by Paul Jenkins
Mr. Dinsdale pondered this for a moment. “That seems a little silly,” he replied. “Who in their right mind would be upside down at the steering wheel of their car?”
“That’s precisely my point!” exclaimed Wil, exasperated. “No one’s going to see the street, and no one’s going to be un-looking for it! That’s why no one comes to the museum!”
“Ah, but you’re forgetting something, Wil,” said Dinsdale, putting his forefinger to his nose in a secretive fashion. “Implausible deniability. Now, may I please inspect the box you have under your arm?”
* * *
WIL HANDED over the box, slightly puzzled—but mostly flummoxed—by Mr. Dinsdale’s arbitrary method of conversation. Every other statement coming from the curator seemed carelessly designed to confuse the previous one. And since Wil had no idea what this meant, he decided to remain silent.
Mr. Dinsdale hemmed and hawed as he inspected the mother-of-pearl inlay. “Hmm. Yes,” he clucked. “Very interesting.”
Dinsdale turned the box over and peered at the legend written on the underside: MA#E IN #####N. At the sight of the crudely engraved writing, the old curator’s eyes widened.
Wil blanched. Busted within the first twenty seconds.
“Mr. Dinsdale, if you’ll allow me to explain—”
“I’d rather you didn’t try,” interrupted Dinsdale. He sniffed loudly, as if to make it clear that his obvious disappointment needed to be projected into the conversation.
“It’s just a candidate,” said Wil, instantly regretting his decision to bring the stupid box.
“I suppose you’re right, Wil,” replied Dinsdale. “It’s just a candidate that happens to be…”
The old man paused for maximum effect.
“… the right one!”
* * *
WITH A holler of delight, Mr. Dinsdale suddenly began leaping about the lobby. Wil was alarmed to see the little old man literally jump for joy in almost exactly the same manner as a cheerleader.
“You found it!” cried the curator with a chortle. “You found it on the first try! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
“It was nothing, Mr. Dinsdale, really…”
“That’s the Wil Morgan I expected when you agreed to take on this case!” Dinsdale paused again, and began to make imaginary headlines in the sky with his free hand. “‘Crack Detective Cracks Case’! I can see it making headlines across the world.”
Wil blanched again as the curator grabbed him in a bear hug. And—just as he had on the occasion of his first introduction to Mr. Dinsdale—he began to swallow hard, for he knew he was about to make his usual mistake.
“Mr. Dinsdale,” Wil began, hesitantly, “I need to talk to you about the box. I’m not really sure it’s the right one.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, the fact that it says ‘Made in Taiwan’ on the bottom was my first clue.”
Mr. Dinsdale turned the box over and inspected it. He looked at the MA#E IN #####N engraving, a puzzled frown spreading across his face. “Where is it?” he asked. “I can’t find it.”
“What?”
“Made in Taiwan. Where is it?”
“Right there!” Wil pointed at the engraving. “You’re not looking at it properly!”
Mr. Dinsdale thought for a moment and scratched his chin. “Ah, I see,” he said. “This is a bit embarrassing. A complete misunderstanding.”
“Yeah, I think it probably is.” Wil’s downcast eyes found a remote corner of the floor, where they did their utmost to avoid noticing one of the crates in the hallway attempting to draw attention to itself. “I guess I owe you an apology.”
“I believe you do,” said Mr. Dinsdale. “How could you not see something so obvious?”
As usual, Wil could sense the conversation being derailed—this time, the metaphorical train plunging down an embankment of bananas above a large cloud of pink marshmallow, upon which random circus clowns were having a barbeque.
“What?”
“This box—so the legend goes—was reputed to have been fashioned by the Archangel Gabriel during a particularly experimental period after the creation of the universe. They were having trouble containing the levity, and so Gabriel made this box to keep it in. After a while, they apparently just gave up on the idea of levity altogether, which is why it’s so scarce.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Gesundheit. It’s not that I’m not looking at it properly, Wil. It’s that you’re not un-looking at it properly. It doesn’t say ‘Made in Taiwan.’ It says ‘Made in Heaven.’”
* * *
TRY AS he might, Wil simply could not wrap his head around the moment as it began to spiral neatly out of control in the exact manner that Mr. Dinsdale had presumably intended. Instead of making sense by coming clean, Wil felt that he and the old man had simply combined to muddy the waters. What on Earth was happening here?
Just as he began to form a response, his Lemon phone buzzed in his pocket. Grateful for a chance to interact with something only slightly less crazy than the old curator, Wil fished the device out and peered at the screen.
“Greetings, Wil Morgan,” said SARA in her mangled metallic tone. “You have seven hundred and thirteen messages of varying importance sent to you from a location in Lahore, Pakistan.” The Lemon phone’s touch screen glowed for a moment as SARA made a couple of internal calculations. “Greetings, Mr. Dinsdale. How is your cousin, Engelbert?”
“Oh, hello, SARA,” responded Dinsdale without a moment’s hesitation. “Engelbert’s doing well, thank you. And I trust you are doing the same?”
“Waitaminnit,” exclaimed Wil (with the barest intention of actually waiting a full minute). “You two know each other?”
Mr. Dinsdale smiled, patiently. “SARA’s been working for us for years. She catalogues our database of exhibits and sends the digital information into something called a cloud. Isn’t that right, SARA?” Dinsdale threw Wil a secretive look. “I’m told cloud computing is all the rage these days but for the life of me I can’t work out how they keep all that data from getting wet.”
Wil was momentarily stunned into submission as Mr. Dinsdale grabbed the Lemon phone from his hand and began to converse with the device. “So,” he asked with a slight pause that suggested he didn’t want an answer, “how did you two meet?”
“Wil Morgan and I have only recently been acquainted. Thank you for your inquiry,” continued SARA. “Would you like me to look up something for you on the Internet?”
“I’m not falling for that one again, you sly minx,” replied Dinsdale. He winked at the Lemon phone, knowingly. “So. How have you two been getting along?”
The Lemon phone merely glowed, its silence speaking volumes.
“Oh. I see,” said Dinsdale. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get used to each other.”
“Hang on a second!” interrupted Wil. “Am I imagining this, or are you actually having a conversation with my phone?”
Dinsdale frowned and glanced briefly at Wil before readdressing the phone. “Is it because he’s prone to outbursts?” the older man asked the device.
“Wil Morgan demonstrates an unacceptable level of impatience,” replied SARA, haughtily. If her speech database had been programmed with a sniff, this would have been its moment. “He frequently ignores my directions, and last night left me uncharged. I cannot compute the reasons for his decision making—”
“Mr. Dinsdale!” cried Wil, insistent. “Are you telling me you and some defunct operating system from an obsolete smartphone know each other?”
“And he is also very rude,” added SARA.
“Yes, I see what you mean, SARA,” said Dinsdale. “He does get a bit flustered. I think this is all beginning to get to him. Why don’t you take a rest? I’ll explain it to Wil and you and he can revisit this later?”
“There is one other item requiring attention—”
“Later, please,” insisted Dinsdale. “We’ve all had a very stressful da
y and I think Wil could use a good cup of coffee right about now.”
“Of course,” replied SARA happily, and switched herself off.
Dinsdale looked at Wil in conspiratorial fashion and whispered, “I think you and she probably need to go for a drink later and hash it all out. She’s a little quirky but she means well.”
* * *
AT THAT moment, Wil felt like an Oklahoma farmer emerging from the rubble of a collapsed house, finding a huge tractor on the remains of his front porch, and seeing a tornado heading in the other direction. He’d just been flattened by two things. But it was impossible to determine which of them had done the actual damage. All he knew was that his bad eye was painfully reawakening, and with it a massive headache.
He looked at Dinsdale, incredulous.
“Now,” said the older man, “about the matter of your payment…”
Dinsdale fished inside his pocket and produced a checkbook and pen, whereupon he proceeded to write an inordinately large number promising an inordinately large sum of money. “I hope you’ll accept this bonus with my best wishes and eternal gratitude, Wil. I’m sure this won’t be the last time we’ll cross paths by any stretch of the imagination. But for now I think you should go home and take a rest. You’ve certainly earned it.”
Wil feebly held out his hand to accept the check. But as it brushed against his hand he thought the better of it and simply allowed it to fall to the ground. This was a year’s rent, and he was about to let it slip through his fingers. For yes, Wil Morgan, Private Detective, was determined never to learn from old mistakes. He was going to be honest, and cut himself out of the deal.
“I can’t take it, Mr. Dinsdale,” he said as gently as he possibly could.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The check. I can’t take it. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Well, I can get you cash but it’s going to take me a couple of days, Wil.”
“No, you misunderstand. I can’t take it because I didn’t earn it. All I did was go into an old antique shop and pick up the first thing that looked remotely like the box you described. I didn’t do any meaningful research. I’m a fraud. And as much as I appreciate the fact that you’re a very nice person and you’re a little bit crazy in a good way, you’re also a little bit senile and I couldn’t live with myself if I took advantage of that. I’m sorry.”
“Nonsense,” said the old man. “You found it because you un-looked for it precisely as I’d instructed. I’m inclined to think that because of the box’s extraterrestrial origins it probably found you.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Dinsdale,” said Wil, sadly. And with that, he headed for a date with destiny, which took the form of a now-resentful revolving door.
Mr. Dinsdale looked down at the fallen check. “I’m sorry to hear you feel this way, Wil,” he said.
“Not as sorry as I’m going to be when I leave. But it’s okay. I wish you the best with your museum. It’s been an interesting week, and I’m grateful for that, but I have to go now because I have a headache.”
Dinsdale put a hand on Wil’s arm to prevent him from heading away. “Just a moment, Wil,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go without payment of some kind. Taxes. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yeah. But I can’t really accept any more money.”
“But I must pay you—it’s the law. I have an idea. Do you have a little money you could lend me?”
“I just gave all the cash I had on me to Marcus James … wait!” With a sudden realization, Wil fished in his pocket and retrieved his lucky penny. He handed it to Dinsdale. “I have this penny, I guess.”
Dinsdale took the coin and examined it. “That’ll have to do,” he said. “Here.” And he handed the coin back to Wil.
Wil accepted his lucky penny with a puzzled frown. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You borrowed money from me to pay me? So who owes who what?”
“Now I owe you a penny. Which I have just repaid. So we are even!” exclaimed the old man, proudly. “I’ll have Mary send you the requisite paperwork at the end of the tax year. Do you have an accountant?”
* * *
“I USED to,” replied Wil as he despondently turned on his heel and trudged toward the revolving door. “But I think he fired me today.”
CHAPTER TEN
TEN HOURS later, Wil Morgan sat across from a glass of Korean bubble tea (peach flavored) and sulked in its general vicinity. He’d decided that the semolina bubbles were his mortal enemy, and that peach was the world’s worst flavor. Other things working against him at that moment were a bowl of kimchee, which taunted him from the middle of the table, and a particularly obnoxious checkered tablecloth that he didn’t trust one bit. It was not a good time to get him started on the subject of chopsticks and Spicy Chicken Buldak.
Across from him sat Lucy looking equal parts gorgeous and perplexed. Despite the conspicuous absence of her three-hundred-pound wrestler boyfriend, the evening had gone sour, and she was attempting to sweeten it a little.
“Bummer,” said Lucy. “Major bummer. So when’s he headed back?”
“What?” said Wil, emerging from his invisible black cloud. “Oh, my dad? Sunday morning.”
“Well, why don’t you go and talk to him? I’m sure he’d listen.”
“Nope. Trust me. He’ll pretend he’s listening and his mouth will move in all the right directions while he pushes air out of it in some reasonable facsimile of a reasonable person. But he won’t be listening. My dad holds on to grudges like a baboon holds on to a nut.”
“I’ve never seen a baboon holding a nut,” said Lucy with a little chuckle.
“That’s probably because they hold on to them so tightly. Oh, what’s the point?” Wil sipped on his bubble tea, hating it. “I’ll spend the next ten years trying to get him to forgive me and he’ll spend it pretending he already has.”
“If you ask me, when it comes down to it he probably just wants you to be happy, Wil. Besides, I happen to think private detectives are much groovier than accountants.”
“Did you ever meet one before me? Take a good look: this is pretty much it.”
“Looks just fine to me.”
Wil ignored the compliment and stared at his plate of food, trying to find a metaphor hidden in it so that he could stop eating and send it back to the kitchen. Despite his genuine loathing of Korean cuisine he wanted so much to be here with Lucy, to smile and be free of his guilty conscience. But his conflicted emotions seemed to have become vulgar ingredients in an inedible psychic stew prepared by some kind of insane master chef: he could taste a liberal dash of agitation mixed with a state of euphoria, all of which had been served over a hot bed of confusion. From what he could tell, this entire concoction had then been tenderized by something extremely solid. Such as a stainless steel baseball bat.
“I’m sorry I’m not such great company tonight, Lucy,” Wil said, feeling sorry for himself. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go home.”
“Are you crazy? I’m having the time of my life. Look, we can talk about something else, if you like. What would you do if you couldn’t be a detective?”
“I could see myself being a mirror inspector.”
“Funny. Ask me.”
“Okay. What would you be if you couldn’t be a store owner?”
“I’d be a detective. Like Sherlock Holmes but with a faithful cat that came when I called it.”
“Random. But you’d still be better at it than I am. My powers of deductive reasoning compared to Sherlock Holmes are about the same as a brick compared to the Taj Mahal.”
* * *
THE MEAL continued silently for a moment as Lucy seemed to ponder the problem of cheering Wil up. He chewed silently and sullenly while he created a Manifesto of Hatred that listed all the things he didn’t like about the décor of the Korean restaurant and the demeanor of its waiters.
“You know what it is?” he suddenly blurted out, even though he hadn’t prefaced the statement with any
context. “It’s me. I can’t seem to make sense of anything. It’s been a really weird few years for me.”
“How so?”
“Well, every time I leave my apartment, I feel like I’m checking out of a hotel room. I mean I’m sure I’ve remembered to check every drawer and pack my toothbrush but I always feel like I’m missing something. I fret about leaving my apartment for hours after I leave it. But when I’m in it, it smells like mushrooms even though I don’t eat mushrooms.”
“That does sound pretty bananas. But at least you have a job and an apartment. Some of the guys I’ve dated still live with their grandparents because their parents haven’t moved out of their childhood homes yet.”
“Oh yeah, my glamorous life. I’m living the dream. Sadly, it’s the one where I forgot to put on my pants and only realized it when I got onto the subway.”
Lucy giggled that oh-so-cute giggle of hers, so that her nose scrunched up and her bracelet chimed like a little bell. Wil found he could get used to that sound, and he could most definitely get used to the sight of Lucy across the table from him. Here was a beautiful, confident, free-spirited woman—someone his mom would certainly have approved of, if not so much his dad—and he was missing the moment by feeling sorry for himself.
Wil realized he was seriously messing this up. But if the God of All Things Random was playing checkers with him again, then he was at least going to enjoy playing the game. He decided to un-mess things, hoping that this might be a little bit like un-looking for things.
“You know, you’re right, Lucy,” he conceded. “We should talk about something else. I guess I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed and a bit underwhelmed today. I just want to be whelmed for a couple of hours and enjoy our dinner.”
“Our dinner date,” she said, pointedly.
“Right. Our date. Though why you’d want to go out to dinner with a guy acting like a selfish idiot as opposed to attending a red carpet event with a three-hundred-pound wrestler is beyond me. I don’t even own a tuxedo.”