Turning Idolater

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Are you positive it was murder?”

  “Absolutely. Wait. Hear me out. Nothing in my life struck me down more than his death. I almost closed this place. There have been offers, but I’ve resisted. But with Jemmy gone, I asked myself, why bother. Pons is not fit for it. Flo would sell it in a heartbeat. But then I thought of . . . you.”

  “Me?”

  “It was no accident that I came on-line and hooked up with you.”

  Philip stood. “Wait a minute. You asked for a striptease. You made me strip, when all the time you were thinking of your nephew?”

  “You stripped without my bidding. I only wanted to meet you. I wanted to tell you about Jemmy, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. That you decided to strip because I wasn’t making love to you, was your assumption that I was some old geezer content on watching. There was no harm in it.”

  “Then, what did you want?”

  “I wanted you to have Jemmy’s book.”

  Philip sat thunderstruck. My book. “His book?” He looked to the book cradled in Uncle Dean’s arms.

  “My father acquired six first edition Moby Dick’s in 1922. He recognized their collective value. He gave one to my brother and one to my sister. The remaining four were for me, since I inherited the business. When Florian settled in with Thomas, I promised one to him, but he intended to sell it, so he’ll get it when I’m dead. However, I did give one to Thomas, who became a dear friend. I never understood what Thomas saw in Florian.” He tapped the book. “This is Flo’s copy. The one in the cabinet will line my coffin.”

  “And mine?”

  “Jemmy’s. I gave it to you because you gave my nephew hope for happiness, although you never knew it. I sensed in you something that Jemmy didn’t have.” Dean pointed to the ceiling. “An eye on the sky and a nose toward the sea.”

  “You have changed my life,” Philip said, and not necessarily in thanks.

  “You have changed your life, Philip, but I am responsible for one unforeseen aspect.”

  What else could this man dish out? He meddled with a poor working boy. He lit that beacon in Philip’s mind to set sail for ports of wonder. He graced him with the wherewithal to free him from the Porn Nazi. He gave him a job and was teaching him a trade. Shit, he might be grooming him to take it all over. Why wasn’t Philip more grateful? Despite the outcome and the positive results, Philip found manipulation distasteful. He was a free spirit — as free as the gull, but now he found that his freedom was as mock as his relationship with Tee — a drama in three acts. Philip could have been Lars Hamilton strutting behind the footlights to O’Neill. Shouldn’t we write our own scripts?

  “How could you have possibly have done more?” Philip said, his voice biting.

  “Don’t be cross.”

  “You didn’t have my best interest at heart, Mr. Cardoza. You were living out your own little fantasy. Everyone seems to think that I’m Pinocchio. Well, I think I’ve run out of strings to pull. Tee did the same thing. He used me as a research project thinking that first hand experience would best serve his novel. Then, when he tripped over his dick in the dark and decided it was something else, he expected me to just roll over and . . . well, how did he say it . . . turn idolater and everything would be fucking fine.” Philip stood. “I’m sorry about your nephew . . . both your nephews, but I’m exiting this little play.”

  Philip started toward the stacks, but suddenly stopped. Dean Cardoza’s weeping was heavy now. Repentant? Philip couldn’t tell, but he was not so callous as to leave an old man broken and lost. He turned back, and then hunkered down beside him.

  “Careful, old man,” Philip said. “You don’t want to spoil that first edition with tears.”

  Dean sighed. “Who cares? It’s Flo’s inheritance.” He gamboled into Philip’s arms, bawling, his glasses pushed between him and Philip’s shoulder.

  “Uncle Dean. Now, you know how I feel.”

  “You’re going to feel worse.”

  Worse? Impossible.

  “Okay. Hit me with your best shot. I’m a big boy, ain’t I?”

  3

  Dean Cardoza composed himself as if he were about to give a lecture on the secret Belgian binding, which must remain a secret. He grasped Philip’s arm, tightening it with a degree that worried Philip. He thought of Jemmy and his wrist burns, and tried to pull away, but Dean held on tightly.

  “When a man has hope and that hope is dashed, he does foolish things,” Dean said. “I had great hopes in Jemmy — false hopes, I know now, but when he disappeared from my life, I turned to Thomas Dye. I suggested to the author that this rash of Internet mishaps would serve very well as a subject for a book.”

  Philip wrestled his arm free. “You asked Tee to write Bright Darkness?”

  “Ask? No. I floated the idea and suggested that Jemmy’s case would prove compelling to readers. When it comes to writing, Thomas is his own man. However, he liked the idea and began to dig. He never showed me any results. I would have liked to see them, because he delved into several cases and spent time at the crime scenes and with all the available materials. He became an Agatha Christie sleuth. Then, he hit an impasse. A block.”

  “A block? You mean a wall. I know which one too. He told me. He wasn’t familiar with the details of the Internet chat.”

  “Exactly, and since I had just had my encounter with you, and had given you Jemmy’s inheritance, I suggested that you would be a fitting guide through the world of manluv. I did not expect him to carry it so far as to meet you in person. In fact, when I heard that you had moved in, I told Thomas it wasn’t fair to you. It smacked of Shavian Pygmalion, and had all the flaws inherent in that act.”

  Philip pushed away. He hung his head low, his eyes on the carpet. Thomas was coaxed into this act. Did that change it in any way? He couldn’t think. “By flaws, you mean that he fell for me.”

  “That he did. And hard.”

  Philip looked squarely at Dean Cardoza. He could count the veins in the old man’s reddened eyes, even as they glowered beneath his spectacles. “Sounds like a conspiracy to me. How can I trust anyone’s feelings when they are born in plots and footnotes? I loved the book — the words and where the words took me. Then I loved the words as Thomas spoke them, but the book was taken from me, investment that it is. Now I’ve grown fond of you and still harbor feelings for Tee, but where has it gotten me?”

  “Whaling is a bloody business, Philip. Melville is as clinical as he is poetic. The reality of escape is that you never really can do it. Just take it as it comes.”

  Suddenly, Pons was standing at the end of the stacks. He held a beige envelope between his fingers. “Did you call me?”

  Philip stirred to his feet, while Dean Cardoza straightened in the chair. “Yes, Pons. At least I thought to call you.”

  “Same thing.”

  Dean stood. He took the book from Philip and put it in the case. He closed the door, and then turned the key. “Did you have a reason to open this cabinet?”

  “I sold the Dickenson, sir.”

  Dean squinted to the second shelf. “So you did. Did we get the asking price?”

  “Eighty percent of it, but you know how these things go. The woman wasn’t looking for anything in particular — just a gift for her niece.”

  “Quite a nice gift, indeed. But you left the cabinet open.”

  “I wasn’t sure whether Emily and her poetry was returning to the shelf or not. Looks like she didn’t. So what’s the harm? I’m here now.” He glanced down at his hand. He extended the envelope to Philip. “And this came for you.”

  Philip took it gently. It wasn’t sealed. He gave Pons the fish eye.

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t poke into your business. It was hand delivered, so there might have been several eyes upon your note.”

  Philip slid the note out and recognized the stationary. He held it toward Dean Cardoza, who also recognized Thomas’ stationary — a creamy rag paper with a faux coat of arms at the top — a tall ship followi
ng a spout.

  “Speak of the devil,” Philip said.

  “You needn't be nasty,” Pons said. “I’ll take my key and be about my business. It’s a bit chilly in here.” Dean handed it over. Pons shifted down the stacks grumbling something about not being appreciated. One would think a $5,000 sale would get me an atta-boy. When will I learn?

  Philip perused the note. It was short and word-processed.

  “Dearest Lamb:

  I can’t get you off my mind. I need to talk with you. I’ll meet you at 8:30 tonight in the Park, behind the Met at Cleopatera’s needle. Please come.

  Love,

  Tee”

  He read it twice, and then handed it to Uncle Dean, who gave it a read.

  “Not like Thomas to word process on this stationary,” Dean noted. “A bit uncharacteristically distant, don’t you think?”

  “He must be off his game,” Philip said. Tears were welling. He wanted so much to see Tee again, but he didn’t want to meet him in the park and listen to another swell of apologies and explanations. Still, if nothing else, there might be closure. “I bet he’s not functioning without me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’ve never known Tee to contract a word since I’ve known him. He did it twice.”

  “True. And he didn’t use a spell check either.”

  “He never does.” Philip grabbed the note, and then looked for a misspelling.

  “Cleopatera,” Dean said. “Who be that?”

  Who, indeed? Philip grinned. “The man’s come apart.”

  “Then, you’ll go to him?”

  “Should I?” he turned to the old man. “I’m not sure whether I should even stay in your employment, sir.”

  Dean sniffed. His breath hitched. “You must do what you need to do, Philip, but remember. No matter how the tide comes in, it goes out by the same course. Whaling is a bloody business.”

  Philip replaced the note into the envelope. “I can see that now.”

  “The question is, my dear boy, whether your nature is forgiving or vengeful.”

  “Can I tell the difference?”

  “You have grown toward the sun. You have been touched by the best intentions. Only you can decide that.”

  Philip turned, and then followed in Pons’ wake through the stacks. He raised his hand as he left.

  “I’ll let you know, Uncle Dean. I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter Three

  Cleopatra’s Needle

  1

  Philip loitered on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, between the twin alabaster columns. He had no notion of the time except for the occasional glance at his cell phone. He kept an eye out for Thomas, but through the 5th Avenue crowd it was difficult to discern anything beyond pedestrians, taxis and buses. He watched the sun glare shine on the windows across the street until it shimmered no more, the streetlights suddenly ablaze. Philip hadn’t waited by the Obelisk in the Park. He was still on the cusp of things. No doubt, he would round the property and head into the Park. However, caught here beneath the columns — caught here between his thoughts, he still had the option to wander to East 108th Street and into Dennis’ arms.

  A last glance at the cell phone showed 8:15. Would he be on time for once? He stood, and then stretched, his knees knotted from their long bend — his ass sore from the cold concrete. He hoisted his backpack casually over one shoulder, and then skipped down the broad Museum stairs to the street, joining the pedestrians.

  Central Park still bustled — cyclists, joggers and lovers late upon the lark. The evening shadows had fallen. The path that veered off to Cleopatra’s Needle was less traveled — quiet, still and foreboding at the close of day. Light there was, to be sure, but the undergrowth thickened, the shadows pronounced and menacing. Thomas liked the Needle. He had taken Philip here during their first week together. He told the tale of how this was the oldest edifice in New York. Thutmose III, he said. 1460 BCE. It took years to get the thing across the pond to this spot. There are two more like it — one in London and one in Paris. Thomas then gave a full account of its removal, first from Karnak; then, to Alexandria, where the Romans scribbled on it, and finally claimed by the sands of time until the Khedive of Cairo decided that it would be an excellent gift for the Americans to assure good trade relations. That was in 1859. Look at the detail at the base, Thomas added. A crab buttresses each side, their claws held upturned to the points of the compass. Yes, Tee loved it here, but they had never been here at night.

  Philip rounded the path. He spied the dark gray outline of the obelisk cutting the night sky like an obsidian knife. On the bench near the base sat a man. Philip had no doubt. Thomas. As Philip stepped under the lamppost, Tee stood, and then approached.

  “Philip,” he said.

  Philip would not run now. Quite the opposite. He wanted to rush into this man’s arms and hold him close, but he kept in check. He raised his hand in welcome, but when face to face, they hugged a hug that evolved into an embrace and ended with a kiss.

  “How I have missed you,” Thomas said.

  “Same here,” Philip answered, looking toward the bench. He wanted to get this reunion over. He felt that it would be too difficult to leave again. “Do you want to talk here, or . . .” He paused. He thought he saw something in the bushes behind the bench.

  “Or where?” Thomas said. “I was surprised you even wanted to see me again, but I guess you must be in dire straits. Is it money?”

  Philip glanced toward the bench, and then back at Tee. “What are you talking about? I mean, it’s nice to see you again — difficult, but we’re not enemies.”

  Thomas grinned. “Enemies? Never, but when I got your note . . .”

  “What note?” Philip tensed. “I didn’t send you a note. You wanted to see me.” He fished around his backpack, grabbing the envelope.

  Thomas winced. He pulled a postcard from his jacket pocket. “You sent me this.”

  Philip yanked the card from Tee’s hand. “I did no such thing.”

  Thomas took the envelope, pulled out his stationary and pawed it. “What the fuck? Who has gotten into my private stationary?” He read, his eyes as wide as Philip’s now. “Philip, I would never use a computer on this stationary.”

  “So Uncle Dean thought.”

  “Damn. What a mess.”

  Philip finished reading similar content on the postcard. “Who would want to screw with us like this?”

  Thomas crumbled the note. “Perhaps, my stalker.”

  “Let’s go,” Philip said. He suddenly had a sinking feeling. He felt the lamplight dim, although it didn’t. There was rustling in the undergrowth. The Needle felt more tombstone than tribute. He bent to retrieve his backpack, which had slipped to the ground while he was reading. As he bent, he heard.

  2

  Philip heard many things. A crack. A snap. He felt a wind jet past him, something evil and fast. He thought he saw a flash — flame bright like a Roman candle — bright in the darkness. He saw shadows — shapes. He heard the sound of voices, the murmur of people on nearby 5th Avenue. He turned to Thomas to ask if he could hear too, but . . . Thomas was stiff, his eyes full wide, his pupils rolled back — the whites shining.

  “Tee,” Philip screamed.

  He grasped Thomas’ shoulders, but the weight of the man was too much. He collapsed, knees buckling. It was beyond Philip’s strength to keep Tee upright. Thomas Dye was down — as down as a man could be, his breathing labored, his face ashen.

  “Tee!”

  Philip cradled Thomas’ head. He shook him in an attempt to rouse him. Philip glanced around, his eyes poking through the shadows. He saw many things, but nothing that could aid him. His heart raced. Sweat mingled with his tears. Panic.

  “Help!” he screamed. He fished for his cell phone. He should call for help. He then tried to lift Tee, but Thomas’ back oozed. Blood. Blood now on Philip’s hand — on the phone. Bloody 9-1-1. Philip gasped, his weeping unplugged. “Help,” he screamed into the cell phone. “My m
an’s been shot. Get someone here. He needs help. He’s going . . . going . . . fast. Help me.” Philip whimpered. “Help me . . . help him.” Philip gazed at Tee’s lips. They burbled. He was still breathing. If they get here fucking fast they could save him, he thought. He spit. “If you get here fucking fast you can save him. You can save him. Yes. Yes. No one. Central Park. By Cleopatra’s Needle. Get here.”

  Philip dropped the cell phone on Tee’s chest. He embraced this great heart. He pawed across the man and prayed his best prayer. He found religion fast and sweet and desperately. Thomas was still breathing, but Philip sensed each breath shallowing. He feared the ebbing of the tide. Suddenly, he heard footsteps. Someone was coming to help. They were here already. Please, come fast. He looked toward the main path. There were people. They must have heard the shot. Yes. Then, Philip glanced toward the Needle. There a man stood — tall and ugly, a mere shadow. Philip knew him.

  “Flo,” Philip said. Philip trembled. Fists balled. Teeth gnashed. “You bastard. He was your friend. You fucking bastard.”

  Florian Townsend, in a wraith-like stance, held a gun in his right hand. He said but one word. “No.”

  Philip would have lurched at the man, if he had not feared leaving Thomas alone — even for a moment. Then, it suddenly dawned on Philip that the gun was cocked and ready — ready for him. It was ending here. He was about to join Tee in this blood bath. Philip was frightened, his stomach crimping into a ball, yet he was resolved to stay — ready to close the circle. He watched Florian raise the gun. Philip prepared to die. Flo’s hand snapped upward, but it wasn’t aimed at Philip. It was swallowed — muzzle end to soft palate.

  Blast.

  Philip gasped. He felt the rush of people around him — many people, and the blare of sirens. Philip was alive, and Thomas might be saved now, but Mr. Florian Townsend, Dean Cardoza’s nephew, had plummeted to the ground, his brains splattering the crabs at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle.