Read Online Brooklyn on Fire by Lawrence H. Levy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lawrence H. Levy
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mind was swimming with excitement and anxiety. As Mary rose to go, she tried to stop her. “Tomorrow night, George Vanderbilt, there’s not much time to prepare…”
With a nod and smile to Sean and her father, Mary was gone, leaving Elizabeth all at once excited, frustrated, and in the dark.
Jeffrey and Sean were not used to seeing Elizabeth so nonplussed. They looked at each other and were about to laugh when Elizabeth noticed.
“Oh, shut up, you two!” she screamed.
But they couldn’t help themselves. Their laughter was uncontrollable.
L AZLO WAS ALONE and laughing out loud. Sitting in a cushy club chair in his living room, he had in his hands
The Wrong Box,
a novel written by Robert Louis Stevenson and his stepson Lloyd Osbourne. He was reading it for the third time, and its dark humor still tickled him immensely. It was somewhat out of character for him—not that Lazlo was above having fun. He enjoyed a good repartee with Mary or anything that involved intellectual jousting as long as the other person was at least close to his level. If not, he labeled it “cerebral massacre” and found no pleasure in it. Outright laughter was entirely a different matter.
He reached over to the side table that was next to him. Besides a kerosene lamp, resting on it was a box, out of which he removed a Japanese
washi
and wiped his nose, which had been running from his laughing so hard. Lazlo liked his creature comforts, and he admired the Japanese for inventing simple items that made everyday life so much easier. A
washi
was an extremely soft, almost silky paper with which one could wipe one’s nose and then just toss it away. He also preferred to lounge around his apartment at night in a kimono. He had a dark blue one with some gold stripes that was loose fitting and extremely comfortable. He had reasoned that no one would see him, since he was alone most of the time. Years earlier he had been married for a short while, but they were both so headstrong and so feverishly erudite that eventually each had found the other insufferable and they had divorced, glad to be free of one another.
His apartment above the store was roomy enough for just him. There, he could indulge in whatever scholarly pursuits he desired with little interruption from the outside world. It had two bedrooms, one of which he had turned into an office to do the bookkeeping for his business. There was a large living room with a fireplace and a decent-sized kitchen with, of course, a Franklin stove. Matching his personality, all the furniture was comfortable, though a few pieces were worn. He had a hard time getting rid of something he liked just because it was showing its age. As far as conveniences were concerned, it had been cheaper for Lazlo to build a toilet with plumbing downstairs in the back of the store. It was somewhat off-putting, but it was still significantly better than venturing outside in the cold to an outhouse. And he was very much impressed by a fairly recent invention of the Scott brothers: putting toilet paper on a roll. Their product hadn’t caught on because most people thought that any discussion of what went on in the nether regions was in poor taste, and that made advertising difficult to attain.
It was about this time that nature gently tapped him on the shoulder, and having remembered that he had run out on his last visit, Lazlo rose to get a new roll of his precious toilet paper, which he stored in a kitchen cupboard. As he ventured downstairs, thinking about
The Wrong Box
and the bizarre adventures of the Finsbury family, he paid little attention to his surroundings. But as he reached the bottom level, a man’s shadow crossed his path. He turned toward the bookstore window and saw a man pacing outside his shop, stopping periodically to peer in the window. He was wearing a hat and had his collar turned up, so his face was indiscernible. What was discernible was an urgency, almost a desperation in his behavior. Then there
With a nod and smile to Sean and her father, Mary was gone, leaving Elizabeth all at once excited, frustrated, and in the dark.
Jeffrey and Sean were not used to seeing Elizabeth so nonplussed. They looked at each other and were about to laugh when Elizabeth noticed.
“Oh, shut up, you two!” she screamed.
But they couldn’t help themselves. Their laughter was uncontrollable.
L AZLO WAS ALONE and laughing out loud. Sitting in a cushy club chair in his living room, he had in his hands
The Wrong Box,
a novel written by Robert Louis Stevenson and his stepson Lloyd Osbourne. He was reading it for the third time, and its dark humor still tickled him immensely. It was somewhat out of character for him—not that Lazlo was above having fun. He enjoyed a good repartee with Mary or anything that involved intellectual jousting as long as the other person was at least close to his level. If not, he labeled it “cerebral massacre” and found no pleasure in it. Outright laughter was entirely a different matter.
He reached over to the side table that was next to him. Besides a kerosene lamp, resting on it was a box, out of which he removed a Japanese
washi
and wiped his nose, which had been running from his laughing so hard. Lazlo liked his creature comforts, and he admired the Japanese for inventing simple items that made everyday life so much easier. A
washi
was an extremely soft, almost silky paper with which one could wipe one’s nose and then just toss it away. He also preferred to lounge around his apartment at night in a kimono. He had a dark blue one with some gold stripes that was loose fitting and extremely comfortable. He had reasoned that no one would see him, since he was alone most of the time. Years earlier he had been married for a short while, but they were both so headstrong and so feverishly erudite that eventually each had found the other insufferable and they had divorced, glad to be free of one another.
His apartment above the store was roomy enough for just him. There, he could indulge in whatever scholarly pursuits he desired with little interruption from the outside world. It had two bedrooms, one of which he had turned into an office to do the bookkeeping for his business. There was a large living room with a fireplace and a decent-sized kitchen with, of course, a Franklin stove. Matching his personality, all the furniture was comfortable, though a few pieces were worn. He had a hard time getting rid of something he liked just because it was showing its age. As far as conveniences were concerned, it had been cheaper for Lazlo to build a toilet with plumbing downstairs in the back of the store. It was somewhat off-putting, but it was still significantly better than venturing outside in the cold to an outhouse. And he was very much impressed by a fairly recent invention of the Scott brothers: putting toilet paper on a roll. Their product hadn’t caught on because most people thought that any discussion of what went on in the nether regions was in poor taste, and that made advertising difficult to attain.
It was about this time that nature gently tapped him on the shoulder, and having remembered that he had run out on his last visit, Lazlo rose to get a new roll of his precious toilet paper, which he stored in a kitchen cupboard. As he ventured downstairs, thinking about
The Wrong Box
and the bizarre adventures of the Finsbury family, he paid little attention to his surroundings. But as he reached the bottom level, a man’s shadow crossed his path. He turned toward the bookstore window and saw a man pacing outside his shop, stopping periodically to peer in the window. He was wearing a hat and had his collar turned up, so his face was indiscernible. What was discernible was an urgency, almost a desperation in his behavior. Then there
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