Meanwhile, back in reality, I packed up Terry in his stroller, stuck the ten-million-dollar tube and the ruby earring deep into my purse (I’m a New Yorker—what mugger would think a woman with a baby carriage would be carrying the multibazillion-dollar Gospel of Judas with a curse on it around in her purse?), and headed out the door to walk over to Engles Rare Books. The second we stepped onto the sidewalk, however, the skies opened up like Noah was in town for the boat show.
“Shoot! Just what I need!” In New York City, the minute even one drop of rain falls, all taxis disappear and Ubers are as rare as the white buffalo.
As if sent from God, who was rushing toward me, large umbrella over their heads, but Raylene and Dane.
“Oh, honey!” Raylene exclaimed, of course, taking the stroller from me and pushing it under the building’s awning. “It’s pouring out!” No, you’re kidding.
“I have an appointment,” I said, scooting under the awning to join them. “Wouldn’t you know it? It just started to pour. I even left my umbrella upstairs. My app said no chance of rain.”
Dane, ever the gentleman, handed me his oversized brolly, as he called it. “Please, take mine.”
“Gee, thanks. You guys are always in the right place at the right time. And that was a great dinner party you threw last night. Wow!” I lied.
Raylene, who was decked out in some sort of bizarre sequined pants number like she’d knocked over Liza Minnelli’s closet, exclaimed, “Easy peasy!” Of course. Then, “Why not let us watch the baby? He’s such a joy!”
At that, as though he understood her, Terry put his arms up to her. “Up, Mama! Up!”
“Oh, you sweet baby!”
“Oh, no, really, I couldn’t impose.”
“No imposition. I promise! It gives me such happiness. I’d forgotten what…” She dropped the rest of the sentence, and Dane gave her an extra squeeze.
“Up, Mama.”
How could I refuse? And besides, how could I get anything serious accomplished with Mr. Engles if Terry started squawking to be picked up? (Although he seemed to be squawking for Raylene, not me, lately.)
“Really? You’re sure you don’t mind?”
Dane’s look said it all: Terry is the grandson Raylene could have had if our son hadn’t passed. Wait, she never did say it was Dane’s son, did she? She had said, “I had a son,” not “we had a son.” Hmm.
“So where are you headed this morning? How long will you be?” Raylene asked. “Not that we’re in a hurry to give him back!”
“Oh, I’m going over to that bookshop I was telling you about last night.” Oops.
“But didn’t you say you had to be there bright and early? We just thought you’d already come and gone,” Dane said.
Shit! I forgot about that lie.
“Ah, Mr. Engles’ trip was canceled. He said to meet him later.”
“Well, how about if I accompany you?” Mr. Buttinsky said. Raylene had the look that said: “I’m doing you a favor here, the least you can do is indulge the old guy and get him off my hands for a bit.”
“Ah, um, sure, let’s go.”
“For heaven’s sake, where is the tube you spoke about?” Dane asked, peering into the stroller as though I’d given it to the baby as a rattle.
I tapped my giant shoulder bag. “I can fit a washing machine in here if I had to.” I gave Raylene all the instructions as though I were going off to war, and she happily marched Terry inside as Dane and I sloshed through the rain to Engles Rare Books.
Mr. Engles, a man in his eighties, was waiting inside his shop, which had to be one of the only rare book shops left in New York that looked like a rare book shop should look. Like something out of Dickens on Lexington and Thirty-First, while all around him, the city had turned into an ugly, soulless, sun-blocking glass-and-metal mess of Gaps, H&Ms, Banana Republics, Sephoras, Starbucks, and cell phone stores. It was only a three-story building, occupied by Engles on two floors and a tax accountant/lawyer/notary on the third.
When we entered the beautiful old shop lined with rare treasures, the leathery smell of polished bindings hit me. There was even a bell over the door.
“This is what people think New York is still like,” I said, reaching out to shake Engles’ hand. He even looked exactly as you’d expect a rare bookseller to look. Small, gray, trimmed beard, slight English accent, and elderly, but spry.
“This is what New York should still be like,” he said. “Ms. Russo, I take it?”
“Yes. Thank you for meeting me this morning.” I was praying he wouldn’t say anything that would give me away about the fake reverse trip I made up. “This is my friend Mr. Judson. Dane Judson.”
As they shook hands, Engles cocked his head inquisitively. “Mr. Judson, you look so familiar. Do you deal in rare books? Antiquities? I know our paths have crossed at some point—no?”
“No.” Dane smiled benignly. “I doubt it, Mr. Engles. I’m just an old Commie. Alternative natural medicines was my field.”
Engles still looked doubtful. “I could swear … You never came to me looking for a copy of the Voynich Manuscript?”
How many times is this damned book going to come up this week? I thought to myself.
“Many years back,” Engles continued, “maybe even twenty-five, thirty years ago?”
“How can you remember anything from so far back?” Dane laughed. “I wish I had your memory, sir!”
“I remember it because in my fifty-five years in this business only two people have ever asked me for the Voynich Manuscript.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Dane replied. “Unless it had magical medicinal remedies of the peyote kind,” he said by way of a joke that fell flatter than Gwen Stefani’s abs.
“Well, yes, it’s said to have great medical secrets,” Engles said, still eyeing Dane, desperately trying to place him. “It’s said to even hold the secret to life and death.”
“Well, that’s a showstopper,” I said, grimacing.
“Ah, not to worry, Ms. Russo. The thing is, no one has yet been able to interpret it.” I deliberately didn’t mention the fact that I was holding on to that book in my apartment. Besides, something told me to hold off and see for myself where this was going.
“No one’s figured it out even with a computer?” Dane asked, as though he already knew the answer.
“Yes, perhaps. A professor at the University of Bedfordshire claims to have cracked the code. But there was only one or possibly two in existence. One is cataloged in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, and a Spanish publisher is making a limited edition as well. But it’s impossible to know if another is hidden in a private collection somewhere.”
“Sounds positively fascinating,” Dane said, somewhat dismissively, I thought.
Engles ignored him or didn’t catch it, and answered, “Thank the dear Lord, I was always led to believe, anyway, that the incantations in the Voynich Manuscript alone weren’t sufficient to create life or raise the dead.” Then, realizing that he sounded a bit loony, he added, “I guess that’s true, because I personally haven’t heard about any resurrections since Jesus!”
“As far as you know, Mr. Engles,” Dane said, again trying for humor and landing on his ass, totally unaware that he had no sense of humor. We both looked at him. Instead of humorous, Dane’s remark had come off as oddly and unnecessarily aggressive. Especially for Dane, the love, peace, and granola man.
“But as I said, only two people in fifty years ever asked me for it,” Engles continued, attempting now to bring the temperature down a bit. I figured here was a businessman who wasn’t about to let an uncomfortable moment ruin what could turn into a perfectly good multimillion-dollar deal. “In fact,” he continued, moving behind his beautiful antique desk to turn on his state-of-the-art Mac Pro, “I managed to acquire—after years of trying—maybe the only remaining copy—for my client,” Engles said, trying not to stare uncomfortably at Dane.
“And who was that?” I asked as Dane suddenly started busying himself perusing the bookshelves.
“It was a man named Morris Golden,” Engles said, spreading his hands out on his ancient desk and motioning for us to have a seat. Good thing, because I almost fell down. Dane hovered without actually taking a seat, and instead moved to study the framed, signed letters lining the wall in back of Engles’ desk.
Engles said, as he logged into his Mac and scrolled down, clearly uncomfortable with Dane over his shoulder, “If you go back to the left, back there, I have a signed letter from Alexander Hamilton.”
Dane nodded behind Engles’ back, but clearly was more interested in snooping over his shoulder to see what Engles had been searching for. I was beginning to feel like I was in the middle of an old man pissing match.
Good thing old guys can’t piss far.
Just then, Engles cried out, “Bingo! I knew it!” as he pointed to his screen. “I made the sale to Golden on March 10, 1985. It was a Sunday. I remember because normally I’m closed, but for a big sale like that, I would have opened more than just my shop. I would have opened Fort Knox!”
“How much is ‘big’ if I may ask?”
“You may not,” he said, all business now. “Client privilege. So what have you brought me, Ms. Russo?”
I hit him with the big one. “Mr. Engles,” I said, pulling out the tube, “Morris Golden is the very reason I’m here. He had the missing pages from the Gospel of Judas! That’s how I came to have them in my possession.”
He was visibly taken aback, and actually stopped breathing for a few seconds. “Morris Golden? From Hicksville, Long Island?” He gasped.
“Yes, one and the same. But you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Engles raised his eyebrows in an “as if” gesture.
“Mr. Engles, I assure you,” I said, to try to calm him down, “if it’s Morris Golden you’re worried about—that you gave away his secret or anything—don’t worry. Mr. Golden passed away.”
I wish Dane would stop trying to peek at Engles’ screen, dammit! I shouldn’t have let him come with me!
“Look—in this business you come across all kinds,” Engles said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial kind of way. “It’s rife with international black marketeers. You have no idea. But that one? Golden? He was a meek bank manager, but when he came back to pick up the book, he came in like a real thug.”
“A thug?” I asked, surprised.
“A thug,” he continued. “The man had a pistol in his bag! He had insisted the transaction be in cash, which is not really a legitimate way to do business. Not for that kind of money certainly. Then—and here’s what’s even more disturbing: that night my shop was broken into and my safe cracked! I couldn’t make the accusation that it was him, but…”
“Did they get the money?”
“I’m smarter than that, Ms. Russo. I had an armed escort bring it to the bank immediately after Golden’s car pulled away. My personal banker opened up just for me that day.”
I was desperate to know how much we were talking about, but I’m a reporter. I know when somebody’s done spilling for the day.
“Back to your tube,” he said, rolling it around in his ancient hands like he was holding a ten-million-dollar piece of delicate crystal, not a heavy brass tube. “This inscription here on the end? It’s Arabic. It means something like, ‘The world is owned by Victor.’”
“Victor? Who is Victor?”
“I can’t imagine,” he answered. “Maybe a friend. Maybe someone who has a claim to it?” Then, “Speaking of which, to whom does this Morris Golden treasure belong now?”
I explained the circumstances, how Roy had inherited the pages, eliminating the part about him not being able to come, seeing as how he was even as we sat there probably in some precinct telling cops how he didn’t kill pistol-packing Morris the Miserable. “He’s with his lawyer,” I said, fudging the truth that he wasn’t with a lawyer of the estate kind, but of the criminal kind. “He couldn’t be here,” I continued as Engles examined the tube.
“Oh, and this was taped to it,” I said, handing him the little envelope. “It’s just an antique earring,” I told him, pulling it from my bag.
Engles emptied the envelope and took out the earring. “Hmm. Very interesting,” he said, picking up a magnifying glass and looking at the earring and then looking at the tube.
“Taped to it, you say?”
“Yes, my friend said it was taped to the side.”
“Ah. You see this?” he said, holding up the earring as Dane leaned over his shoulder to get a better look. I shot Dane a look in turn that said, “Back off.” Embarrassed, he did.
“The earring has a screw back,” Engles said, pointing out the minuscule threads on the earring’s gold post that spirled unusually from end to end.
“And?” I said. “Unfortunately it doesn’t have the earring back that must have screwed onto it.”
“Not necessary. I have a feeling…” He held up the tube and showed me two tiny holes that I hadn’t seen before. “May I?”
“I’m not sure what you mean … but whatever it is, you know best.”
Engles inserted the earring post into one hole and began turning. I heard a tiny click. But when he inserted it into the second hole, not only didn’t it fit, but it seemed to give Engles a shock—like the one I’d gotten. He jumped and dropped the tube on the desk.
As soon as the tube hit the desk, Dane clutched his chest, desperately trying to breathe. Panicked, we jumped up to help as Dane reached into his pants pocket and managed to pull out a vial and shake a pill under his tongue.
I grabbed Engles’ phone and began to dial 911, but Dane’s big hand slammed down on mine to stop me. “No, no. No ambulance. I’m fine. Fine,” he gasped, tapping his pocket. “Angina unfortunately can’t be cured with natural alternative medicine. Do you have any brandy, Mr. Engles?”
He sat in Engles’ chair while I ran to get him water and Engles ran to get a bottle of port that he must have had sitting around since the Eisenhower administration.
In the thirty seconds it took to get back across the shop, I saw Dane recovered, alert, and yes, looking at Engles’ computer screen.
“There’s another earring out there somewhere,” he said, as calmly as though he hadn’t just nearly had a heart attack and given us one, too.
When Engles came back with the bottle, he poured Dane a small glass, and said, “I will call you a car. I think we’d better finish our discussion at another time. Frankly,” he said, locking the tube up again with the earring post and handing it back to me in the tiny envelope, “even if I had the other earring or whatever, I could not open this without the owner’s permission, and in sight of that owner.”
“Oh, but…”
“I’m afraid that’s not ethical, Ms. Russo. But would you like me to keep the tube in my safe for you—until your friend can come back with you, and I can do my research on how such an antique tube may be opened and how to best secure the contents within?”
Dane, miraculously robust once more, said, “Well, you said you had a break-in once. I don’t think that’s very wise!”
“That was more than thirty years ago, Mr. Judson. Of course, I now have twenty-four-hour security and monitoring.” He shot me a look.
Going with my gut, I told Engles to lock it up for me, and he said, “All right then,” and took out an official-looking form—a hold receipt—filled it out, and called the notary upstairs to witness it. She was about nine hundred years old and probably had been using this same seal to make a living since she worked for the Mayans.
Dane was visibly pissed when we ran out to the car that Engles had called for us. It was still pouring. “I don’t trust that man,” Dane said as I climbed in. “He deals in the black market, and my friends, who are scholars, said last night that he wasn’t trustworthy.”
“Geez, calm down or you’ll have another coronary,” I said as Dane plopped down in the backseat next to me. “It’s not like he’s going to steal it. And your friends didn’t say he wasn’t trustworthy or in the black market. What they said about him, if I remember correctly, consisted mainly of anti-Semitic remarks.”
He ignored me and simply looked straight ahead like he was punishing me. “There’s another earring out there. What if Engles has it?” He huffed. “And that business about that book, the Voltaire Manuscript! Such nerve.” I knew he’d deliberately used “Voltaire” instead of “Voynich” to make Engles sound even more off-base for accusing him of wanting to buy it.
Now I was getting pissed. “Voynich, it’s Voynich, not Voltaire, and you’re getting yourself upset again for no reason.” He glared at me as we sat in an uncomfortable silence the whole way home. I felt like I’d been on a date that started well and went downhill from “Hi, I’m…”
Why did I ever let Mr. Buttinsky come with me in the first place? Big know-it-all.
Only thing is? Dane Judson did know it all, but I just didn’t know at the time that he knew it all.