Book of Judas--A Novel

by Linda Stasi

  In the interest of full disclosure, Roy Golden has been a close friend of this reporter for over thirty years. The younger Golden is, in fact, an out gay man and has never frequented female prostitutes. It is well known among Mr. Golden’s closest friends, that he had a limited relationship with his father, Morris, the two only seeing one another once or twice a year.

  * * *

  I filed the story, and then went into the bathroom and threw my guts up.

  No sooner was the story posted online than Mad Dog was on the phone. My cell practically spontaneously combusted in my hand on my way back to my desk.

  “What the fuck you doin’? You’re supposed to be his best friggin’ friend or whatever you are!” he screamed as I rounded the corner and plopped down in my desk chair, gulping water that I’d left there the day before.

  “I am! His best friend, I mean. But I can’t not tell the story or someone else will—and they won’t be as easy. You know that! Roy knows that!” Or so I prayed he did.

  “Fuck you!” he screamed, rushing all his words together. Then, “OK, OK, I know … So, for Christ’s sake, Russo, do the right thing.”

  The next call was a collect one from the Nassau County Correctional Center: Roy.

  “Ali. How the hell did I end up here? I need help.”

  “I’ll do whatever you need.”

  “Mad Dog says the prosecutor’s gonna ask for a ten-million bond.”

  “How convenient! Just what the relic’s worth.”

  “Screw the relic. Sell the thing. Get me outta here.”

  “But I can’t, because we can’t open the tube.”

  “My time’s up. Open it. I’ll give Mad Dog permission to make you the seller. Sell it all. I know you can do it. What about that old priest—your friend? You said he was a genius with this stuff? Sell it to him.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that he was in Israel and besides, the reality was I couldn’t open the goddamned thing (literally) without the other ruby earring.

  I scrolled through the cell phone numbers. I hit “unknown caller” to see if by some miracle I could call Father Paulo back. What planet did I think I was on? I e-mailed him, but I got an “undeliverable” message back. How was this all happening? Three days ago I was navigating the choppy waters of single motherhood and scrambling to get back on top at The Standard. Today I had a great story, but a terrible situation. The world was caving in on my friend and I was knee-deep into the quagmire and felt like I was sinking fast.

  It can’t get worse, I thought. Then it did. My office phone rang. “Russo here.”

  Dona. I could hear the hysterical baby in the background. “Honey, I’ve tried feeding him, playing with him, rocking him, rolling him. He’s inconsolable. He just threw up. More like projectile vomited all over from being so hysterical.”

  “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I’ll be right home. Dona, let me ask you something. Is it cold in the apartment?”

  “No, in fact, I thought it was too warm so I turned on the AC. Should I take him down the hall to the neighbors?”

  “Yes, if you have to, but I’m heading home.”

  “Hurry!” she said, sounding frantic.

  If I was new to this mothering thing, Dona wasn’t even out of the box, although who in hell knows how to calm a screaming baby? Well, besides Raylene, I thought. “Yeah, Dona, call her. I left the number.”

  “Let me run, it’s the doorbell,” she cried.

  Without hanging up, I could hear her opening the door. “I heard the baby from down the hall. Can I help?” Raylene, bless her heart, I thought. Terry seemed to immediately stop wailing. The phone disconnected.

  Thank you, Jesus, or whoever, for bringing those kooks into my life and right down the hall.

  Immediately after that mini-crisis seemed to calm down, another old car horn blare, another text. I could hardly keep up. The address bar on top read: “Fr. Paulo.”

  Fr. Paulo: Are you free to speak?

  Me: Can I call you back?

  I really need his number.

  Fr. Paulo: No.

  Me: Then can you call me? Yes, I’m free to speak.

  My cell immediately rang. Unknown number. “I need to keep this brief,” Paulo said in his ridiculously affected way. I could just see him sitting in some café in Israel, even now making some deal for the relic. What was the choice? Roy—we—needed to make bail, or bond anyway, and put up a retainer for Mad Dog in order to make his case. Dog was a friend, but this friend didn’t come cheap.

  “I see that Mr. Golden, the relic’s owner, is in quite deep shit, as we say in the clergy.” He chuckled at his own cleverness. Nothing like a little priest humor when you’re in the middle of, well, deep shit.

  “Bring me the relic in Israel. I can open it. I am the only one who can interpret it, and I am the only one with a network to sell it for at least ten million, if it is what you say it is.”

  Interpretation: I am the foremost scholar of ancient Christianity, I am a priest who does unknowable things for the Vatican, I am the world’s biggest schemer. Don’t play games. We both know, too, that I am the only one who can fence this thing but only in exchange for the secrets contained within, even if it does unleash Armageddon. Whatever it is, it’ll be mine to control.

  “What do you mean you can open it?” was all I said.

  “I know who is in possession of the other key—and the incantation that is needed to go with it. Or at least where it is located.”

  Maybe he really didn’t have anything. “Well, it’s not a key, it’s an—”

  He cut me off. “Yes, yes, you have a ruby earring.” Never mind. He knows. He was referring to it as a key because it, well, was a key—and was likely in the possession of the Vatican who were probably all over this like incense at mass. I also knew that asking would get me exactly nowhere.

  But would I just be handing the pages over under duress once—if—I got there? Would I be able to negotiate a fair price for this priceless relic with the Vatican, if that’s what Paulo insisted upon in exchange for safely opening it up? If so, would they keep secret the secrets Jesus had imparted to Judas? What if the words really were—as had been rumored—deadly and powerfully so? Was my friend’s life worth such an ungodly exchange?

  He read my mind long distance. “Alessandra, do you realize what is in your possession? I went directly to—well, to someone who knows about such things—and the pages that you may or may not hold in your possession are the most dangerous writings the world has ever known. They were meant for good, but now, in our age, they are ‘Più pericoloso di quanto si pensi,’” he said, slipping into Italian. That meant he was nervous. If he were a poker player, sneaking in Italian words would be his tell. “Go to the Harmony Hotel in Jerusalem. When you get there, I’ll meet you,” he said. “Tell no one what you have. Is that clear? I will bring with me the other key as proof.”

  “You really have it then?”

  “Trust me on this.”

  He’s negotiating for the Vatican, I now felt for sure. After all, who but the current pope could be trusted with such a thing? But unfortunately, none of the rest of those snakes at the Vatican could be trusted with it.

  Pope Francis was a living saint, but he was a saint presiding over a den of devils.

  “Does that mean you spoke directly to the pope about this?” I asked. Nothing. “Well, then, how do you know I’ll come and if I do, how would you know if you won’t give me your contact information?”

  He cryptically replied, “I will be where you are. Engles is not the man for this job.”

  Jesus Christ. How did he know about Engles? Nobody with anything to gain in this game seemed to want Engles in on it. That alone should have commended Mr. Engles to me. Against my better judgment, I asked, “Let me ask you a question, Father. Have you ever heard of something called the Voynich Manuscript?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have it.” I heard an intake of air, too steep to hide on his part.

  “You
have what? A modern-day copy?”

  “I have what appears to be a very, very ancient copy of the book.”

  “Bring that with you as well.” Out of curiosity, I took out Golden’s note, and asked, “Do these numbers mean anything to you: 31.780231° N, 35.233991° E?”

  I could tell he was surprised and tried not to let on. Maddeningly, he just said, “Yes, they do. But not something I can discuss over the phone.”

  “Ooookay, then, what about someone attached to the Gospel named Victor? Have you any idea who that might be?”

  “Victor? No, not that I’ve heard of but I’ll make some inquiries. But please, we can’t keep discussing such things over the phone.”

  “OK, Father, but I just need to know if…”

  Too late. I realized he was no longer on the line. Cell phones have taken two great things from our lives: First is the ability to know if you’d simply lost a connection or if someone had hung up on you. The second is your own ability to slam down the phone on someone else, thus turning the act of slamming down the phone into a long-distance act of placebo fury.

  In the meantime, I had a screaming baby and a relic to pick up. I just was sort of thinking—it hadn’t formed into a full-on actual thought yet—that I would have to go to Israel and meet Father Paulo.

  I tried my parents in Africa again. Mom actually picked up. I couldn’t fill them in on everything, just the briefest info, including Terry’s sudden ability to talk, which Mom the pediatrician seemed to chalk up to my new mom pride. His talking so early was not reality-based as she would say, but thankfully didn’t. Six-month-old babies don’t form half sentences. Yes, they do. Well this one did, at any rate.

  Anyway, turns out my folks were coming home—hallelujah!—maybe even in a day or two. Dad’s African tourista had gotten the best of him, and once Mom could get his diarrhea under control they’d be on the next flight. Of course they’d stay with Terry.

  First I looked up flights to Israel, and then I called Engles, who picked up after one ring. He hadn’t been able to find anyone to unlock the tube, and wanted to know if I was sure I wanted to keep a potentially important object in my apartment. I didn’t say: “Who’d look in a Pampers box?”

  I hopped the subway, and Engles clearly was not thrilled to be handing over what could be a big sale, but I also got the strange impression that he was in some ways happy to get rid of the thing. “I’ll keep investigating,” he said.

  Christ almighty but it was freezing in his shop. I didn’t mention it because I figured he had to keep his books at a certain temperature. As I was leaving with the relic-in-a-tube like it was a twenty-five-dollar bed-in-a-bag, Engles grabbed my arm. “I know I’ve met your friend, Mr. Judson, before—I feel sure he was the one who wanted the Voynich Manuscript. That’s why I insisted on keeping the relic in my safe. I just don’t trust him…”

  I didn’t want to contradict him—the Judsons had been nothing short of lifesavers for me—but I did say, “Well, between us—please—I’ve actually got Morris Golden’s Voynich Manuscript in my possession now, too. It was with the tube at my friend’s father’s house. Morris Golden’s house.”

  Engles looked panic-stricken. “Do you have it in your own house, then?”

  “Well, yes. At my apartment in Waterside Plaza.”

  “It shouldn’t be there!”

  “I know, I know. It’s very rare. Would you be interested in possibly brokering a sale for it?”

  Engles literally backed up and braced himself against the desk and spat disgustedly. “Ji-fa! Filth! Excuse me, I don’t mean to upset you. But it’s the most unholy book. You need to burn it.”

  “I can’t believe you would say that. Books are your life.” He immediately looked stricken, as he turned toward the back room’s safe to retrieve the tube, saying quietly, “I know how it sounds, but believe me, some books should never have seen the light of day.” If he’d been Catholic, I swear he would have crossed himself.

  Now it was my turn to be confounded. Who would have figured him of all people to be a book burner?

  Then, bringing the tube from the back of the shop he said, “I’m begging you to burn that book. Burn it. Get a holy person to bless it. A priest, a rabbi, a Buddhist monk, an imam, I don’t care. Have them all pray over it. Then burn it. Elohim a-di-rim!”

  “But, it’s—”

  He cut me off. “Ms. Russo, you seem like a lovely woman and I can’t imagine why you got involved with a man like Morris Golden or how you came to actually be in possession of that book, but it should not be in your home. Destroy it.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Mr. Engles. It’s not mine to destroy. Nor frankly would I. Too bad Mr. Judson was not the man you thought wanted to buy it. That would be one way for Morris’s son to sell it.”

  Then he grabbed my hands in his. “Never him. Not that man. Please. Promise me that much. He can’t know you have it.”

  “Well … OK?” It was more of a question than a statement.

  “Please. Does he know you have it?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, no, I didn’t mention it. Just in whatever conversation we had here in the shop. Reporters keep things close to the vest,” I said, remembering how not-close to the vest I was the previous evening, spouting all that stuff in front of those weirdo dinner guests.

  These old gents clearly have some kind of dislike of each other, and it has nothing to do with some old book, that’s for damned sure.

  Engles wrapped the tube in tissue paper, put it inside a velvet-lined wooden box, and handed it to me, saying, “Teesh-mi-ree Al Atz-Mech,” Ms. Russo. Be careful.”

  “And the same to you, Mr. Engles,” I replied. I put the box inside my purse and hefted it onto my shoulder. I shook his hand and rushed out to get back home to rescue Dona from the wrath of Terry—and to escape from the freezing cold in the shop.

  The last thing I thought when I closed the shop door behind me was that it would be the last time I’d ever see Myles Engles, rare bookseller, alive.

  13

  I got off the elevator on my floor and was relieved to not hear Terry crying.

  Joy at last! At least there was that on this very bad day. When I opened the door, I found Dona, Terry, and Raylene happily playing on the floor.

  Dona looked up. “This lady is am-aaa-zing!” she chirped. “Never seen anything like it. The instant Mrs. Judson walked in—”

  Raylene cut her off with a cooing hug. “I told you, please call me Raylene!”

  I took off my trench coat—it was cozy and warm in the apartment—and knelt down and kissed Terry’s little face a hundred times. “How’s my big boy? How’s Mommy’s baby boy?” He giggled and turned toward Raylene.

  “Mama!”

  Dona gushed, “Raylene has that magical baby touch. I don’t think, even if I ever have six kids of my own, I’d ever have it.”

  Oh man. Where had my friend gone? She had become a Raylene pod person.

  The equally smitten Raylene hugged Dona again. “You modern girls! Mothering is as natural as sex—the first time might stink, but with time, you come to get the hang of it and then never want the good times to end!” Dona and I burst out laughing at the same time.

  “What? You think I don’t like a nice screwing?” This time our hands inadvertently shot to our mouths. Crime, war, and “if it bleeds it leads” stories we are always prepared for, yes. Naughty sex talk from a senior sitter in sequins? Not on the journalism course roster.

  Raylene squatted like a twenty-five-year-old yoga instructor and scooped Terry up from the floor and stood. “You girls finish your convo and I’ll finish mine with Terry!”

  “It’s a love match!” Dona declared of Raylene and Terry or maybe herself and Raylene, I didn’t know anymore. She stood up, milk stains splattered all over her shirt and jeans. “I need to go home and hose down. Look at me!” She laughed. Then, turning serious as I put my bag on the table, she asked, “What the hell’s going on with Roy? I mean, one minute he’s the ho
ttie bazillionaire fireman and the next he’s a murder suspect? I know we’re news rivals, but who came to your rescue today? Who?” She didn’t exactly mean quid pro quo, but almost exactly quid pro quo. As in: How about a tip, a lead, a minute with Roy to interview him?

  “When I can, I promise.” I meant it. “I don’t really have access to him now. But you know this whole thing is not true, right? Roy would no more strangle hookers than he’d strangle me. You know that. Right, Dona?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I insisted.

  “Honey, I’m not sure you know that. Your story indicated that the cops have some pretty damned strong evidence.”

  “A million guys surf Gilgo and Oak Beaches at night. Big deal. That effing father of his—the guy was a misery all of Roy’s life, well, starting in the eighties anyway, and now we find out he was screwing around with hookers well into his old age—even tranny hookers. And who does it all come back to bite on the ass? Roy, of course. Morris’s grip was supposed to end when he did!”

  Something was flicking around in the back of my brain. But what was it? I couldn’t quite pick it out.

  “I’m not saying Roy’s guilty of murder. But could he have disposed of the bodies for the old man? Remember the Shulman brothers back in the late nineties—in your old hometown—and Roy and Morris’s hometown, too—Hicksville, Long Island. One brother was a mailman who killed hookers and the other, the younger brother, chopped them up and disposed of them in garbage bags along the parkway. What do they put in the water supply out there in Hicksville?”

  “Don’t even go there,” I warned her. “That’s not my Roy. He wouldn’t cover for that bastard, and he sure as hell wouldn’t go dumping bodies for him if his life depended on it!”

  “Maybe it does…” Dona said. Raylene was so busy listening she almost—almost—stopped fussing with Terry for a microsecond.

  I gave Dona the eye that Mrs. Buttinsky was listening—not that she called her that anymore, now that they were new BFFs—so we cut it short. Kisses, hugs, thanks, and promises that I wouldn’t put Terry the Terror upon her again if I could help it, and Dona laughed. “It wasn’t so bad. Oops. I just lied, it was. Roy. Interview. You owe me.”