The two sat at a table in Francine’s Southern Cantonese Style Café having lunch. Harlem was electric with the discussion about Waller and the implications of that.
“The professor must have found out Waller was a snitch and Waller killed him, terrified he’d be exposed,” Watson said.
Holmes sipped his tea, saying nothing.
“But then again,” Watson added, “that meant Martin had to speak out to calm things down. So was he the real target all along? The Peoples Clinics sponsored by the FNC have been effective in battling the drug scourge. Then there was the voice on the phone making the cameraman drive the van away. The imposter on the roof not being found. The two masked men who planted the remote-controlled machine gun in the van.” He sat back. “But your brother and MI6 didn’t send you here about what us poor ole’ black folks are up to, now did he?”
“Not precisely, Watson. But as it happened, the Council, this entity that arose from the remains of the infrastructure Nicky Barnes created before he was put away, now that was of interest.”
Watson considered his companion’s words. “Using dope money to fund other activities.”
“Yes, sadly, heroin and cocaine addictions yield millions in broken lives and shattered families, and dollars and pounds.” Holmes had also mentioned the woman had hesitated shooting him the other night as no doubt her orders were to take him alive until they could beat out of him where his supposed cache of heroin was hidden.
Watson tapped the table. “The exchequer was caught up in some kind of hooker and blow scandal earlier this year.”
“Tip of the iceberg and all that. But I’m heartened to see you keep up on news from your once-adopted environs.”
After mustering out of the service, Watson had landed in London, like a number of ex-pats. That was where he’d met Holmes and where later, both of them pursued Irene Adler.
“How deep are the tentacles of this Council, Holmes? Into the American halls of power. The CIA for instance?”
Holmes took a forkful of fried noodles. “I honestly don’t know, John. I do know there’s a hidden hand at work. A, shall we say, an international Napoleon of Crime who is moving the pieces around. Was it the mayor’s current fixer who told you about the FBI operations house where you trailed Waller?”
“Yes, but come on, Holmes, we both have reasons to dislike him, but are you suggesting he’s this mastermind? Then why tell me about the FBI pad and blow up the operation?”
Holmes gestured. “You asked him about the house because a man like him, a man who moves back and forth on both sides of the Atlantic, who has a hand in American and British politics and circles of influence, would know such things. Your suspicions would be raised if he didn’t produce an address.”
Watson cut off a piece of his smothered steak with fried rice on the side. “That fine pretend junkie chick, she’s one of your Irregulars isn’t she?”
“Indeed,” Holmes confirmed. “She and I were shadowing Martin X’s rally as we surmised some chicanery might be in the offing. When the imposter appeared on the roof as a distraction, and seeing you had Mr. X safe, I went after the van.” Holmes sampled his rib tips.
At that moment in an Upper East Side penthouse, U.N. Special Ambassador Irene Adler was also sipping tea. The dark haired, sharp-featured woman was in her dressing gown, looking out the large window. Moriarty came up behind her. He slipped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her fragrant neck.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said.
“No more than I’ll miss you.” She turned and raised her head to kiss him.
Back at Francine’s, Holmes paid the bill and they walked outside.
“What if this Napoleon of yours was a woman?” Watson said.
His lunch companion slowly nodded his head. “You might have something there. . . . Dock.”
“See you around, Holmes.”
“Indeed.”
As Dock Watson walked away, he idly put a hand in his jean jacket pocket. There was an object in there and he took it out. In his hand was a fortune cookie. He frowned, concluding Holmes must have surreptitiously slipped it on him. Watson cracked the cookie open and read the fortune.
The game’s afoot, the message read.
He chuckled and ate the bits.
THE PAINTED SMILE
by William Kent Krueger
He was an odd child to begin with. After he received the book as a Christmas present, things only got worse. Eventually his aunt was beside herself and sought my help.
I have an office in Saint Paul, in a building that was grand about the time Dillinger was big news. It’s long been in need of a facelift. One of the things I like about it is that I can see the Mississippi River from my window. Another is that I can afford the rent.
Although she’d called ahead and had explained the situation, when she brought in the boy, I was still surprised. He was small, even for a ten-year-old. But his eyes were sharp and quick, darting like bees around the room, taking in everything. I welcomed the woman and her nephew, shook their hands, and we sat in the comfortable easy chairs I use during my sessions.
“So, Oliver,” I said. “I’m very curious about your costume.”
“My name is Sherlock. And this is not a costume.”
“Your aunt has told me that your birth certificate reads Oliver Wendell Holmes. You were named after the great Supreme Court justice.”
“I prefer Sherlock.”
“All right. For now. Tell me about your attire. That hat is pretty striking, and your cape as well. Tweed, yes? How did you manage to come by them?”
“I made them myself.”
I looked to his aunt.
She nodded. “He taught himself to use my sewing machine. And he does a fine stitch by hand, too.”
In our initial phone conversation, she’d told me her nephew had been tested in school and had demonstrated an IQ of 170. I’m generally leery of quantifications of this kind, but it was clear the boy was gifted.
“When did you become Sherlock Holmes?”
“I’ve always been Sherlock Holmes. I just didn’t realize it until I received the volume of Conan Doyle at Christmas.”
“Always?”
“Just as you’ve always been Watson.”
“But I’m not. You know that. My name is simply Watt.”
“Are you not the son of Watt, therefore Watt’s son?”
“Clever,” I admitted with a smile.
“I’m not crazy, Watson,” he said quite calmly. “Not delusional. I’m well aware that Sherlock Holmes is a literary fiction. I’m simply the mental and emotional incarnation of that fictional construct, the confirmation that the literary may sometimes, indeed, reflect a concrete reality. The name Sherlock feels suited to me. But all this is something my aunt has difficulty accepting. I understand.”
“You get made fun of,” his aunt said to him, a situation that clearly caused her distress. “The other kids at school pick on you. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I’m the object of ridicule because they’re not comfortable with who they are. They work hard at creating just the right image, and I threaten that. It’s the same with adults. If you weren’t so insecure in your own circumstances, Aunt Louise, you would see me for who I am instead of who you want me to be.”
“That’s a rather harsh judgment, Oliver,” I said.
“Sherlock,” he reminded me. “And I would say the same about you, Watson.”
“Oh?”
“Your office is on the third floor of a building that houses enterprises of a less than robust nature. Your shelves are full of books on psychology that haven’t been read in a good long while. You spend a lot of time sitting at your desk and staring at the river, wishing that instead of becoming a child psychologist you’d gone to sea. You’ve recently separated from your wife. Or perhaps divorced. And you’d like desperately to find a woman who understands you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The building speaks for itself,”
he explained. “The dust on your shelves is evidence that you seldom reference your reference materials. You’ve arranged your office so that the best view—the river—is in front of you, and only a very dedicated individual wouldn’t be constantly seduced by that wistful scene. Your walls are filled with photographs and paintings of great ships at sea. Your left ring finger still bears a strip of skin much paler than the area around it, indicating that, until very recently, you wore a wedding band. And in your wastebasket is the latest issue of City Pages folded to the personal ads section.”
Though I was shaken by the accuracy of his observations, I did my best not to show it. From that point on, I conducted a fairly standard intake interview. The boy’s parents were deceased, killed two years earlier when their car slid off an icy road while they were returning from a New Year’s Eve party. His parents had both been successful attorneys.
At the end, I spoke with his aunt alone. I told her I thought I could help the boy, but that it might take some time. She agreed to bring him back for sessions twice a week.
I walked her out of my office to where the boy sat waiting in the hallway. I explained what his aunt and I had decided. He didn’t seem upset in the least. I bid them goodbye, and the woman started away. But the boy held back and, before catching up with his aunt, whispered something to me in a grave voice.
I returned to my office and stood at the window, looking down at the street, watching them get into the woman’s old sedan and drive away. The whole time, the final words the boy had spoken to me ran through my head: One thing you should know, Watson. Moriarty is here.
I’m a bit of a dreamer. That’s why my wife left me. Well, one of the reasons. And so, truthfully, I was inclined to be sympathetic toward Oliver Holmes, who, like me, and despite his protestations to the contrary, was someone wanting to be someone else. I found myself looking forward to our next visit three days later. When Oliver showed up, his aunt simply dropped him off, saying she would be back in an hour. She had errands to run.
We sat in my office, and I asked how his days had gone since I last saw him.
He cut to the chase. “I’ve been worried about Moriarty.”
“Tell me about him.”
“You know who he is, Watson.”
“I’ve read my Conan Doyle,” I said.
“Then you understand the evil he’s capable of.”
“Is this really Moriarty or another instance of some kind of, what did you call it? ‘A concrete reflection of a literary reality’?”
“Moriarty is not the source of all evil, Watson. But his malicious intent here is quite real.”
“So he’s up to something?”
“What a stupid question, Watson. Of course he’s up to something. The real question is what?”
“You’ve seen him, then?”
“Of course.”
“Can you describe him to me?”
“I’ve never seen him except in disguise.”
“If he was in disguise and you’ve never seen him otherwise, how do you know it was him?”
“A wolf may don sheep’s clothing, but he still behaves like a wolf.”
I sat back and considered the boy.
“Do you play chess?” I finally asked.
“Of course. Since I was four.”
“Care to play a game?”
“On my aunt’s nickel? Isn’t that a bit unfair to her, Watson?”
“Tell you what. I give every client one free session. We’ll count this as your free one.”
He shrugged, a very boy-like gesture, and I went to a cabinet and brought out my chess set.
“Carved alabaster,” he said, clearly impressed. “Roman motif.”
“I take my chess seriously.”
We set up the board and played for half an hour to a stalemate. I was impressed with how well he conducted himself. I’m no slouch, and he kept me on my toes. Mostly, however, it afforded me an opportunity to observe his thinking. He was aggressive, too much so, I thought. He didn’t consider his defense as carefully as he should have in order to anticipate the danger inherent in some of his bolder moves. He was smart, beyond smart, but he was still a child. I could tell it irritated him that he didn’t win.
“Tell me more about Moriarty,” I said.
“I believe he killed my parents.” It was an astounding statement, but he spoke it as a simple truth.
“Your aunt told me they died in an automobile accident.”
“Moriarty was behind it.”
“To what end?”
“I don’t know. Ever since I realized he was here, I’ve been observing him. I haven’t quite deciphered the pattern of his actions.”
“Observing him how?”
“How does one normally observe, Watson? I’ve been following him.”
This alarmed me, though I tried not to show it. His brashness, if what he told me was true, was the kind of heedless aggression I’d seen in his chess play. Though I didn’t believe in Moriarty, whatever the boy was up to wasn’t healthy.
A knock at the door ended our session. His aunt entered the office.
“Could I speak with you alone?” I asked.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she said. “Perhaps next time. Come on, Oliver. We’ve got to run.”
When they’d gone, I was left with a profound sense of uneasiness. Whatever was going on, I couldn’t help thinking that the boy was heading somewhere dangerous, dangerous to him and perhaps to others. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what to do except bide my time until our next visit.
“Would you care to see him, Watson?” the boy asked. “Moriarty.”
His aunt had dropped him at the door to the building, and he’d come up alone. He’d insisted on a chess rematch, and while we’d played I’d probed him more about his obsession with that fictional villain.
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Meet me at six this evening at the corner of Seventh and Randolph.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you want to see Moriarty or not?”
“I do.”
“Then meet me.”
“I’ll have to discuss this with your aunt.”
“No.”
“Oliver—”
“Sherlock, damn you!”
“Oliver,” I replied firmly, “there are lines I won’t cross. I can’t connive with you behind your aunt’s back.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Watson,” the boy said, having calmed himself. “Meet me tonight, this one time. If you’re not convinced that there’s danger afoot and that Moriarty is the source, I won’t insist anymore that you call me Sherlock.”
I considered his proposal and decided there was nothing to lose. I certainly didn’t believe in Moriarty, and so this might be a way to crack through the boy’s wall of resistance.
“Six,” I agreed.
He was there to meet me and got into my car when I pulled to the curb. He directed me a couple of blocks away to an apartment building in a working-class section with a view of the old brewery. We parked well back from the entrance, sandwiched inconspicuously between two other cars.
“What exactly are we watching for?” I asked.
“At six-fifteen, you’ll see.”
I talked with him while we waited, asked him about his aunt.
“She’s a bit dull,” he said. “Not like my mom or dad were. She feels trapped, but I believe she does her best.”
“Trapped?”
“In her life, in her marriage.”
“She’s married?” This was a piece of new information. His aunt had said nothing during the intake interview, and the boy had been silent on the subject until now.
“Of course. I assumed you saw the ring.” He frowned at me. “Really, Watson, you need to pay closer attention to the details.”
“Tell me about your uncle.”
“He drives a semi truck. He’s gone most days of the week, but usually makes it home for the weekends. It’s better when he’s not around. He’s got a
mean streak in him.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be coming out any minute now.”
There she was, right on time, pushing out the front door of the apartment building at six-fifteen sharp. She crossed the street and got into the old sedan I’d seen her driving before.
“Follow her,” the boy said.
I pulled out and stayed behind her for the next ten minutes.
“Now watch,” the boy said. “This is where it gets interesting.”
The street ran past a large entertainment center called Palladium Pizza. On the big sign out front was a neon Ferris wheel and below that a lit marquee that proclaimed: FOOD, FUN, AND GAMES FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY. The parking lot was quite full. The place was clearly a popular enterprise. The boy’s aunt pulled into the lot and parked. I pulled in, too, but stayed well away. She left the sedan, glanced at her watch, then stood looking expectantly toward the double glass doors of the establishment.
Lo and behold, a clown appeared. He wore a big red wig and his nose was tipped with a little red ball. His clothes were a ridiculous burlesque of elegant evening wear, complete with a large fake flower on his lapel that I was certain shot water. The shoes on his feet were a dozen sizes too big. His mouth was elongated with red face paint into a perpetual and, I thought, rather frightening grin. He approached the woman. To my amazement, they kissed.
“Who’s that?” I asked. But no sooner had I spoken than the light dawned. “Moriarty.”
The boy gave a single, solemn nod. “Moriarty.”
They walked arm in arm to a van at the other end of the parking lot. The vehicle was decorated with brightly colored balloon decals, and floating among them were the words “Marco, the Magnificent: Magic and Buffoonery for All Ages.” They got in, the van pulled onto the street, and it quickly disappeared amid the traffic.
“Your aunt is having an affair with a clown?”
“With Moriarty,” the boy said.
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 26