“No,” I said between hysterical chuckles. “I’m exhausted, alone, CSU has my shoes, and I’m wondering if I can put ketchup on Chinese food!”
“You sound hangry.”
“I am!”
“I have your messenger bag,” Neil said after a beat.
I grabbed a wad of napkins from the takeout and sopped up the sticky mess while simultaneously shoving Dillon away as he tried to lick the floor.
“I can drop it off,” Neil continued.
“You don’t have to do that,” I muttered.
“Winter isn’t around, so your options are limited.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“I should have been a prosecutor.”
“Wow, did Neil Millett just crack a joke?”
“What’s your new address?”
I gave Neil the street number and told him to buzz the apartment when he arrived. I set the phone aside after he ended the call, finished cleaning the sauce, and took the mess into the kitchen. I dumped the container and napkins into the trash, then went to the fridge. Usually the light from inside, combined with a dark room, hurt my eyes, but seeing as how I was still wearing my sunglasses because,bag! I grabbed the last bottle of beer, decided against using ketchup on the chicken, and left the room.
Since the table was inaccessible due to the mountain of shit, and with my luck, I’d spill what remained of dinner all over our new I-paid-how-much-for-it sofa—I opted for sitting on the floor. And there I remained, sipping beer, eating greasy chicken, and finally letting myself reflect on… well, everything.
Edison’s brilliant assistant, W. K. L. Dickson, built the Kinetoscope.
And someone, likely the crew behind the invention, shot footage of a man being brutally murdered.
Fast forward a century later, and that movie ends up in my shop.
And in one day, the Emporium was broken intotwice, someone had stolen half of the reel, left a kid dead in my alley, I was attacked, and the second portion of the film was snatched right from my own hands.
Where’re the other movies?
I glared at the far brick wall, where the partial bookshelf was, and took another long swig of beer. Mr. Licorice must have been the dead kid’s partner-in-crime, and he’d followed me home from the Emporium. What was important to note was that he’d snagged the reel of footage before he’d even grabbed me, which said something about his priorities. And when he did speak, he could have demanded anything from me—phone, wallet, blood type, my hand in marriage—but he asked for movies.
Theothermovies, to be precise.
So, did that imply the Kinetoscope had come with more than one canister? But it hadn’t. Max and I had checked that crate inside and out. Or did—did he perhaps know about the murder spliced on the end? Were there more than one ofthose? Did that bring legitimacy to my suggestion that someone in modern times was somehow concerned about the content—be it uncovering who the victim and killer were, or perhaps even keeping those identities concealed?
Or was this all nothing more than an elaborate attempt to hold me accountable for lost property?
I huffed to myself.
But why kill that kid? Brat though he might have been, no one deserved the fate he had. No one deserved to have their fucking body dumped as if it were actual trash. Maybe the kid wanted to call the whole thing off. Or maybe his partner didn’t want to share the potential cash I’d be liable for?
And who was Mr. Licorice? I thought our suspicions of Pete had seemed legitimate. No one outside of my little circle knew about this footage except him. And Pete was well aware of what the Kinetoscope was. But even if he’d been working with the kid killed tonight… he hadn’t been the one to attack me. Pete looked fairly strong, sure, but he wasn’t tall enough. That, and while I hadn’t seen Mr. Licorice’s face, he’d gotten close enough that I’d have felt a beard on my ear, should it have been Pete.
Wasthere a third person involved? Or was I suspicious of Pete just because I didn’t like him?
I shuddered when a very real thought occurred to me: If Mr. Licorice expected me to have more movies—which I did not—was my fate going to be found inside of a dumpster too?
The door buzzer nearly scared the shit out of me when it sounded, bouncing and echoing off the still-empty walls of the apartment.
Dillon stood as I did and followed me to the door. He was a good dog. He’d protect me until Calvin got home. And be handsomely rewarded in biscuits.
