It was already two o’clock; well past lunch time, which his stomach had been reminding him of for some time, prompting him to order yet another unhealthy meal of hot pastrami on rye from the corner deli downstairs.
Mona buzzed him on the intercom.
“There’s a Mr. Derrigan here to see you?” Mona framed most statements as interrogatives — as though doubting the veracity of her own observations. She apparently had no memory of Michael stopping by a year ago.
“Fine, fine, Mona. Please escort him back to my office,” Abe instructed.
A courtesy knock tapped on his shabby door and then Mona entered with Michael in tow.
“Michael, thanks for coming. Mona, did you offer our guest some coffee or soda? Bottled water, maybe?” Abe came around his desk to shake hands.
“No need, Abe. But thanks all the same,” Michael said.
They stood awkwardly for a moment, facing each other.
“So, how goes the magnum opus? You about done yet?” Abe asked.
Michael’s novel, or absence of a novel, was always the first topic of conversation.
“I wish I could say we’re almost at the finish line, but I’d be lying. I’ve been tied up with the business for months, and just haven’t had a chance to dive back in yet,” Michael admitted.
“Well, a guy’s gotta eat. I know all about that. But everything’s got a shelf life, and most things don’t improve with age,” Abe cautioned.
“I hear you.” Michael wanted to steer the topic off his meager productivity. “What is it you think happened? You got an e-mail, and it went missing — you sure you didn’t delete it accidentally?”
“No, I’m positive. I looked everywhere. It’s just gone.” Abe was adamant. “What’s particularly troubling is that it had an attachment — a PDF file of a book I developed a strong interest in. It’s pure dynamite…” Abe wasn’t sure how much more to add.
Just then another knock on the door was followed by the entry of a skinny Japanese man dressed entirely in black, with dyed blond hair and a number of ear and nose piercings. Michael groaned inwardly. For fuck’s sake, did Koshi really believe Converse sneakers, pencil-leg black jeans and a Panic At The Disco T-shirt with a dinner jacket over it really constituted business casual? If he wasn’t the sharpest computer guy Michael knew, he’d have pimp-slapped him right in front of Abe.
His inner dialog kept its counsel, of course.
“Oh, sorry, Abe, this is my technology expert, Koshi Yamaguchi,” Michael said, preferring to ignore the elephant in the room for the moment.
Abe eyed him dubiously. “Koshi, huh? A pleasure.”
“Yeah. Nice to meetcha,” Koshi mumbled.
“So, Koshi, Abe here was just explaining how he had received an e-mail yesterday, with an attachment, and when he went to check it this morning it was gone…”
“Uh, all right. But unless someone was on his computer, that’s impossible. I mean, it’s virtually impossible. Theoretically, anything’s possible — let’s just say it’s highly unlikely. But why doesn’t he contact the sender and have him resend the attachment?” Koshi asked.
“I know this is going to sound odd,” Abe said. “I mean, it sounds odd to me as I think about saying it, but here it is: I have no idea who sent me the e-mail, or who the author is.”
“Koshi, Abe says he already checked his trash and spam to make sure he didn’t inadvertently delete it. You want to take a look at his system and see what you can figure out?” Michael asked.
“Sure. Is your browser open to your e-mail, or do you use Outlook or some other program?” Koshi asked Abe as he sauntered around the desk and plopped down in Abe’s chair.
“I’m not sure about all that. I just know that I sign in on the web and check my e-mail for that account,” Abe informed him; he wasn’t super technology-oriented, obviously.
“All right. Never mind. Give me a few minutes and I’ll figure this out.” Koshi was already peering at the huge flat screen on Abe’s desk and typing furiously. “Oh, and just to rule it out, does anyone besides you know your password for this account — or do you leave your computer on when you leave for the night?”
“No on all.” Abe’s stomach growled audibly. “Michael, care to join me for a trip downstairs to grab my sandwich? It should be ready by now,” Abe invited, and without pausing for a response, he grabbed his satchel and opened his office door.
“Sure. We’ll be back in a few…” Michael glanced at Abe for guidance, “…minutes, maybe half an hour. Will that give you enough time?” Michael inquired.
“Should be,” Koshi murmured, immersed in whatever he was doing on the screen.
Michael followed Abe through the reception area and out the front door of his offices. Abe stabbed the button for the elevator, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as they waited. He seemed awfully spry considering his years and considerable girth. Michael hoped he still had as much spring in his step when he hit his late sixties or early seventies — he wasn’t sure about Abe’s age, but that seemed about right.
The ancient contraption clunked its arrival and the steel door slid open. Michael followed Abe in, feeling a momentary sense of panic, which he squelched — he hated elevators, especially ones that easily pre-dated Eisenhower, and this one had been a bit jerky on the trip up.
The ride down to the street level was creaky but uneventful.
Everyone at the deli knew Abe, and they cleared a small table for him when he announced he was going to eat there instead of take-out. Michael ordered a turkey club and a soda from the boisterous counter man, who winked at him with a disturbing familiarity.
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of your guy, but I’m wondering, how long does it take to scan a book and get it into electronic format?” Abe asked, once their food arrived.
“It’s not that hard, although, depending on the number of pages, it can be time consuming — so the answer is: depends on the size of the document. But it’s not complicated. Why?” Michael wasn’t sure where this was going.
“Well, I printed a copy of the manuscript last night before I left — to read at home — so I have almost 400 pages I’m only partially through. I’d like to get it onto disk. I’ve seen too many coffee spills, lost pages, and fires in my day,” Abe explained.
Christ. How did guys like Abe survive in the modern world without being able to wield technology? And yet Michael knew that much of the publishing business still ran on hard copy, with progress towards automation fought literally to the last breath. Only in the last few years would agents even accept electronic submissions. It was wild, but that was the industry — one of the last of the dinosaurs.
“If you like, I can have it scanned for you this afternoon and drop it by later,” Michael offered.
“That would be great — we don’t have a scanner…well, I did have one but couldn’t get it to work. Hopefully, it won’t be necessary and we can recover the e-mail, but I’ll take you up on it if we can’t.” Abe paused. “Michael, it’s potentially a very important book, if the claims can be verified. I have to tell you I got shivers when I was reading last night. I just don’t like that it came in anonymously and unsolicited. It’s a little creepy, although it could just be the writer injecting some melodrama to get my attention,” Abe admitted.
“Come on, Abe. With the internet, there are no secrets any more. How inflammatory could it possibly be?” Michael asked. Abe had piqued his curiosity.