After we introduced the two to Aberdeen, they immediately started in on the A-R-E festival we had attended the night before last. They assumed we were friends of Daphne, as I had spent such a long time talking with her. When I informed them that Patrick had brought the two of us in order to get information about Willis Faxo, who was supposed to lead us Mordecai Adelstein, with whom Faxo had lived, they became a bit uneasy.
“What do you want with Mordy?”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think he's Coprolalia.”
Früvous laughed. “You think Mordy's Coprolalia?”
“Yeah. But you know him?” The two nodded. “How?”
“Through the A-R-E, of course. He was particularly close with Dick.” Früvous paused to scratch at his beard. “Didn't someone tell us,” as he turned to Früvous, “that he was in Bellevue. Not Mordy, of course, but…”
“Andy Bates.”
“Andy Bates. That's right.”
“So Andy Bates isn't Coprolalia?”
“No.”
“Wait a second,” Tomas ordered. “Who's Dick?”
“Keens, of course. You three must know him, right?”
“I never met him, but I've certainly heard quite a bit about him over the course of the past few days. I didn't realize he and Mordecai were close.”
“Well, actually Dick was close with Mr. Adelstein.”
“How did they meet?”
“They were both chess players. I'm guessing they met because Mr. Adelstein owned a little deli not too far away from Dick's place.”
“Where?”
“Where?”
“Yeah, where was the deli?”
“On Eighth Avenue. Do you remember where, honey?” Früvous asked.
“For the life of me, I can't recall. We haven't spent much time down there since we moved into the neighborhood. Do you three live here?”
“Yeah, we live down on Green Street.”
“Don't you just love the neighborhood? We're renting a loft up on Box Street, and we couldn't be happier.”
“How's the rent?”
“Look, I don't want to be a dick here, but it would be a really big help if you told me the general vicinity of the store.”
Früvous was unmoved by my petulance. “I know it's south of Ninth Street, north of Greenwood.” He fondled his beard for a moment. “Yeah, it's just a regular deli. You know, a convenient store. There's really nothing distinguishing about it.”
“Would it be in Park Slope or Windsor Terrace?”
“I never could distinguish the two. Do you know, honey?”
“No,” she said with a shake of the head. She then smiled. “I'm still just shocked about all of this. Our little Mordy is Coprolalia. Who could have known? He was always so polite and quiet. Such a genuinely nice person.” She turned to Früvous. “And to think he never mentioned any of this to us. It's so unbelievable.”
“I guess he was always a bit secretive.”
“Well, secretive is such a negative way to put it.”
“I didn't mean for it to be negative. He was just always more of a listener. You never could tell what he was thinking.”
“Why would Dick Keens go that far south?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn't he live on Garfield…or at least close by Garfield?”
The two looked to one another. “It's not a particularly long walk,” Moxy finally responded. “Dick made it a point to know everyone in the neighborhood.”
“Do you know if Mordecai still works at the store?”
Shrug. “I have no idea. As I said, we haven't been down there in quite some time. I would be very surprised if he didn't any longer, though. He really enjoyed it.”
“What about his father?”
“His father?”
“Yes, do you think his father still owns the store?”
“Yes. Unless he retired.”
“Or relocated.”
“Or got bought out.”
“Well,” I said to Tomas, “It looks like I have something to do today after all.” He tried to smile.
Moxy asked about Boots as I stood there feeling truly sanguine. Gone was the negativity, the cynicism. I figured there couldn't be more than fifteen delis on that stretch of Eighth Avenue, that it would probably only take two hours to find and call all of them. I would just have to ask the name of the owner at each place. The only difficulty would be getting Mr. Adelstein's address.
“She's a bit odd,” Tomas responded, concerning Boots.
Moxy and Früvous laughed quietly. “Odd?” Früvous began with a grin; “Yes, that is one way of putting it.”
The five of us were now standing in a solid rain. Aberdeen's coat smelled like wet dog. Tomas, on the other hand, looked worse than he smelled. His complexion was a pallid gray. I'm sure I was a delight to neither sense, but I wore an indelible grin regardless. Everything was in the process of working out. I was going to find Coprolalia today. Perhaps tomorrow. In fact, it didn't matter. Even if it took two weeks, it didn't matter. The deadline was arbitrary to begin with. Now it was completely irrational, too. I was close. I knew it. I was going to interview him, perhaps over a round of beers. I could tell him all of the stories I had accumulated over the course of the previous weeks. I could ask him about his involvement with the A-R-E, maybe even advance my understanding of the group. Maybe Vinati would come meet us. And then it would be the three of us. We'd talk late into the evening about everything: art, love, the human condition, baseball…it didn't matter. And then I'd publish the interview. I'd have the money to live without restraints. I could get a great job writing for a great magazine. Maybe Harper's would commission me to write something for them. And then I could afford a place in the City. I could live there, maybe even with Vinati.
“What is so odd about her?” Aberdeen asked.
“She explained the boots to you, correct?”
Tomas nodded sheepishly.
The couple soon took their leave. They were on their way back home after brunch in Williamsburg. I left Aberdeen and Tomas at the corner where I first met them, caught the southbound B43, and then transferred to the train down by Woodhull. On my way back home, I kept going back to the tirade from last night. I can still see Tomas trying to defend himself in the tub, his mouth contorted, his body plagued by tremors and the glean of cold sweat. The image is all the more lucid because of the stinging brightness of the lights surrounding the mirror. Actually, all of my senses were made a bit keener by the environment in that bathroom, much to my chagrin. I don't think I'll be able to eat any tomato-based sauce for a couple of days, as Tomas had had pizza prior to going to see the Sheeps. Perhaps it's the company I keep, but it seems as though most of the barf I have encountered in my life is just like me — half Italian.
Everything I believed last night was just paranoia. I recognize that now. I guess I've always had something of an attraction to conspiracy theories, though I've never been blind to the fact that most believers regard the absence of evidence as a veritable piece of evidence. Perhaps I was just upset about Vinati. That would make sense. I overreacted. Her phone has gone straight to voice-mail since the last time I spoke with her. Maybe she stayed at her parents' place last night after work. Getting from Park Slope to Williamsburg is a serious pain in the ass unless it's during rush hour — when the M is running south of Broad Street. And it's not like she's going to have a charger with her. And her parents probably have different phones than her. And it's not like she just remembers my number off the top of her head. So her phone died; she stayed with her parents because she was tired; she'll call me once she gets back to her apartment to apologize and make new plans. Done deal.