On a LARP, page 6
And as we approach, the fountain’s twenty-six feet of high-ness rising majestically above us, I take her hand and tell her about how the bronze Angel that sits atop it is the only commissioned piece of art in the original park. And how Emma Stebbins, who sculpted her, was the first woman in New York City ever to be given that kind of commission. And how Emma Stebbins had gone to Rome to study art and came back with Charlotte Cushman, and they shared what was then called a ‘Boston Marriage.’ And the Angel is considered the embodiment of God and, thus by extension the embodiment of love. Which is why the Bethesda Fountain’s other name is Angel of the Waters. And . . .
But before I can finish my next thought, Emma turns from gazing at the Angel’s face, raises her hands to my lips, leans in, and we kiss.
OMG, Sid, change the freaking channel!
Slam. Back to the here and now as the picture mercifully vanishes from my eyes, swiped to the desk by the hand of Flynn.
Okay. Deep breath. I am back. I am going to ignore the tear that is threatening to unleash itself upon my left cheek and I am instead going to blink it back, look around the room, and get back to our case.
This doesn’t appear at first glance to be a better plan. I exchange looks with Jimmy and Vikram who are also perusing the room and its antiquated contents. Wow. Revelry dies so quickly, the pall falleth fast. I can tell you none of my tax dollars, or at least my parents’ tax dollars, are at work here.
“Um, Detective Tsarnowsky.” Jimmy gamely steps into the void. “As we all have our own computers and such, maybe we could set up in a, hmmmm, larger room. No point really in cramming us all in here with your desktop.”
Tsarno gives us all a slightly suspicious look, but it does lead to a grunt, followed by a “stay here, touch nothing,” which of course, works for me.
And, you know, maybe we are all guilty of watching too much TV or something, but we are all looking around and not touching anything and, even more of a tell, not saying anything, almost as though we think the room is bugged. And I do realize I could be projecting here, that this is only my random paranoid thought, but I don’t think so. It’s sort of like we’re all looking for the hidden camera. Like this is really a test and, oh way oh, they’re watching us.
Before we get too carried away and start hearing The Twilight Zone theme, the door opens, heralding the noisy arrival of Imani, Ari, and Emma Macdonald, followed directly by Tsarno and, “Let’s go.”
¤ ¤ ¤
To where? Obvious answer: a conference room. Less obvious answer, given only in hindsight: “Through the looking glass, Sid.”
But as with all hindsight opportunities, my friends, in the moment, we are only going down the hall, turning right and into a room done in cinder block with a large conference table. And no windows. And hard wooden chairs with four legs on the floor and no cushions. Perfect.
Backpacks pile on, gear piles out. Tsarno watches. I can’t tell if that’s admiration or horror on his face. “So what exactly are you doing?”
“Setting up a hotspot.” Jimmy is incredibly good at not sounding superior. “Hey, Ari, can you hand Sid the cord over there, the one with the green band on it?”
“Why?”
As I said, Jimmy is a great diplomat. I was already struggling to not look at the suddenly unattainable Goddess, so I take over setup, which is really mostly about plugging into power and a few cords, but I do know how to make the simple look complicated.
“Well, if we use your internet connection, we’re on the police station servers. And if we run across someone or something that might be helpful, the last thing we want is for someone to somehow trace us back to the police station servers. There’s no reason to think they could, but if they could, I don’t think it would be . . . prudent . . . for them to find us here.” Jimmy pauses here, a quiet moment for Tsarnowsky to disagree if he’s going to.
When nothing is forthcoming, Jimmy continues, “And I’m guessing you asked us to help you out because if you go to guys in the department you lose at least some control, not to mention at the very least you might have to explain us. So if we use our Wi-Fi, they won’t know we’re assisting you with this search. In a nutshell, Detective Tsarnowsky, our Wi-Fi gives us, and thus you, ultimate control.”
You can see both Tsarnowsky and Emma weighing the explanation. Calculating us. And as they tally their risks, my attempt at ignoring my earlier overwhelming disappointment, however unfair that emotion might be, is given time and space to begin twisting itself into a bit of not-too-fair-either anger. And I don’t care. I mean she has to know how I feel. I make the mistake of side-glancing up and over, and she is looking at me, and we all know that look, a little bit of sorrow, a little bit of pity. And I seethe and I want to whip at her, to make her feel my anger. To make her feel me. And I don’t really care if it’s irrational.
Double, double, toil and trouble. Itchy witchy, release my bitchy.
And with that, I take my best shot, smash right through Jimmy’s lovely, grade school explanation, and start talking right above their heads. “We’ve got a custom firmware loaded on the hotspot.” Overhead smash, right at you, Ms. Goddess. “This will take us for a ride, bouncing us around the world, masking each of our IPs using a few different VPNs,” cross-court winner “which will lock down the ports for any unwanted traffic.” Sweet fakey smile as I finish with a surprise dink, placing it so out of reach. Trust me, Emma Macdonald, way too much topspin for you.
And, now, freshly winded from my game, I stand here, not sure what to do next, when what I love the most about girlfriends, and I mean girls who are friends, not the dateable ones, springs into action. Girlfriends know when someone needs rescue, even if they don’t know why.
Ari looks over to Imani, who immediately sidles right on up and quietly salvages the hotspot from my hands, returning it to Jimmy, who takes it and shows it to Tsarnowsky, while steering the conversation back to a, let’s call it, more productive place, “What Sid is saying is this little baby is going to help us be a lot more discreet online with the added bonus of allowing us all to work from the same place without it appearing as though we are. So if we find something, it won’t look like all of us were plugging in from the same room, but just random folks out and about on the online highway.” And with that, Jimmy turns on our gizmo. “Okay. So what we’re looking for is the LARP Tessa Sargentino would have been to, where it was held, and who threw it? Yes?”
As the detectives nod their agreement, Imani chimes in, “So. Finding a LARP is our first step. Easy enough. Right? Sid?”
All eyes on me. Apparently I am now the expert here.
Oh no. Incoming! Song Bomb! LARP for sale or rent. Bustier fifty cent.
Ignoring!
Focus, Sid. “Okay. I think off-hand we have a couple of options. We start by writing a script to search social media for LARP events in the city. For at least the bigger, more organized events, it will dump out raw information on who’s attending, not attending, time, and location. Then, I think we cross-reference LARPS with the date. We’ll be casting a wide net, so we’ll still have to run through the data by hand. Lots of people are uncomfortable about coming, about being seen, especially at first, ’cause you know we’re all just freaks who do this, etc., so there’s always a lot of fake profiles and false information. And to confuse things even more, many LARPers will always keep their RPs.”
Interruption. Detective Macdonald, “Their RPs?”
“Oh. Sorry. Their role-playing identities. So when they’re online, they are always speaking in their character so they’re giving away no real world information.”
Emma nods her understanding and I continue. “If we can figure out what events were going on, we can likely find some photos from that day. A LARP in any semipublic place is bound to get not only their own people taking photos, but passersby as well. This might get us to a place to match LARPers who at least might have seen someone. Or maybe even, if we were incredibly lucky, a picture of Tessa with people we can track.”
“Also,” as I keep talking, my ideas keep expanding, “presuming it was kind of a usual LARP we can check with gaming stores, bookstores, and all those kinds of places to see if anyone put a listing on one of their boards or something. Maybe even small theaters, costume shops. I think we print out a list of those, and Imani and Ari can start calling around and checking.”
Imani looks at me like a woman gone mad. “You do know there’s a heck of a lot of stores in this city? Can we at least narrow down the area? You know, maybe check out Tribeca today, maybe the Village? I’m thinking that’s a full day right there.”
“Or maybe,” Ari moves over perhaps a bit dangerously close to Tsarnowsky and smiles at me, “Imani and I should simply head out and go shopping for,” her hands pushing her breasts in and up for emphasis, “period bustiers? Detective Tsarnowsky can come with us and flash his badge and pictures when we find a seller.”
“Nice try, Ari.” I’ve known her way too long to be shocked by her proposal, but she does make me laugh. “Put the girls away and,” I do my best to look seriously stern, “tell them to behave. Look, there’s all sorts of transportation in NY, so who knows where she would have been coming from. I mean she could have been killed during the LARP, but she also could have been heading home. Hell, she could even have been coming back from Jersey. I know there’s a big space just over the line where they hold a pretty rad dystopian LARP.”
And then, because I am experiencing a rather upside-down day (and given my run of them recently, it is perhaps my new normal, but I haven’t conceded to such as of yet), surprisingly I am still not prepared for this other shocking event, which then unfolds. Vikram Patel not only speaks up; he has a good point. Astonishing, I know.
“I also think, maybe, Sid,” Vikram approaches very carefully, “uhm, I don’t think we should limit our search to LARPs alone. I mean, I think you are most probably right and, of course, she most probably was at a LARP, but I think maybe we should also check for masquerades or theater events, which could involve a costume. I think.”
And as I am pondering the surprise of this moment, which apparently includes my mouth hanging open mid-sentence because I was all set to verbally poke him, I hear “Treppenwitz” from behind me. A bit off-target actually, but I’ll take it. I do the guppy. Mouth close and mouth reopen. “Point taken. And specifically we should look for anything with Steampunk. I mean, to Vikram’s point, maybe she was in a local play or teaching a class or something.”
And with that we are off and running, or at least our fingers are. We are actually off and sitting.
¤ ¤ ¤
Although I don’t know exactly what any of us exactly imagined, we are all proud members of the generation who believe we exist in an instantaneous universe filled with instant answers. We wait for nothing. It is always at our fingertips. I mean, dead chick in bustier? Isn’t there an app for that?
And thus, I know we all imagined we would set up our grand search and, because we are all so brilliant and would have built such perfect hypotheses and parameters into our script, our neat little equation of code would spit out a timely answer, triumphantly proving us all to be the geniuses we imagine ourselves to be.
And that turned out to be as real as the rest of what I fantasized.
Instead, as the hours drag on and the reams of drab information keep piling up and nothing screams, “You-hoo!!! Here I am! I am Tessa Sargentino’s killer! You have solved the case!” our morning high proves the axiom that what goes up must come down.
At five thirty we unplug, heading out the door, trudging our way home as promised, fatigued, deflated, leaving behind a tonnage of assorted paperwork for Tsarnowsky and (my now former Goddess) Emma, to follow up on. But the sad, not so hidden truth is, we all know our cache doesn’t really add up to anything all that special.
NINE
Jimmy glances over to me, but I shake my head and he nods. In our unspoken world of friendship, he knows and respects I am not ready for company. He takes his big old arm, wraps it around Imani’s shoulder. I watch her lean into him as the four of them turn away and head crosstown. I watch as they leave, a foursome, divided two by two. Then I head the other way, not willing, nor able, to return home yet. Home will have questions and I don’t want to have answers. I don’t even want to talk, about anything. To talk, I would have to force air past this lump in my throat and I am not ready to try.
So now, now I am alone. But not really. I am alone with my hurt, and with the lump in my throat, so I have plenty of pathetic companionship, which is not exactly alone.
And together we walk, me and my pathetic companions, heading to the High Line, trying to let the day get lost in the view, until finally I am chilled through, watching as the sun goes down and dark descends until then there is nothing else to see. And only then, there is nowhere else for me to go, except home.
And as I turn, there she is. The unattainable Detective Goddess Emma Macdonald. Standing there. Waiting. In the flesh. While I have big, puffy, yeah-I’ve-been-crying eyes.
Finally I nod and she joins me at the railing. We both turn and face out, looking over the city. I don’t need to ask how she found me. Flynn would know where to send her.
I feel her turn toward me, but I don’t move. She continues studying me quietly and then breaks our silence. “Hey. I thought maybe you’d want to talk?”
I kind of look at her and shrug. I don’t really know how to answer. It isn’t about wanting to talk or not; truth is I’m not sure I have anything I can say. “Sorry. I was just hormonally wrong.” It’s all stupid teenage crush crap anyway.
“I am so sorry, Sid. I don’t know what I thought. Or maybe I just didn’t really think.”
Maybe she doesn’t know what she thought, but I know she thought I thought she hung the moon and the stars.
“Or maybe, Sid, I was just a bit flattered and a bit out of my league.”
She tries the old nervous chuckle and a smile, but I am giving her nothing. I pull my jacket tighter, wrapping my arms around my chest. I gave her everything and she threw it away, so now she gets nothing. I do three years old great.
She takes a small step toward me, tilts her head to catch my eye. “His name is Carl. We’re getting married in six weeks. He’s a really great guy, and a really great cook.” She smiles at me. “He’s a Chef at Le Toque. I think you’d actually quite like him.”
Again I say nothing, and after another minute of quiet, Emma turns back and joins me in staring outward, “I’d like us to be friends, Sid, but if that’s not possible, I will ask if we can put this aside, because honestly Robert and I need your help to solve this.”
Robert? My silent petulant moot vigil is suddenly interrupted, my FOMO kicking in, sending an urgent alert signal, an internal alarm telling me I have just missed something when I realize, duh, Robert is Detective Robert Tsarnowsky. False alarm.
Funny, I always think of her as Emma, or Goddess, but I only think of him as Tsarno or, well, as we all know by now, Tsarno Barno. It’s odd how we attribute names to people. I mean some people are always formal and some people have instant nicknames and some people have a nickname and then it changes to another one and then to another one and . . .
I watch as Emma steps away from the rail, her hands smoothing her pants, swiping away some New York City grime. Squared-off, French manicured nails. I hadn’t noticed them before. Suits her. Classic. Nice.
“So, can we make this work, Sid?”
In my brain, I hear the question repeat itself and I truculently answer myself, “I dunno.” I bite the inside of my cheek, pressing my hands to my head. Big exhale. Hands clench hard around my rib cage. I attempt to look up, but it’s still too soon. She looks just like Mary Stuart Masterson in the close-up when the tears roll down her cheeks and she first stole my heart. I took a screen shot of her in just that moment.
Finally, I meet her eyes; Emma is motionless, watching, waiting. The “can we?” question lies between us, caught “entre chien et loup,” between dog and wolf, trapped in the twilight of our day, its howl echoing in the silence.
So I meet her eyes and nod. Kind of do that half-smile thing. Not because I want to, but because I can’t think of anything else to do. And I can’t stay here forever. And I can’t let her down. It would ruin the already destroyed ending of my movie.
And with that, poof, she is gone. And it is time for me to grow up and go home. And when I get there, I find my prayer for no one else to be home just this once has become yet one more unanswered prayer in my day.
“Sid!”
Sheesh. Was he waiting on the inside of the door for me to turn the key? I force words through my mouth. “Hey Dad.”
“Well, how did it go?”
Before I can answer, Mom has stepped out of the kitchen, slowly wiping her hands, stalling, waiting for me to answer the question so she might evaluate what she hears and only then choose her reaction to my late, okay, very late arrival.
I shrug off my backpack, turning to take off my jacket, letting me break eye contact. “Lots of stuff, but nothing real yet.”
Mom chooses even-toned concern. “I kept a plate warm for you, Sidonie.”
I shake my head, pleading not hungry and escaping to my room. I put on my old, faded, chewed around the collar, shrunken peace-signed T-shirt and too short sweatpants, seeking them to comfort me like an old friend. And I sit and I wait, just quiet and sad.
