“Sir, that’s not what my business—”
“I was looking for the cat this morning,” he continued, picking up a paper bag sitting on a chair, “and found the other two reels. Then I remembered I didn’t have a goddamn cat, and called you about the films.”
What the…?
Mr. Robert turned and smirked. “Laugh, boy! It’s a joke. I’m old, but I know I haven’t owned a pussy cat since 1935.” He pointed the pipe at me. “Siamese. Agatha.”
“Lovely.”
He put the pipe back and held the bag out.
“Why did you decide to send it to me?” I asked as I moved forward, took the bag, and set it on the nearest semiclear spot I could find. In this case, a piano.
“Found you on Google.”
“Oh.” I reached inside and pulled out the cans of footage. One had a small dent in the lid. “Do you mind if I open them?”
“I didn’t bring you here for sightseeing! Go on!” He sat down in the now-empty chair.
I reached into my messenger bag, which was slung over a shoulder, felt around, and retrieved cloth gloves. “But why did you give me the Kinetoscope for safekeeping?”
“Ah, well, my grandson, that little brat, has been acting strange.”
I looked up. “Strange like…?”
“He wanted me to give him the Kinetoscope! Where would that boy keep it? He rents a bedroom in Bushwick. I didn’t trust him, so I pretended to get rid of it. Until he calms down.”
Suddenly I was thankful I hadn’t indulged in a falafel over rice on the street corner. My stomach churned uncomfortably. “You were afraid he’d… steal it from you?”
Mr. Robert nodded. “That’s right.”
“The machine itself or the film?” I held up both cans.
“Couldn’t be sure. So the other day, I unspooled it all, packed it into one of those cans, and sent it to you. I knew I had more movies. It took me two days to find where I’d stored them.”
I looked down at the worn, slightly beaten-up cans. “Sir, are you aware that there’s some disturbing footage at the end of the Leonard-Cushing boxing match?”
“The murder?”
“Yes!” I said quickly. I put the cans in the bag and walked to the chair Mr. Robert sat in. I crouched beside him to be closer to eye level. “What can you tell me about that?”
“I was born in 1928. Fuck you if you think I’m old enough to have been a witness.”
“No, I—” I tried not to laugh. “Do you know who it wasinthe film? The man killed?”
He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully, a cloud of cherry smoke settling around us. “I bought the Kinetoscope from a man who said it’d belonged to his father—Tom Something-Or-Other. His father worked alongside W. K. L. Dickson. Do you know who that is?”
“Dickson was the chief inventor of the Kinetoscope,” I replied. “But who was this Tom person?”
“Oh, who the hell knows. An assistant at Black Maria—lost to history. You know what the Black Maria was, don’t you, kid?”
Again with the “boy” and “kid” shit.
“Edison’s film studio in Jersey,” I answered. “Also designed by Dickson. The building had the ability to rotate in order to utilize the sunlight—” I caught myself from going off the rails. “Sorry. Uh, this long-lost assistant, Tom—washeinvolved in the murder? What did his son tell you about the footage when you bought it?”
Mr. Robert stroked one out-of-control eyebrow. “Just to keep it safe.”
“Safe from what?”
