“You are the best, Mike.”
After he hung up the phone, Henry started to pace around the apartment. He thought about the man who had visited him.
“What was his name?” he said aloud.
The business card was still in his trousers. When Henry read the name “William H. Brown,” it made him laugh. It was a short burst, and seemed out of place, but it happened. Henry didn’t dwell on it.
The phone rang. “Hello?” he said.
“It’s Luna, I just heard about your old friend, Mickey. I’m so sorry.”
Hearing her voice through the line was a pleasant twist to his miserable day.
“You are very kind, Luna.”
What he didn’t add was that he missed her. It wasn’t the sort of thing Henry would say, but he knew he did. Having her around for those few weeks, back in January, had been comfortable in a way he had never imagined.
“Mike told me he was going to talk to you about handling the wake. Though I didn’t know Mickey, I want to help. I will call Sylvia, too. I hope it isn’t too presumptuous, but we can handle the food. Is that okay, Henry?”
He could see the expression on her face in his mind. It was good to have friends.
“Mickey would've liked you. Give my thanks to Sylvia.”
Henry continued pacing. His addled brain was starting to clear a bit. Having the wake handled was one less thing to worry about, and it seemed those gray cells had turned their attention to the notebook.
There was one note, “fishing anti Katherine,” that seemed less confusing than the others. Henry remembered every time Mickey wanted to use the word “real” he substituted “fishing,” as in a fishing reel. So he had actually written, ”The real anti Katherine.”
The most famous Katherine whom Henry could think of, was Catherine the Great. Could this be a reference to her? It was possible, as he was sure Mickey wasn’t above misspelling her name. But what was the opposite of Catherine? Henry didn’t have any idea, but he did have resources. Over the years, he had developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the references made available at the public library.
Henry grabbed his hat and coat, locked his door, and headed to the office. He was getting his second wind.
Chapter Ten
The Flatiron building on 23rd had housed his office since Tommy “The Knife” burned Henry out of the old place. It was a little bit bigger, had a better view, a few plants, and some filing cabinets. Henry had settled in and sat behind his desk. A pot of coffee was brewing, and the air was filled with the aroma of thinking.
Henry had gotten tired of flipping through to the back of Mickey’s notebook. He carefully copied each of the three pages into his own notes. Next, he numbered them and turned his attention to page two. With his head clear from the shower, he started to consider the scribbling. There were the numbers one through six written down the side with each one having two words – which didn’t make sense – and then squares or tiny stick figures. He took a deep breath and asked himself the question, “What is the first thing to come to mind?”
Before he could answer himself, he heard some short, stubby, and highly excitable steps coming down the hall. Henry knew the little patter of annoying feet.
He got up and went to meet Bobby at the door.
He waited for the knock, and then opened it.
“Hello, Bobby.”
“Hello, Henry. I heard about your friend. I am sorry.” He took a heavy breath.
This was strange for Bobby. Henry was used to his frantic ramblings and his nauseating happiness, but to see him in such a solemn state was unsettling. Henry had grown to tolerate Bobby, and, seeing him now, he felt the slightest bit of fondness for the strange little man.
“Thanks...buddy.”
Bobby flashed a brief smile.
“His death was not as it should have been. A man like that, after a life of helping people, didn’t deserve for his days to end. But, sometimes the hands of time cannot be slowed or altered, even if we think we can change what might have been. Is there anything I can do to help? I am at your service.”
Bobby never ceased to amaze Henry. In a flash, the tiny, annoying man had touched Henry. Then, a scant moment later, his mouth had spewed forth something philosophical and elegant. It didn’t even sound like Bobby; the manner, tone, and vocabulary were all wrong. Words of condolence seldom had an effect on Henry, but this was different. It was, as if, it had come from someone else, perhaps someone from a different age entirely.
Henry didn’t have time to add “The Mystery of Bobby” to his list of things to unravel, but maybe after Mickey’s killer was found, he would give it some thought.
There was a silence as Henry considered Bobby’s offer to help. It couldn’t hurt, he thought. “Come on back…I want to show you something.”