Time and Again(8)

Henry hung on every word.

They walked across the street to the park. Mickey handed Henry the notebook and said, “Read me what I’ve written there.”

Henry couldn't make out a single coherent sentence. It seemed to be all gibberish.

“The reason you can't read it is I have my own sort of shorthand. It’s like a code. Do you know why I do that?”

Henry chuckled to himself as he remembered his answer.

“Because you are nuts?” He had said it sort of sheepishly, with a hint of confusion, and a smidgen of annoyance.

Mickey had laughed hard and long. But then he said that it was because he had a reputation for keeping secrets. Clients liked to know that their business stayed their business. He went on to explain how he had developed his shorthand over the years, sometimes using code words, other times a substitution cipher, and on occasion drawing a tiny picture which would remind him of something.

Henry looked back at the notebook and flipped through the last three pages. He could tell the previous case had ended four pages before, as the writing stopped halfway, had two bold lines drawn across it, and a lengthy number below them. Those numbers, actually just the middle five, could be found on a file folder in a locked cabinet in Mickey's office. Mickey always wrote a detailed report, mostly for himself, and filed it after the case was done. Those reports were in plain English.

Mickey was not eloquent in his writing, but he was thorough. The problem, as Henry saw it, was that Mickey never updated the files until after the case was closed. Henry hadn't seen him in a while, so it was possible he had changed his ways, but Henry suspected that the adage about “old dogs and new tricks” made it unlikely. Still, he would check the office later today, just to be sure.

The persistent memory returned as Henry was fishing out some bills to pay the receipt Becky had set by his plate.

Mickey and Henry had bought a newspaper. They were sitting on a bench. It gave them a view of the building where the suspected wayward blonde might be stopping off to meet a roguishly good-looking janitor from Cuba. Mickey had sketched a hand palm, a rectangle 217, and a football in his notebook, followed by “10 J 14 15 4 20 over/under 84 and chain.” After Mickey had asked Henry what it meant and then made him go buy two hot dogs from the vendor, he explained each part.

“The palm reminds me of a cop directing traffic. So it means “stop”. The rectangle is a building and 217 the number. I usually remember the street, so I don't include it. The point is to take enough notes so I am able to recreate a mental picture. The football is not really a football, but it looks like one, so it might fool people. To me, it looks like an eyeball, so it means 'watch'. Next is the client's name. ‘Jones’ is coded using the alphabet 1 - 26 as a substitution cipher. But I get clever. The first letter is J, and is a 10. That is how I know where I started. Then the next number is a 14, which is actually one number above the letter I really want. If someone tries to just do the substitution, they get the letter ‘N,’ not the letter ‘O’. The next number will be one below the letter I really want. It goes back and forth until I finish the name.

“The ‘over/under’ serves two purposes. It tells me which substitution cipher I used on the word before and it reminds me of a basketball, or more accurately a ball. The words 'and chain' is just 'and chain'. So…what did I write?”

Henry answered his quirky teacher with, “Stopped at Building 217 to watch Jones's ball and chain.”

“That’s right!” Mickey answered. “But you didn't get me any relish.” And he handed the hot dog back to Henry.

Henry closed the notebook and the memory. He said goodbye to Becky and started his long walk to Mickey's old office.





Chapter Seven



Henry walked past the front entrance of the familiar building. He went around to the alley and entered through the nondescript door. This led to a long thin hallway, with a couple of small offices and a large closet for the custodial staff.

At the end of this hallway, behind another door, was a stairway. The “back stairs” went up to the fifth floor without any stops in between. It was a strange design element, to be sure. Mickey had loved it.

When the building was constructed, the owner, a paranoid investment banker, had insisted upon the secret stairs being included in the design. His offices occupied the top floor, which was unfortunate in October of ‘29 when he jumped out the window and hit an awning on the first floor, which broke his fall enough to prevent his death. He was in excruciating pain for the month-long hospital stay. Happily, he did recover, got out of the investment business, and lived out his remaining days living off his rental, in the very building which refused to do him in. When he died, his office, with the secret stairway, was rented to Mickey.