“This is my daughter, Mossa,” Ptolemy said at one point. “Give her your card and do business wit’ her fair an’ square like you always done wit’ me.”
Mossa did not speak. He smiled, took a business card from his vest pocket, and handed it to the girl. The white card was engraved with golden letters. She placed it in her bag next to the knife—her mother’s only gift.
On the street again, waiting for a westbound bus, Robyn and Ptolemy sat side by side, holding hands.
“How you get to know Mr. Mossa, Uncle?”
“Every once in a blue moon I’d get a part-time job at a restaurant they used to have around here called Trudy’s Steak House. If they had a big weekend and one’a their people got sick they’d call me ’cause I was a friend of a guy worked there called Mike Tinely.
“I always took the early bus because the boss wanted you there on the minute. One time I saw Mossa’s place and I wondered if he could cash my coin. A week aftah my job was ovah I went in the store. It was him there, an’ he walked up to me and said, ‘Can I help you, Father?’
“That was twenty-four years ago. He was in his fifties and I was already retired. We talked for a while and then he put up the CLOSED sign and took me to his garden for some tea. I nevah met anybody like that. My skin didn’t mean nuthin’ to him. I knew what the coins were worth from books, but I didn’t tell him that. He paid me top dollar and we been friends evah since.”
“Where you get them coins?” Robyn asked.
“Later, child. Let’s get out to Santa Monica first.”
An hour later they were walking on a street in Santa Monica. They came to a slender brick building between a women’s clothes store and a shop that sold leather goods in all forms and shapes. Robyn stopped at the window of the clothes store, gazing at a dress that was diaphanous and multicolored. Ptolemy stood back, watching her turn slightly as if she had tried on the frock and was checking her reflection in the glass.
Abromovitz and Son Legal Services was on the fourth floor of the slender building. There was an elevator but it was out of order, and so the young girl and the old man took the stairs, half a flight at a time. Ptolemy counted the steps, seven and then eight three times, with one-minute rests between each.
The door was open and Ptolemy led the way into the dimly lit room.
“May I help you?” a middle-aged black woman asked. She was sitting behind an oak desk that blocked the way to a bright-green door that was closed.
Ptolemy smiled at the woman, who was maybe forty-five.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’d like to speak with Abraham,” he said, echoes of Coy’s blasphemous Bible lessons resounding in his mind.
“He,” the woman said, and then winced. “Mr. Abromovitz passed away five years ago.”
“Oh,” Ptolemy said, “I’m so sorry. He was a good man. I liked him very much.”
The black woman, whose skin was quite dark and whose name-plate said Esther, nodded and smiled sadly.
“Yes,” she said. “He always asked how I was in the morning, and he would listen too.”
“Moishe still here?” Ptolemy asked.
The receptionist registered surprise at the question.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Mr. Ptolemy Grey.”
Mr. Grey,” a middle-aged, paunchy white man was saying a few moments later, after Esther had made a call on the office line.
Robyn followed her adopted father into the small dark office. There was a window but it only looked out onto a shadowy air-shaft. Bookcases lined every wall. Along with law books, there were novels, piles of magazines, and stacks of typing paper held together by old brittle rubber bands. The room reminded Robyn somewhat of Ptolemy’s home before she had cleaned it out, and a little of Mossa’s rooms filled with ancient treasures.
The only free space on the wall held a painting of a naked white goddess standing in the foreground with a medieval village behind her. The people of the village seemed unaware of the voluptuous maiden passing before them.
“I haven’t seen you since I was a young man,” Moishe Abromovitz was saying. “I think I was still in school.”
His face was young but his hair had gone gray and the backs of his hands were prematurely liver-spotted.
Ptolemy pressed Robyn toward one of the four visitors’ chairs and then took one himself. Moishe remained standing next to a pine desk that was probably older than he was.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Grey?”
“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Ptolemy said. “I didn’t know.”
“I thought we sent you a notice,” the fortyish man in the aged body said. “I hope we didn’t forget you.”
Ptolemy wondered if the letter had come in and Reggie had read it to him. Remembering himself as a feebleminded old fool was painful and frightening; next to that memory, Death didn’t seem like such a bad fellow.
“You still got that file on me?” Ptolemy asked.
“My father had sixteen clients that he wanted me to take special care of after he was gone. You were one,” Moishe Abromovitz said as he went to a wooden file cabinet behind the elder desk. He drew out an old manila folder, about three inches thick, and placed it on the pine desk. “He said that you were a gentle man with a good
