The Mystery of the Moving Image Page 5
“You have a point,” I replied. I leaned over the counter when I heard keys jingle and the front door unlock. “Hey,” I called.
“Morning!” Max said. He walked inside and shut the door behind him. “You’re here early.”
“You’ve no idea.”
Max strolled toward the counter, gave Calvin their customary high five, then looked me over from head to toe. “Didn’t you wear that shirt yesterday?”
“Probably.”
“Great,” he groaned. “What’s happened now?”
Calvin nudged his takeout toward Max, distracting him with an offering of free sausage.
“There was a break-in,” I answered.
Max stared at me, wide-eyed, with a link of meat sticking out of his mouth.
Too easy.
“They—whoever—came for the Kinetoscope movie.”
Max bit the sausage in two, and I grimaced. “How’d they even know about it?”
Calvin cleared his throat and stepped around Max to grab the hardware store bag. He went into my office, took out a few tools, and walked to the back door.
“What’d I say?” Max asked before finishing off the rest of the sausage.
“Nothing. That was our concern too. But anyway, they ran off with only half of the footage. What’s left is in the canister, on the shelf above my computer, okay? Don’t mention it to anyone.”
“I won’t,” he insisted. “But why did you say that like I’m working alone today?”
“Because you’re working alone today.”
Max groaned and dropped his head down on the counter. “I hate working Wednesdays alone! Every time you use Wednesday for any sort of errand or appointment, we always end up swamped with customers, the phone ringing off the hook, and the only time I have to eat lunch and take a piss is when I do them at the same time.”
“Sanitary.”
He looked back up at me.
“I won’t be long.”
“You always say that. But if someone flashes something shiny in front of you….”
I could hear Calvin laughing from the back.
“Pete didn’t pick up the collection,” I told Max. “Calvin’s going to help me schlep it to the Javits Center.”
“Promise you’ll be back before noon.”
“Sure.”
“Sure isn’t a promise,” Max said firmly.
“I promise,” I replied. “But out of curiosity, what happens if I’m not?”
“You buy me lunch.”
“Done.”
“For a week.”
I pursed my lips.
“I’m a growing boy,” Max warned.
“You are not. You’re twenty-three.”
“And I still make Mom fear my return home for Thanksgiving. Don’t test my ability to eat you into a financial crisis.”
“I’ll be back before noon.” I hopped down from my stool. “Come help me move shit to the car.”
THE LONGER I had to ruminate on the missing film and what Pete had said last night, the more uncomfortable I became. I mean, on one hand, he didn’t strike me as a complete moron. And only someone with supreme stupidity would have broken into my shop to steal the very item they’d been waxing poetic about to my face. But that didn’t change the fact that out of the handful of people who knew I’d obtained such old and rare footage, there was only one individual I didn’t trust.
But what would Pete have done with the movie if he’d actually stolen it? Play it at the fair, as suggested? Like maybe I wouldn’t notice that? Come on. It was absurd.
The lower-level exhibition hall of the Javits Center was enormous, brightly lit, and echoed with the voices of event planners, coordinators, security staff, and paying dealers making last-minute preparations before the event opened to the public in a few hours. Even with contacts and sunglasses, the huge spotlight lamps were washing out my sight, which was making the job of preparing my exhibit harder than it should have been.
I draped a runner over my assigned table, smoothed the top out, and then ducked under the ropes that separated our sponsor collections from the foot traffic of attendees. There was a provided stand with a box on top meant for business cards, which I started to fill up.
“I was beginning to wonder if the empty table was actually some sort of esoteric art installation.”
I didn’t bother turning around. I wouldn’t have been able to identify the individual in this asinine lighting. So I relied on my ability to recognize him by voice alone. Gregory Thompson of Marshall’s Oddities.
“Hi, Greg,” I said, finishing with the business cards.
I heard Greg’s shoes tap, tap, tap across the robust exhibit hall floor. I finally looked up when I felt him stop at my side. Greg’s hands were in his pockets, and he had that usual cocky expression. We hadn’t seen each other since the Nevermore events, but little had changed. I was still crotchety. He was still arrogant.
“It’s been a while, Sebastian.”
“That it has. How’re you?”
“Fine, fine.” Greg looked at my table and nodded at Calvin, who was helping set up. “I remember you.”
Calvin paused his quick and efficient placing of small displays and artifacts on the tabletop. “Calvin Winter,” he said politely.
“That’s right. The detective.” Greg looked down at me again. “So not a rumor, hmm?”
“Aw, Greg, did you miss the latest community newsletter where I took out a front-page ad proclaiming my relationship status?”
Greg smiled in that way one did when they didn’t mean it. “Love the ensemble, Sebastian. Green shirt, maroon sweater, and what’re those—plaid pants?”
I glanced down at myself. “It matches,” I insisted.
“Oh, of course,” he agreed.
I huffed. “Have you seen Pete?”
“Today? No, not yet.”
“What do you think of him?”
“In what way?”
“As an organizer.”
“He’s all right. Personable. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’re you fishing for?” Greg questioned.
Do you think he’s a thief? Better yet—has anything in your shop gone missing?
“Because the last time you and I played twenty questions, I was nearly shot,” Greg continued.
“Hey, I warned you not to attend that damn book event,” I countered, as if the whole Duncan Andrews fiasco had happened just last weekend and not nearly six months ago. “It’s not my fault you’ve got cotton where your brain—”
“Seb,” Calvin interrupted.
It physically hurt to swallow my ego in front of Greg. “Forget it,” I told him before slipping under the rope to help Calvin finish.
Greg would not forget it. “Whatever you’re doing, you’d better stop.”
I couldn’t resist. “Whatever I’m doing?” I echoed, turning to face him.
“This fair is a huge deal for a lot of us. You might think you’re a hotshot who doesn’t need any sort of advertising to remain afloat, but don’t underestimate how quickly success can vanish in this day and age.”
“I paid several grand for this sponsorship table with the wobbly leg, didn’t I?” I replied, shaking the table to make a point.
“If you ruin this event for me, I’ll never forgive you,” Greg said with an almost bullying tone.
“All right, Mr. Thompson,” Calvin said, intervening for a second time. “You’ve made your point. I think you’d better get back to your own collection.”
Greg looked at Calvin, and the malevolence that hung in the air between us slowly dissipated. “Of course, sir. Wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the law over a minor, private disagreement.”
Okay. That sonofabitch was implying that Calvin would abuse the power of his badge in order to help me. So now I had to kill him. I started back around the table, but Calvin took my arm and held me still.
“Have a good day, Mr. Thompson,” Calvin said civilly.
“And
you, Mr. Winter,” Greg said with a polite gravity that would have caused a lesser man to piss his pants.
Calvin was unfazed.
I shot daggers into the back of Greg’s head until he became too blurry to make out. “You should have let me beat him with my cane.”
Calvin let go of me. “And have to arrest you instead? He’s an asshole, Sebastian. Don’t let him bother you.”
“I know he’s an asshole,” I replied. I bent down to finish pulling the last items from the crates tucked under the table. “I swear he came out of the womb looking for a fight.”
“And you have a tendency to push people like that until they see red.”
“I….” Okay, I couldn’t really argue with that. I stood with a brochure stand, walked it to the ropes, and set it up beside the business cards. “Not because I like to.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Stop making me out to be an asshole too.”
“To a lesser degree, you are. But you’re my asshole.”
“Thank you, I think.”
Calvin was smiling when I turned to face him. “How does everything look?”
I shielded my eyes with my hands to reduce the glare. “Fine. It’s too bad we couldn’t get the crate with the globe to fit in the car… would have been nice to have.” I shrugged. “But everything looks good. Thank you for helping me.”
“It’s no problem.” Calvin cleaned up a few bits of packing debris and adjusted the table skirt.
I crouched down to pick up my messenger bag, paused, and plucked at a stray thread on the sleeve of my sweater.
Maroon.
Fuck. Did I really not match? Did I actually look ridiculous and neither my boyfriend nor assistant bothered to tell me? I know I got dressed in the dark this morning in our rush to the Emporium, but when I bought all these new clothes, Pop had helped to make sure interchanging them wouldn’t be a faux pas so terrible that I’d cause society to collapse.
So much for that.
I yanked the sweater off, stuffed it into my bag, and then slung the bag over one shoulder.
Calvin moved around the table and joined me. He offered his hand—knowing I couldn’t see well in the exhibit hall, and also because Calvin was aware that I really didn’t like using my walking stick.
The simple gesture of assistance and affection made my heart beat a little faster.
Calvin had come so far. Really. In December, he was so deep in the closet that even holding a vision-impaired man’s hand for aid likely wouldn’t have happened. But when he decided to come out, an act of not only love for me, but self-acceptance for himself, Calvin never glanced back. That took an unprecedented amount of courage—to look decades of fear and self-loathing in the face and say no more. If he was able to overcome his anxiety about being an out gay cop, it really did convince me that Calvin would eventually cope with his PTSD in a positive and constructive manner.
I took his hand and we walked to the escalators together. We’d nearly reached the ground level when a sudden shout startled both of us.
On our left, riding the escalator down, was Pete. He waved excitedly, turned, and tried running up the steps. “Ah shit. Snow! Hang on!” he called before disappearing out of view.
Calvin and I looked at each other when we stepped off the escalator.
I reached into my pocket with my free hand and removed a quarter. “Heads we wait, tails we leave him hanging out to dry.”
“Behave.”
“I’m in a pissy mood.”
Calvin let go of my hand and reached up to stroke a bit of hair behind my ear.
“Sorry about that,” Pete said as he appeared over the rise on the correct escalator. “So did you get set up?” he asked, walking toward us.
“Yeah,” I answered. No thanks to you.
Pete looked at Calvin and held a hand out. “Pete White. I’m one of the organizers.”
“Calvin Winter.”
“Pleasure,” Pete said before looking back to me. “You’re not staying?”
“I’ve a business to run. I’ve left cards and brochures. There’s extra stock of both under the table.”
“Attendees would love to meet you,” Pete insisted.
“I doubt that,” I replied.
“You remind me of some of my old students from my teaching days. Bright young things getting interested in the past. You’re the sort who makes it fun for everyone.”
“I guess… I’ll come by on the last day. Friday afternoon all right?”
“That’d be great. I know you don’t think it, but you’re a real attraction,” Pete said, giving me that weird—I guess you’d say “charming”—smile. “You bring a youthful, hip vibe to history and antiquing. You make it cool for the next generation to want to take part in it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Er… what exactly is hip about me?”
“It’s your whole persona, Snow.”
I was wearing a dirty shirt and loafers, so I was calling bullshit on this.
Pete laughed at the expression I was likely making. “I love this guy,” he said to Calvin. “Even our names go great together. Snow and White.”
“I prefer Snow and Winter,” Calvin replied simply.
Pete glanced at me and back at Calvin. “I suppose you would.”
“You’ve got my number,” I said, reining the conversation in hard and fast. “If anything comes up.”
“Yup!” Pete held out what looked like a perfectly decent mobile device. I didn’t remind him that yesterday it supposedly was old and not working.
“I’ll see you later, then.”
“Bye, Snow.”
I reached a hand out and Calvin accepted it.
We walked through the steel-and-glass concourse of the Center toward the main doors as someone else was entering. He had a dark-colored hoodie on, headphones, and some kind of convention badge around his neck—exhibitor, security, or attendee, I had no clue. But he was a bad person to play chicken with, because he never looked up from his phone, even after knocking into my shoulder. I stopped walking and turned to watch the kid step onto the escalator.
“Who was that?” Calvin asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
Calvin pulled his sunglasses down from atop his head as we made our way outside. At the end of the block, we crossed the street, heading to the nearby parking lot where we’d been charged the “special event” rate because of the fair, even though we were technically leaving before it opened. Nothing like flushing fifty bucks down the toilet.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” Calvin said.
I took a breath. “Maroon, like what?”
I felt him look at me, but I kept my eyes firmly planted on the sidewalk.
Left foot.
Right foot.
“Maroon is brownish red,” Calvin answered.
“No, I know that. I mean… like what?”
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
He still hadn’t answered.
I finally looked up.
Calvin was rubbing his chin with his free hand. “I guess a bit like autumn,” he concluded after the thoughtful pause.
“Isn’t autumn more red and orange?”
He nodded. “Yeah. But there are a few trees in Central Park that turn maroon.” He let go of my hand and put his arm around my shoulders. “Maroon like Central Park in autumn.”
Sounds pretty.
Chapter Five
I OPENED the Emporium door and immediately checked my watch: 11:47 a.m.
“Sweetheart,” Calvin said from behind me. He was standing in the open door, brightly backlit by the midday sun.
“Come inside so you aren’t glowing.” I reached into my bag, pulled out my glasses case, and replaced the sunglasses with regular lenses.
“Do you need anything else?” Calvin asked as the door shut. “Otherwise I’m going to head home so I can catch the furniture delivery.”
“Seb!” Max called from farther in the shop.
I turned and saw him standing near the Kinetoscope with a customer. “I’m back before noon,” I answered. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
Max didn’t reply but instead gestured for the man at his side to follow as he walked toward me. “This is the owner, Sebastian Snow. He knows a hell of a lot more about the Kinetoscope than I do.”
“Lee Straus,” the stranger said with a big smile, offering a hand once he’d closed the distance. He was… very strapping. I suspected he was older than he looked, but what did I know? I was thirty-three going on eighty. Lee had an expensive-looking haircut, a light-colored suit—he was probably the sort of person who paid attention to the difference between summer and winter fashion—with a nice physique underneath.
“Hi,” I said. “Uhm… the Kinetoscope. It’s not for sale—”
Lee glanced over my shoulder and let out a surprised sound. “I’ll be goddamned. Calvin Winter, is that you?”
Say what now?
I turned away from Hottie Straus and looked at Calvin. He seemed just as surprised as I felt, so at least we were on the same playing field. “You know Calvin?” I asked, with all the grace of a drunk bull in a china shop.
“You can say that,” Lee replied, still looking at Calvin.
“I did say that,” I muttered.
Calvin took a few steps forward and stopped beside me. “Lee…,” he said, like he wasn’t sure what else to include in that statement.
Lee grinned and reached out to shake Calvin’s hand. “Been a few years, hasn’t it?”
“About eight,” Calvin remarked.
“You look just the same as I remember. Hair’s a bit longer, though,” Lee continued, reaching out to touch Calvin’s thick, fiery locks.
I opened my mouth to kindly let Lee know that this was a no-touching zone, thank you, but luckily Calvin moved away with a jerk of his head.
Lee recovered pretty quickly. “Sorry. So… you came back to New York after all. What have you been doing all this time?”
“I’m a detective with the NYPD,” Calvin answered.