Prince of Fingers
His name was Handy, a Jack of All Trades (he’d said.)
An interesting fella with large and curious eyes, Milo Handy would listen while you were talking. A rare trait for men.
I’d bumped into him at the local coffee shop.
We sat at a long table waiting for our drinks and like a prairie fire among sagebrush, a conversation broke out. Soon both of us were laughing with tears in our eyes.
He had an hour to kill before driving back to the DFW airport and, as it turns out, a story to tell as I’d never before heard.
Milo Handy was a ‘bird dog’ for rich collectors. (It’s jargon for a niche profession.)
He scavenged a want-list of items wealthy assholes provided to increase an already vast collection. Milo quickly wrought his cleverness and resourceful imagination into a full-time expedition that took him all over the world.
Milo, in effect, was a kind of Detective. No badge. No gun. No worries, Mate.
“What sort of items are you in this neck of the woods ferreting out - if you don’t mind my asking?” I was casually curious and he seemed to be an open sort of person.
He paused mid-sip and put his cup down and turned in his seat to look hard into my eyes.
A peculiar feeling of mistrust passed over his expression - or at least I’d surmised because that easy smile had disappeared.
“I’ll give you three guesses.” It was offered matter-of-fact and without charm.
I’m usually quick to make some sort of asinine quip in a tense situation - but not this time.
“What if I guess wrong?”
He didn’t blink. He spoke the way a District Judge speaks when passing a long sentence.
“You will guess wrong.”
This was to be some sort of game or challenge - it seemed to me. Well, I had nothing better to do. Why not squeeze some drop of fun out of it.
“How about we do it this way …I’ll ask you three questions and based on your answers- then I’ll make my three guesses?”
He didn’t blink. “You will guess wrong no matter how many questions you ask.”
I must confess, I was torn between feeling like he was putting me on and otherwise, testing me in some odd way for some unconventional purpose for personal reasons.
I decided in that instant to call his bluff (if that is what it was).
“Nevermind. I don’t need to know about anything illegal, immoral, or especially lethal.”
Milo Handy blinked. Then he slowly blinked again like a person waking from a dream.
Heaving a deep cleansing Yoga sigh, he shrugged and turned back in his chair facing forward.
“Very wise move. I approve.”
Awkwardly, we sat in silence for at least half a minute. Then, he lightened up and began telling the strangest story I’ve heard from anybody.
“There lives a man in Amsterdam, Prince of Fingers. His family has been in the diamond business for generations. Filthy rich, filthy-minded, elitist Euro-trash I guess you’d say - but I was directed to call on him by one of my usual contacts, a French fellow named Muir; a jolly, reliable bird dog with a big heart and a grab bag of funny jokes about Swedes. Muir directed me toward the Dutchman with a word of warning.
“He’ll make you wealthy if you obtain his objet d’art for him. He pays well. Or should I say he pays too well? And before you bother to ask why I don’t keep him to myself - I’ll be clear about it. I can’t stand the man. Life is too short for even five minutes spent in his company.
I met him only once and that was one time too many. But you - you have a peculiar sense of comedy. I can’t see you being bothered by his comic eccentricity or his lizard eyeballs. You’ll make, as I said, a lot of cash barking up the right trees and fetching his beloved foxes.”
At this point, he glanced over at me to see if I had taken the bait so he could reel me in.
What can I say? I so seldom meet interesting people. I know that sounds awful but it is true. An interesting conversation is all too rare in these parts. He was a funny guy like me, carefree and witty. Then suddenly dark and mysterious. I reckoned he was putting me on with a dramatic flair for the macabre. He’d hooked me with some carefully prepared short story he’d read in a book or seen in a European art-house cinema. Yep, that’s his game- thought I. Wrong as a man can be.
“Yes - I’m with you- I’m listening. Go on …”
Milo Handy checked his watch and then suggested we continue outside on the patio of the coffee shop, ostensibly away from prying ears, signaling intrigue of an illicit nature, or some element of grisly horror to come.
Some half a minute later, coffee at hand and bright sunlight splashing all around us, it was the perfect setting for a possibly silly shaggy dog story or gotcha joke at my expense.
Milo began quietly, causing me to lean forward and listen especially closely.
“Amsterdam is like cutting open the stomach of a Great White Shark; you'll always find something there you don’t ever want to see again. On the other hand, it is more civilized than anyplace else; lovely, serene, and sane. What does that tell you about the Dutch? It told me I was about to meet a man of contradictions and perhaps dark tastes in the unnatural side of life.”
I confess it was just short of thrilling to hear a stranger spin such a well-crafted and perfectly articulated yarn - for free - on a sunny weekday in Texas. I took in a deep breath of fresh air and tuned in with avid interest.
“After an uneventful flight to Amsterdam, I arrived at the Waldorf Astoria and a lunch invitation from a voice on the telephone, calling himself Gregoor. Yes, he spelled it for me. Can you believe it? I arrived on time and was guided by an obsequious maître d' to a private nook and seated. My host had not yet arrived.
The meal had been ordered ahead of time and I was spared the embarrassment. After all, we Americans are considered obnoxious boors with horrid tastes and insufferable manners.
I sipped an aperitif and waited. Ere long an old-fashioned red telephone was delivered to the table and plugged in. We’re talking pre-WWII fancy receiver like you’d see in an MGM cinematic opus.
A voice on the other end asked me to identify myself and state my business. This was all so silly, Grand Guignol but I was loving every minute of it.”
(So was I. Soaking it up as fast as he spilled it.
I gave him my most obvious “interested as shit!” face and he nodded and continued…)
“With this nonsense out of the way, Gregoor’s voice came on the line. He made a perfunctory apology for his absence and proceeded without taking a pause or breath to instruct me as to exactly the sort of thing he was after and the unspeakably grandiose payment attached. Just at that instant, the waiter arrived with my meal and an envelope was delivered as well. Inside the envelope in hand-printed calligraphy (Spencerian fancy script, I believe) were the exact instructions and details as Gregoor’s comic voice had just spoken. My client asked for acknowledgment and he wished me bon ape’tit and rung off. The meal was four courses of god knows what - but delicious beyond measure. My tip was refused and I was escorted out of the hotel into a limousine and taken directly to the airport. I arrived 48 hours ago in Texas and I completed my task a little after midnight last night. Any questions? You get 3 now - as per your suggestion. But I’m afraid you only get one guess. It’s all I have time for.” Yet another anxious glance at his watch.
Mind blown. I sat bolt upright, heart quickening. He was serious. Or was he? Yes. I think so.
I wouldn’t waste my guesses.
“Why was Gregoor called the Finger Prince?”
Milo had finished his drink. He excused himself and went back to the barista bar and summoned a refill. A new drink was provided instead. He returned glancing again at his watch. He sat and sipped and nodded at me before speaking. He stared at my face and looked away.
“That’s a good question. If I told you - you’d know what the item was. The best I can answer is this. He is not called Finger Prince and it is not something he called himself. You are trying to be too explicit and this is spoiling your chances. Gregoor is spoken about in whispers for good reason.”
That was not the sort of reply I’d expected. I thought we’d be more light-hearted about this - but Milo was still in serious mode. Was this real, then? Not likely. Or was it?
A sudden cold wind of the soul stirred inside me. I jerked my head toward Milo Handy with my best “Are You F-ing Serious?” face on display, eyebrows raised high and wide-open eyes.
“Does Gregoor collect …how shall I say…mummified body parts?”
Milo’s face tilted ever so slightly to the left as a canoe when the weight is shifted too far and a danger of capsizing is imminent.
“Pity that. You are again way too explicit in your question - so - my answer is a definite, “NO”.
I blew my first question! 1 down and 2 to go.
Was Milo signaling to me I should not have said one or two of the words I’d asked?
Like what? - which ones?
Maybe the “mummified” was too specific or the “body parts” too suggestive of Hannibal Lector? I was tied in a knot of a quandary.
“What size is the - um- collectible you’ve retrieved for Gregoor?”
For the first time in the last three-quarters of an hour, Milo Handy broke a smile.
“In my rental car, I have a small briefcase in the trunk. Inside a cigar box, I have the collectible carefully wrapped in lead foil. That should be close enough for you to hazard your only guess. But I told you already - it is impossible for you to guess.”
At that moment I almost blurted out - “Are you just making all this up?”
But I didn’t. I somehow knew. He was dead serious.
I was inside a Twilight Zone or Alfred Hitchcock episode and the writer of the script had me boxed in too tightly.
Maybe that was the way out! I should look at this situation from the outside.
After all - I’m a writer, dammit! If I were a scriptwriter for an episode from an old mystery suspense TV series in the 50s, wouldn’t I come up with something of a twist ending - a surprise?
Milo had finished his second coffee and was readying himself to leave. There was just no way I was going to fail this simple test of guessing-game cleverness on his part.
“Do you mind if I use my laptop to Google an idea I have?”
Milo gave a disappointed smile and spoke quietly the way a grandmother might do to a slow child.
“That counts as a question. The answer is, “Yes. You can Google whatever you need.”
I opened my backpack and pulled out my laptop and entered the phrase, “The Finger Prince”.
Milo was watching and he interrupted me with an unexpected hint.
“You are the one saying “Finger Prince”. I never said any such thing. To be fair, I’m pointing that out before you respond.”
“THANK YOU!” I screamed and entered the phrase, “The Prince of Fingers.”
There it was! It must be the correct answer!
It was a book: The Finger Prince by Peter Begley
Overjoyed and self-satisfied I blurted out my guess.
“You located some sort of rare autographed copy of The Finger Prince by Peter Begley!” And the instant I did this I realized grimly what a fool I was for wasting my third question and going straight to a reckless guess.
Milo puffed out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows.
“He swings for the fence and misses. Sorry. The ballgame is over. Yer Out!”
Has a human being ever been as deflated as I was at that moment? Not since the crash of the airship Hindenberg, I’d say.
I watched Milo Handy gather his trash and stand. He stuck out his hand and then pulled back, offering an elbow bump instead. (Oh yeah…Covid…one forgets so easily.)
I stood like a rejected child at an orphanage as a prospective parent walked away.
Milo reached his rental car and turned. He looked down a moment and sort of laughed to himself, then he swung his arm in a “Come on over here” signal. Faster than the speed of light, I was in motion and standing next to the trunk of his car.
He placed his index finger next to his lips and popped the trunk.
There it was! The elusive briefcase stood at an angle smack dab in the middle of a cavernous trunk space.
Milo repeated his finger to the lips “Sh-h-h” signal and swiveled his head left and right checking for witnesses. Very theatrical, I thought to myself.
My heart was pounding and I felt sooo silly for feeling that way.
Inside the briefcase, just as he’d described, was the “thing” wrapped in lead foil.
He unwrapped it and quickly closed it and I felt a bolt of lightning crash through the crown of my head and out through the soles of my feet as he whispered three words in my ear. He placed everything back as it was. Closed the trunk, nodded and climbed back into the car, and drove away.
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Epilogue
______
Okay. Let me be frank, upfront, and honest with you.
I am NOT going to tell you what I saw or tell you the three words spoken by Milo Handy before he drove to the DFW airport on a flight to Amsterdam to deliver the specified “collectible” to the Prince of Fingers.
IF YOU WANT TO GUESS …
I'll give you three hints.
1. Rose Hill cemetery
2. Scoundrel
3. Trigger finger
The 3 words may well come to your mind ....
And that’s all I have to say on this matter.
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The End