The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

CHAPTER 29

LAUREN PLAYED MONOPOLY with her mother and sister growing up. She had mixed feelings about the Monopoly man himself. She hated him when she won ten dollars for second place in a beauty contest. Who was supposed to be happy with second place? She loathed him when she had to pay for repairs on hotel-laded streets, and despised him when she had to pay each player fifty dollars because she’d been elected Chairman of the Board. What kind of nonsense was that? She was made CEO and she paid others? Clearly the folks at Hasbro had an ass-backward view of corporate America.

And yet when she got a Get Out of Jail Free card, the sight of the Monopoly man elated her. She loved that card. Tucking it under her side of the board, knowing it gave her flexibility. Under certain circumstances she might want to hide in jail. Let others land on houses and hotels and pay the rent. In other circumstances, she might want to get out quickly and attack.

Like now.

The man behind the front desk at the Duma bookstore on Seventh Street didn’t resemble the Monopoly Man. He was the Monopoly Man. When Lauren crossed the street from St. George’s Ukrainian Catholic Church and walked into his place of business on Wednesday morning, his glasses fogged up. Of course they did. She was wearing her Emma Peel outfit. A black cashmere turtleneck and black jeans that clung to her curves. Add a flip hairstyle and a perfect make-up job and she was a weather-controlling machine that no man could refuse.

“Are you Mr. Obon?” Lauren said.

Still staring at her torso, looking dazed. An affirmative noise escaped his lips.

“My name is Lauren Ross. I’m a reporter. I just met with Father Bernie across the street.”

She was following up every possible lead on Bobby Kungenook. The story consumed her mornings, afternoons, and nights. Someone else in Nadia’s circle of friends might know something about Bobby. A phone call to the priest had confirmed she was a member of his parish. A visit had produced a reference to her lifelong friend, the bookman.

Her words jolted him. “Reverend Bernard,” he said. He followed up with a nod and a smile, as though he wanted her to know he wasn’t trying to be a jerk.

“Yes. I’m sorry. Reverend Bernard. I was asking about a woman by the name of Nadia Tesla. He didn’t know her well but said you might. He said you were the man to go to about all things Ukrainian in New York City.”

Obon beamed. “I don’t know about that. The reverend is too kind. I’m just a bookman.”

He spoke with a heavy Eastern European accent but Lauren had no problems understanding him.

“Do you know a woman by the name of Nadia Tesla?” she said.

He brought a finger to his lips. “Hmm. Nadia Tesla. No. I don’t think I know anyone by that name but let me think about it for a moment. A man reaches a certain age, there’s so much information stored in his brain, it becomes confusing at times. And sometimes people use nicknames and we know them by another name. I have some rare books that need binding. Would you mind?”

They moved to a small table in the center of the store. A tall stack of old books without dust jackets rested atop it. Obon took a plastic cover from an open box and folded it around the binding of the first book.

“You’re a reporter?” he said. “For what newspaper?”

“Not newspaper.” This was the first time she was being asked about her credentials since she’d been fired. “I did work for a newspaper in college. No, television. I’m a reporter for a television network,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “I don’t watch television. I have one. I used to watch it when the president talked to the country, but it doesn’t get any channels anymore.”

“You don’t have cable?”

“Too expensive.”

“You’re right. It is.”

“If you work for a television network, you must be a famous person. Perhaps I should have recognized you when you walked in.”

“No, no—”

“If that is so I apologize. What television network do you work for?”

“The Sports Network.”

Obon finished attaching the binding to the book and started a second pile. “Sports? Is this Nadia Tesla a sportsman?”

“A sportsman?”

Obon smiled and nodded. “Yes. A gymnast or an archer, perhaps.”

“No, she’s not that kind of sportsman.”

“Then why are you looking for her?”

“I’m looking for her because I’m doing a story on a young hockey player from Fordham Prep School. His name is Bobby Kungenook. She’s his guardian.”

Obon stopped working. “Bobby Kungenook? Now that name I’ve heard before.”

Lauren couldn’t believe it. “You have?” She touched his shoulder. He deserved some Emma Peel for the mere suggestion he knew the kid. “How? Where? And why?”

He laughed. “That’s too many questions at once for an old man.” He turned pensive. “I’m not sure where I heard the name.” He snapped his fingers. “No. I am sure. Yes I am. I was playing chess with an old friend in the park the other day when the name came up. But I can’t remember how it came up.”

“Think about it for a moment, please.”

He immersed himself in thought. His breathing turned heavy, his face darkened, and he looked as though he was going to be sick. “I wish I could remember the particulars of the conversation,” he said. “But I can’t.”

Lauren put her hand on his shoulder again. “It’s okay, Mr. Obon. Thank you for trying. Who’s your friend?”

He frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Your friend. The one you played chess with when Bobby Kungenook’s name came up. I’d like to talk to him.”

His face lit up. “Of course. That’s a brilliant idea.” He retrieved a pencil and some paper. “He’s a wise old man. Made his money in the food business. People come to see him for advice on Sunday afternoon. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. He lives a few blocks away. This is his address.”

Obon slid a piece of paper to Lauren.

“What’s his name?” she said.

“Bodnar. His name is Victor Bodnar.”