Black Cahier

Conrad exits the lawyer’s office and drifts over to the reception area. He grips a small black notebook, still in shock. Well, that had been the weirdest five minutes of his life. Entering the office, thinking he was being sued or subpoenaed or something, sitting across an executive rosewood table from a Tribeca-penthouse, suit-worth-more-than-a-month’s-pay kind of man who regarded Conrad with the same disinterest of a cat watching baseball.

That was when the guy dropped a bomb. Twenty thousand dollars. Conrad’s now, explicitly stated in the will of a dead Dr. Varanne. Not that Conrad has ever heard of her before. That and a dingy black notebook with crease-lines on the cover. And with that sum of money still ringing in his head, Conrad had flipped open the notebook. Absolutely nothing… wait… 2/3 of the way through, a single word scrawled: DORMAT. Whatever that meant. And when Conrad inquired about the sum, Mr. Milton Horatio had said, “Look, kid, the will’s quite explicit. Seems like Ms. Varanne liked you for whatever reason.”

“Did you know her?”

“Nope. As to why she chose to gift you this sum…” Mr. Horatio had shrugged. "I never met the lady myself. She was Mokheed's client. Ira Mokheed, our namesake," gesturing as he stared not at Conrad but at the notebook. Stared at it. "Until he died."

And not long after, Mr. Horatio, with the savior faire of a turkey, had attempted to buy the notebook from Conrad. Yeah, nope. Why would the man want it… could be valuable… Twenty thousand dollars. All his, out of the blue. And that dead doctor. A dead lawyer. DORMAT.

That name, Mokheed, is vaguely familiar. Conrad has seen it all over the building, even in a little faded plaque near the door. That coulda been the late guy's office... and holding this black notebook, staring at that singular word etched in cursive like an esoteric sign from the time of Eastern Babylon when Nebuchadnezzar rode horseback... death came to the mind. Something about the front page of the New York Post lodged beneath a row of 77 cent Doritos bag at the subway vendor, complete with a lurid image, now in glorious ultracolor: "Mokheed Murdered."

Conrad pauses in the reception area. There’s Richie, sitting with his phone. "How is it?" a secretary behind the desk asks, giving him the most buttersmooth smile he has ever seen.

"Uhh…"

"The book. The black book. What's it like? I saw Mokheed with it." She leans over her desk, lips weirdly drawn up. Like he's chum in the water.

"It's, well, a book," says Conrad. Waves it, watching her eyes widen, feels the impulse to jump back and run. "Yeah, so, uh, Richie, let's roll."

Richie, typing with a Hendrixian adeptness, looks up, full attention. "What was this all about?"

"Come on, man, I'll tell you in a sec. Let’s go grab a bite," says Conrad. So many people staring… it’s the notebook… mashing the button on the elevator, open, please open. BING. Sliding into the elevator, "dude, hurry," he presses lobby button and sighs.

"What's going on?"

"Okay, look, I--" and upon seeing people rush over to the elevator, Conrad jams the 'close' button over and over. "Sorry," he says.

"Keep it open--"

"Look, kid--"

"Sorry guys, I don't know what's going on," says Conrad between the closing doors with a schadenfreudal grin, "I'm trying to keep it open..."

"No, no--"

The doors shut. Phew. Cue elevator Muzak. "OK," says Richie. "What's going on, man?"

"Okay, so apparently, I was named as an heir in some person's will."

"Who?"

“Varanne. A Doctor, apparently.”

“Of what?”

“Hmmm.” Conrad watches descending sequential numbers illuminate as they glide ground-bound. “Not sure, Richie. She left me twenty thousand dollars, though. And this book.”

Richie’s silent for a couple floors, sounds of the street rising. “Twenty thousand. Wow. Why?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“And that little black notebook?”

“Richie, I don’t know. Just as confused as you are. But those people up there,” Conrad points at the ceiling, “I think they want this.” He waves the notebook.

“Why?” Richie asks, still wide-eyed. The elevator chimes at the lobby.

“No clue.” Conrad tucks the notebook in one of his pockets. “It was completely empty except for a word. ‘DORMAT’. Like ‘door’…”

And timed perfectly, the elevator doors slide open. A little look about the lobby, encouraged by a glancing-over-the-shoulder vibe, and sitting in a chair is a thundering man. He wears a tailored suit with a bright red object on the lapel and stares. Little heartrate spike, a throbbing in Conrad’s temple. Time to run, Conrad. Let’s go.

“Uhh, Conrad,” Richie whispers, “why are they looking at you?”

To the left are a few people poorly dressed as tourists leer. “Come on,” Conrad grunts and speedwalks to the revolving door. No way he’s gonna look back. Why do these people want this book so bad?

“Where to?” Richie asks as they blindly stagger onto the street. All of Manhattan, it seems, has angled its buildings to magnify the Sun.

There’s that man with the red lapel, those others looming beyond. Internalizing the jazz of streetsigns beeping, sirens, the smell of restaurants and street-trash, pizza for the über subway rats, tourists and businesswomen trailing along the sidewalk. “Subway,” Conrad mutters. “Richie, come on,” and they plunge into the crowd sliding through like pigs lathered with Crisco to multiethnic obscenities. Ten seconds left to cross the Avenue, so Conrad breaks into a run, skirting around some elderly conversationalists rocking matching tan ensembles. He searches for the pursuers agter reaching the opposite sidewalk. There’s the man in the middle of the road, moving slow. Like a giant shark.

“Conrad, run.” Richie nearly pulls him into an old defunct mailbox covered in graffiti. They bound down the entrance of the subway avoiding dubious dripping of city-juice, and Conrad goes to hop the turn-style and--“wait.”

“Huh?” Those people were going to be there any minute. Are they mobsters?

“There’s cops here. We can’t hop. Let’s go up and out.” Richie points at a different exit. “We can go to some restaurant and hunker down.”

Smart idea. Conrad breathes, looking around. “Excuse me, sorry,” and they make their way up and out to the screeching of a railcar passing beneath.

First restaurant, an Italian joint with a maître d’ who ushers them into dark romantic lighting. After being seated, Richie asks, “Okay, man, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Here.” Conrad gives Richie the notebook. “See, there’s nothing in it. Except there.” He grabs a candle, real flame and all, and pulls it next to the notebook.

“Thanks, that’s better,” says Richie. “DORMAT? What could that possibly mean?” He whips out his phone. Giving it a Google, no doubt. “Hmm, maybe something to do with sleeping or something? No… an acronym, but for what?”

The murdered lawyer. The dead doctor… come to think of it, Conrad had never found out quite what happened to her. “Hey, can you look up the name, Ira Mokheed for me?” he asks while typing ‘Varanne’ into the searchbar.

“What?”

“It’s this Varanne lady’s lawyer. He got murdered. It was in the paper.”

Conrad can make out the etchings of concern on Richie’s face via candlelight. “Dude, what did you get into? Twenty thousand dollars? This?”

“I don’t know,” replies Conrad as he scrolls through search results. “And here, I just wanted to go watch the Yanks play later tonight. Beers and dogs.”

“I know, I know. This is just so weird.”

Varanne. A scientist over at NYU. Chemistry or something. According to the Times, she was found dead in her apartment. Self-inflicted gunshot wound. Weird thing, though, the apartment was completely empty. Like nothing in it besides a few chairs, tables, a bed. No clothes in the closet. Maybe somebody was looking for something…

“Huh.” Richie clicks his phone and leans to the center of the table. “Apparently,” he whispers, “this lawyer guy was murdered. House broken into, he and his wife all taped up. Robbed. Real messed up like from a slasher-movie, man.”

“This isn’t good.”

“Nope.”

“And Varanne was found dead via a pretty suspicious suicide…”

“Hey folks!” A waitress bobs over all cheery. “What can I get you?”

It takes a moment or two to compute, but when it does, Conrad manages, “a spaghetti pomodoro would be great. Maybe drinks. Two Long Islands?”

“Of course!” A little scribbling, and Conrad glances at the notebook, face-open on the table. Could just be a trick of the candle-light, but there seems to be more words on that page… “and for you?” she asks, turning to Richie.

“Uhh…” Richie picks up the menu for the first time, scanning it. “Chicken Marsala, please.”

“OK.” All smiles. “We’ll have those over for you in a few!” Turning to walk away, she pauses. The notebook. Curiosity. Is that recognition?

When the waitress is out of earshot, Richie grabs the notebook and slides it over. “There’s more stuff on it, man, look. Names of people? Numbers? Is that a P.O. number?”

“Did that… appear outta nowhere? How?”

“Must be some sorta invisible ink. Kinda like lemon juice under UV.”

“Invisible ink? Who would use invisible ink?”

“I don’t know. Spies, maybe? Someone… who wants to keep something secret…” Richie flips to another page. Blank. Holds it right next to the flame, and sure enough, faded lettering appears. This William Falls is mentioned again followed by what look to be addresses. Some googling… “these are buildings. One in Red Hook, former factory. Another is an apartment complex in Jackson Heights. What could this mean?”

Murder? Conspiracy? No, nope. Conrad’s done. His chest hurts, and he’s sweating more than that time when he got stuck in subway for two hours. After grabbing the notebook and shoving it into his pocket, Conrad says, “dude, no. This feels bad, like something’s off. Like these people knew something and died, okay?”

“That kinda looked like a number for a storage box—-“

“Rich,” Conrad whispers, urgent. “Man, forget this, okay. This… this is more than us. Look, whatever that notebook is, I still got the twenty thousand dollars. Just checked the bank app, and it’s in the account and everything. What do you say to ordering a few more drinks? Plan some kinda vacation. I heard the Seychelles is really nice. Aruba. The Maldives?”

Conrad imagines himself shredding the pages of the notebook and watching them swirl down the drain of the restaurant’s likely pristine toilet. Screw this, all of this. Better to stay out of it.

“But—-“

“Look, man. This is too much, okay. I haven’t felt this scared in a long time. Maybe since we almost got killed over near West 77th and Amsterdam. This is the Scooby-Doo kinda stuff that in real life would result in us dying. Please.”

“What are you going to do with the notebook, then?”

“I don’t know, burn it, maybe. Doesn’t matter. What matter is we are done. Goodbye, creepy notebook. Hello, beaches and drinks with little umbrellas.”

“You sure, man?”

“Yeah, Rich. One hundred percent. We have no stake in this. Nothing. And it’s not like they could just take the money away, right?”

“Okay,” says Richie, a little downtrodden. He stares at his hands before asking with a newfound grin, “You’re inviting me?”

“Of course, man. Alisha’s welcome as well. Come to think of it, I should call Laura. Bet she’d really love the idea of Aruba.”

The restaurant door chimes, but Conrad doesn’t look. He gulps, breathing shakily. Doesn’t sound like Richie heard the door. Good. Maybe it’s the man with the red lapel… but if confronted, just give him the notebook. Better than being tied in some rusty work-shed having your fingernails torn off by mafia psychos. Or Government-types, even someone political, doesn’t matter. Just give it away.