Curioddity (23 page)

F
EELING SLIGHTLY
unclean in such proximity to someone so dirty, Wil took a step backward.

“Well, I think we understand each other, Mr. James. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you. For one thing, you have to make sure you fix the smell in the Castle Tower elevators. By the way, your limousine is double-parked. Have a wonderful day.”

“Likewise, I'm sure.”

Marcus James moved away toward the exit, flanked by two hulking-yet-confused goons who'd just witnessed a mugging that neither of them quite understood. After spending just a moment too long staring Wil in the eyes, the TV pitchman gestured to his two men to follow, and turned his attention in the direction he was rapidly headed—specifically, somewhere else.

Mr. Dinsdale clapped, excitedly. Mary Gold's body language said a few rude things in the direction of Marcus James's shoulder blades. For once, Wil was inclined to agree with her.

“Oh, Wil,” exclaimed Dinsdale. “That was tremendously well played!”

“I'm going to find out which bank that guy owns,” said Wil. “I'm not going to deposit any money in it but it might be a good place to deposit the contents of my bladder. Can you believe someone like that even exists?”

“Sadly, yes. And unfortunately, he knows that I exist, and that I own a piece of prime real estate that he would like to turn into an additional wing of his bank—”

Mr. Dinsdale paused suddenly as over at the door, a small commotion ensued. Marcus and his men had become briefly entangled in the revolving door and were yelling at each other. Moments later, having extricated themselves, they plopped out on the sidewalk and stumbled toward Marcus's waiting limousine.

As Wil watched them head away, one of the wooden crates in the lobby moved in the area of his peripheral vision. He smiled, and looked in the direction of the box. Only to find himself confronted by Mary Gold.

The strange woman looked at Wil in a combative and unfriendly fashion, and smacked out a huge wad of bubble gum that burst perfectly back into her mouth.

“You did okay,” said Mary Gold with an intonation that seemed to also say she had forgiven him for any imaginary transgressions she was expecting him to perform. Terrified, Wil looked toward the museum's curator, only to find Dinsdale still staring toward the street with a satisfied smile on his weathered face. As Wil looked back to Mary, she abruptly leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek before gliding away as quickly as possible.

Wil rubbed the lipstick from his cheek. It didn't stand much of a chance of coming off, preferring instead to smudge across the back of his hand.

“He'll be back,” said Dinsdale, calmly. “But he'll probably think twice about causing trouble when I have crack detective Wil Morgan on the case!”

“So he's repossessing you?” asked Wil with genuine concern. “Can he do that?”

“I'm afraid I don't know,” replied Dinsdale, rubbing his chin. “We've been fighting his lawyers for years now. He owns one of the largest law firms in the country. He uses his trained attorneys to fight all of the claims against his products. That's why he always wins.”

“It's about time someone put a stop to it,” said Wil. “I had no idea.”

“If you ask me, the man's a menace to society. The bigger and more corrupt he gets, the easier it is for his corporation to become bigger and more corrupt. I sometimes wonder if it all won't just explode in a big bubble of corruption.”

“Can't you call the police? I overheard the guy saying you owe him four hundred million dollars to pay off a thirteen-cent tab. That sounds a bit implausible.”

The older man sighed. “That's a logical path I've already been down, Wil. It's bordered by a mass of sharp shrubs that have created a very thorny problem for me over the years.”

“Why so?”

“Because James may be right. We can't tell. I have just one lawyer on retainer—my cousin Engelbert—and he's really just a part-time insurance adjuster who does legal work on the side. Every time Engelbert asks to see the original thirteen-cent bill next to the request for a surcharge, Marcus James's army of attorneys slap a pile of injunctions and motions to suppress. Each one is so expensive to remove that we're being ground into submission.”

“That's completely unfair.”

“If I thought life was supposed to be fair and balanced,” said Mr. Dinsdale with a rueful look in his eye, “I would have owned half of Marcus James's bank by now for all the trouble he's caused me. Now, what brings you here? Have you made any progress in your search for my Levity box?”

Mr. Dinsdale looked pointedly at the mother-of-pearl-inlaid box tucked under Wil's arm.

*   *   *

T
HE OLD
man's sudden change of direction—moving from a train of thought to a slightly uneven line of questioning—startled Wil momentarily. He'd been expecting the unexpected ever since he'd set out through the teeth of a Thursday-morning gale toward the Curioddity Museum. Nevertheless, he had not fully been able to predict the unpredictable. And so with the practiced ease of a man who has spent years lying to father figures, Wil tried to change the subject.

“What happened to the sign at the end of the street?” he asked, pretending to be interested in something inhabiting the vague direction of the museum's exit. “I thought it was supposed to be Mons Street.”

“I took your advice, Wil. That old sign seemed to be confusing everyone so we had a man come around from the local department of public works. But I think we'll have to ask him to come back. It's worse now than it was before. The new sign's harder to un-look for than the old one.”

“Why do people have to un-look for it? Can't they just look for it?”

“Where would be the fun in that?” The old man seemed genuinely enthused now that Marcus James was temporarily out of the picture. “And besides, un-looking for Upside-Down Street gets our patrons in the exact mood we need them to be to view the exhibits properly.”

“But the only way to read the sign is to turn your head upside down. Aren't you afraid people will crash their cars?”

Mr. Dinsdale pondered this for a moment. “That seems a little silly,” he replied. “Who in their right mind would be upside down at the steering wheel of their car?”

“That's precisely my point!” exclaimed Wil, exasperated. “No one's going to see the street, and no one's going to be un-looking for it! That's why no one comes to the museum!”

“Ah, but you're forgetting something, Wil,” said Dinsdale, putting his forefinger to his nose in a secretive fashion. “Implausible deniability. Now, may I please inspect the box you have under your arm?”

*   *   *

W
IL HANDED
over the box, slightly puzzled—but mostly flummoxed—by Mr. Dinsdale's arbitrary method of conversation. Every other statement coming from the curator seemed carelessly designed to confuse the previous one. And since Wil had no idea what this meant, he decided to remain silent.

Mr. Dinsdale hemmed and hawed as he inspected the mother-of-pearl inlay. “Hmm. Yes,” he clucked. “Very interesting.”

Dinsdale turned the box over and peered at the legend written on the underside:
MA#E IN #####N
. At the sight of the crudely engraved writing, the old curator's eyes widened.

Wil blanched. Busted within the first twenty seconds.

“Mr. Dinsdale, if you'll allow me to explain—”

“I'd rather you didn't try,” interrupted Dinsdale. He sniffed loudly, as if to make it clear that his obvious disappointment needed to be projected into the conversation.

“It's just a candidate,” said Wil, instantly regretting his decision to bring the stupid box.

“I suppose you're right, Wil,” replied Dinsdale. “It's just a candidate that happens to be…”

The old man paused for maximum effect.

“… the
right one
!”

*   *   *

W
ITH A
holler of delight, Mr. Dinsdale suddenly began leaping about the lobby. Wil was alarmed to see the little old man literally jump for joy in almost exactly the same manner as a cheerleader.

“You found it!” cried the curator with a chortle. “You found it on the first try! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

“It was nothing, Mr. Dinsdale, really…”

“That's the Wil Morgan I expected when you agreed to take on this case!” Dinsdale paused again, and began to make imaginary headlines in the sky with his free hand. “‘Crack Detective Cracks Case'! I can see it making headlines across the world.”

Wil blanched again as the curator grabbed him in a bear hug. And—just as he had on the occasion of his first introduction to Mr. Dinsdale—he began to swallow hard, for he knew he was about to make his usual mistake.

“Mr. Dinsdale,” Wil began, hesitantly, “I need to talk to you about the box. I'm not really sure it's the right one.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, the fact that it says ‘Made in Taiwan' on the bottom was my first clue.”

Mr. Dinsdale turned the box over and inspected it. He looked at the
MA#E IN #####N
engraving, a puzzled frown spreading across his face. “Where is it?” he asked. “I can't find it.”

“What?”

“Made in Taiwan. Where is it?”

“Right there!” Wil pointed at the engraving. “You're not looking at it properly!”

Mr. Dinsdale thought for a moment and scratched his chin. “Ah, I see,” he said. “This is a bit embarrassing. A complete misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, I think it probably is.” Wil's downcast eyes found a remote corner of the floor, where they did their utmost to avoid noticing one of the crates in the hallway attempting to draw attention to itself. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“I believe you do,” said Mr. Dinsdale. “How could you not see something so obvious?”

As usual, Wil could sense the conversation being derailed—this time, the metaphorical train plunging down an embankment of bananas above a large cloud of pink marshmallow, upon which random circus clowns were having a barbeque.

“What?”

“This box—so the legend goes—was reputed to have been fashioned by the Archangel Gabriel during a particularly experimental period after the creation of the universe. They were having trouble containing the levity, and so Gabriel made this box to keep it in. After a while, they apparently just gave up on the idea of levity altogether, which is why it's so scarce.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Gesundheit. It's not that
I'm
not looking at it properly, Wil. It's that you're not un-looking at it properly. It doesn't say ‘Made in Taiwan.' It says ‘Made in Heaven.'”

*   *   *

T
RY AS
he might, Wil simply could not wrap his head around the moment as it began to spiral neatly out of control in the exact manner that Mr. Dinsdale had presumably intended. Instead of making sense by coming clean, Wil felt that he and the old man had simply combined to muddy the waters. What on Earth was happening here?

Just as he began to form a response, his Lemon phone buzzed in his pocket. Grateful for a chance to interact with something only slightly less crazy than the old curator, Wil fished the device out and peered at the screen.

“
Greetings, Wil Morgan,
” said SARA in her mangled metallic tone. “
You have seven hundred and thirteen messages of varying importance sent to you from a location in Lahore, Pakistan.
” The Lemon phone's touch screen glowed for a moment as SARA made a couple of internal calculations. “
Greetings, Mr. Dinsdale. How is your cousin, Engelbert?
”

“Oh, hello, SARA,” responded Dinsdale without a moment's hesitation. “Engelbert's doing well, thank you. And I trust you are doing the same?”

“Waitaminnit,” exclaimed Wil (with the barest intention of actually waiting a full minute). “You two know each other?”

Mr. Dinsdale smiled, patiently. “SARA's been working for us for years. She catalogues our database of exhibits and sends the digital information into something called a cloud. Isn't that right, SARA?” Dinsdale threw Wil a secretive look. “I'm told cloud computing is all the rage these days but for the life of me I can't work out how they keep all that data from getting wet.”

Wil was momentarily stunned into submission as Mr. Dinsdale grabbed the Lemon phone from his hand and began to converse with the device. “So,” he asked with a slight pause that suggested he didn't want an answer, “how did you two meet?”

“
Wil Morgan and I have only recently been acquainted. Thank you for your inquiry,
” continued SARA. “
Would you like me to look up something for you on the Internet?
”

“I'm not falling for that one again, you sly minx,” replied Dinsdale. He winked at the Lemon phone, knowingly. “So. How have you two been getting along?”

The Lemon phone merely glowed, its silence speaking volumes.

“Oh. I see,” said Dinsdale. “Well, I'm sure you'll get used to each other.”

“Hang on a second!” interrupted Wil. “Am I imagining this, or are you actually having a conversation with my phone?”

Dinsdale frowned and glanced briefly at Wil before readdressing the phone. “Is it because he's prone to outbursts?” the older man asked the device.

“
Wil Morgan demonstrates an unacceptable level of impatience,
” replied SARA, haughtily. If her speech database had been programmed with a sniff, this would have been its moment. “
He frequently ignores my directions, and last night left me uncharged. I cannot compute the reasons for his decision making—
”

“Mr. Dinsdale!” cried Wil, insistent. “Are you telling me you and some defunct operating system from an obsolete smartphone know each other?”