The Secret of the Roll-Top Desk

Chapter One

Murray Dorson was a simple man. He sat down at Leslie's breakfast table and reached for an English muffin. As he spread butter, Leslie placed a cup of hot coffee in front of him.

"Mmm, that's a might right biscuit, Ms. Leslie -- Best this side of the ole Missy sip," Murray exclaimed.

Leslie put a hand on her hip, just above the tie on her white kitchen apron, and smiled. "Oh you go on again, Mr. Dorson," she said with a cracked voice, as she moved her hand from her hip and gestured towards him. "There's nothin' to it but a few minutes in the toaster."

"Well," Murray returned with a grin, "It's nothin' short of gourmet to me."

Leslie smiled then turned around and walked to the kitchen sink. Her silver hair was put up in a bun, and her flower-print house dress was perfectly pressed. After the sudden death of her husband eight years ago, Leslie took to letting rooms in her five-bedroom home in Queens to make ends meet.

Murray stayed in a furnished bedroom on the second floor, where he shared a bathroom with two other renters. He performed repair and maintenance on the house in exchange for reduced rent. He was paying $75 per week. He also had an under-the-table gig in Manhattan, moving furniture in and out of an old thrift store in the East Village. It was a hole in the wall on Avenue B -- one of those places that displays furniture on the sidewalk in front of the store -- a dying breed -- the last of its kind in the city. Every morning, he would meet the owner to unpack the store, and he would return at night to help put it all away. During the day, he would wander the streets in search of treasure.

In those days, New York City was the kind of place where antiques may be found abandoned on the streets. Dressers, steamer trunks, lamps, tables -- anything somebody found too big, too time consuming, or too broken to move would often end up sitting on a corner. A lucky passerby with an eye for value would snatch these up immediately. Half of the time, these items would end up for sale at the thrift store on Avenue B.

Murray finished his muffin and swallowed the last drop of coffee. He stood and brushed the crumbs from his faded blue overalls and pushed in the yellow vinyl covered chair.

"Ms. Leslie," he said, "I'm headin' in. When I get back, I'll fix that drip in the bathroom faucet upstairs."

"Okay, thank you Mr. Dorson," Leslie replied with a smile. Murray nodded his grey head and said, "Ma'am," before he turned to walk away.

Leslie's smile faded. "Murray," she called after him, "...wait. There's something I need to show you." She pulled a letter out of her apron pocket and handed it to him.

Murray set it on the table. He stared at it while his old calloused fingers moved along the letters from left to right.

"Now, Ms. Leslie," he said calmly, "I'm, uh, having a hard time here. I don't have my glasses. Can you tell me what it says?" he asked.

Leslie sat down at the table and hung her head. A tear rolled off her cheek and landed on the letter, smudging a few letters. Murray, who looking very concerned, sat down next to her and set his hands in his lap.

"Murray, I'm sorry," she cried. "It's from the bank. I've fallen behind on the mortgage payments, and I can't make it up."

"Oh, Ms. Leslie, don't cry," he said as he put a hand on her shoulder to console her. "We'll find a way."

"Murray, my pension from the school district is all gone. Walt's life insurance money was spent on repairs when we flooded three years ago. I owe them $17,500. They are going to foreclose in 90 days."

"That gives us 90 days to figure this out," Murray said. "We'll think of somethin', Ms. Leslie. Now, I gotta go and do my work in the city. Let's talk about this tonight."

Leslie sat up, composed herself and thanked Murray. She folded the letter and put it back into her apron pocket before getting up and walking out of the kitchen.

Chapter Two

Murray got off the 6 train at Astor Place and started walking East towards Avenue B and the thrift store. His heavy winter jacket was pulled tight around him. He wore a faux fur cap and worn leather boots. While his bushy grey beard afforded some protection, the frozen late November air bit at the dry, wrinkled and exposed skin on his cheeks.

As he turned north on Avenue A, at Tompkins Square Park, he noticed a piece of furniture sitting on the corner by a garbage can. It had been there all night, as it was covered in a light dust of snow.

Murray got closer and realized that it was an old roll-top desk. It was not in great condition. The roll-top had fallen off and a leg was broken. Still, Murray knew that with a little elbow grease, this was the kind of thing that would turn over quickly at the thrift store. He was still three blocks away, and the desk was too large to move on his own. He took out two of the drawers, and headed east towards Avenue B.

Patty Morrison, the owner of the thrift store, was standing outside the store gates, holding a cup of black coffee with one gloved hand, and holding a cigarette with the other.

"What do you have there, Murr?" she asked. She held the cigarette in her mouth and took one of the drawers and examined it. "See that, Murr?" she said, indicating the interlocking dovetail holding the sides of the drawer to the drawer face. "That means it's antique. This from a desk or dresser?"

"Why it's an old roll-top, Ms. Patty. Found it at Tompkins. I disabled it, just like you told me," Murray said with a smile. Patty had taught Murray that should he come across a piece of furniture too large to move by himself, that he could disable it by removing a couple drawers. Other finders can deal with scratches, broken legs, and wood repair, but nobody wants a desk or dresser with missing drawers.

"Good show, Murr, good show," Patty said enthusiastically. I'll get a dolly.

Patty and Murray walked back to the desk, turned it on its side, and set it on the dolly. A little black book, who's front cover had wedged between the frame of the desk and the backside wood paneling, became freed and tumbled onto the ground at Murray's feet. He picked it up and stored it in the large front pocket of his overalls. Back at the shop, Patty set the desk in front of the store and set to cleaning and repairing.

"Boy, Murr, she needs a little work, but she's a beaut," she said, smiling. "I can give you $20 for the find. You can keep the book, sound fair?"

"Oh, Ms. Patty, that's more than fair. You are always too good to me. Thank you," Murray exclaimed. "I'll be back at 6 PM to help you close shop."

"Good show, Murr," Patty said with a wink.

Chapter 3

After closing shop, Murray got onto the E train for the long ride home back to Forest Hills. He pulled the little black book from his overalls pocket and flipped through the pages. It was full of handwritten notes, and a few drawings. He put the book back in his pocket and nodded off. The train jostled back and forth. He was woken when the doors beeped open at Forest Hills.

When he got out of the tunnels, he discovered that it had started to rain on the ride home. He had a five block walk back to Leslie's. He had saved the $20 he earned from finding the desk and was planning on giving it to her to help pay off the bank. He knew it was not a lot of money, but every dollar was going to count.

He was in a hurry to get home. Not only was he getting wet, but he was excited about sharing the money with Leslie. He turned the corner at a bodega, just a block from home, and slipped in a puddle of water. He went crashing to the cement, catching himself with his hands. He picked himself up, soaked from the wet cement, and bleeding from both palms. He limped on home.

"Oh, heavens, Mr. Dorson, whatever happened to you?" asked Leslie, as she met him at the front door.

"Why, Ms. Leslie, it's wet out there! I wasn't too careful, was I," said Murray.

"Well, you go get dried up and cleaned up. Bring me your clothes, I'll start a load for you," said Leslie.

Murray returned from his room with a fresh set of clothes and a basket of laundry. Leslie handed him a cup of tea and took the basket off to the laundry. Murray sat on the sofa, near the cast iron stove. Leslie had made a hot fire, and the iron was beginning to turn red.

Leslie returned from the laundry room with a puzzled look on her face. She sat down in the chair next to the sofa, just opposite Murray. She was holding the little black book and the $20.

"Murray," she said intensely, "Where did you get this?"

"Oh, that's right, Ms. Leslie. "I found an old roll-top this morning. Ms. Patty gave us that for it."

"No, not the $20, Murray. Where did you get this journal?" she asked again, emphatically.

"Oh, it was stuck up in the desk. Fell out when we picked it up. Ms. Patty said I could keep it," he explained.

"Murray, have you seen this, do you know what it is?" She asked excitedly.

"Well I glimmered at it some, but I don't have my glasses..." he said as Leslie cut him off.

"Here, here," she said, handing him some reading glasses and the book. "Look at it!"

Murray put on the glasses and began at the first page. He stared at it for several minutes. Leslie's eyes got bigger, anticipating Murray's reaction.

Murray's eyes welled up, his bottom jaw began shaking, his lips quivered. "Ms. Leslie," he cried, "I...I...I don't know how to read."

"Oh, Murray," said Leslie, taking his hand with her hand and reaching up to wipe a tear away from his face. She smiled. "It's okay, Murray. I can help you with that."

Murray hung his head, ashamed of the painful truth that he had revealed, yet somehow relieved of its burden.

"Murray," Leslie began. "This is a personal journal of Scott Fitzgerald. He has written some of the most important novels of the last 100 years. You may have heard of The Great Gatsby?"

"Heard, yeah," Murray said.

"If this is real, it's worth thousands!" Leslie exclaimed.

Murray smiled. He knew this was the ticket to helping Leslie keep the home. "Ms. Leslie, that book is for you. God, or the universe, or whatever it is out there led me to it so you could save our home."

Leslie smiled. "Murray, you can stay here rent free for as long as you like."

Murray stood up and walked over to the old radio and tuned it to 910 on the AM dial. Perry Como's It's Impossible was playing.

"Ms. Leslie," Murray said holding out his hand. "Might I have this dance?"

Leslie smiled, took his hand and stood up. "Of course!" she said. They swayed into the late hours of the night.

The next week, Leslie sold the Fitzgerald journal to Sotheby's for $20,000.