Billy Povich: Loot The Moon Part 14

"Were gonna lose it!"

"Fine then, thirty-five dollars."

"Log me in," the old man commanded. "The log-in name is g-r-o-v-e-r-w-h-a-l-e-n. Uh-huh. And then two. Uh-huh. No, the number two, dont spell it out. Jesus on a skateboard! Whered you learn to type? Okay, okay. The pa.s.sword is Ziggs."

"What the h.e.l.l kind of log-in is that?" Billy asked as he typed a bid of thirty-five dollars and clicked to confirm. "Okay, youre the high bidder."

The old man relaxed. He wiped his palms on his long flannel nights.h.i.+rt and explained, "I named myself for Grover Whalen. He was the New York City police commissioner who said, 'Theres plenty of law at the end of a nightstick. Heh-heh. They dont talk like that today. Then he was president of the worlds fair of thirty-nine. Im saluting him for what he did for the fair. Dont you understand how these auction places work? n.o.body uses their real name. Its like a nickname. Christ, I shouldnt have to explain this ... aint you younger than me?"

"Not feeling that way right now," Billy said. He refreshed the Web page. "Hey, you won. Congratulations on your new piece of paper."

The old man smiled. His wrinkles looked like contour lines for a very b.u.mpy life. Then suddenly he wheezed and grimaced in pain and Billy instinctively reached for him. The old man waved him back, banged a fist on his own chest, coughed three times, sputtered weakly as if he were about to die in the chair. Then he pulled himself clear of the cough and took a loud, deep breath. He moaned, grumbled about the indignities of old age, spat into his hand, inspected the clear foam, and then wiped the mess on the tail of his nights.h.i.+rt.

"Copy down the sellers address," the old man commanded, sounding hoa.r.s.e. "So I can send him a money order."

Billy wrote down the address. "Why do you buy all this c.r.a.p?" he asked.

"Im leaving it to Bo," the old man said.

"Youre leaving the kid this invitation? And the ashtrays, and the dinner plates you wont let anybody use, and the salt and pepper shakers-"

"Those shakers are in the original box," the old man interrupted. "And theyre only going up in value. The giant worlds fair mechanical pencil writes perfectly fine, and the jackknife has a mother-of-pearl handle."

"Whats the kid supposed to do with this junk?"

The old man paused. "Bos going to remember me," he said. He frowned and looked away, then sc.r.a.ped a fingernail over some crusty stain on the arm of his wheelchair. "The more stuff I have to give him, the more h.e.l.l have to remind him. I dont believe in h.e.l.l, and if theres a heaven I cant be sure Im going. But Ill have my immortality through that kid. He knows me through the worlds fair, see? Its my only hobby, the only pa.s.sion I got left, and the only thing I know more about than his father, okay?"

Billy confirmed gently, "Youre the encyclopedia of this fair, Pa."

"Youre G.o.dd.a.m.ned right I am. Did you know that the centerpiece of the fair, the Trylon and the Perisphere exhibits, inspired the magic castle in Disneyland? See, someday when Bo takes your grandkids to Disney, no matter how old hes gonna be, h.e.l.l think of the fair, and h.e.l.l think of me. Might even tell his kids a story or two they can pa.s.s along to their kids." He looked at Billy. "This invitation is the last piece of the collection. We end with the beginning ... . You wanna have that discussion about my treatment now?"

A python flexed around Billys throat. He gestured vaguely to the spread of pictures and notes on the table. "Pa, I gotta work ... . This case Im on is, ah, a real b.i.t.c.h."

The old man slowly spun 180 degrees in the chair. As he rolled out, he warned without looking back, "Dont put me off till its too late. Never think of the future-it comes soon enough."

Billy gave him a double take.

The old man read his mind. He shook the doll and said, "Yeah, Im quotin Einstein."

"Missed it by THAT much!"

Billy woke with a start and lifted his head from the table.

Im half blind!

He blinked his eyes. No, he wasnt blind-he had fallen asleep on his notes, and a photograph had stuck to his face. He peeled it off, then winced at the pain in his back, which sizzled down his hamstrings.

The photograph reminded him of his minor breakthrough in identifying Adam Rackerss tattoo: dismas23.

Not that the discovery had helped at all.

He tapped the computers s.p.a.ce bar and dispelled the screen saver. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he read the clock in the bottom corner of the display.

Oh, s.h.i.+t, 6:33 a.m. He had slept the night at the kitchen table. No wonder his back hurt.

The Web page he had studied a few hours before was still on the screen. The page listed Catholic saints throughout history. It was there Billy had found Saint Dismas. He was the "good thief," who had asked for a blessing while being crucified next to Christ. Dismas was the patron saint of criminals. Billy had never known criminals had their own saint. The numeral 23 he had not been able to decipher for sure. Maybe it had to do with the mention of the good thief in chapter 23 of the Gospel According to Luke, or maybe that was a coincidence.

He clicked the e-mail message that had woken him. It was for his father: Dear groverwhalen2, Congratulations on winning the bid for the Worlds Fair Opening Ceremonies invitation. I promise to s.h.i.+p the item within 24 hours of receiving payment.

Best- cancanman036 What the h.e.l.l was a cancanman036? Who would do business under a nickname like that? His father planned to send money to this unseen person on the West Coast. Who knew where cancanman036 even got this thirty-five-dollar invitation? He could have stolen it from a geriatric invalid at the nursing home next door.

Billy pushed himself from the chair, and gasped as his body tightened like a clamp. He heard his fathers voice in his mind, Welcome to my world. Feel good? Clutching the back of his chair, he rolled his shoulders and gently forced his back to straighten. "Oh! Oh!" he cried quietly, in surprise. The pain was like having the nerves yanked from his legs, the way an electrician pulls wires through a pipe. He grew lightheaded and feared he might pa.s.s out, until the muscles loosened and the pain slowly diluted through his body. He found aspirin in the cabinet and chewed five tablets with no water. He kept the aspirin paste under his tongue for a minute before he swallowed, because he had heard it got into the bloodstream faster that way.

"Aint you the picture of health," said the old man. "Who did this to you? I thought you were paid up with the bookmakers."

Billy turned to face him, felt a twinge in his lower lumbar, and froze. "Didnt hear you come in." He rolled his upper body around his hips. "Hey, Pa, did I hear you talking to yourself again this morning?"

The old man bristled. "So what if you did? This apartment is in America, aint it? I got my free speech rights, even in this second-story gulag with no elevator."

Billy turned his hands up in surrender. "I bow to the First Amendment. Talk all you want."

"Im skipping treatment today," the old man declared.

Oh, f.u.c.k, not now.

"We never had our discussion," Billy said, not daring to look at him.

"Thats your fault. I dont have forever to wait."

Billy turned to his father. The old man wore a short housecoat over threadbare cotton pajamas. His knees were parted. His legs were so G.o.dd.a.m.n thin, just sticks and angles, like a gra.s.shoppers legs. "Pop-"

"Any news on my worlds fair item?"

Billy licked his lips and accepted the old mans detour around the discussion of his slow suicide. He said, "Just got an e-mail from someone named cancanman-zero-three-six-"

Billy stopped, struck by a thought.

The anonymity of the Internet ...

"Well, what did he say?" the old man demanded. "He better not be backing out of this auction. I won-fair and rectangular."

"Pop, can we look people up by their nicknames? At this auction site?"

"Yeah, nicknames and home cities. But you cant see their real names unless they want you to. Am I not getting my worlds fair invitation?"

Billy shuffled to the chair and plopped down. His hands trembled as he tapped the address for the auction site. "Show me how."

Together, the two Povich men-one of whom was still mystified that a microwave can make a frozen sausage so hot it explodes, yet somehow knows not to set paper plates on fire-navigated the sites various search features until they found a place to type a nickname to locate any member.

"Who you looking for?" the old man asked.

Billy typed dismas23 and commanded the machine to search.

One exact match.

Hometown: Providence, R.I.

"Huh. You found somebody local," the old man said. He clumsily slapped a photograph on the table, and turned it to read the inscription on Adam Rackerss shoulder. "Dismas-twenty-three? Who is this feller supposed to be?"

Billy was too far along to begin an explanation. "How can I see what hes been selling?" he snapped.

"Click his history." He pointed to the screen.

What a history!

Billy browsed page after page of recorded transactions. Over the past twelve months, dismas23 had been a clearinghouse for womens fas.h.i.+on, high-end electronics, new DVD movies, designer sungla.s.ses, wrist.w.a.tches, rare silver coins, and sterling tableware.

The old man let go a low whistle. "This guys made a fortune online."

"Would all of these people have sent him checks or money orders?"

"He only accepted electronic transfers," the old man said, reading the screen. He s.h.i.+fted in the wheelchair, and Billy caught the faintest whiff of aftershave and dirty hair. "Im afraid of those transfers. Whats wrong with money on paper? What if I hit a bad key and send my bank account to some teenager in Poland? Uh-uh, boy."

Billy could not be sure dismas23 was Adam Rackers, but the clues were persuasive. There were no new auctions listed under that nickname after Rackerss death, and several of his most recent buyers had posted complaints that they never got their merchandise. Dead men dont visit the post office.

"Were so close," Billy said. "How can these people help us find him?"

"See if he bought anything," the old man suggested.

Billy clicked the b.u.t.tons to exclude all sales from the list of transactions. A much shorter list of purchases remained. With the old mans shaky guidance, Billy found the one item dismas23 had bought within the last three months of Rackerss life-the period for which he had no known address.

The object was a tiny eyepiece, for which dismas23 had paid sixteen dollars.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?" the old man asked.

"A loupe," Billy said. "Its like a magnifying gla.s.s or a little microscope. Jewelers use them to examine gems, to help decide what the stones are worth. Hmm. Now, why would Rackers buy a loupe?"

"Why would who buy a magnifying doohickey?"

"Just a guy Im trying to find, Pa."

"This guy in the pictures you got spread out here?"

"Sort of."

"Aint he dead?"

"He was alive for the time Im trying to find him."

"What-?"

"Why would he buy a loupe ... unless he was going to examine some gems ... ."

"If you wanna find this guy, why not ask the photographer who took these pictures? Doesnt look like h.e.l.l be moving too fast."

"Lets concentrate on the loupe, okay?" Billy asked.

The old man harrumphed and tightened the drawstring of his housecoat. His waist was as thin as a childs. Billy looked away. In his youth, William Povich Sr. could have benchpressed Greenland, or so it had seemed to Billy.

"Sixteen bucks for that doohickey," the old man said with a chuckle. "I told you there were deals on this site."

"Pop, please," Billy said after a deep breath. "I need to find where this guy was living."

"Well, then ask the seller where the heck he mailed the doohickey. Had to send it somewhere."

Billy slapped his own forehead and thundered, "Now you G.o.dd.a.m.n tell me!"

In a far corner of the apartment, Bos tiny voice echoed: "Now you G.o.dd.a.m.n tell me!"

The old man punished Billy with a dirty look, then called down the hall: "You hush with that talk, Bo."

"Yup!"

"Change outta your jammies and get me the newspaper on the porch, okay?" the old man ordered.

"Yup!"

Billy sighed and typed a message to the seller, icedealer177. "Ill just ask him for the address, right?"

"Wont work," the old man said with a sour face. "Say that youre interested in what hes got for sale, on the recommendation of dismas-twenty-three."

"Why so complicated?"

"If some stranger asks anonymously for the address of one of your customers, what would you do?"

Billy huffed impatiently. But he took the old mans suggestion, deleted what he had typed, and wrote a new message.

He sent it.

They waited.

"I guess thats all we do right now," Billy said after three minutes.

"If I dont hear from him, Ill send another message every twenty-four hours. Eventually ... ."

"Missed it by THAT much!"

Billy and the old man looked at each other in surprise. Billy opened the message: To groverwhalen2 ... i offer many items for sale, on the internet and through special arrangement. where is dismas23? is he mad i sold his address to junk mail marketing list? an oversight on my part. tell him i remain VERY interested in the arrangement we discussed. i am prepared to offer best price, if quality as good as he says.