LatinosUSA

Frankie was a junk monkey. His card and web site said household removals, but he admitted to himself that he was only a half step up from a medieval rag picker. And he relished it.

Discarded belongings for him were eloquent resumes about who the owners had been. These previously treasured oddities were often cupped, studied and brought home with him. His ex-girlfriend Pam never shared this cluttering obsession, and left him for a septic tank repairman.

One cold December morning a previous customer called him again. “Frankie, it’s the darndest thing, we’re remodeling the kitchen and found a walled off space alongside the basement stairs. It’s full of moldy clothes and rusty stuff. Could you give me a quick estimate on hauling it all off? My remodeler says it about a thousand cubic feet of crap.”

Frankie looked up at the calendar board where he marked in future jobs. The next day was blank. “I could push another job back a day and be there tomorrow around 10.”

“Ah, yes please, ten o’clock.”

Frankie and a two-man crew showed up that next day at 10:05. He unbent from the truck cab and stretched a tall, skinny frame that Abe Lincoln would have sympathized with. After hellos he looked into the space. It was full of dust-draped things he didn’t think still had purpose, and reeked of rust and mold.

In his broken Spanish he cautioned his helpers, “Ten mucha cuidad con esta cosas.” He accompanied the comment with a determined look. The men smiled dubiously.

He turned to the owner. “How old is this house, Mrs. Wisekind?”

She beamed. “It’s a historic building, well over two hundred years old. It took forever to get the approvals for the remodeling. There’s even a Gothic story to it, a multiple murder in the 1800’s.”

Frankie listened through the five-minute recitation even though he’d heard it before. “Is there anything in there you’d like to keep?”

“Good lord, no. Just get rid of it.”

“Absolutely. Just sign here.”

She signed and wandered off to discuss kitchen design with the remodeler. Frankie made notes on a clipboard as they extracted the detritus and loaded into the truck. One locked box, two feet by one foot by six inches, riddled with wood worms, caught his eye, and he set it aside.

After Frankie’s crew had shop-vaced the space he said goodbye to Mrs. Wisekind and took the box with him into the cab. Sawdusty worm poop drifted over onto his trouser legs. While stopping for gas, he inserted the blade of his pocket knife between the lid and the body of the box, and the entire lock assembly broke off, dropping onto the floor of the cab. Jesus, he thought, maybe whatever’s in here is also riddled. But wrapped in a satin cloth that had gone beyond mildew funk into dry rot, was an intact vellum book. The real deal, with skin pages.

He couldn’t read Latin or Greek, but Frankie more or less knew what they looked like, and these symbols were neither.  There was only one illustration, a naked man was lying face up, slit from throat through groin and various parts were shown as removed. The man’s excised genitals still showed an erection. Impressive, he thought.

As he resumed driving and the truck absorbed musty aromas, he did some serious thinking. This could be his outside chance at rich, and he had to be careful he didn’t settle for a low-ball price, or have the book stolen. After the truck reached the shed next to his house and the decomposing contents had been offloaded, Frankie released his crew.

Once inside, he took phone pictures of the book’s cover, title page, and cut up man, hid the book and posted the pictures of the cover and title page onto the Dreck Society’s Facebook page. Within a few hours the scavengers’ group page had blown apart. His post had been shared out to at least ten other groups. The comments were split about equally between warnings that he should burn it before it killed him, threats that he was an evil, probably immoral man, and urgent offers to purchase the book, no questions asked.

Frankie dithered between fear and greed, and decided to reflect on things over a few beers at Morey’s. He shut off his phone and walked down the block to the corner bar. He returned, weaving slightly, around 10pm, fear diminished but greed enhanced.

 His driveway was plugged with two cop cars, lights flashing. The cop stationed outside braced him, then eased off when he realized Frankie was the occupant.

The cop explained that the back door to his house had been broken open and the ground floor ransacked Neighbors had reported hearing loud noises right after Frankie had left to walk over to Morey’s. The cops’ arrival had sent a man fleeing from the house.

Frankie decided there was no reason to tell the police about the book, but did tell them about perching at the bar. A quick call verified that Frankie had had a four-beer guzzle in front of thirty bleary witnesses.

Before they left, the cops asked him who might have broken in.  Frankie’s thoughts immediately went to the Dreck Society and members obsessed with the arcane and the profitable, which covered pretty well all of them.

His phone, when he turned it back on, had blown up with texts and recorded calls, most from complete strangers.  Some repeated offers of money. Some threatened imaginative bodily harm. One woman’s voice, however, was jolting.

“Mr. Fishkin, the book you found has been missing for hundreds of years. Its language is archaic Aramaic; its subject is exceedingly hazardous to humanity. Your possession of this book is more dangerous than stealing drugs from a Colombian cartel. You need to hide, Mr. Fishkin, immediately. The people who want this book will leave you alive only until they have secured it.

“Write down my number before you get rid of your phone, then purchase a burner phone. If at all possible, do not return home. If you must return home, take every evasive tactic you can think of after leaving. Gather up as much cash as you can and never use credit cards or checks. You are a marked man, Mr. Fishkin, and you need to erase yourself.

“When you are in a safe location, call me for more information.”

 As the cops were leaving, he thought about turning the book over to them and letting everyone know that he’d done so. But anything that warranted this much attention might be worth a lifetime of wealth, and Frankie decided to risk playing things out a little further.

 The ground floor of the house had been thoroughly trashed in an apparent search for the book, but the upstairs was intact. The perp must have fled before he or she could finish the search. Which reduced his pucker tension considerably.

Frankie double stepped up almost to the landing on second floor, and carefully pulled a section of the railing and step loose, revealing an opening. The book, now wrapped in linen, lay beneath. He picked up the book and some emergency cash he’d stashed there, replaced the section of railing, and walked out the front door.  He went across the yard to the garage, backed out and took off.

The two cars started to follow him, but for right now he didn’t care. He drove to a nearby Costco where he bought a burner phone. He made his first call on the burner in the parking lot. “Pam? It’s Frankie, please don’t hang up.”

“You dried up turd, you never call and now you’re in trouble you reach out. Screw you.”

“So you heard what happened?”

“About the book? It’s all-over social media.” Her tone was guarded.

“Aha. And somebody who want it just broke into my house. It’s not safe for me to stay there. I need a place to crash while I try and figure things out. For the sake of our occasional bliss, could you help me? Do you still have that beach cottage? Could I stay there for a couple nights?”

Pam’s tone softened from angry to sullen. “You’re a sweetheart, you are.” She sighed. “All right, but bring your own food and wash the sheets. The key’s where it’s always been.”

Frankie walked out to his car, got in, and tightly cinched his seat belt. He drove slowly at first, the same two cars following him. Then he tromped the gas, regretting for the first time that his sedate four cylinders were unlikely to outrun anything.

He ran two red lights, hit the expressway and almost immediately slewed a 340-degree u turn and into an on ramp, causing outrage from the entrants, but making pretty sure that no one had immediately followed him. Then he drove to a warehouse district about a mile and a half from Pam’s cottage and left the car. He walked to Pam’s cottage, the vellum book in a backpack. He knew he’d regret abandoning a car he’d had longer than Pam, but figured there could be tracking devices planted on it. He wondered if paranoia would become his go to mental state

Once inside the cottage he turned up the heat, peed, and called his mystery advisor.

“Hello, this is Frankie Fishkin. You left me a message.”

“Are you safe?” It was the same voice.

“If you mean all alone and clueless, yes. What should I call you?”

“Leslie will do. Please listen carefully, because you have very few options. You could destroy the book now, but many would not believe that you had, and you would be under relentless attack. You could make the book public, and cause global mayhem…”

“What do you mean mayhem?”

“The book is thaumatological recipe for a truth serum that can be absorbed through aerosol spray, drinking water, or skin contact. It forces the victims to tell the complete truth, no matter who it might injure. Worse it can infest entire populations of people through the water system or aerosol spraying.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it now? It was concocted millennia ago. The Tower of Babel passage in the Bible is a veiled reference to its creation. There were other mass hysterias, but localized because of the lack of communications and distribution networks, and immediately hushed up. Imagine its effects in todays interconnected world on lovers, and politicians and businesspeople. How the latent hate cocooned in social subterfuges would erupt. Societies would devolve into mobs that trusted no one, not even other mob members. We’re not honest animals Mr. Fishkin.”

Frankie was silent for a few seconds, realizing that he’d probably lied ten times since getting up, more than that if he counted lies to himself.  “So what can I do? Record a video for u tube showing me burning the book?”

“No one would believe it was the real book. I’m assuming you were being followed?”

“Pretty sure I was, but I think I lost them.”

“Organized religions, anarchists and several governments are probably all after you. Of all of them probably only the churches are interested in destroying the book to preserve their mysteries.”

The woman’s voice was both clear and mellow and Frankie found himself wondering what she looked like. He visualized petite and dark haired. “Why are you telling me this? What’s in it for you?”

“It’s a valid question. We’re a group that believes persons should be allowed to get to heaven or hell without chemical assistance. Just think of us as benevolent umpires.”

Frankie snorted. “And I should believe that because we know each other so well.”

“You’re not a believer in much of anything, are you Frankie? And yet you treasure the well-worn mementos of other lives.”

“How did you, ah, of course, the Dreck society. So what’s your suggestion, umpire?”

“What you can’t do is reveal the pages to anyone. What you can do is a public execution.”

“What!”

“No, not you, silly. Schedule a public burning of the book and post the burn date on social media. It doesn’t matter which ones, the organizations involved will be monitoring them all. Hire a security detail to get you to and from the site without the book being stolen or you killed. Show the cover, binding and edges of the pages, then burn the book.”

Frankie interrupted. “But they’ll shoot me and try to take it.”

“It’s unlikely. They’ll be worried about another entity getting the book and will have strenuous security measures in place. Your destroying the book cuts the Gordian knot. I can make arrangements for the burning, and cover the costs.”

 “Wait a second. Are you the Roman Catholic church? Are you proposing burning books again?”

“Does it really matter, Frankie, who we are if we can help you? The book will see you dead. We’re offering your life back. Along with probably a little celebrity and maybe some money.”

“Bullshit. Tell you what. I saw on CNN that the pope is giving an address tomorrow. Have him say the word ‘spaghetti.’”

“That’s impossible…”

“Sure it is. Goodbye.” After he hung up, Frankie worried that he’d just cut his only possible lifeline. He walked to a convenience store and bought enough food to last him for that night and the following morning. After eating, he started charging X rated movies on Pam’s cable system. He probably wouldn’t be around long enough for her to be mad at him. He finally dropped off into a fitful sleep in the easy chair, a mostly naked movie still running.

The pope’s address was scheduled for two pm European time, about eight am eastern standard, and Frankie woke up a little after eight, panicked that he’s missed it. But when he turned onto the Catholic channel, the various clergy were still making preparatory noises in Latin. The pope finally came to the mic and started to speak. About five minutes in he said ‘We are all intertwined, like spaghetti.’

“Son of a bitch.” Frankie brewed some coffee and tried to think. An hour later he turned the burner phone on and made the call back.

“Hello, Frankie. That was as good a bona fide as you’ll ever get. Can we discuss specifics?”

Her tone was still lilting. “Here are my conditions, Leslie. Okay to provide me the money for a security detail, but I pick them. Five thousand should do. Okay to set up the burning, but it has to be in Bridgeport. You’ll probably need to comp the mayor, he’s known to be receptive. Set it up for three days from now. Before the ceremony you transfer three million to an account I’ll provide…”

“Frankie, I can’t…”

“Yes, you can, I have great faith in the bank accounts of organized religion.”

Her tone lost the lilt. “Anything else?”

“That’s about it. I’ll call back in five hours.”

Leslie’s tone hardened. “We have a few conditions of our own. The temptation is great for you to make an electronic copy of the book for future negotiations. Don’t do it. We’re going to insist on scopolamine and polygraph interrogations just before the burning to ensure that you haven’t done so. If you flunk you don’t get the money and we cut you loose to get torn apart by all the wolves chasing you.”

Frankie hesitated. He’d already been scheming to sell copies at a hundred thousand each. But being killed or confined was strongly unappealing. “All right.”

One call completed, Frankie made another, to a cousin he usually avoided. “Sam, it’s Frankie… no not that Frankie, Frankie Fishkin, your cousin… Listen, are you still a member of the Road-Rager’s Club out of Bridgeport?…Great. I need to hire four of your Harley riders as a security detail for later this week. It’s four hours work and I’ll pay you three grand, up front in cash…You will? Great. I’ll call tomorrow with details.”

Arrangements made, the day arrived. Frankie came on site escorted by four heavily tattooed folk with suspicious bulges under their leather jackets. A tent had been set up at the far edge of the parking lot, and Frankie entered, leaving his bikers outside. Three technicians strapped him into a polygraph and started asking questions. They then gave him a horse-killer dose of a modern-day scopolamine and repeated the questions.

He apparently passed, because they wordlessly waved him out of the tent. 

A crowd of three hundred people had assembled, almost none of them smiling. Frankie mounted the improvised stage in the abandoned factory parking lot and walked to the already lit brazier, book in hand.

He noticed a black robed nun in the first rank and when he caught her eye she smiled at him. This distracted him enough that he almost dropped the book, but he recovered, and showed the book to the crowd, face, back cover, edges, title page and spine, then riffled the pages. He walked up to the brazier and set the book in the middle of the flames. It burned slowly at first, giving off sooty smoke that drifted over to the crowd and wrinkled noses. Then the book truly caught fire, shooting a flame up three feet. Frankie held position upwind of the brazier until the book was embers and then stirred the embers until all was ash.

As the acrid smoke blew out over Frankie’s audience, clumps of people started screaming at each other and fights broke out. Frankie guessed that the potion had been impregnated into the book. His hired buddies clumped up around him, guns drawn,  and shuffled him off the stage.

He kept them with him as he retrieved his car and returned to his home, tipping them an extra four hundred. He checked his bank account, nodding, the money was there. He guessed that in his absence cameras had been installed and waved as he went from room to room.

He’d made the evening news. Frankie knew that going to Morey’s would get him barraged with questions, so he pulled his emergency six pack from the back of the refrigerator and settled down in front of the big screen.

As he vegged, he couldn’t help thinking about the book and how much he’d wanted to add it to his rag-tag collection. He took out his phone and looked at the pictures of the book. The eviscerated man popped up and Frankie smiled ruefully. It was just as classically grotesque as he remembered. Frankie enlarged the picture and noticed something. Half hidden in the contours of the flayed skin, there were strange characters that looked almost like a formula.

I wonder, he thought to himself. Who do I know who knows someone who can translate an Aramaic formula?

end