Part 3 (2/2)

”Look, you're going to have to go,” I said. ”I don't know anything about this, and you know, you want me to be discreet and everything, but this is clearly some sort of illegal thing you have going here.”

”Moss is not a controlled substance,” he informed me, laughing.

”Oh sorry, I maybe misunderstood you before,” I said. ”Because you said how people in the building got all mad when you were trying to grow it up there on the roof, so I was thinking maybe they wouldn't like to find out that instead you decided to grow it on the eighth floor in the middle of the building, where it might actually spread.”

”Ah,” said Len. ”I understand why perhaps you thought I said that.”

”Yeah, it sounded a little like that, like people maybe wouldn't be so thrilled to hear what you were doing here.”

”That's not what I was saying,” he said.

”So I don't actually need to keep my mouth shut about this?” Elfman laughed again, to himself this time.

”What's so funny, Len?”

”Nothing, no, nothing.” He looked back at the kitchen, this time with real longing. ”Do you like moss?” he asked me.

”Honestly, I've never thought about it that much.”

”It is a rare spirit that appreciates moss,” he said, as if this were news. ”I have seventeen different species in this particular mossery. Some of them are exceedingly beautiful. The curators at the two public botanical gardens in the city would give their eyeteeth, frankly. It's actually a bit of an achievement that I could do what I've done, and under these conditions? Please. Let me show you.”

”That's not necessary, Len.”

”Please,” he said, holding out his elegant dirty hand, like a prince at some ball, waiting to sweep me into a dance.

”What the h.e.l.l,” I said.

So for the next hour, this strange guy walked me through the intricacies of moss, gametoph.o.r.es and microphylls and archegonia-that's the female s.e.x organ of moss, who knew-and how much water moss needs for fertilization and how long it takes for sporophytes to mature. He talked about liverworts and hornworts; he had mosses in there that were native to the Yorks.h.i.+re Dales and mosses that grew only in cracks in city streets and mosses that grew only in water. In Europe during World War II, he told me, sphagnum mosses were used to dress the wounds of soldiers, because they're so absorbent and have mild antibacterial properties. Also some mosses have been used to put out fires. Don't ask me how they would do that, but apparently it's historically accurate. Old Len knew a ton about moss, and he made sure that I knew how great his mossery was and how no one builds them anymore and what a tragedy it would be if anything were to happen to his mossery.

”That would be awful,” I agreed. I looked around the transformed kitchen. Len had even hung an old woodcut of a medieval tree on one wall, I suppose to keep the moss company. ”So how much did Bill charge you to rent his kitchen like this?”

”Oh,” he said, looking at me sideways for a second. ”It was a very friendly arrangement.”

”He didn't charge you rent for this? But they were broke, weren't they?”

”What makes you say that?”

”I spent the night here. There's nothing here. They were living on vodka and fish sticks and red wine,” I said. ”Which he paid for in cash.”

”You have been busy, and you say you just arrived yesterday?”

”So he really gave you this room to grow moss in, for free?”

”I didn't say that.” Len smiled. ”I said we had a friendly arrangement.”

”Like under the table, friendly like that?” I asked.

”Bill liked to fly under the radar,” he admitted with a small shrug. ”He did prefer cash.”

”How much did he charge you?” I asked directly. Len looked at me sideways and then went back to examining one of his moss beds, poking at it carefully with his middle finger.

”Seven hundred dollars a month,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

”You know what, Len?” I said. ”I think this mossery is fantastic, and I see no reason why you can't keep it here for as long as you want. I'm gonna go make a phone call.”

”Lovely.” Len smiled. ”I'll just continue my work, then.”

I figured I might need to keep the cash coming, and it did seem reasonable to let this guy keep his mossery. So I went back to TV land and picked up the phone and started dialing, meaning I made it halfway through Lucy's number before realizing that the phone was dead. There was nothing on the line-no clicks, no beeps, no dial tone, nothing. I hung up and tried again, and I did that about eight more times, and then I plugged and unplugged the phone about eight times and then I tried it eight more times. Then I tried it in three other jacks, in three of the little bedrooms, before returning to the great room.

”Something wrong?” Len asked me, leaning out of the kitchen. I mean, obviously there was something wrong; I was holding the phone out and staring at it like it was about to explode.

”The phone doesn't work,” I told him. ”I mean, it worked just an hour ago, and now it doesn't.”

He held out his neat but dirty hand and I gave him the phone, which he plugged into yet another wall jack. He listened for less than one second, then nodded. ”Well,” he said. ”I need to introduce you to Frank.”

Frank was the doorman. Len took me downstairs to the front lobby, and there was Frank, a good-looking Hispanic guy in a beige uniform with little gold things on the shoulders.

”Hey, Len, what's up?” Frank asked.

”This is Tina Finn, Olivia's daughter.” Len made a little wave with his hand, like I might be some fancy dish that was being served up. I felt like bowing.

”Nice to meet you, Miss Finn,” said Frank, reaching out and shaking my hand politely. ”I'm real sorry about your mom.”

”Thanks,” I said.

”Tina is going to be staying in the apartment for now, while they settle things up with the estate,” Len informed Frank. It was genius, seriously; coming from Len, ”she's staying in the apartment” sounded pretty good. At least Frank the doorman had no problem with it.

”Well, welcome to the Edge,” he said. ”If you need anything, you let me know.”

”There is something.” Len nodded. ”It looks like her phone's been cut off. Could you put a call in about it?”

”Sure, who's your carrier?” asked Frank, reaching for the phone receiver on his desk.

”You know, I'm not sure who they had,” I said.

”Well, let's see then, maybe I'll put in a call to Doug-that's Bill's son,” he told me. ”There's probably been some mistake, maybe he cut the phone off. Did he know you were going to be staying up there?”

”Yeah, we talked, you know, we just talked yesterday about it,” I said. ”Look, you don't need to bother him, I'll call him myself.”

”I got it right here,” Frank said, dialing. ”It's no bother.” He was dialing away when Len tapped him on the shoulder.

”It's probably better just to give her the number,” Len said under his breath, like he was trying to keep me from hearing what he said. Frank looked at him, confused, and Len did that thing with his hands, opening them up, apologizing to the universe for the stupidity of the human race. ”I think there's a lot going on, Frank, you probably don't want to put yourself in the middle of it.” It sounded so much like he was taking care of Frank that for a minute I forgot he was actually taking care of me.

However, it was starting to occur to old Frank that this story didn't quite add up. ”But you did see Doug last night?” he asked, a little worried, while he rooted around for a pen.

”We hadn't figured out what we were doing last night when we talked, and everything was such a mess, with Mom's funeral, I was kind of a wreck and we hadn't actually thought about the practicalities. I mean, I was just like crying and crying, so I really didn't get the details straight,” I fibbed.

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