12
Culture Vultures
Sebastian and Maria hiked up Sixth Avenue, passing the West Fourth Street subway stop. A crowd cheered when a basketball made it through the net in the fenced-in court. Maria paused at the corner to consider a street vendor’s books again, but Sebastian pulled her away. They turned left, walking up West Fourth Street, until it hit Seventh Avenue. Sebastian checked the GPS, and they turned right. After stopping to pet a Pomeranian on his walk, Sebastian and Maria arrived under the red awning of the Village Vanguard.
“Now what?” Sebastian asked. “The place doesn’t look like it’s open.”
Maria beat on the door.
Nothing.
They waited for a few minutes before the door creaked open and a young woman with short red hair pulled out a heavy sack of trash.
“Excuse me,” said Maria. “We’re on a mission to find a treasure, and one of the clues is to search the Vanguard.”
The young woman ignored Maria while she hefted the sack and wobbled to the curb before dropping it on the street. “SHEEESH!” She exhaled and wiped the sweat from her brow. After a moment, she acknowledged them, and said, “Oh … are you kids on a scavenger hunt?”
Sebastian shrugged. “Sure.”
“I didn’t know we were back on the list. And usually it’s college kids competing with one another,” she said. “But that’s cool.” She jiggled her keys before opening the front door. “We don’t open until the evening, but the owner’s out. I’ll give you five minutes to find the clue.”
Maria couldn’t believe her luck. They followed behind the woman into the dark club, where they descended a bunch of stairs and entered a cramped basement. The woman disappeared before the overhead lights flickered on one at a time.
The space was triangular, with the narrowest part a raised stage containing a piano and a few microphones. Red curtains draped against the wall of the stage. The rest of the club was packed tightly with tables and chairs. The walls were filled with black-and-white photos of musicians, and an old horn rested in between the photos. Maria could detect a musty smell mixed with the scent of pine soap in the mop bucket.
“What are we looking for down here?” whispered Sebastian.
“Either Dizzy Gillespie or some kind of clue,” said Maria. “Let’s start with the photos.” Men with saxophones and women in ruffled tops and tight skirts danced in some of the images lining the wall. Maria pushed some chairs aside to get a closer look.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Sebastian asked.
“How should I know?” said Maria. “Did you ask the lady who let us in?”
Sebastian jetted past the tables to the back, turning a corner and knocking a photo off the wall.
SMASH!
Maria and Sebastian stopped.
Then Maria darted across the room to the fallen photo. “Go, clumsy!” Maria said, shooing Sebastian with her hand. “I’ll clean it up before she finds out.” Maria squatted and carefully lifted the frame from the floor. Shards of glass hit the ground, and the photo slipped away from the frame.
Maria turned the picture over to discover a group of men in suits seated at a table. There was a woman seated next to an older, balding man. The two figures looked familiar to Maria, like the couple in the photo in Mrs. Fisher’s apartment. Maria turned the photo over to discover some cursive writing in blue ink.
To Max,
May your doors stay open from here to eternity.
From your pals,
Neal, Jack, Allen, and the Fishers
It was Mrs. Fisher! Maybe this was the clue they were looking for! Maria dug Edward’s riddle out of her pocket and read it again:
Neal, Jack, and Allen beat the Times Square Hustle
With poetry.
Squish. Squish. Squish.
Squeaky sneakers on a sticky floor crept up behind Maria. She turned around.
“What did you find?” asked Sebastian, now calm after his bathroom run.
“Look,” said Maria. “The names of these men at the table are the same ones in the poem.”
“Do you think this is what the poem was talking about?” asked Sebastian.
“It could be,” said Maria. “The lady at the table is Mrs. Fisher.”
They heard a dustpan hit the floor. “All right, kids,” said the young woman who’d let them in. “Time’s up. I gotta send you back—” She stopped and then her voice sank. “Uh-oh! What happened?”
“There was a small accident,” said Maria. “But do you know who these people are?”
The young woman sighed and snatched the photo from Maria. After a few seconds, she said, “Sure do,” and handed it back. “They’re Beat poets. Studied them in school. That’s Jack Kerouac,” she said, tapping the face of a dark, handsome man seated in the middle. “And the guy with the glasses is most likely Allen Ginsberg.”
“I knew it!” said Maria. “BEAT the Times Square Hustle! Another clue from the riddle. We’re so close to finding the treasure.”
The young woman ran her hand through her hair. “Four years of school and a degree in comparative literature, and now I’m helping kids on a scavenger hunt. What a riot!” She turned around and retrieved a broom. “By the way. This is a jazz venue, not a bookstore,” she said, and started sweeping. “If you’re looking for poets, I suggest you go to the library and let me clean up this mess.”
“I’m sorry about the frame,” said Maria. “Would it be okay if we took a picture of the photo?”
The woman shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” She swept the glass into the dustpan and emptied it into the can.
Sebastian positioned his phone over the photo until it was in focus and took a snapshot.
“Okay, out you go,” said the woman, and ushered the kids up the stairs. She opened the door before pausing. “I … actually, wrote a paper on Kerouac while in school. There’s a bunch of stuff on him and the other poets in the Berg Collection at the New York Public Library on Forty-Second Street. That’s where I’d start if you’re looking for the Beat poets.” Then she closed the door behind them.
“Now what?” asked Sebastian as they took a few steps away from the building. It was lunchtime, and Maria was distracted by the smell of pizza from Two Boots.
“Well, there wasn’t much of anything at the club except for the poets. My guess is we should follow the lady’s advice and find out more about them.”
“Okay,” said Sebastian. “Let me look up directions to the New York Public Library,” He typed something into his phone before he pushed up his glasses. “Let’s take the F train at Sixth Avenue to Bryant Park.”
After a quick train ride, Sebastian and Maria climbed the stairs to find themselves in front of Bryant Park. A cool breeze caused Maria to zip up her hoodie. The park was full of tourists having a bite to eat or hunched over their phones at the tables under the trees.
They hiked the sidewalk along Forty-Second Street, stepping on brown leaves and spilt food from the vendors lining the block. First, they found the side of the giant library. Then they trudged the rest of the block until they reached the front of the building on Fifth Avenue. Maria gasped at the two stone lions guarding the stairs leading to the entrance.
“Race you up!” she said.
They took off up the stairs, Sebastian falling behind her. Maria reached the top first and slipped through the heavy doors. A panting Sebastian trailed, having trouble getting through the door. “No fair,” he said. “You didn’t give me a warning!”
After inquiring about the Berg collection, they were directed to room 320. They approached the desk and waited for a librarian to notice them.
“May I help you?” asked a man in his mid-thirties, with hair perfectly parted, and sporting a pink bow tie.
“We’re researching Beat poets for school and wanted to check out what you have,” Sebastian said. “Isn’t there a special collection?”
“Well, you’re in luck,” replied the librarian. “This is THE center for Beat research, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to make an appointment.” His eyes darted up and down Maria and Sebastian as if he was trying to size them up.
“We’re looking for information about Jack Kerouac,” said Maria as confidently as she could.
“Well, there are books that he’s written that you can check out from the regular library,”
“We’re looking for a private collection, something that will give us a better clue,” said Sebastian. “Personal photos, even.”
“Well—er, the collection is not exactly for kids,” said the librarian. “We would have to retrieve it and bring it up to you.” He straightened his tie before adding, “And it’s really more for scholars. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we try to only see scholars who make appointments.”
Maria grew uneasy. This couldn’t be a dead end. “Show him the photo on your phone,” she said, nudging Sebastian.
He pulled out his phone and brought it up to the librarian. “We found a picture of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg at the Village Vanguard,” said Sebastian.
“And seated with Mrs. Fisher, who I personally know,” added Maria.
“A photo of him at the Vanguard!” said the librarian, his face lighting up. He took the phone and examined the photo.
“Yes,” said Sebastian. “And we’re trying to locate something valuable for Mrs. Fisher, and this may be our only clue.”
The librarian paused for a second to think. Then he said, “Wait here a minute.”
After ten minutes, he appeared holding a box. “Follow me, kids. I’ll give you a quick show-and-tell, but DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING.”
They trailed behind the librarian until they stood at a table with a lamp at the far end of the research room. The librarian put on cloth gloves and carefully removed the lid to the box. He reached in and pulled out old black-and-white photos and papers covered with type and scrawled handwriting. He held them as if they were made of delicate glass, capable of breaking at the slightest movement. “Now, you say he was friends with a Mrs. Fisher?”
Maria nodded.
“We don’t really have her in here—that I know of. You know, Jack was married three times.” The librarian continued to pull out more stuff from the box: some old drawings that looked like book cover sketches, a scroll filled with tons of text, more photos, and stacks of manuscripts with Xs drawn through them.
“What’s with the scroll?” asked Sebastian.
The librarian stopped. As if he was holding his most prized jewel, he carefully unrolled the scroll, revealing a continual flow of words. “Kerouac wrote in a stream of consciousness,” said the librarian, excitement bubbling in his voice. “He’d adopted Eastern spirituality and believed he could channel a manuscript’s truest form through one take, without stopping for any revision.”
“So he typed all that out, without knowing what he was going to say and without messing up?” Sebastian asked, clearly impressed.
“Well,” said the librarian, a slight smile forming, “it was more like he kept going. The same thing was happening with jazz improvisation at the time,” he said, before rolling the script and placing it in the box. “Rumor has it that there’s more work by Kerouac and other Beat poets, like Allen Ginsberg, missing from our collection. We’ve been unable to locate the materials.” The librarian held the phone with the photo of the Fishers with the poets. “You said you visited the Village Vanguard, right? Well, it makes sense that Kerouac and Ginsberg were there, considering their philosophy was close to the way the musicians would keep playing. Sometimes it came together, other times it didn’t. But when it did, you really had something.”
“But what does Kerouac or Ginsberg have to do with the Fishers?” asked Maria.
“That I don’t know,” said the librarian.
“Do you know who Jackson is with his paint in this riddle?” asked Maria.
The librarian flattened the note and carefully read it. “It could be talking about Jackson Pollock,” he said. He tapped the note a few times. “He was considered an abstract expressionist and was from that time period.”
“Where can we see his paintings?” asked Sebastian.
The librarian paused to consider. “Probably the Museum of Modern Art. If you take a left out of the library and walk about ten blocks north, then take a left onto Fifty-Third, you’ll find it.”
Sebastian pulled Maria aside. “Do you think we should go?”
Maria shrugged. “I mean, have we found what we’re looking for here? There doesn’t seem to be any treasure or anything having to do with Mrs. Fisher in the collection.”
“Beats me,” said Sebastian. “Get it? As in BEAT POET.”
Maria groaned. The Vanguard had left them with one clue: Mrs. Fisher was friends with the poets. But there was nothing at the library about Mrs. Fisher or her treasure. It appeared that the next place to look would have to be the museum. And maybe there would be a clue in one of Jackson Pollock’s paintings. “Yeah,” Maria said. “Let’s go.”
The Museum of Modern Art was jam-packed with visitors. A group of older people crowded the ticket counter while a baby cried by the bathroom. College kids sat around a bench with drawing pads. People speaking in all different languages passed Maria and Sebastian as they stood in line for their tickets.
“Looks like we’re in luck,” said Sebastian, reading the sign. “Children under sixteen get in free.”
After they got their passes and showed them to the guard, Sebastian and Maria climbed the first flight of stairs. They found a volunteer at the information desk by the escalators. “Can you tell us how to find a painting by Jackson Pollock?” asked Maria.
“Of course,” said the woman wearing a geometric sweater. She pulled out a map and drew an X. “Go up to the permanent collection on the fourth floor.”
The kids ascended the escalators and weaved through the galleries, passing an encaustic painting by Jasper Johns, a large pop art painting by Andy Warhol, and a giant comic panel by Roy Lichtenstein. After they asked a guard to point them in the direction of the Pollock painting, they found it—One: Number 31, 1950.
The two of them stood motionless before the painting.
Sebastian said nothing, He pursed his lips as if in deep concentration, taking in the rhythmic splatter of paint applied to the seventeen-foot canvas.
“It’s a complete mess!” said Maria.
“It looks like organisms under a microscope,” said Sebastian. “And look how big it is.”
“I don’t believe it. This was our last hope!” said Maria. She pulled out the riddle and studied it for a second before looking up. “I was hoping it contained an image I would recognize from the poem. A clue. A map. SOMETHING that would lead to the treasure.” She sat down on a bench, exhausted. “I have to go back to Mrs. Fisher and tell her we’re at a dead end.”
“Okay, I’m coming with you,” Sebastian said. But then he checked his phone. “Shoot. My mom texted an hour ago. I gotta go home. She’s wondering where I am.”
Maria paused to consider how much trouble she was probably in, but she didn’t have a phone for anyone to tell her. What would another hour do to her if she visited Mrs. Fisher?
They sprinted out of the museum and hurried onto the train. On the ride to Mrs. Fisher’s, something didn’t sit right with Maria. What was it that these artists all had in common? And why would Edward send her a riddle about artists, but have none of them lead her to treasure?