The Book of Air and Shadows

of the trip to Mishkin’s place and failed.
    Crosetti had one friend who had made it big directing commercials, and this friend had a classy SoHo loft, although nothing like the loft that Jake Mishkin had. He commented on this and observed, “I guess I should’ve gone to law school.”
    “Perhaps,” said his host, “but I don’t think you have the proper parasitic mouth parts. I believe you’re unfortunately a creator and doomed to support a great pyramid of people like me. Speaking of creators, where is it?”
    Crosetti took off his jacket and pulled out the envelope. Mishkin went to a long refectory table and carefully laid out each page, making two rows of eleven.
    They both stared at the pages for a while in silence, which Mishkin broke with, “That’s really remarkable. It looks like it was written last week.”
    “They were sealed in this,” said Crosetti and took the cylinder from his bag. “It was air and water tight, so hardly any decay or oxidation. Bracegirdle did a good job.”
    “Yes. Who knows that you found the play?”
    “Well, there are three people over in England who know we found something, but not necessarily what, then there’s me and Carolyn and my mom and I guess Klim.”
    “And where is Carolyn?”
    “I don’t know. She bolted at the airport, dropped by my mother’s house to see her kids, and left.”
    “Good Lord! Why would she do a thing like that?”
    Crosetti drew a deep breath. Now that he had to actually say it he felt his throat constrict around the words. “I think she’s going to Shvanov, to let him know what we found.”
    “Shvanov? What the hell does she have to do with Shvanov?”
    Crosetti gave him a short version of what Carolyn had told him in the Oxford hotel room the night she had come tapping upon his window. Mishkin seemed stunned by this revelation. “You mean she’s been Shvanov’s agent all this time?”
    “In a way, although I think Carolyn is pretty much always working for Carolyn. But my sense is they have a relationship too.”
    “As do you, I presume.”
    “Yeah. I thought we were pretty close, but who knows? Have you heard anything about your kids?”
    “No. I have a number to call when I have what they want.”
    “Which you now have. Are you going to call them? Obviously, Shvanov is going to find out pretty soon if he hasn’t already.”
    “Yes, but I’m not sure it’s Shvanov who has the children.”
    “Who else could it be?”
    “As I said, I’m not sure, but I’ve thought for some time that there are other players involved.” Mishkin picked up the title page and stared at it, as if the ability to read the strange handwriting might thereby flow into his head.
    Crosetti said, “You don’t seem very concerned.”
    “Oh, I’m concerned. I’m just not frantic.” He turned and faced Crosetti. “You probably don’t think I’m a very good father. I would agree: I’m not. I wasn’t trained by my own father, which I understand is required. How about you, Crosetti? Did you have a good father?”
    “Yeah, I did. I thought he was the greatest man on the planet.”
    “Lucky you. Deceased, I understand.”
    “Yeah. He was driving down the street, coming home from the office, when he spotted a couple of cops chasing a mutt. He got out of the car and joined in and he popped an artery. DOA. I was twelve.”
    “Yes. Well, this seems to conclude our business. We didn’t discuss payment for your time. What would you consider fair?”
    Crosetti suddenly wanted to get far away from this man and far from the tangled plot he represented. He couldn’t help thinking that Carolyn had a point about the exciting life. The right movie line would have been “You don’t owe me anything,” followed by a slamming exit, but what Crosetti said in real life was, “How about a round ten grand now, and another forty if it proves out?”
    Mishkin nodded. “I’ll send you a check.”

21
    I t’s snowing now, a heavy wet snow such as they get in the Northeast when the temperature is just cold enough for snow to form. I am back at the keyboard after a bracing trip in the chill. I visited the boathouse again and checked out the old mahogany speedboat. It is a seventeen-foot 1947 Chris-Craft Deluxe Runabout, with a ninety-five horsepower six, and it looks in mint condition. I filled its tank from a fifty-five-gallon gasoline drum with a hand pump on it. The key was in the ignition and I started it up. After a little coughing it roared nicely