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Central Park and the Small Aircraft – Part 01

George Washington says… 3

I think I caught a cold.

Achoo, achoo!

Ah, how embarrassing. It’s been a while since I’ve been outside, you see.

Oh, but never mind that. Look over there! A shirtless young man is walking down the street in East Village. Huh? No, really, look! Over there, see?

He’s got a white cloth wrapped around his waist and is walking barefoot.

Who in the world is he?

Now he’s stopping in front of this stall and trying to buy something.

What’s this?

“Thirty meters of hemp rope, please!”

What a strange fellow. What does he plan to do with such a long rope, dressed like that? It’s way too long for hanging oneself, I tell you. Oh, wait, the man’s pulling out a ten-dollar bill… and as change, of all things, I’m the one being handed over.

I tell you, even as a bill, being grabbed by a half-naked man is a rather unpleasant experience. Ugh, how unsettling.

Ew, no! The man’s tucked me into his waistband. Ugh, it’s so warm and sticky! I may be just a bill, but this is gross, gross, really gross! Please, let me out!

And now he’s slung the rope over his shoulder and is walking off. Where’s this guy going?

Dressed so oddly, he strode confidently through the bustling city sidewalks and arrived at the avenue in front of Central Park.

Hmm. This area hasn’t changed much since the old days. So much greenery, it’s beautiful. The air here is nice too.

Central Park, a huge park right in the middle of Manhattan Island. Apparently, “Manhattan” means “island of many hills” in the language of the indigenous people. This park stretched far and wide, with ancient wild forests and fields, valleys, and even a small lake.

“Redcurrant juice and an apple, please!”

Huh? The naked man’s buying something at a stall in front of the park. Breakfast, perhaps?

Hmm? I’m being handed over again. Looks like this is where I part ways with this oddly-dressed fellow. A-Achoo! He took the juice and apple and walked off. I’ll never know what he plans to do with that long rope. Such is the fate of a bill, nothing new.

I stretched out with a groan inside the stall.

“Hey, what was up with that half-naked guy?” asked a peppy, young five-dollar bill.

“I have no idea,” I replied.

The other bills chimed in.

“The city sure has its weirdos.”

“And it’s hot.”

“Achoo!”

“Hey, old man, don’t pass your cold onto me!”

“Sorry about that, young one.”

“Oh, Gramps, I was in River Valentine’s wallet the other day for half a day. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Who’s that?”

“What? You don’t know him? You’re so out of touch. He’s Hollywood’s most handsome guy!”

“Can you all keep it down? I was sleeping.”

“Ah, sorry about that, young one.” I closed my mouth after that.

I took a good look around. Across the main road from Central Park stood a large, brown building. I found myself gazing at it wistfully.

Ah, yes, I remember now. That building is…

Achoo!

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Chapter 3: Central Park and the Small Aircraft

At the top of the peculiar, seashell-shaped building called the Carousel, inside the Pony Room, two clients stood before a small detective.

A gentle summer breeze drifted through the triangular window.

Victorique perched delicately on a pink couch swing suspended from the ceiling, like a kitten placed there by someone. Her silver hair, streaked with gold, shimmered in the breeze, while the hem of her green and pink dress fluttered like petals and lush leaves in a flower bed.

She gazed downward, idly twirling a golden lizard-shaped pipe in her hands. The two clients stood firmly before her.

One, a man with a bandaged head, pulled a wallet from his pocket and slapped three ten-dollar bills onto the dresser. “Detective, here’s thirty dollars—all my savings. The job I need is…” Before he could finish, the woman beside him, her left ankle bandaged, stepped forward anxiously.

“W-Wait! Me too!” she cried, placing a piggy bank on the floor and grabbing a hammer Kazuya had left behind. “Here goes!” She swung it down.

Crack! Shards of ceramic scattered everywhere.

Her face fell. “Oh… I’ve finally broken the piggy bank Grandma gave me for my tenth birthday.” Tears brimmed in her eyes.

“Hey, don’t cry,” the man said, crouching to gather the scattered coins and bills. He counted them, muttering, “One, two, three. That’s it? Only six dollars? For such a fancy piggy bank?”

“Well, um…”

“How long have you been saving?”

“Since I was ten… so, ten years. But I spent my allowance and wages on food and skirts.”

“Now, look here. You can’t hire a detective with this! And this isn’t just any detective agency. It’s the Gray Wolf Detective Agency, known to those in the know as Wonder—uh… Never mind, forget I said that,” he added quickly, clamping his mouth shut.

Victorique, cool as a doll, puffed on her pipe, watching with an emotionless gaze. The woman wiped her tears and slumped.

Sunlight streaming through the triangular window brought the warmth of summer into the room.

Victorique’s face remained impassive for a while, when she paused and removed the pipe from her lips. “So, what I gathered from your exchange…”

“What?” the man said.

“…is that six dollars is insufficient, correct?”

“Of course not. That’s barely enough for a decent meal, let alone hiring a detective.”

A faint, mischievous glint flickered in Victorique’s eyes. With puppet-like motion, she lifted her pipe and took another puff. Smoke curled toward the ceiling.

She fixed her gaze on the man. “For six dollars, could I buy something like… a front basket for a bicycle?”

“Just the basket? What about the bicycle? And why would you even want that?” he asked, baffled.

The woman’s face lit up. Wiping her tears, she exclaimed, “Detective! If it’s a front basket you want, I can give you one.”

Victorique eyed her skeptically. Removing the pipe from her lips, she replied coldly, “A stylish front basket, perfect for a black bicycle?”

“We have everything. My family runs Sue Sue Bicycle on Beaver Street.”

Victorique pondered for a moment, then nodded solemnly. “Very well. I’ll take your case.”

“What? Wait! This isn’t fair, Detective! I brought my hard-earned thirty dollars!” the man protested, flailing his arms.

Victorique gave him a puzzled look. “Hm? Um… Uh?” she groaned, glancing around for Kazuya.

Baffled, she cocked her head before reluctantly straightening up, reclaiming her air of authority as a detective. Raising her pipe slightly, she announced, “Ladies first.”

“What? Seriously? Fine! Let her go first. This is one weird detective agency,” the man grumbled, plopping himself down onto the dresser.

“My name is Kelly Sue,” the woman introduced, her brown eyes glittering. “So, here’s the thing…”

The summer breeze blowing into the Pony Room grew warmer, stirring the vibrant tropical flowers abloom in the Carousel, the large palm leaves, the vines. Victorique’s silken hair formed glimmering spirals on the floor.

Outside the room, a pitch-black anteater walking upright on two legs, a round, tropical orange tortoise, and a pelican with a pink beak strolled leisurely past.

Above, a flock of birds flitted through the open ceiling, their shadows darting across the floor.

“My request, Detective, is to find the real map of Central Park.”

“The real map, you say?”

“Let me explain.” Kelly Sue pulled an ID from her bag.

The male client jumped down from the dresser and leaned in for a closer look. Victorique, puffing on her pipe, observed indifferently.

“New York City Hall, Regional Management Department, Green Spaces Division. So, you’re a city hall employee?” the man asked, surprised.

“That’s right. I started last year,” Kelly Sue replied proudly.

Lazily, Victorique remarked, “Now why is a city hall employee so desperate to find a park map? Desperate enough to smash your piggy bank and rush to a detective?”

“Ah, to explain that, I need to tell you about this person first.”

Kelly Sue pulled out a yellow, polka-dotted notebook and opened it. Victorique leaned in thoughtfully.

On the left page, scrawled in large, bold letters, were phrases like: “Architect Druid!” “The Dark Legacy Left in New York!!” and “Dangerous Individual.”

The right page held a photo of a tall, slim-faced man in his fifties. His cold, refined features were framed by long hair, and he wore shaman-like robes. Beneath the photo were notes: Arthur King! Alias: Architect Druid! Mean-spirited!

Victorique tilted her head. “Druid? This morning, we visited a house on Orange Street called Druid House. The widow there said her husband, an architect, had passed away. She introduced herself as Mrs. King and referred to her late husband as Arthur.”

“This man is Arthur King, an architect and landscape designer, also known as Architect Druid,” Kelly Sue eagerly explained. “About fifty years ago, he emigrated from Ireland to America. He became famous in New York for his unique designs inspired by ancient Celtic styles.”

She flipped to the next page. On the left, bold letters read Public Buildings, with photos of places like the New York Public Library, Grand Central Station, and a famous museum. On the right were pictures of large hotels and newspaper offices. She turned to another page labeled Apartments, featuring buildings ranging from ancient temple-like structures to whimsical, fairy-tale designs.