The Little Black Book of Riddles

The cold wind, passing by, blowing by to the east. The neighborhood is rather empty. The foul weather has drawn everyone inside, close to their furnaces and fireplaces. I, on the other hand, find this an opportune time. Traffic will be light, checkout lines will be sure to be short. Rather me, I love it when it's like this, allowing me to indulge in conveniences I wish I could every day.

Today, though, is rather different than other cold, windy days. Once upon a lifetime ago, I came across a mysterious book buried in the snow in the gutter. Nearly soaked and frozen solid; someone must've thrown it from their car, but it was black- jet black. Leather bound, white pages, but the leather had been tanned and dyed, and probably further burned to achieve this matte, dark color before binding. Who would make such a book?

The contents of the book are almost as interesting as the color of the leather covers. Page after page, codes, ciphers, and riddles, some solved by whoever possessed this book before I. Every night, I work tirelessly to decode it, for the last page was a prize: a check, with the amount, routing numbers, and a memo saying, 'A prize from yours truly'. The front page of this book contained the instructions to solve each cipher for the name for whom this book and check originated. How much is the check for, you must be wondering? A life changing $20,000. That amount could pay a student loan, debt, or even a medical bill. For me, it's about paying next month's rent.

Tonight, though, is rather different because there's one last riddle; I've worked tirelessly, every night, losing sleep to solve each and every message. This one requires a physical location to solve, which isn't unique amongst the 80-someodd questions. At first, I was confused on who's name could possibly be 80 characters long, but the more I worked on it, the more I realized it's a riddle in a riddle; letters and instructions to organize the letters, and to verify the letters. Brilliant really.

Here I am, at the location of the last riddle. The corner crossroad of Phillis and Phelps. standing on a discolored brick that constructs the walkway, looking at the apartments across the street in the northward direction, tilting my head slightly. The bus here was much obliged to have a patron ride on a day such as this, with everyone secluded in their homes around their furnace. But me? I'm here solving a burning passion that's been in my heart for the past 13 years. What do I see? Little Lake Apartments. The riddle called for where to look, and find the letter that was most common in sight. The Letter 'L'.

Boris Cornelius Maxwell, that's the name. With everything solved, I feel somewhat empty. Never have I had a day where I didn't work day in, day out. I guess my schedules changing tomorrow. Somehow, this little black book was so carefully and expertly coordinated, there's a bank a little ways walk from where I'm standing. The wind is blowing quite hard and quite cold, almost enough to freeze me solid and blow me up into the sky at the same time.

Empty streets, empty sidewalks, the walk was almost serene. That clarity you have after you've written a masterpiece, pen and point.

"Welcome to West Bank," the teller greets me through the door, "Quite the storm out, isn't it?"

"Yes," I smile, coming further into the building, bringing my hands out and bring them together to warm them with my breath, "Say, ma'am, does the name Boris Maxwell mean anything in particular to you or this establishment?"

"If I recall, Mr. Maxwell founded this bank a someodd 50 years ago."

I chuckle at the conclusion of this all. How this little black book came into my possession, or the possession of who held it before me. "I have a check I'd like to cash," I tell her, pulling out the little black notebook, "Do you have a pen I could use, by chance?"

"Yes," she pulls one out from behind the desk, handing it to me.

Pen and point, I write the mastermind's name, and then mine for the $20,000 payout. I pull the check from its perforated binding and endorse the check. "Here you go," I hand it to her.

She lifts it to the light, checking its authenticity, "How did you come across one of these?"

"One winter afternoon, I found it in the gutter," I admit, smiling at the humble beginning I nearly forgot.

"Well, it checks out, Mr. Donson," she says, putting the check in the drawer, "How would you like payment?"

"Cash, please," I tell her, "As large as you can make it."

"I can do 200 Benjamins, is that okay?" she begins logging the transaction in the ledger.

I clear my throat, trying not to have a coughing fit, "Yes, that's fine."

"I'll be right back," she says, standing up and going to the back room, probably into the vault where they keep the majority of the funds. It's nice to be in a heated room on a night like this, a night that's cold and windy. she comes back from the back room, with two envelopes, thick and filled to their capacity with currency. "Here you are, Mr. Donson," she slides the envelopes through the opening in the glass separating the two of us.

"Thank you," I take them, placing them in my inside pocket of my coat, "Do you think you could call a cab for me? I don't see a phone out here."

"Sure!" she affirms me, enthusiastically.

And she did call a cab, and the cab came and picked me up, and drove me an hour back home. Decided to be generous tonight, and handed him one of the big bills before he left. These times are difficult nowadays, and I don't believe fortune should be kept to one's self. The sky is just about that color before dawn, where it's not quite black and not quite blue. The wind let up while we were driving.

As I open the door and remove my key, there he is, my landlord. I suppose I am two weeks late on rent, as I've been for quite some time. "Donson!" he calls out, "Ya' got the rent yet?"

"Actually," I begin, "I'd like to pay this month's and three months advance, if you don't mind."

"Really?!" he scoffs, laughing at the proposition. I suppose I've never had the track record signaling I'm capable or willing to do something like this.

But I reach into my pocket, removing the funds necessary to pay the man, "Here you go, this should cover it, shouldn't it?"

He's gobstopped, "Did you cash your retirement or somethin'?"

"Something like that," I say, continuing on my way up to my room.

Perhaps I'll finally open a savings at the bank. I take the two envelopes and the little black, leather bound notebook and place them in the drawer to my nightstand, and retire to bed. As it would seem, I worked the whole night through, and I'll take the day off of work tomorrow and rest.

~The End~