “Is that right?”

  “I used to live on Martha’s Vineyard,” Thaw said. “Moved to Nantucket last year. That’s why the Vineyard phone number is crossed out. Why? Do you know Nantucket?”

  I had never been to Nantucket, but I knew that it was farther out in the ocean than the Vineyard. I knew that it was a very expensive place to live, so when Travis Thaw sold the Chilmark farm, he must have done well enough to buy on the fancier island.

  “No, sir. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s pretty.”

  “I’m into pirates,” Booker said, still fiddling with his glasses. “They used to hang out on those New England islands, didn’t they?”

  “Have you collected any pirate treasure yet, son?” Thaw asked, ignoring the question.

  “A few things,” Booker said.

  “Real ones, or replicas?” The coin seller was getting more interested in Booker.

  “My dad only wants real coins, sir,” Booker said.

  “How about I show you a couple of pieces,” Thaw asked, taking a key from his pocket to open the case. “I’ve done a lot of diving off the coast of Florida, on some of the old Spanish ships that were sunk by pirates.”

  “That must be amazing.”

  “I found some of these coins myself,” Thaw said.

  I was squirming with excitement. I bet he did find them. I bet he dug up Gertie’s treasure on his old family farm.

  He unlocked the case, lifted the lid, and brought out a handful of small silver coins.

  Booker pretended to be geekily excited. “Pieces of eight! Wow!”

&
nbsp; “Can I interest you in some of these?” Thaw asked.

  “Actually, I can’t buy anything until my dad gets here.”

  That will be a long wait, I thought to myself, since he doesn’t even know what we’re up to. But it was true that Dr. Dibble was glad about Booker’s new interest in numismatics, so I was okay with Booker saying that.

  Travis Thaw made a sour expression.

  “Could I see that big gold one?” Booker asked. “Is that a doubloon?”

  Thaw’s hand didn’t move. “That’s way too expensive for someone your age. It costs thousands and thousands of dollars,” he said. “Come back when your dad arrives.”

  “But can’t I just see it?” Booker asked.

  “Not right now,” Thaw said, scanning the room again.

  I leaned in to look at the coin Booker wanted to see. It was just like ours—the same faces of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain. And something else was also the same.

  “How come there’s red paint on some of these coins?” I asked. “What’s that about?”

  “You a collector also?” Thaw asked.

  I didn’t like his tone at all.

  “Thinking about it,” I said.

  “Well, we’ll wait for your dad to come, too.”

  That was one rude step too far. “I don’t have a dad.”

  Thaw didn’t seem to care about that. “How about your mom?”

  I forced a smile at him. He’d be nothing but sorry if my mom showed up to talk to him.

  “What’s the red paint? It must make the coin less valuable,” I said.

  “It’s not paint,” Thaw said. “It’s nail polish. And the color isn’t red. It’s called scarlet.”

  Just like the scarlet silk ribbons Lemuel Kyd gave to Gertie Thaw.

  “Why is it there?”

  “Once I get proof that an old coin is real,” he said, “I take some nail polish and put a dab of it on the coin. Doesn’t hurt the value at all. In fact, just takes a cloth and some polish remover and it’s all gone. It’s how my regular customers know a coin is the real thing, and not a replica.”

  I thought again about Jenny Thaw. Two nights ago, in her house, she had a bottle of scarlet nail polish. What kind of connection was there between these two distant relatives who didn’t seem to get along?

  An older woman came to the counter, holding a magnifying glass, and sort of pushed me out of the way. She started talking to Travis Thaw.

  Booker turned his back to the counter and faced me, pointing at my bag.

  “Why don’t you show him our coin?” he asked.

  “No way,” I said. “It wouldn’t be smart to have some stranger look at it in the middle of a coin show, when we can’t even prove who it belongs to.”

  “Let’s show it to him, Dev.”

  “I can’t,” I said, getting agitated. “I can’t show him.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was bicker with my best friend. But I didn’t have to, as it turned out.

  Booker was looking behind me, at someone else. His jaw opened wide but he couldn’t speak.

  I spun around on my heel. It was Cole Bagby, the father of one of the kids who had bullied Zee—the coin collector we met in the fish market.

  “Oh, it’s you again,” Bagby said to Booker, then he spoke to me. “And Little Miss Manners, too. What on earth are you two doing here?”

  30

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Booker said. “Why aren’t you on Martha’s Vineyard?”

  “I’m a coin collector,” Cole Bagby said. “I never miss one of the big shows.”

  “Where’s Ross?” I asked.

  “Just outside, in the marina,” Bagby said. “This kind of thing bores him, but you should go say hello. Revenge is docked just on the other side of the golf range.”

  “You came here by your boat from Martha’s Vineyard?” I asked.

  “Of course. How else would I come?” he said. “We left on Thursday and cruised to the tip of Long Island, where we spent the night. Then we reached the marina yesterday, in time for dinner.”

  I really didn’t like boastful people. No wonder Ross was a bully.

  “Don’t let us stop you,” Booker said. “You must be here to talk to Mr. Thaw.”

  “Exactly right,” Mr. Bagby said. “He’s been my dealer for years.”

  “I’m just getting into this coin collecting business, Mr. Bagby,” Booker said. “What are your favorite things?”

  “I thought Ross might have told you,” he said. “I’m all about the golden age of piracy, 1650–1730. Gold coins from that period. Sunken treasure. Secrets from the deep. By the way, did you tell Mr. Thaw about the wonderful find you made off Inkwell Beach the other day?”

  Bagby was talking to Booker, while I was prodding my friend to move on.

  “Um, no,” I said. “How did you know?”

  “Ross told me, I think. Everyone on the island seems to have heard.”

  “I told you,” Booker said. “We should have—”

  I kept walking toward the door of the exhibit. “Nobody likes an ‘I told you so,’” I said.

  Booker was lagging behind me. “Look, Dev. Turn around.”

  I didn’t pay any attention.

  “Mr. Bagby must be telling Thaw that we found a doubloon,” Booker said.

  Travis Thaw was waving his hands over his head from behind his glass-topped counter. “Kids! You two! Stop right there!”

  But there were so many kids in the exhibition hall that it wasn’t obvious to anyone that Thaw was talking about us.

  “Better get a move on,” I said to Booker.

  He could outrun me in a flash, but when I looked behind me, Booker was keeping pace, making sure he was covering my back.

  Travis Thaw stormed across the floor of the long room, shaking his fist in our direction.

  “Now I know who you are,” he yelled as people moved out of his way. “Now I know your secret after all.”

  I was just about to make it through the door, past the security guard, when Thaw shouted to us one more time. “The devil will get you for this! I’m not done with you yet!”

  31

  “Keep going,” Booker said.

  I had turned out of the parking lot and was running on the pathway at the side of the marina.

  I was winded. I stopped to put my hands on my knees while I caught my breath.

  “Travis Thaw can’t chase us,” I said. “He can’t leave all those valuable coins unprotected to come after the two of us. And the security guard can’t leave the door.”

  Each leg of the marina was shaped like the letter U, in giant size. The open-ended area fed into the Hudson River. It’s how the boats came into their docks. The closed end, straight ahead of us, formed the bottom of the letter U. We were walking in that direction, dodging the gawkers who were looking at the big boats parked along the dock.

  “Which way do we go?” I asked.

  “Turn right at the end,” Booker said. “We’ll continue straight ahead. It leads past the entrance to the golf club, and I know we can get a cab over there.”

  I looked at my watch as we walked. It was only eleven thirty. With a little luck and no traffic, I could still be home by one p.m. to meet my mother.

  I took out my phone and texted Sam Cody while we walked. “Too hot for tennis. Booker and I went to a coin collector’s show instead.”

  “You’re telling your mom?” Booker asked as he saw my fingers move.

  “Better late than never,” I said.

  We had reached the archway that led past the golf club entrance and out to the next section of the marina.

  When we passed from the sunlight into the shaded area, a young man blocked Booker’s way and held out his arm like a stop signal.

  I raised my hand to my forehead till my eye
s adjusted to the change in the light to see who it was.

  The guy laughed, and then I recognized him. It was Ross Bagby.

  “Why are you two out of breath?” he asked. “Have you been running?”

  I didn’t know whether to tell him about seeing his dad and being chased by Travis Thaw. He didn’t have his phone in his hand, so maybe he didn’t know yet.

  “I was just spooked by something on the other pier,” I said. “Nothing serious.”

  “No worries,” Ross said. “Why don’t you come over to our boat? It’s parked right out here. If you’re at the coin show because you’re interested in that stuff, my dad can tell you everything you want to know about coins when he gets back.”

  Booker was fast to say, “Okay.” He had wanted to get on that sleek-looking boat when we first saw the Bagbys in Menemsha.

  We walked past the club entrance and back into the harsh summer sunlight. The second marina looked just like the first one, with boats tucked in on both sides of it.

  The smaller ones, like Revenge, were close to this end of the dock. The large yachts were pointed toward the Hudson River, as though they were about to sail off and away.

  The rear of Revenge was tied up against the dock. The sun made the surface of the water sparkle, and the boat was a gleaming shiny white, trimmed in navy blue. It looked pretty swell to me, too.

  “Hope you don’t mind taking off your shoes,” Ross said. “You can just leave them here on the dock.”

  Booker’s loafers were off in a flash. He leaned over to hold on to the boat’s railing and jumped on board after Ross did.

  I kicked off my shoes, too. Booker reached out his arm and I started walking toward him on the railing on the side of the boat.

  I picked my head up when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Why, mateys,” a man said, stepping out of the cabin up ahead, “here you are again. Welcome aboard.”

  I had one foot in front of the other on the railing, wobbling as though I was on the balance beam at an Olympic tryout, when I realized it was Artie Constant.

  “C’mon, missy,” he said. “Step on down.”