Chapter 2: Dinner and a Show
The New York City Library had been open for about an hour when Orson Blakely stalked in. His black winter coat stayed perfectly still as he made his way to the main office. He was late, but no one would care. No one ever cared.
He unlocked the package room and looked in. Huge cardboard boxes stood every which way, forming a kind of fort around a small desk in the centre. A note reading 'please shelve' in curly black writing sat on one of the boxes. Orson ripped it off and crumpled it up, and mumbled as he walked over to the desk. The chair squeaked horribly as he fell into it. He sat lethargically for a moment, pondering why he was where he was.
Orson had worked in the same room for fifteen years. He would open all the packages, unwrap and stamp all the books, and send them to be shelved. In the beginning, he had been excited about everything. He figured if he played his cards right, he would be probably be promoted within the first few years. After the first decade, he stopped caring. He willingly came in and dealt with the monotony and the annoying staff, and would fantasize about quitting.
He opened his desk and pulled out an orange box cutter and sighed as he picked up his first box. It was from the China Dog Publishing company, and he soon found out that it was full of the latest self-help books. He tried not to vomit. He piled them all out, stamped them and threw them onto a trolley of to-be-shelved books. For a moment, his mind wandered and he began to think about things he could do with the box cutter. Then they'd listen to him. But the moment was gone as soon as it came, and he began opening boxes again.
It was about at this point that he noticed a very strange shaped package sitting in the corner. Usually, he would dismiss it and continue with the other boxes until he made it to the corner, but for some reason, he was attracted to the package, and he found himself moving towards it, his hands stretched out until he felt it in his grasp.
It was packaged messily in a brownish stained paper, tied with a wilting string. Orson though that it was much heavier than it looked. He made his way around the boxes and sat back at his desk. He set down the package and stared at it curiously for a moment. There was no return address. His fingers stretched out in pursuit of the string, and just as he could feel the strands tickling his fingertips, the door swung open.
"Orson!" Mandy Goldman said angrily, pushing the boxes with the door. His oily moustache twitched, "Where are those self-help books, there's been a waiting list for six weeks!"
Orson's finger snapped back from the package. His sallow face contorted into a kind of creepy smiled, but his circled eyes showed no enthusiasm.
"They'll be down in a minute," he said, his voice full of gravel, "I just need to get a few more of them out."
Goldman didn't look happy, but he turned and slammed the door behind him. Orson went to collect the self help books.
Ray and Egon awkwardly made their way through the lobby of Match restaurant. Ray felt very smart in his olive green tweed suit, and Egon, who had decided not to waste his time on appearances, had his usual sweater vest and khakis on.
"We've got a reservation under Graham." Ray said once he approached the reception desk.
The host was a very thin man, who had a thin, black moustache that made him look like a caterpillar had fallen asleep on his face. The glare off his thoroughly bald head was almost mesmerizing.
"Yes, your party is already seated," the man said, collecting some menus and coming out from behind his post, "this way, please."
The restaurant was a classy place. It always was when Graham was paying. Ian Graham had recently been put in charge of the parapsychology department at Columbia. After the Ghostbusters had become popular, their ex-university came up with a whole new plan for parapsychology, and the new team was notorious for trying to bring down the Ghostbusters. Graham met with them once in a while to discuss new discoveries and trends in the paranormal world. And then sometimes, the busters would get a juicy grant. That was what made the tedium all worth while.
Ray and Egon followed the host through a forest of crystal glass tables topped with china plates and silver utensils. There was a gold chandelier hanging from the carved ceiling, and there was a string quartet in the corner playing Mozart. In the corner, Graham sat at a silk spread table next to a young blonde woman. He looked up when he saw Ray and Egon approaching.
"Hello, my friends!" Graham said, his English accent very posh indeed, "Please, sit down!"
The host went off as Egon and Ray shook hands with Graham and sat down.
"How are you lads?" Graham said, not waiting for an answer, "This is one of my team, by the way. Dr. Dora Ferris."
Ferris, who was reading a book, looked up for a moment, smiled, and went back to reading.
"You'll have to pardon her," Graham said with a sly smile, "she's been working all day. Can't get her to put the book away."
Ferris didn't seem to hear.
"So what's new, boys?" Graham asked again, unfolding his napkin, "Anything interesting happen lately?"
Ray ran his hand through his hair nervously. He could feel that there would be no grant involved if he told the truth. Unfortunately, he just could not do otherwise.
"Well, we've hit a kind of dry spot," Ray said, scratching the back of his neck.
"Oh, dear," Ian said, glancing at Ferris, unreturned of course, "I hope you haven't gotten rid of all the ghosts! We'd have nothing left to do, eh, Dora?"
Dr. Ferris mumbled something. It didn't faze Graham.
"There always seems to be a sort of decrescendo in paranormal activity around this time of year," Egon said, folding his hands, "I'm sure a fluctuation is on the way. And as for getting rid of all the ghosts, I doubt that highly."
The waiter had come with a bottle of wine and a bread basket, and Egon decided not to warn Ray not to fill up on bread. This was, after all, a special occasion. They were given menus.
Ray's heart sank when he realized that there was nothing on the menu that he even recognized. No macaroni and cheese. No spaghetti. What the hell is foie gras? He shifted in his seat uneasily.
"Egon," he whispered, making sure that Graham and his friend weren't listening, "they don't have grilled cheese or anything."
Egon looked back at Ray.
"Ray, you've been here before," he replied, "just have some pasta."
Ray pouted. There were days for foods he didn't understand and there were days to just get a burger and fries. This was a burger day.
"Yes, I'll have the veal cutlet, please," Graham told the waiter, "the most lean you have."
Ray still had not decided what he wanted. Most of the menu was in French, which he had taken in high school, and the only thing he could remember to say was "Je suis un pomplemousse," and he wasn't even completely sure what it meant.
"I'd like the Peking Duck, please," Dr. Ferris said quietly, "thank you."
Ray had remembered that 'poulet' meant 'chicken', which he decided was probably the safe choice on the menu, regardless of whatever the side dishes were.
"I don't eat." Egon said when the waiter had asked his order. The waiter looked stumped for a moment, and let it slide.
Once the waiter had left, Graham suddenly turned very grave.
"As much as I enjoy talking with you, lads," he said, fooling around with his fork, "something rather unsettling has come up lately, and we thought you may have some interest in it."
Egon raised his eyebrows. It was not usual that Columbia came to the Ghostbusters with new stuff. They were often competing against each other, trying to bump the other to a lower rung of the parapsycological ladder. The fact that none of them had actually met each other did not faze them.
"Really?" Egon asked, his eyebrows melting into a frown.
"Yes, well," Graham said, obviously having to suck up his pride to do this, "we got some interesting news from the Society yesterday. Apparently, some sort of book was found in Israel, and some archaeologists were sending it to a museum to be checked out, and it simply disappeared on the way."
He shrugged. "It's supposed to have ended up in the city."
Egon and Ray were both confused.
"What does that have to do with us?" Ray asked, feeling sorry for the people who lost their findings, but not really caring for finding it himself.
Graham took in a deep breath. At this point, Dr. Ferris closed her books and watched him intently.
"It was supposed to be the fabled Black Book." Graham said pretty casually considering the circumstances.
Ray's mouth dropped open and Egon's mind went racing away.
"The Black Book?" Egon said in an intense whisper.
"Wouldn't we have read about it if they found it?" Ray added, "In the Fortean Times or ParaMag?"
Graham nodded. "They didn't have time to do anything," he replied, "Before they knew it, it was gone. And the worst part is, we've already noticed some significant changes in the city's PKE readings. If the book is opened, we've got a problem on our hands."
Dr. Ferris nodded.
"We would really like it," Graham said, glancing at Ferris for a moment, and choosing his words carefully, "if you would put some effort into the case."
Peter had lived up to his expectations, and was currently lounging in the firehouse break room, beer in hand, watching 'Happy Days' reruns.
"Fonzie is my hero," he said to Winston, who was in the back of the room reading.
"I'm not surprised." He replied, turning a page.
Peter shifted his weight and changed the channel. He had watched the rest of the 'Rawhide' marathon, and decided he was in the mood for something a bit deeper. Oh, perfect, a new episode of 'Full House'!
"Dude," Winston said, having dealt with watching 'Full House' with Peter before, "Can't you call Dana or something? Go out? This just isn't healthy, man."
Peter rolled his eyes.
"Dana's angry with me." He replied, apathetically getting up and walking to the fridge for another beer. "She thinks I don't do enough stuff with her."
Winston put down his magazine.
"Don't you think calling her up and asking her out would be a good thing to do to show her differently?" he asked.
"You obviously don't have a lot of experience with chicks, Zeddmore." Peter replied, "They WANT you to ignore them. They LIKE it."
"Whatever, Pete." Winston said with a smile. "You just-…"
He was cut off by the screaming alarm.
"Guess we got trouble." Winston said, setting down his magazine and putting on his pack.
"Oh, we've got trouble," Peter sang, strapping on his gear, "Right here in New York City. With a capital 'T' and that rhymes with 'G' and that stands for 'Ghost'…"
