Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

“I am the absolute worst person you could get to do BD for your company,” I say. “I guarantee it. You’d have to fire me. It would be awful.” I’m not kidding. Working for Neel would violate the terms of our friendship. He’d be Neel Shah, boss, or Neel Shah, business mentor—no longer Neel Shah, dungeon master.

“I wouldn’t fire you,” he says. “I’d just demote you.”

“To what, Igor’s apprentice?”

“Igor already has an apprentice. Dmitriy. He’s supersmart. You could be Dmitriy’s apprentice.”

I’m sure Dmitriy is sixteen. I don’t like the sound of this. I change course:

“Hey, what about making your own movies?” I say. “Really show off Igor’s chops. Start another Pixar.”

Neel nods at that, then he’s quiet a moment, chewing it over. Finally: “I would totally do that. If I knew a filmmaker, I would fund him in a second.” He pauses. “Or her. But if it was a her, I’d probably fund her through my foundation.”

Right: the Neel Shah Foundation for Women in the Arts. It’s a tax shelter created at the behest of Neel’s slick Silicon Valley accountant. Neel asked me to build a placeholder website to make it look more legit and it is, to date, the second-most-depressing thing I have ever designed. (The NewBagel to Old Jerusalem rebranding still holds the top slot.)

“So go find a filmmaker,” I say.

“You go find a filmmaker,” Neel shoots back. Very sixth-grade. Then something lights up in his eyes: “Actually … that’s perfect. Yes. In exchange for funding this adventure, Claymore Redhands, I ask this boon of you.” His voice goes low and dungeon master-y: “You will find me a filmmaker.”

*   *   *

My phone guides us to the address in Dumbo. It’s on a quiet street along the water, next to a fenced-in lot bristling with ConEdison transformers. The building is dark and narrow, even skinnier than Penumbra’s and much more run-down. It looks like there’s been a fire here recently; long black streaks rise up around the doorframe. The space would look derelict if not for two things: One, a wide vinyl sign stuck crookedly to the front that says POP-UP PIE. Two, the warm rising smell of pizza.

Inside, it’s a wreck—yes, there was definitely a fire here—but the air is dense and fragrant, full of carbohydrates. Up front, there’s a card table with a dented money box. Behind it, a gang of ruddy-cheeked teenagers is milling around a makeshift kitchen. One is spinning dough in wobbly circles above his head; another is chopping tomatoes, onions, and peppers. Three more are just standing around, talking and laughing. There’s a tall pizza oven behind them, bare banged-up metal with a wide blue racing stripe down the middle. It has wheels.

There’s music blaring from a set of plastic speakers, a crunchy warbling tune that I suspect no more than thirteen people in the world have ever heard.

“What can I get you guys?” one of the teenagers calls out above the music. Well, he might not actually be a teenager. The staff here inhabits a whiskerless in-between space; they probably go to art school. Our host is wearing a white T-shirt that shows Mickey Mouse grimacing and brandishing an AK-47.

Okay, I’d better get this right: “One Hogwarts Special,” I call back to him. Insurgent Mickey nods once. I add, “But hold the shrooms.” Pause. “The mushrooms, I mean.” Pause. “I think.” But Insurgent Mickey has already turned away from us, consulting with his colleagues.

“Did he hear you?” Neel whispers. “I can’t eat pizza. If we actually end up with a pizza, it’s going to be your responsibility to consume it. Do not let me have any. Even if I ask for some.” He pauses. “I’ll probably ask for some.”

“Tie you to the mast,” I say. “Like Odysseus.”

“Like Captain Bloodboots,” Neel says.

In The Dragon-Song Chronicles, Fernwen the scholarly dwarf convinces the crew of the Starlily to tie Captain Bloodboots to the mast after he tries to cut the singing dragon’s throat. So, yes. Like Captain Bloodboots.

Insurgent Mickey is back with a pizza box. That was fast. “That’ll be sixteen-fifty,” he says. Wait, did I do something wrong? Is this a joke? Did Grumble send us on a wild-goose chase? Neel raises his eyebrows but produces a crisp twenty-dollar bill and hands it over. In return, we receive an extra-large pizza box, with POP-UP PIE stamped across the top in runny blue ink.

The box isn’t hot.

Outside on the sidewalk, I crack it open. Inside, there are tidy stacks of heavy cardboard, all long flat shapes with slots and tabs where they fit together. It’s a GrumbleGear, all in pieces. The edges are burned black. These shapes have been made with a laser cutter.

Written in thick marker strokes on the underside of the box’s lid is a message from Grumble, whether by his own hand or his Brooklyn minion’s, I will never know:

SPECIALIS REVELIO