“Kinetoscope,” I grumbled.
“A Kinetoscope upstairs?”
A woman, presumably Greta, joined my clueless friend a moment later. She had at least two decades on me but held herself with more elegance and grace than most people could ever hope for at their youngest and hottest. She was my height, with salt-and-pepper-looking afro hair, glasses, and a sharp ensemble.
“Is there a Kinetoscope?” She echoed before facing me. “Yes, there is.”
“Great,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “What about a curator to speak with regarding some of the artifacts?”
“Museum educators are available for group tours.”
“It’s just me,” I replied.
She looked sympathetic. “Unfortunately the educators are only available for preorganized tours. You’re welcome to call and book a date. Otherwise it’s a self-visit.”
Well, shit.
“My name’s Sebastian Snow, and I own Snow’s Antique Emporium in Manhattan,” I began, holding a hand out.
“Greta Harris,” she said, shaking it. “I’m one of the museum directors.”
“Pleasure,” I said. “I’m actually here for research, which is why I was hoping to speak—”
The guy shoved a business card across the counter. “You can contact our research department,” he offered—trying to be helpful.
I picked up the card.
“They respond to all inquiries within two weeks.”
I handed the card back. “I don’t have two weeks. It’s sort of an… odd situation I’m in, and I can’t provide a lot of explanation,” I continued, turning back to Greta. “I know a fair amount about the Kinetoscope and Graph themselves, but I need details about the man behind the inventions—”
“William Kennedy-Laurie Dickson,” Greta supplied.
“Yes!” I felt myself getting excited and—daresay—hopeful. “And if I could learn more about him and the early films he did for Edison, let’s just say the NYPD would be thankful.”
She looked a bit intrigued. Maybe in pursuit of curiosity she’d killed a cat or two in her lifetime too.
But she didn’t say anything for a long, uncomfortable minute.
I looked down, opened my messenger bag, and pulled out the paper bag Mr. Robert had supplied me with. “I have these,” I said.
“Have what?” she asked.
“Original Kinetoscope footage.”
Greta leaned forward. “Which movies?”
“Honestly? I’ve no idea. I haven’t been able to look at them.” I lowered the bag. “I have a Kinetoscope in my possession, and the knockout round of the Leonard-Cushing fight. But… er… it’s at my shop, which is… inaccessible at the moment.”
“There’s no surviving footage of the knockout round,” she replied.
I smiled. “There wasn’t until this week, when it fell into my lap.”
Greta tapped the counter with a finger. “There’s simply no way we can play your footage in our machine, if that’s what you hoped for. It’s a replica. And the museum cannot be held accountable for any damage done.”
“I just need to talk to someone who knows more than me,” I said, an underlying tone of desperation in my words.
Greta gave me a look of conflicting emotions. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was supposed to mean. “I’m sorry, Mr. Snow. The best I can offer is contacting our research department or… a group tour on a future date.”
