The Inheritance

“No,” the old man said, “it’s not for sale.”

The flimsy price-tag dangled tauntingly from the top of the acorn-brown bookshelf.

“Then why...?”

“Because that’s exactly what someone once offered me to sell the place. Twenty grand. Can you believe it? I’ve worked here nigh on forty years and losing this place would be akin to selling my soul. No, sir, I won’t sell the notebook and I won’t sell the store just so it can be a coffee shop; a pie shop...”

“If I buy it will you throw in a pen for free?” I said with a wink.

He looked at me incredulously, as if his little speech would tug at my heartstrings. It didn’t.

Instead, I flung open my briefcase on the counter, briefly checked to see that all was in order, and surrendered its contents: a neat stack of bills and a Colt .45. The old man gasped.

In a flash my finger was on the trigger. “Give me the notebook. The little black one. That’s right, hand it over,” I said, “and be quick about it. We don’t have much time.”

Suddenly, as he reached to take it off the shelf, the old man tensed, his entire body stiff. His fists clenched and unclenched as he groaned in agony. He slumped to the floor, his breath shallow. “Take it. It’s yours. I don’t need your filthy money and killing me wouldn’t have worked anyhow. My ticker made sure of that!”

So. With his last breath he had laughed at me. Good riddance. I still had the money, the gun, and what I came for.

This was no ordinary notebook. Rumor was, he who possessed it possessed more information than any library in the world. Write down your question, close the book, and open it the following morning. There it was, your answer, no matter how obscure the question. What happened to Amelia Earhart? Who killed JFK? Where’s my lucky sock? I knew it had to be special or the FBI wouldn’t have left me a lock box with the money, the gun, and the last known address of the old coot. Imagine how much fun a guy could have solving all the unsolved mysteries in about a week. Yeah, I know. I coulda offered them the answer to one riddle at a time in exchange for impunity and a million bucks, but I guess I was about as dumb as the guy who thought he could just add it to his collection of odds and ends instead of locking it in a security vault or turning it in himself.

That night, I made quick work of the chicken and mash I had in the fridge and washed it down with a cold one. I may have been scrawny with a scruffy beard and brown hair that could use a trim, a twenty-grand cut to be precise, but I felt like a million bucks and would sleep well. I thought about Rose, the gal with a rose tattoo on her right thigh, then thought better of it. After all, I looked like hell and was carrying a wad of cash and a gun. She’d ask too many questions and as we all know, women are mysterious creatures. They may not talk much in the sack, but they’ll say plenty to the cops if it suits them. Or talk too much but keep quiet to your betterment if that suits them. Rose was the latter, but right now, I didn’t trust anyone, much less myself.

I rolled over to get some shut eye and, when that went over like a lead balloon, rolled the other way to stare at the briefcase I’d set on the pathetic excuse of a kitchen table.

There was a half-chewed pencil on the coffee table, and every last divot pressed against my palms as I shuffled over. I fumbled with the latches as if it were 3 AM and I was coming home from the bar or it was my first date with Rose all over again.

Finally, they released and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was just a notebook. Just a small, black notebook. And I was going to see if the rumors were true, that’s all, ask a simple question I already knew the answer to.

What should I do next? I scrawled, half-hoping the reply would appear on the page immediately, or that the book would suddenly burst into flames to remind me I was playing with fire. When neither of those things happened, I smiled and closed it, weighing it down with my ashtray. Another thing about me that probably kept Rose away from my maison d’amour.

The following morning, I awoke unusually early. Like a dumb kid on Christmas morning, I tip-toed over and gingerly opened the briefcase. Surveying the contents, nothing had changed. The money. The Colt .45. The notebook. All still there. Well, something had changed. There was going to be an answer.

GENESIS CAFE 1350 W. JONES STREET it read. I laughed in spite of myself, thinking I might hear angels singing, each word illuminated, or see the answer written in calligraphy. Nope.

I threw on the cheap gray suit and the black leather shoes that lay in a heap like the dirty dishes in the sink. When I was six feet under, the last thing they were gonna write on my gravestone was: Here lies Adam Fritz, so clean and neat he gave starch a run for its money.

The tidal wave of humanity hit me the moment I left the apartment. It was half-past eight and about a twenty-minute walk to the café. Of course. Rush hour. I put the notebook inside my silk-lined jacket and kept my head down, adrenaline pumping, just waiting for some punk to try and....

I’d stuffed the money inside the mattress and the gun was tucked into my pants. It was broad daylight and I looked relatively harmless. Nobody was gonna jump me, and if they did, why, they’d answer to my fist or the .45. Simple.

At five to nine I arrived at the café. A pretty redhead was sweeping the area in front of the register and she had the whole place to herself. Good. I could find a table and nurse a cup of joe while I waited for whatever was gonna happen to happen.

I pushed the door and it barely budged. I tried again. Nothing.

“Read the sign, you moron.” the redhead said, and I pursed my lips as I looked up slightly and my eyes darted first to the woman with her hands on her hips and then the sign on the door informing me and the rest of the world that the café opened at nine. I put both hands up and backed away slowly, making sure not to let the jacket give her a peek at my ticket to the pen.

When the neon sign lit up and the doors swung open, I waited until a few people had gone inside and then joined them. The redhead looked me up and down slowly as I approached.

“Is a booth alright?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Right this way, sir.”

I slid into the seat like hot butter in a pan. I looked around, in case someone or something was breathing down my scrawny neck. I closed my eyes and heard only the fans humming, the gossip of lonely housewives, snatches of conversation about the game last week or a horse that was a sure shot, the smell of frying bacon and then, a sudden whiff of perfume. My eyes flew open.

A brunette was sitting across from me. A gorgeous one at that. She was wearing a white silk shirt with pearl buttons, a black skirt that hugged her tighter than her mama, and black and white patent leather pumps. A cigarette dangled from between her fingers, the smoke drifting lazily into the air.

She brought it to her lips, her bright red lipstick never smudging. “I know you have it.”

“Have what?” I nearly squeaked.

“In your jacket. The notebook. Give it to me.”

“You trailed me from the apartment or somethin’?”

She smiled, tilting her head up to exhale like some sadistic dragon.

“No. The notebook has been in my family for centuries. My father refused to sell it, but put a price tag on it, an exorbitant amount, just in case the day came when he’d have to choose.”

“Choose what?”

“To reveal its secret or die. To –oh, why am I wasting my time talking with you? You already know. I know it told you to meet me here.”

“It told me to go to the café.”

She waved this away. “I know you would meet me here. Your face. You look nervous. I don’t blame you, it’s like you have a – grenade in your pocket, a stick of dynamite. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. Lucky for you it takes time to get an answer. Can you imagine if it told you what you wanted to know in an instant? The world would collapse – society would break down-oh! Thanks, Gabby.”

A steaming pile of pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs and links was placed under my nose, and then a hot cup of black coffee and a jelly donut. I lifted my fork, then paused, narrowing my eyes.

“What, no syrup? I know how holding onto something so precious can steal a man’s appetite. I mean, have you seen yourself lately?” She reached into a clutch and snapped open a tiny makeup mirror.

“Ok, ok, you made your point. I could use a shave and a haircut and my teeth, well, don’t get you started, huh?”

She snorted and closed it. “Nobody’s perfect. Eat. Then we talk business.”

I nervously shoveled the food in. I hadn’t had a decent breakfast in years and here was this drop-dead goddess willing to feed a filthy bum.

“What about you, lady? You gonna eat or what? What’s your name, anyways?”

“Give me the notebook and then we’ll talk. It’s Evelyn, by the way. Now hand it over.”

I pushed the empty plate away and sighed. “Lady, I don’t know nothing ‘bout you, either. For all I know, you did five years in the pen, just like me, and handing it over would be giving the baby his bottle.”

“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. We can do this the easy way, where I buy you breakfast and take what is mine and I never see you or your gun ever again. Or, we do it the hard way, where I buy you breakfast, take what is mine, and then take what is yours. That notebook has been in the Bloom family for generations. You insulted me once – by having the chutzpah to try and buy it off my poor father and no doubt threatening him to get it – and it won’t happen again.”

“Is that so?” I asked.

“That’s right. Would you like to take this conversation elsewhere? Somewhere where there are fewer distractions? I knew you were packin’ because you don’t strike me as the type to be, shall we say, unprepared.”

I chuckled. “Lady, you’re distraction enough. I’m here, like I’m supposed to be, and that’s where I plan to stay until I figure out why.”

“Then meet me out back, just behind the restaurant. We’ll do it there.”

I knew what she meant, but Temptation took a swing at me.

“Just give me a second to splash some water on my face, alright?”

She nodded slightly and I stood up and walked into the men’s room a few steps ahead of her.

Moments later, I was behind the café, in a small space meant only for miserable bus boys who wanted to sit and stew on milk crates, smoke, or eat their pathetic sack lunches. She was already there, back against the wall, waiting for me.

“Well?”

I approached, still wondering if this was all a dream. No, I could still feel the .45 resting against my gut and the notebook pressing gently against my ribcage.

I caught a whiff of her perfume again, and had half a mind to bolt. To run home and hope I would never meet her in a dark alley some night.

I was inches from her face now. Then closer. “N--” I managed, before she pressed her lips to mine and her breasts pressed against what she came for. Then, her hands went to work, but only to render me even more defenseless than she already had.

“Too bad,” she said, and the bullet did the talking for a change.

I collapsed in a heap, howling in pain as the noise whipped café staff in earshot into a frenzy and it wasn’t long before the sirens howled too. The notebook was gone. Of course it was. Evelyn Bloom was too, and I kinda admired her for running in those heels of hers without looking back. The click-clacking heels had resounded like a metronome gone mad, followed by the roar of an engine as its occupant peeled away.

But I knew she hadn’t meant to kill me. And wouldn’t. A couple weeks in the hospital and I was bound to be good as new. Let her have it. I have the money and I have Rose and I have my whole life ahead of me. And that’s the truth.