Philip was wiser now. At peace, and away from Sprakie too. Not that Robert Sprague didn’t try to renew the acquaintance. Sprakie felt the frost that next morning and Philip wouldn’t explain. Sprakie knew why. He had played his hand too dirty and fast. Philip held to the notion that if Sprakie truly wanted to help him, he would have given his council in daylight and better coached than a whisper in a bordello. No. Sprakie disappeared from Philip’s life as surely as Flo did from Thomas’. No rewards given to interlopers. Deadeyes only have one purpose, and when that fails, they are cast upon the slagheap.
Philip sucked up the last of the coffee. Dennis would be up by now, so Philip sauntered over the tar papered roof, past the satellite dish and the cooling rotors to the ugly shack door that protruded from the shingling. It was one of three access doors to the roof, but it was the only one that Philip had ever used. If the door closed, he’d be locked out up here. Therefore, a misshapen paving stone was shoved on the threshold to hold it open. Once he had forgotten to set it in place and the door slammed closed. Fortunately, Dennis was directly behind him and opened it, laughing — admonishing him for the lapse. The only way down, if you forget about old scrappy, is over the side and it’s a twelve-story drop. Land on your feet, if you can. Every time Philip worked old scrappy, he thought of that time he nearly locked himself out.
The apartment was five flights down — 8D. Philip took two steps at a time, pushing his way through the steel case door on the landing. The hallway was clean, but old — walls shit-brown, the floor a honeycomb of octagonal tiles that were once white, but now dimmed to tan, broken in places, but clean. This was not Avenue A. No piss smells in the hall. The aroma was usually curry or gefilte fish. There was no elevator either, so every tenant above the third floor had powerful legs and oxygen to spare. Philip might take the stairs down two steps at a time, but he certainly would huff and puff on the return trip.
2
8D.
“Shit,” he said. He had forgotten his keys. When would he learn to put them in his pocket instead of on the dresser? He rang the buzzer, and then knocked. “Denny. I’m locked out.”
The door opened. The phone rang simultaneously. Dennis was in his jock strap. “Some day you’re going to be shit out of luck. Get a key chain or . . .”
Philip ignored him. Dennis had disappeared into their living room. Philip heard him on the phone.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “What? You need . . . Oh. That’s correct. Hatcher. 1270 East 108th Street. Yes. Okay.”
“Who was that?”
“Phone company.”
“They want to sell you a phone?”
“No. Strange.” Dennis winced, and then shrugged. “They’re delivering my phone books and wanted to confirm the address.”
“That’s customer service. Good for them.”
“I guess.” Dennis gave Philip a kiss — a peck on the nose. “You were wonderful last night.”
“That’s customer service,” Philip said.
“No, that’s quality control. Aren’t you late for work? Duh. When are you ever early, or even on time. I’m surprised they don’t can your ass.”
Philip smiled. He hooked his arms around Dennis’ shoulders, dragging him into the kitchen. “Can you imagine my ass canned. It would fly off the shelves like hot cakes.”
Dennis gave him another peck on the nose, but Philip clasped him close and planted a wet, coffee tasting kiss on the gob. He then disengaged and went about the business of leaving. His backpack was ready, but he needed to retrieve his keys and wallet.
“I guess I won’t see you until late tonight,” Philip said as he checked the backpack.
“No class tonight.”
“Really?” Philip said. “Maybe we can eat together at least.”
“Rain check on that. I’m meeting Terry.”
Philip was disappointed. Dennis and he seldom did anything beyond the bedroom. A nice meal in a bistro on Madison or Park would be a nice change — with the evening breezes and the sights of men and beasts. “Well, at least you’ll be home early enough to have dessert.”
“That I promise you.” He kissed Philip, and then helped him on with the backpack. “Do you have everything. Keys? Change? Lunch money? Metrocard?” He poked about the backpack. He pulled out something soft and furry. Ahab. “You take him to work?”
“He’s good luck,” Philip said. He was embarrassed. How many people took a teddy bear to work? Still, the little yellow slickered bear was a great comfort to him. Perhaps it replaced the book that he once toted in the same backpack. Perhaps it replaced the heart he had won and lost.
“You miss him still,” Dennis said. His voice was warm and friendly — no trace of jealousy. “You know, there’s no reason that you can’t see him again. I’ve no claim on you.”
“I know, but I’m not sure whether it would be wise.”
“Like it’s wiser to carry around an old pooh bear in your purse for those sulky hours?”
Philip swiped Ahab out of Dennis’ hands. “You don’t understand.”
“I do, love. I really do. I’ve had a broken heart before — more than once.”
Philip’s stomach churned. He was unaccustomed to talk with Dennis. Fuck? Yes. Conversation? Just enough to get from the door to the bed. He knew very little about Dennis. He knew the basics — his last name, that he was from Saint Meinrad, Indiana, and his father was a printer. Dennis hated to talk about printing and publishing; the press being a marble headed bore to him since his diaper days. Beyond that, Philip knew little. He never hung around Dennis’ friends. He knew a few by name — Terry, Klaus, Gus, but besides seeing them on the street or hearing them referenced, Dennis was a roommate of necessity and a passion by design. Suddenly, Philip’s chest hitched. A rush of memories overtook him. They rushed in from nowhere, from some hidden cupboard where the cream never soured.
Dennis braced him. “I didn’t mean anything by it, love. It takes time.”
“Sorry,” Philip said, cutting off a running tear before it sullied his lips. “I guess I still miss those times. They were good times, you know.”
“Of course they were. And you should make a point to see him. I mean, you didn’t split up in a rage. It was mutual.”
Philip wondered about that. He hadn’t given Thomas much choice, did he? How mutual was that? Still, Tee seemed to understand, although he had changed. He had retreated to his writing — into a cloud of his own making.
“He taught me plenty,” Philip said. “He was good to me. But it wasn’t real. It was a fiction, like his novels. Every novel needs to end, and who’s to say that the author ends it and not someone like me.”
Dennis patted Philip’s arm, and then Ahab’s head. “It’s a cute bear. I had a bear too.”
“When you were a baby, I bet.”
“No. Not so long ago. We’re not that much different, you and I.” He kissed Ahab’s head again. “The world shapes us as we are, my friend. The paths we walk gives us blisters and the blisters, scars. I have my share. Maybe tonight we’ll compare notes.”
“I’d like that,” Philip said.
“But now, by the grace of your noble employer, your job hangs in the balance.”
Philip smiled, dimly. He reached the threshold, the door still open. He glanced back at Dennis. “Thanks.”
“They’re going to can your ass.”
Philip departed. As the door of 8D closed, he had a sudden chill. Somehow he sensed that Dennis would not be there tonight to compare notes. Something cold was on the fricative. Philip could do nothing but look to his own blisters on the hot, cobbled path.
Chapter Two
The Secrets of the Book
1
Philip had developed a keen eye and a careful hand — almost a surgeon’s hand when it came to his book gutting tasks. Nevertheless, he donned a pair of optical magnifiers, his pupils trained to the small break between stitching and binding. He knew that if he pried the blade too close to the signatures, the threads would
tear and the pages would come lose. He had done that a few times already, fortunately on valueless practice tomes that Dean Cardoza used to train the uninitiated. However, this volume was no clam to shuck — a third edition Candide, narrow gauged between two fluted boards and barely a signature between them. In fact, the binding was in good condition, but Uncle Dean had taken the order to bleach a stain somewhere between Cunegunde’s adventures in Paris and Candide’s survival of the Lisbon earthquake. The guts, when removed, would be stacked in the work pile and not the waiting bin.
“Gotcha,” Philip said, as he pried the vintage wine from its chalice, and what a chalice it was — light tanned leather with tooled Arabesques and gold inlay images of El Dorado and shipwrecks, just the cover to inspire the reader to plunge into Voltaire’s sinister heart. Philip held the binding in his right hand, and then carefully slipped it into a protective cover, his latex gloved hands yielding to the conservator’s custom. He snapped the innards onto the worktable. Another plastic cover swallowed them. Philip tagged it, number 3465, and split the label between the two bags.
“Bagged and tagged,” he said.
Philip had lost his sense of time in this endeavor. A good thing. He scant remembered his conversation with Dennis and his relapse into longing for Tee. His stomach rolled. He had skipped breakfast, other than the rooftop coffee. A pastrami on rye at the Globe Deli felt right about now — that, and a perusal of the Globe Adult Book Store in the upper quarters of that establishment. He laid aside his goggles. He wondered where Uncle Dean was today. He hadn’t seen the old gent, and missed him. Perhaps it was his sonorous voice and his predilection to quote the masters, just like Thomas did. Besides, the time neared for Philip to progress beyond book gutting. Already Cardoza assigned him to read two references on bleach and bleaching methods, not that they were any help. Hands-on was the ticket for conservation.
Philip sauntered to the door and peeked down the hallway. The office door was closed, but the shuffle of papers and the rattle of the keyboard could be heard. Mrs. Blair was working today. Philip liked her, although she said little. She would just stare over her glasses at him and smile. That was enough to hook him, her smile being as kindly as his own mother’s. She was usually too occupied to engage anyone in conversation — only when the phone rang with an order or a confirmation. Even her collection calls were sweet and gentle. Philip thought he would empty his pockets to such gentle prodding, a nice change from the brigade of scum bucket collectors that trawled receivables with threats in one hand and your children’s well-being in the other. Yes, Mrs. Blair represented Cardoza’s Book Store, and that meant applying grace from a different era — one that recognized people and their pocketbooks as transference of fortune and misfortune.
Philip lumbered across the hall and down the creaky stairs into the back reading room. He liked to relax here, the musty book aroma firing his mind to a new accord. The place was, as it stood now, usually vacant, the only distractions being the occasional bell announcing a customer coming through the front door and Pons greeting them with the day’s list of the genres. As Philip glided through the room, fully intent on a sandwich and porn, his eye caught an unusual sight. The glass door of the bookcase of the rarest first editions, which was generally shut as tight as an oyster, was opened for anyone to swipe a fortune. In fact, the key was still in the lock. Philip squinted, and then scanned the room. Perhaps someone was here, lost now in the stacks.
“Mr. Cardoza?” he said, thinking that only the boss would use the key. No answer. Therefore, Philip pushed the door closed and began to lock the case when he spied the others — the companions to his book. He glanced about the room again, but nothing stirred, not even Pons. Philip reached for the first book. He had missed his own, now entombed in a safe deposit box at Chase. He gripped this one’s wonderful cover and thought that he probably should have donned latex, but no matter. He slithered to the high back plush chair and opened the volume. He thought to skim his favorite parts, but settled on a random page. He raised the book to his nose and inhaled. Although he knew the aroma was old book, he imagined the sea. Only this work could fire his mind to tidal thoughts. He perched the work on his lap. All thoughts of pastrami and porn were dashed against the gunwales. His finger went to a line as if the book was a Ouija board and his index, a divining rod. He read:
“The lost life-buoy was now to be replaced; Starbuck was directed to see to it; but as no cask of sufficient lightness could be found, and as in the feverish eagerness of what seemed the approaching crisis of the voyage, all hands were impatient of any toil but what was directly connected with its final end, whatever that might prove to be; therefore, they were going to leave the ship’s stern unprovided with a buoy, when by certain strange signs and innuendoes Queequeg hinted a hint concerning his coffin.”
“How is that case opened?” came a familiar voice.
Philip jumped, slamming the book shut.
“I didn’t open it Uncle . . . Mr. Cardoza. It was open. I swear it.”
“Damn that Pons.” Cardoza pouted, still he shook his head as if, despite the incident of an unlocked case, Philip should have known better than to tamper with the contents. “I think he’s getting too much glue up his nose. Give that here, Philip.”
Philip raised the book to his employer, however, from the back pages something stirred — a piece of paper. It slipped its bonds, floating toward the carpet like a feather. Philip watched it, but he also saw Dean Cardoza watch it. It was a clipping — a newspaper clipping. On it, a familiar face. Jemmy. Philip swooped to retrieve it. Suddenly, he had in his grasp a full report on Jemmy — Jemmy Cardoza, Uncle Dean’s nephew. Dean winced sadly, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose — strange signs and innuendoes that hinted a hint concerning this, which might as well have been his coffin.
2
“Jemmy Cardoza?” Philip read from the article. “Christ. He was your son?”
“No,” Dean said. “My brother’s child. My nephew.” He was shaken. Tears seared across his fingers from his face as he tried to replace his spectacles. He set the book aside, and then sat across from Philip.
“I’m sorry,” Philip said. “I didn’t mean to meddle . . . but, Jemmy was . . . well, he worked with me at manluv and . . . I didn’t know him well, but I was upset when . . .”
“Jemmy was a troubled soul. I tried to get him help. He loved to do that Internet thing, and that was fine for all it’s worth, but he was hooked.”
Philip knew Jemmy had a drug problem. Philip had stayed clear of such temptations — nothing beyond a joint, but he remembered Jemmy coming to work once so blitzed he couldn’t do his gig. He recalled the shouting match with the Porn Nazi. It was the only time Philip fled from the place, at Sprakie’s insistence. Suddenly, Sprakie’s words came back, words concerning Dean Cardoza, this man who hung around manluv and met Jemmy on the corner of 10th Avenue. It made sense now.
While Uncle Dean recovered, Philip perused the article. Jemmy had been found behind The Bike Stop, a club rougher than The Bantam. He had overdosed on Crystal Meth. Does one overdose on Meth? Philip wasn’t sure, but he thought it would take a heap of junk to put anyone out in an alleyway. The police thought the same thing and declared the death suspicious, considering there were rope burns on Jemmy’s wrists and a bullet trace on the lapel of his leather jacket. Somebody missed, but given Jemmy’s state, they only needed to push it along with alcohol and a few pills. That would have split him open.
“He loved you, you know,” Dean said.
Philip rounded on the man. “What are you saying? I hardly knew your nephew. I mean, we said hello and the usual banter, but nothing beyond that. We didn’t even share a sex session. How could he love me?”
“He did,” Dean said. “He wasn’t a shy boy. He’d go with anyone who’d pay. That’s my fault. His father disowned him, and I . . . well, I cut him off. I figured tough love would work, but he always came to me with those sad eyes and his sweet talk. I’d feed him and
make sure he had clothing, sometimes a place to stay, but I was afraid to bankroll him. He’d sniff it, gurgle it or shoot it up. When you came to manluv, he actually considered getting help. He fell for you at first sight. I do believe it was real, but he knew who he was and which lane he drove in. He was afraid you wouldn’t give him the time of day. So his love for you festered. Everything with that boy . . . festered.” Dean broke down again.
“I don’t believe this,” Philip said. “If Jemmy had the hots for me, I would think that Sprakie would have told me. He knows these things instinctively.”
“I think your Queenie friend wouldn’t have approved.”
Philip recalled the party and Uncle Dean’s reaction to Sprakie.
“You don’t know Sprakie very well then, do you?”
“Enough to know that he had a thing for Jemmy.”
“Sprakie and Jemmy?”
“It wasn’t serious. Jemmy found Sprakie as annoying as everyone else did, but the sex must have been good. Why else would your mercenary friend hang out with a waif like my nephew?”
“Wait a minute,” Philip said. “If Jemmy’s your nephew, he’s Florian’s cousin.”
“Flo is my sister’s boy by her second husband, but Jemmy was so much younger, they hardly had contact, although Flo was not happy that I still persisted with occasional financial aid. I think Flo was afraid I would get it into my head to leave the business to Jemmy and, to be truthful, I toyed with the idea. In fact, I have a confession to make.”
Philip was intent now. Dean took the book in hand. “I was obsessed with Jemmy. I had imagined that he would shape up and join me in the business. But after he was . . . murdered.”
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