The Norma Gene
Page 24
“We know, Abe. To be honest, we’re willing to lose it. We’d rather not. We’d rather end this amicably and put those papers back safely. But honestly, Abe? Let’s say you do destroy it. So what?”
“So… what?” Abe couldn’t believe his ears.
“So what?” Ed repeated. “You don’t think we can recreate that in just a few hours? No one would ever know we’d done it. Archival paper, original inks… Lincoln himself wouldn’t know the difference. This day and age, we could probably just Photoshop the fucker onto manila paper from Staples and brown it over the toaster a little and most people wouldn’t even notice. What’s the big deal? It’s just paper.”
“It’s not just paper. It’s history! It’s priceless! Surely you don’t…”
Ed gave a sharp little laugh. “What makes you so sure that’s the real thing?”
“I… it’s… it isn’t?”
“It might be,” Ed responded. “Or it could just be a perfect replica made specially for this tour, for insurance purposes. You do know the dinosaur bones you see in museums aren’t the real thing? They’d be too heavy to stand. Nineteenth century paper and ink can’t stand up to so much light and movement—you really think they’d put something that valuable here?” Ed gestured around, his arm sweep taking in both the museum-quality relics and the theme-park kitsch.
Abe stared at the document. It was real, he knew it was. It had to be. And yet, if it were a copy… He didn’t know what to think. “You’re bluffing,” he called down. “It’s real and you know it is. Otherwise you’d have come up here and grabbed me by now.” He pinched the top of the pages tightly between his fingers and thumb, daring himself to start shredding. A tiny rip appeared at the margin, its jagged outline cutting into Abe sharper than any papercut.
“We told you, Abe,” Ed said, “We’d rather not do anything to damage that document. But if the only thing stopping us from getting you down is you eating that piece of paper, go for it. Bon appétit. It doesn’t matter.”
“The Emancipation Proclamation doesn’t matter!”
Ed sighed. “Of course it matters. But your tearing up and swallowing that draft doesn’t stop Lincoln from having written it, doesn’t stop it from having been rewritten and proclaimed and passed into law and actually emancipating a few slaves. Hell, the real copy went up in flames in Chicago in 1871. Everything about that document that matters,” he took his time on the word, looking Abe right in the eye, “is already done and gone. You’re just holding a souvenir. And souvenirs,” Ed took another step forward, “can always be replaced.”
Abe felt his grip loosening on the papers, felt them slipping from his grasp. He still had the beaten up coal shovel, but they all had guns. What would be the point?
“Come on down, Abe,” Ed said. “We just want to talk with you a little more.”
Abe took his time climbing down. Three agents immediately ran to retrieve the papers he had left behind. They had been bluffing. Of course.
“You’re under arrest,” one of the nearest cops began. “You have the right to…” A crash of doors opening from all sides and suddenly the room was filled with people pouring in, tall men in dark suits and string ties and stovepipe hats, and curvy women with platinum blonde locks and all manner of seductive evening wear. From wall to wall, everywhere you looked were Abraham Lincolns and Marilyn Monroes. Norma had come through.
Before anyone could see what was happening, Abe was surrounded and escorted away from his captors in an undulating wave of Lincolns. The cops pointed their weapons in all directions, bewildered. Abe could hear crashing and thumping as the gathering quickly descended to a melee.
56
Finkelstein—over here!” It was Harold. The last time Abe saw him he had hoped to never run into him again. Heck, the first time he had run into him he felt the same way. But now he could have hugged him. Abe ducked around a pair of Lincolns and followed Harold’s lead into the kitchens.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
“Norma called you?” Abe asked.
“Well, I didn’t just decide to show up because I heard there was an Abe Lincoln flash mob,” Harold riposted. “She’s something else.”
“Is she here?” Abe asked, holding his breath. He hadn’t seen her, but then again, with that rushing wave of Marilyns washing over the room, he also didn’t not see her.
“Out front. In the parking lot. You’d better skedaddle. I brought you something.” Harold thrust something into Abe’s hands.
Abe looked at it. “A Yankees cap?”
“Best I could do. You’ll blend in better than you will wearing that thing.”
Abe sheepishly removed the stovepipe hat.
“Looks good on you,” Harold said.
“So I gathered.” Abe handed the hat to Harold and put on the cap. He felt ridiculous, but looking at the sea of stovepipe hats through the kitchen porthole windows he figured Harold had a point.
“Probably want to lose the tie, too,” Harold said.
“With pleasure.” Abe removed it, feeling as if a noose was being lifted. “Thanks.”
“Get out of here,” Harold answered. “You make it out, you can buy me lunch. If not, maybe we’ll get adjoining cells.” Abe made a move to the back door, but Harold shook his head no. “I just came in that way. Couple guys are watching that one. Front way’s better.” Abe looked at him, panicking again. He had to go back through the crowd of armed searchers? “Don’t worry. I’ll create a distraction.”
Harold put the stovepipe hat on his head and loosely draped the tie around his neck, heading out into the exhibition hall, yelling the words of the Gettysburg Address at top volume. He didn’t look anything like Abraham Lincoln, but maybe that was the point. Abe adjusted the baseball cap to what he hoped was a flattering angle, and headed out after him. Harold was right. In the crush of top hats and bleached blonde finger waves, not to mention navy police and FBI caps, Abe felt as if he had suddenly changed teams. No one even glanced at him as he made his way out through the fighting mob.
Abe crossed the room as quickly as he could, passing an Abraham Lincoln attempting to swat an FBI agent with his collapsing top hat, and a Marilyn, cornered by a pair of cops, brandishing a fairly deadly-looking stiletto in self defense. In the corner, Harold was still running zigzags though the hall while yelling “A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF CAN NOT STAND! SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS! I CHOPPED DOWN THE CHERRY TREE!” with several officers in close pursuit. In another corner he saw a particularly sultry Marilyn leaning coyly against the wall, chatting up a man in a suit who was clearly hanging on her every word. He found himself drawing nearer, fascinated by the glistening lips and the vivacious sparkle in her eyes, before shaking off the vision and heading for the glowing exit lights.
Abe was within sight of the open front doors when a figure stepped out of them, blocking his escape. He recognized the woman with a feeling like a sucker punch to the gut. Nita. He pulled the brim of his cap farther down over his eyes. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him.
She locked eyes with him, with an almost audible click.
“I um,” he said. “I was just…”
“Relax, Abe,” she said. “I’m not here for you.”
“Um.” He struggled with the idea. “You’re not?”
“Nah, you’re off the hook. One of the Marilyns is wanted for check kiting. Been after her for years. Figured this was as good a place as any to try and grab her.”
“Which one?” Abe asked. He hoped it wasn’t the one he had in mind.
“I don’t know, they all look alike to me.” Nita responded. “Ed’ll flush her out, if she’s here.”
“So I can… go?” Abe wasn’t sure what to do. Was this a trap?
“Well, the cops want you, but that’s not my department. I’m sure Ed still wants you. He always actually cared about the historical stuff. But after the stunts you pulled yesterday no one who counts will release any more funds in your direction. You lucked out.”
“Because of the fire?”
/> “The what? No, that wasn’t such a smart move. Don’t be too surprised to find your taxes audited for the next few years.”
“So—why?”
“Do I really need to spell it out for you?” Nita said, looking distressed. “Look. What you want to do with your social life is your business. Let’s keep it that way.”
“I don’t…”
“Abe. When we thought you were having some sort of past-life regression, you were interesting. Lots to study, never happened before. What made you tick? Well, we found out, and we’re officially no longer interested.”
“You found out…?”
“What triggered the flashbacks? Some dude named Joshua Speed. What made your MRI results light up like the fourth of July? The name Joshua Speed. What name did you call out when you jumped the intern? Speed again. I Googled him. Personally, I don’t think he was all that hot. But hey, whatever you’re into. Just not on our watch.”
“You think I’m gay?”
“I don’t care what you are. More importantly, the U.S. Government doesn’t care what you are. You can yank your stovepipe to Joshua Speed, or Marilyn Monroe or Mickey Mouse for all we care. The American people will fund a lot of things,” Nita concluded, “but one thing they won’t spend money on is research showing that President Abraham Lincoln was gay. You touched the third rail. Not gonna go there.”
“Right.” Abe suppressed a grin. If this was what got him off the hook, he’d take it. “So you don’t need to cut into my brain?” he asked, just to make sure.
“Can’t promise you that. But we can always cover that when you’re dead.”
Abe was sorry he asked. He should have quit asking questions while he was ahead. “Guess I’ll get going. Lots of attractive men in the sea,” he said.
“Good luck, Abe,” Nita said.
“Thanks. I like you better as Good Cop,” he said.
“People always do.” The glint in her eye was steely. For the first time, Abe appreciated just how lucky he was that she was letting him escape. Abe held out a hand for her to shake.
Nita looked at it like it was some new species of cockroach. She shook her head, briefly. “I didn’t see you. In fact, we never met. You got that?”
“Got it.”
“Get out of here.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice.
Out in the parking lot, Norma was waiting, resplendent in sequins and platinum waves.
“Ms. Monroe,” he greeted her, gallantly touching the brim of his cap.
“Mr. DiMaggio,” she responded.
She took the hat off and placed it on top of her head. “Get in,” she cooed. “We’ve got about 30 minutes before this dress has to be back at Lord’s, or we’re in big trouble.”
She gunned the engine, and they were off.
About the Author
M. E. Roufa has ridden an ostrich, appeared on Jeopardy, and can crochet a mean banana. In her spare time, she works as an award-winning advertising writer and creative director whose work has appeared everywhere from the Super Bowl to the sides of shampoo bottles. The Norma Gene is her first novel.
Acknowledgments
Thank you first of all to my editor, Jay Nadeau, for your continuing support and guidance. To my first readers: Josh Kilmer-Purcell, Hope Provost, Mike Gerber, and Meir Lakein. Thank you to the incomparable Melanie Forster for your good advice and stunning cover design. I am indebted to the staff at the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum for taking the time to answer my questions, and for actually building Abe’s cabin. Thank you to Sheilah Parsons, Nile Jones, and Maria Torres for helping me grab the freedom to write. Finally, thanks to Levi, Aderet, Pinchas, Batya, Noam and especially my personal hero, Eliyahu Teitz. Hey, you’re mentioned in a book!
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Interlude
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
About the Author
Acknowledgments