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Authors: Margo Bond Collins
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up with Malcolm planning to ask for his help, but now I found myself feeling suspicious. Sure, he could walk around in sunlight, but what if he really was connected to the vampires?
Not that I had much choice if I wasn’t willing to drag my friends into it. And I wasn’t.
So I took a deep breath and said, “Okay. I’m planning to break into a law office and look at files. Are you ready to do something like that? Something illegal?”
He gave me another thoughtful look. “I’ll bet we can find a way to get them to let us in, completely legally.”
“Legally?”
“Yep. And they’ll never realize why we were really there.”
He told me what he was thinking and we refined the plan over another two cups of coffee each. I had some research to do, but I was ready for it.
I had help.
I left the restaurant buzzed on caffeine and feeling prepared for anything.
* * *
Malcolm and I spent the weekend preparing for our undercover operation, which Malcolm took to calling “The Sting.”
The first thing we needed, of course, was a way to get into the law offices, and Malcolm was in charge of that. The second thing we needed was time to search without being interrupted.
I began by visiting the New York City Department of Records on Chambers Street on Friday morning. I had to show my ID and walk through a metal detector before I was allowed into the building. Good thing they didn’t have a wooden stake detector. As it was, the guard on duty looked at the chopstick in my purse with a certain amount of suspicion.
“What’s that for?”
“I use it to hold my hair back sometimes—I don’t like it in my face while I’m working.” To demonstrate, I quickly twisted the top part of my hair into a knot and stuck the chopstick through it. It held, to my great relief. This might be a great new vampire-repellent hairstyle.
Satisfied, the security guard waved me through.
It was still early, so there were a few microfilm machines left to rent. They quickly filled up, though, so I was glad I’d left the Bronx when I did. If I’d thought about it, I would have realized that lots of people do genealogical research in the Department of Records.
I spent much of the day sorting through microfilm copies of the “docket books” for the building that housed Pearson, Forster, and Sims. By the time the Municipal Archives offices closed at 4:30, I had copies of the building’s blueprints.
I stepped out of the building and turned my face up to the late-spring sunlight, stretching my arms above my head to work out the kinks from spending all day staring into a microfilm screen.
I needed to pick up a few items before I headed back to the Bronx, so I made my way to 14th Street and ducked into the “Wigs and Plus” store. I came out sixty dollars poorer but one long, curly, black wig richer. With my medium-toned skin, it made me look like any of the locals in my neighborhood—vaguely Italian or Puerto Rican or Albanian. I also stopped at a Duane Reed pharmacy and picked up a handful of makeup, all in rich, dark tones that distinctly contrasted my usual neutral palette. The wig and heavy makeup would, I hoped, complete my disguise.
When I got home, I found Malcolm leaning against the brown brick wall that made up one side of my building, his arms crossed in front of him, one booted foot kicked out in front of him, and a plastic Staples bag dangling from his left hand. He looked both completely at ease and anticipatory. I’m not sure how he managed that combination, but it was clear to me that he could hardly wait to show me something but was prepared to wait all day if necessary.
“Hey,” I said as I approached him. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got the website ready to go. And I’ve got something else to show you.” He bounced up and down slightly on the balls of his toes, looking much like a five-year-old waiting to show off his new toys. As I unlocked the double doors leading into the building and headed up the stairs, he
Not that I had much choice if I wasn’t willing to drag my friends into it. And I wasn’t.
So I took a deep breath and said, “Okay. I’m planning to break into a law office and look at files. Are you ready to do something like that? Something illegal?”
He gave me another thoughtful look. “I’ll bet we can find a way to get them to let us in, completely legally.”
“Legally?”
“Yep. And they’ll never realize why we were really there.”
He told me what he was thinking and we refined the plan over another two cups of coffee each. I had some research to do, but I was ready for it.
I had help.
I left the restaurant buzzed on caffeine and feeling prepared for anything.
* * *
Malcolm and I spent the weekend preparing for our undercover operation, which Malcolm took to calling “The Sting.”
The first thing we needed, of course, was a way to get into the law offices, and Malcolm was in charge of that. The second thing we needed was time to search without being interrupted.
I began by visiting the New York City Department of Records on Chambers Street on Friday morning. I had to show my ID and walk through a metal detector before I was allowed into the building. Good thing they didn’t have a wooden stake detector. As it was, the guard on duty looked at the chopstick in my purse with a certain amount of suspicion.
“What’s that for?”
“I use it to hold my hair back sometimes—I don’t like it in my face while I’m working.” To demonstrate, I quickly twisted the top part of my hair into a knot and stuck the chopstick through it. It held, to my great relief. This might be a great new vampire-repellent hairstyle.
Satisfied, the security guard waved me through.
It was still early, so there were a few microfilm machines left to rent. They quickly filled up, though, so I was glad I’d left the Bronx when I did. If I’d thought about it, I would have realized that lots of people do genealogical research in the Department of Records.
I spent much of the day sorting through microfilm copies of the “docket books” for the building that housed Pearson, Forster, and Sims. By the time the Municipal Archives offices closed at 4:30, I had copies of the building’s blueprints.
I stepped out of the building and turned my face up to the late-spring sunlight, stretching my arms above my head to work out the kinks from spending all day staring into a microfilm screen.
I needed to pick up a few items before I headed back to the Bronx, so I made my way to 14th Street and ducked into the “Wigs and Plus” store. I came out sixty dollars poorer but one long, curly, black wig richer. With my medium-toned skin, it made me look like any of the locals in my neighborhood—vaguely Italian or Puerto Rican or Albanian. I also stopped at a Duane Reed pharmacy and picked up a handful of makeup, all in rich, dark tones that distinctly contrasted my usual neutral palette. The wig and heavy makeup would, I hoped, complete my disguise.
When I got home, I found Malcolm leaning against the brown brick wall that made up one side of my building, his arms crossed in front of him, one booted foot kicked out in front of him, and a plastic Staples bag dangling from his left hand. He looked both completely at ease and anticipatory. I’m not sure how he managed that combination, but it was clear to me that he could hardly wait to show me something but was prepared to wait all day if necessary.
“Hey,” I said as I approached him. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got the website ready to go. And I’ve got something else to show you.” He bounced up and down slightly on the balls of his toes, looking much like a five-year-old waiting to show off his new toys. As I unlocked the double doors leading into the building and headed up the stairs, he
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