In the background of the scene was a damn Kinetoscope. Something—no,someone, was crouched in front of it, but I couldn’t be sure what they were doing.
I started moving through the stills a bit faster, and persistence of vision nearly made the past come to life in my hands. I stopped when another object entered the frame and viewed it under magnification. That was Victim. He got into Muttonchops’s face. Maybe they were arguing?
Some of the stills were black and destroyed with age and poor exposure, but right at the end, Dickson appeared, like he was trying to break up a potential fight. So whatever the conflict had been in regards to, it was undoubtedly the fuel that fed the fire for murder.
What the hell happened between this group of talented men?
Had it been so awful that murder was the only recourse?
And how did it all tie in to Dickson then and the person who’d shot up the Emporium now?
“THIS ISa Brooklyn Bridge–bound 6 train. The next stop is Astor Place.”
I held on to the overhead railing with one hand and kept a grip on my cane with the other. I stared at the floor, avoiding the overblown lights of the subway car. Incoming riders moved around me to find places to sit or stand.
After our lunch and discussion of celluloid corruption and crime, I’d left Greta Harris and headed back to the city. I was overwhelmed with questions, but at least I had a consistent cast of faces to work with on my quest for answers. And putting names to the unknowns—Muttonchops, Victim, and that man who’d been fiddling with the Kinetoscope in the background of the last movie—was of the upmost importance. Knowing who all of the film assistants were, being able to correctly assign their roles in the unfolding story, that was where I hoped I’d discover a clue to today’s tribulations.
Not that I was basing this hope on any particular piece of evidence, just the stories from a foul-mouthed old man and an assailant with a penchant for candy who’d been ready to kill me for the rest of the movies Inowhad in my possession. But what I did know was that if I could untangle this historical web of contradictions, betrayal, and human ingenuity, I would close the case on a century-old murder andperhapseven alter the course of cinema history. And in so doing both of those things, might also be able to handcuff the person who killed Casey Robert.
Talk about killing two birds with one stone.
Maybe that wasn’t the best metaphor to use at the moment….
“This is Astor Place,” the automated system announced.
I put the cane in front of me and moved toward the doors. Someone to my left stepped aside. As the train slowed at the station, and pillars and people passed by the window in a blur, another passenger moved to stand beside me at the door. He leaned in close, surpassing those three inches of New Yorker personal space. I hated people like that. I wanted to get off the train too, guy, but there wasn’t much I could do before we’d even parked in the station.
The brakes screeched, and I shifted my weight to move with the motion of the halting train. The doors opened, and I took a step forward before the creep to my right shoved hard into my shoulder. My foot caught in the gap between the train and platform, causing me to flail and crash to the ground.
“Fuck!” My sunglasses flew off and I tried to break my fall, but I was too late and only managed to slam my face into the tacky, filthy cement floor and scrape up the heels of my hands.
After a moment of feeling around, I reached out, snagged my glasses, and put them on with shaking hands. I looked around the dimly lit platform for who’d tripped me, then zoned in on a teenage brat picking up my messenger bag. I made eye contact with him.
I knew him.
He’d been the one I’d asked regarding the brownstone with a red door.
“You!” I exclaimed.
He immediately took off toward the turnstile exits.
“H-hey! You little shit!” I grabbed my cane, scrambled to my feet, and chased after him. “Stop! Fuck—thief!” I screamed, hoping like hell a Good Samaritan would jump into his path and…no one was stopping him! Are youkiddingme?
“I said stop!” I shouted one more time.
The guy reached the exit, skidded to a halt, then jumped the nearest turnstile. I got there a few seconds later but was blocked as passengers were swiping cards to enter the platform. I swore and slammed my bruised hands into the bar of the emergency exit door, alarm wailing as I ran out. I didn’t recognize the back of the kid’s head so much as I recognized my bag being flung around in the crowd as he continued to outrun me. I’d learned my lesson about keeping all of my necessities in the bag, and so had kept my phone and keys in my jeans. But the goddamn Kinetoscope footage was safely tucked inside!
The teen was slowed by the afternoon foot traffic on the stairs, and I took the only chance I had. I lunged forward, using my cane to knock between his knees and trip the little shithead. As he fell, I surged toward him. I grabbed the back of the thin hoodie he was wearing, but as quickly as I thought I had him, he yanked his arms free of the clothing, took the bag again, and raced up the stairs.
“You asshole!” I tripped my way up to ground level after him.
But outside the Downtown 6, I stood bruised, out of breath, and empty-handed.
Chapter Thirteen
“SEBBY! WHATthe hell’s with all the police activity at the Emporium?” Beth paused and gave me a long, critical look from head to toe. “What the fuck happened toyou?” she corrected.
I stood in the doorway of Good Books, holding my disassembled cane and a bag from a nearby drugstore in one hand, and the hoodie of my thief in the other, like it was the head of my slayed enemy. The shop stereo was tuned to some shitty radio station playing a slew of cringe-worthy local advertisements.
