by Brian Meeks
Francis, Don, and Henry filed back into the office. Henry read off the numbers. Francis shrugged again. If he couldn't eat it, he just didn't care. Don said, “They are all prime numbers. Well, technically, one isn't a prime, but most people don't know that.”
“I hadn't noticed,” Henry said. He gave Don a nod of appreciation.
Don looked at the pencil and mused, “I wonder why there are four missing primes?”
The confused look on Henry's face told Don he should elaborate. “11, 13, 17, and 19 are between seven and 23.”
“There are four missing numbers…” Henry said out loud but mostly to himself. “I wonder…” and his voice trailed off.
Don and Francis could tell Henry's wheels were turning, so they headed across the hall. Henry needed some wood time. He grabbed his overcoat and hat and headed home.
When he got there, the closet was empty as it was most days. He took a piece of oak and rubbed his hand over it. What would this be good for? Henry thought to himself. He grabbed a ruler and a pencil and made some marks. The wheels were still turning.
The piece of wood seemed to want to be turned into a tool-holding device. Henry wanted to use the rare earth magnets he had bought some time ago, so he decided he would combine them with the oak and hang it on the wall. He carefully marked the spots. He would use his Fostner bits to drill holes for the magnets. A quick practice hole in a piece of scrap, and he was ready. The seven holes drilled easily. Henry screwed in a magnet holder. He was inches from plopping in a magnet when he realized that once it was in he wouldn't be able to get it out. The suckers really stuck together, and the screw would have been hidden under the magnet. It was almost a blunder, but his brain was thinking several steps ahead just like Mr. Alexander’s seemed to be doing.
Henry sanded the board for an hour and was deciding if he should stain it. He had some General Finishes Georgian Cherry Gel Stain from the mysterious closet. He wasn't sure exactly how to use it, so he decided to think about it for a day.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, he began to ponder out loud: “Mr. Alexander knew I would go to his office. He knew I would notice the out-of-place pencil. He is a cautious and meticulous man. He wouldn't just write down the clue. He would hide the clue.” Henry was now convinced the real clue was 11, 13, 17, and 19.
The number 17 seemed to burn like a red neon light in his brain. It was so intense that he was sure this prime was the key to the next clue. The fog was slowly clearing from his mind. He was suddenly overcome with hunger and left to find some dinner.
CHAPTER 7
The day had been long, very long and tiring. Henry's flash of genius was looking more like a flash of imbecile. When the number 17 started to flash in his brain, he searched and searched for what it might mean. After a while, he had it. Francis was working on a story about a restaurant on 17th Street. Henry was sure the missing numbers were an address. A map, a list, and 12 hours driving around the five boroughs had been less than fruitful. It seemed there would have to be another clue, something that wouldn't be obvious to most but would jump out at him. Maybe, though, he wasn't as clever as he thought.
Doubt had crept into the equation. He had made a couple dozen stops and nothing. He had found an address across from a great tool store, so the day wasn't a total loss. He popped in, and a bunch of guys were watching a demo of jigs and accessories for making woodworking easier. His favorite was a clever device which would aid in making wooden hinges. Henry knew he shouldn't stay too long, noted the address so he could find it again, and continued on his way. With only one address remaining, the possibility entered his mind that 11, 13, 17 and 19 might not have been the clue at all. Maybe he needed to reconsider the original numbers.
His car rolled up outside 1113 West 17th, an apartment building in the warehouse district. A bit of a chill was in the air. Henry walked up the steps and into the building. He glanced at the mailboxes. When his eyes landed on apartment 19, and he read the name, he almost stopped breathing. Tage Frid. Henry didn't have time to ponder the implications of his DVD from the future and his current case; he just knew coincidences like this were never coincidences. He stood, for a moment, outside apartment 19. He thought about the wonderful furniture created by this man. He took a deep breath and knocked. No sound. He knocked again and nothing, not even a peep. Henry slowly turned the knob. It was locked.
Henry looked around. Nobody was in the hall, so he quickly picked the lock. He leaned his head into the apartment and was both disappointed and sure he was in the right spot. When he saw the name on the box, he figured the real Tage Frid might be waiting to give him a message or maybe Mr. Alexander was staying with him. What he found, instead, was an empty apartment. It wasn't just empty; the vastness of the 'empty' was stunning, and obviously the work of a meticulous man. Henry couldn't find as much as a speck of dust. He looked in the cabinets. They were bare.
Pacing back and forth didn't seem to help. It was getting dark, and Henry was tired. What was the clue? What did the emptiness mean? He took out the drawers in the kitchen. He looked behind the icebox. Henry even checked in the vents. Focus, he thought. Henry walked to the window and looked out. Across the street was a warehouse. It did strike him as interesting that it was a furniture warehouse. He wondered what type of furniture they stored.
The street was empty. A few lights were on in the warehouse, but it seemed as if most people had already left for the day. Henry tried to open the door, but it, too, was locked. Looking in the window, he could see a lot of furniture. Bedroom sets, kitchen tables, chairs, and lamps for as far as the eye could see. Henry's eye went to one piece. A cabinet, a Tage Frid cabinet, was sitting against the far wall, but Henry decided he had done enough breaking and entering for the day. Sometimes, it was easier to wait until regular business hours than to be super sneaky; plus, he was hungry.
He swung by Katz' deli on the way home and picked up a couple of sandwiches. Katz' was the oldest deli in NY and had been slicing their own pastrami and corned beef since 1888. Henry loved Katz’.
After dinner, he decided to give his magnetic tool holder a bit of color. This was his first attempt at staining anything. He sanded a practice piece of oak and tried the stain on it. Since there weren't any disasters, he grabbed the tool holder and went at it. Henry didn't have any idea about technique and simply lathered it on with the wooden paint stirrer. As soon as he had one side done, he wiped it off. It only took a few minutes to get the entire board covered. The gloves he wore were making a mess and leaving marks, so he changed them for a new pair. He wiped every inch of the holder one more time, then set it down to dry. It looked better than he had hoped. He preferred to take black and white shots, but he had a roll of Ektachrome and decided to go with color. Henry liked to document his woodworking triumphs. Tomorrow, he would revisit the furniture store as well as try to figure out where to hang his new tool rack.
CHAPTER 8
Henry woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep. The furniture warehouse didn't open until 8 am. The clock said it was 3 am. He had been asleep for four hours. He lay there for another hour and decided he might as well get an early start. An egg sandwich and a cup of joe at the diner and some pleasant conversation with Mabel, the sassy little waitress, and an hour passed. He rolled into the office at around 6:30 am and made a list:
Call Luna and ask if she has heard from her father and bring her up to date.
Call Miss Culberson and tell her as little as possible. Henry didn't trust her at all.
Buy groceries and some 1 x 2’s in maple.
Henry hadn't done any shopping in a while and his cupboards were looking as bare as 1113 17th Street. Henry saved the final item for last as it was the most important:
Check out the furniture warehouse and the Frid cabinet.
He tore the list off his pad and folded it neatly before putting it in his jacket pocket. Henry smiled at himself; he couldn't remember ever folding anything neatly. Mr. Alexander seemed to be rubbing off on him. H
e picked up the phone and, 15 minutes later, had updated Miss Alexander and reassured Miss Culberson that he was hot on the trail of a clue.
Henry walked down the stairs and out onto the street. His car was parked in the alley. The street was now busy with morning hustle and bustle, but Henry could smell trouble at 100 paces. Two men sat in their car, ‘reading’ the paper but not turning the pages. It was a dead giveaway. A third thug leaned against a lamppost; he was not reading a newspaper, either. Henry decided they could tail him for a while. He would go poke around the lumberyard, buy what he needed, and then lose them.
He found some nice hard maple 1 x 2's and picked up four seven-foot lengths and a bunch of screws, washers, and other miscellaneous items. He loved the lumberyard. It was a big place, almost maze-like. He knew everyone there and, when he went up to the counter, he whispered to the manager, “Hey, Bill, could you put this stuff on my tab? I need to lose my friends. I will pick it up later.” Then, in a normal voice, he said, “Oh, wait, I forgot something.” He whirled around and headed back into the yard. The thugs followed, trying to look casual. Henry made a couple of quick turns and ran up the stairs and into the manager's office, which had a convenient back door. He winked at Bill's secretary as he strolled past. She smiled. The thugs got back outside in time to see the taillights rounding the corner two blocks away.
Henry took a circuitous route to the furniture warehouse just to be safe. After some words with the man in charge, he was allowed to take a look at the cabinet. He opened the cabinet. It was empty. He looked in the drawers and admired the dovetail joints. Each drawer was carefully removed. While each one was magnificent, none held any clues. The old man who had showed Henry to the cabinet asked what he was looking for, and Henry explained that he thought there might be a message from a friend. The old man wasn't one of those people who suffered from being curious and just shrugged.
“This cabinet does have a secret drawer.” He carefully showed Henry how it opened.
“That is incredible; I would have never found that,” Henry said in awe.
“That is why it is called a 'secret drawer,’” said the old man with a wink and a smile.
Henry pulled it open slowly and there it was, the journal Miss Culberson was after.
“Would you look at that? It wasn't there before. I guess your friend did leave you a message.”
“I guess he did,” said Henry with a grin, a wink and a nod. He didn't open the journal past the first page; he saw the meticulous handwriting and knew it was the work of Mr. Alexander. He just tucked it into his jacket and thanked the old man, slipping him a twenty to forget that he had been there. Henry decided it wasn't safe to go back to his office, and he wasn't sure about the lumberyard, so he went to the library. He could bury himself in the stacks and give the journal the once over.
Henry took out his neatly folded list and turned it over to use for taking notes. He slowly looked over all the entries page by page. There weren't any names, and the numbers didn't make any sense at all. With each turn, he found page after page of neatly written and obviously coded financial data. When he turned the last page, there was a note neatly taped to the back of it.
Dear Henry,
You are as clever as I had hoped. It will soon be noticed that I am missing. I cannot tell you where I will be when you find this. I myself don't know. I just know that the little book you are holding has all the financials to put a very powerful and dangerous man behind bars for the rest of his life.
I went to the police and told them everything just before Christmas. This was a mistake, and I should have known better. It has gotten out that somebody at the firm was going to turn state's evidence. They didn't know who it was at first, but, as soon as I don't show up for work, they will put two and two together. I gave Luna instructions to find you if I ever stopped coming home. You need to make sure she is safe.
I can't come out of hiding to testify as he has men everywhere. I need you to get this journal to the district attorney. After you do, I will need you to find the key so that the book can be decoded. It is too risky to keep them together. Once the DA has both of them, he should have all he needs.
Thanks
A
Henry was suddenly worried about Luna. He hid the journal among the books at the library. He knew every floor and alcove of the library. The section on economic theory was generally ignored by the reading public, so he slid the journal behind several volumes by David Ricardo. He skipped lunch and drove straight out to see Luna. Henry worried the thugs he had shaken might have gone to find her next. He couldn't worry about the groceries or lumber or woodworking; he had to find Luna and get her to a safe place. He just hoped he wasn't too late.
CHAPTER 9
Anthony was born in Sicily and felt entitled. His father had grown up in the Bronx and made his mark during Prohibition. He was a well-liked family head. When Anthony's mother was pregnant with him, his father sent her back to Italy to have the child. It was important to them. When his father died of a massive coronary in 1949, Anthony took over the business. His entire life, he had listened to his father's stories about how he had been cheated and should have been given Manhattan. He vowed to one day make it happen for his father.
The rumors about a journal detailing all of Tommy's criminal enterprises was a sign. It was his time. He called in all his boys.
It was cold and snowing. The doors to the shipping bay opened, and three guys wearing dark overcoats and hats hustled inside and joined the rest of Anthony’s crew. Everyone yelled to close the door. The center of the warehouse had been cleared out. There were chairs and a few tables. The cavernous building had all the windows blacked out because Anthony used this for his 'secret' meetings.
He didn't have great management skills, but his men respected him. He wasn't especially tough. What he was good at was strategy. When Anthony decided it was time to move and sent the word out, he made sure that each man knew not to discuss the time or place. Keeping secrets, in their world, was no small feat. After many years of building his gang, he had instilled an almost military efficiency and chain of command. While other bosses would bark out a command and the worker bees would spread the word with little regard for who might be listening, he used a fairly complicated group of signals.
Anthony got the idea while watching baseball. He loved the game, especially the NY Giants, though he would watch anybody. He never played as a child, and, when he first went to a game, a young boy sitting next to him was listening to his father explain the signs the third-base coach was giving to the batter and base runner. Anthony was fascinated. The father explained there was an indicator, which, if not given, would mean all the other signs were bluffs to fool the other team. It might be a touch of the hat or the elbow or kicking at the dirt. It was hard to tell.
Anthony, who generally didn't like admitting he didn't know something, simply mentioned that it was his first time to a game. He wanted to hear more about the signals. The little boy became very excited. He started talking about the teams and players and added that catchers talk with the pitchers using signs, too. Anthony was hooked. He bought everyone hot dogs and Cokes and enjoyed the rest of the game with his new friends. The Giants won 5-4 in 13 innings.
The next day he called a meeting with his top two guys. Two hours later they had a basic set of signs. When he brought in half a dozen of the guys to tell them his new plan, one of them made a wisecrack.
Anthony shot him in the face. The rest of the guys seemed more enthusiastic for his idea after that. In the years since, there had only been one breach of security. The guy who had talked about their signs was beaten almost to death, allowed to recover, then beaten again. The second time he died. From that day forward, there was order among the ranks.
Forty guys sat on chairs or crates. Another dozen were outside looking for people who might be snooping. The warehouse was cold, so four drums were being filled with broken pallets. Once the wood was lit, the space warmed up considerably. Most of the g
uys were smoking and talking in small groups. Four were standing behind a row of tables.
The tables were divided up with the first one containing pistols. Two of the four guys checked each weapon, cleaning them if needed and making sure they weren't traceable. The next two tables were for the machine guns, and the other two guys went over each one meticulously. The last two tables were covered with ammunition, which was carefully labeled to indicate the caliber. Three guys who had just walked in stood by the burning barrel, quietly talking among themselves.
"This looks serious, you see the tables?"
"Yeah, looks like we getting ready to hit the beaches."
"Who do ya think we going after?"
"I don't know, but I ain't ever seen so much iron."
"It must be big because..." His voice trailed off as Anthony and his two lieutenants entered through the back door. Everyone stood up, not at attention but still respectful. Anthony hadn't insisted on such formality, but, over time, the men had started to take on the personality of a formal military. Anthony liked it.
"At ease everyone." Anthony walked around and greeted everyone by name. He asked a few about their wives and children because showing interest is what a general did. The boys at the tables joined the others, and Anthony began to speak, "It is good to see you all." He paused to smile at his troops. "I have told many of you of the horrible treatment of my father. You know how he was wronged when Manhattan was given to that idiot Tommy after his demise."
A few chuckled at the word ‘demise’ as everyone knew that Tommy had killed Anthony’s father. Anthony liked getting a laugh. "Tommy can't handle Manhattan; it is too much for his pea brain. If a man can't keep his business quiet, he don't deserve to be in charge. He don't deserve the rich rewards, which comes with such a valuable piece of real estate. His time has come. We gonna take Manhattan from him, and there ain't a damn thing he can do about it."