Booked to Die (15 page)

I was called to Steed’s office again at the end of the day. I had been suspended with pay pending the outcome of the investigation by Internal Affairs.

That night I went out to Ruby’s and dropped another grand on books.

I bought wholesale, and I bought well.

By the time the second-day stories appeared I was hardened to it: cop suspended, they both said. There was a picture of Jackie, looking like the sole survivor of Nagasaki. There I was, too, plastered next to him, one mean-looking bastard. They had used my old mug shot, my killer pose. You’d never know from just a look which of these two guys is the real hood, 1 thought. Take a look and guess.

I didn’t get much comfort from my friends. I talked to Hennessey and that was okay—Neal never changes: he reminds me of a Saint Bernard dog, always there with a keg of cheer at exactly the right moment. Others in the department weren’t so hot. Somebody leaked the gory details of my long feud with Jackie, and the papers picked that up and ran with it. It looked like 1 had had a long vendetta against the guy, without a helluva lot in the proof department. All the times I had picked Jackie up were examined and dissected. It didn’t look good.

Finally there was Carol. We talked several times over the next few days and nothing came of it. She wanted to come over but somehow it didn’t happen. There was a coolness now, a distance between us. I thought I knew how that was going to turn out too.

In the middle
of the third day, my phone rang.

“Dr. Janeway, I presume.”

“You got me.”

“Rubio here. That’s quite a beating you took in the papers this morning.”

“You should see the other guy.”

“I did, my friend. His nose looked like one of my legs flopping down between his eyes. But look, I didn’t call just to be sociable. I’ve got three questions for you. Ready?”

“Shoot.”

“Number one. You want to make a fast two bills on that Golding item?”

The book happened to be on the table before me. I looked at it and thought.
No, hell no, I’ll never see another one this nice
.

Ruby, catching my drift, said, “If you’re gonna deal books, Dr. J, you can’t fall in love with the bastards.”

“Sure,” I said, and my rite of passage began.

“Number two,” Ruby said. “Will you let me make a little money on it?”

“That seems fair.”

“All the right answers so far. Now for the big one. You ready to take the plunge?”

“I might be.”

“I thought you might after I read the papers. A lot of things started coming clear after that.”

“What’ve you got in mind?”

“Tell you when I see you. Meet me at the store in an hour, and bring the book.”

The client was a man in his fifties who had been looking for the Golding for a year. “Pickiest bastard you ever saw,” Ruby said. “He’ll pay top dollar, but it really has to be the world’s nicest copy.” He had seen and rejected half a dozen copies, Ruby said, and was primed for this one. Ruby had warned him that the tariff would be four hundred dollars.

The guy bought it without a whimper. He paid with a check to Seals & Neff and left a happy man.

I felt strangely elated, inexplicably confident. In that moment, every book I had was for sale.

“Mr. Janeway, it looks like you’re a book dealer after all,” Emery Neff said. “All you need now is a place to hang your shingle and the guts to take the leap.”

“Which brings us back to that third question,” Ruby said. “The place on the far corner has been empty about six months. It used to be a Greek restaurant and nobody thinks of it any other way. But man-oh-man, what a great bookstore that’d be. Plenty of room, lots of atmosphere—I’d rent it myself if I had the money and wasn’t tied in here with a five-million-year lease.”

I walked up the street and looked in the window.

It was one of those old places with alcoves and side rooms and high ceilings. The house had been built, I guessed, around 1910: a residence long ago, before Kast Colfax had hardened and become Hustler’s Avenue. When the hustlers had moved in, the place had gone commercial: the porch had been stripped away and bricked up; a storefront had been added and grates put over the windows. The last tenants had not been kind: there was grime on the walls and grit on the floor; the ceiling sagged and the carpet, where it existed, was a nest for all the rats and bugs of east Denver. But if you could see past the dirt to what it could be, none of that mattered.

I copied the number from the sign in the window, went back to Ruby’s and called the man. He wanted $800 a month and a two-year lease: he would maintain the outside and I’d take care of the inside. The place was 2,500 square feet, which included two rooms in the basement. I told him I was interested, and we agreed to meet later in the afternoon and talk some more.

“If I do it we’ll be in competition,” I said to Ruby.

“That never scared me any.”

“Do it and in a year this block will be known from coast to coast,” Neff said.

“Believe that, Dr. J,” Ruby said. “Believe it. Have faith. Know that the good guys always win.”

“I’ve been a cop too long to buy into that, Ruby.”

“Believe this, then,” he said, holding the check between two fingers.

“He made the check out to us,” Neff said. “If you’ll allow us fifty for selling it, I’ll write you our check for three-fifty and we’re square.”

“Things must be looking up,” I said cheerfully. “You’re writing checks again.”

“Cash it fast, Dr. J,” Ruby said. “There’s still a little left over from your check the other day. I’m goin‘ down to the bank and put this in right away. But you cash that check real fast.”

I met the
guy and signed the lease. Then I quit the department.

I called in and told Steed. We talked for ten minutes. Most of what he said could be wrapped up in a couple of short sentences.

You’ve been a damn good cop, Janeway: don’t throw it all away because of a stupid mistake. Fight the bastards.

I didn’t have the heart for that fight anymore. I went home and put it in writing.

It swept through the department like wildfire. My phone started ringing and didn’t stop for three days.

I wanted to
build it myself. I wanted to feel it going up around me. I had no sense of urgency: I hadn’t touched my savings yet, and what I’d get in mustering-out pay, back vacation, and my refund from the retirement pool would more than keep me going. I bought lumber, paint, and carpet. There was a bank less than a block away, perfect for a book fund checking account. Bookscouts, who hated checks, could cash them on the spot. I knew I’d need a name and I didn’t want the obvious: Clifford L. Janeway, Books. I wanted something soft and literary, not cute. I settled on Twice Told Books, and I called a sign man and told him what I wanted.

I knew it would take at least a month to get it ready. The first night I spent getting rid of the old carpet, a rotten job. Ruby came by and pitched in, unasked. He had been a carpenter in the old days, long before books, before booze and dope had jerked him screaming through life’s most ragged porthole. He wasn’t fast anymore but he was good. We walked through the store and he pointed out things and made suggestions, and he said he’d be back now and then with his tools to help. I slipped him a double sawbuck. He said he wasn’t doing it for money and I knew that, but he was too broke to refuse. He came two or three times that first week. Our evenings settled into a routine. I had pizza brought in and we worked till ten. We talked and laughed and I felt the first faint stirrings of a new comaraderie.

In the second week the book editor of the
Denver Post
called. He wanted to do a story on the cop-becomes-bookman motif. I wasn’t thrilled at the idea, since the papers were still gorging themselves on my resignation under fire, as they called it, but I knew I’d need all the help I could get. The piece ran in the Sunday supplement. The headline said, he swapped his badge for a bookstore. The picture of me looked almost human. “Look at that,” I said to the empty store. “I ain’t such a bad guy after all.” The article was okay, too. There were a few disparaging remarks from unnamed sources within the department: there was a brief recap about the two guys I had killed, and a couple of lines about Jackie Newton. All this I could’ve done without. But there was a quote from Ruby, too. Ruby Seals, longtime Denver antiquarian book dealer whose store is half a block east of Janeway’s new establishment, said, quote, Janeway is the best bookman I’ve ever seen outside the trade; I know he’s been thinking of this move for years, and he’ll do extremely well. He has an eye for books that will carry him to the very top of his new profession. Unquote. “Awt damn, did you really say that?” I asked incredulously. He gave me his scholar’s profile and farted loudly. “I think what I said was, he ain’t bad for an old flatfoot. Jeez, that shrimp curry does it every time.”

I never saw Emery Neff at all that week. “Neff don’t like to sweat,” Ruby said with a laugh. He told me he and Neff had become partners a few years ago after an on-and-off ten-year acquaintance. “Man, we thought we’d grab the book business by the ass,” Ruby said. “Neff knows everything about early books. He knows seventeenth-century English poetry like I know the whorehouses of Saint Louis, Missouri. Neff’s an expert on magic and ventriloquism. He used to perform and give shows but he don’t do that anymore. Too much hassle, not enough pay. He had one of the best collections of magic books in this state, but like everything else he sold the high spots and the rest just trickled away. Me, I know illustrated books, American lit, and offbeat stuff. I like books about strikes, headbusters, radical politics. I got a real feel for what can be milked out of a good book that nobody’s ever heard of. Both of us have good juice in all the other fields. Turn the two of us loose in a store that hasn’t been picked in a while and it’s tantamount to rape. We’re damn good bookmen, Dr. J: between us, we thought we’d have all the bases covered. The problem is…well, you know what the problem is. You said it yourself. We got too many bad habits, especially together. We see a book we’ve got to have and we pay too much. Then we’ve got to wholesale for less than we paid to cover the rent. You can’t keep doin‘ that, but we can’t seem to stop. Books’re like dope, and me and Neff seem to feed off of each other’s worst habits. We egg each other on.”

“Then why don’t you split?”

He shrugged. “Eor one thing, we really like each other. I’ve still got the feeling we could be the most dynamic duo since Batman and Robin if we could just get our shit together. And we’d damn near have to declare bankruptcy and start all over again if we split. I’m too old for that. So we keep after it, day after day, trying to keep from losing too much ground, looking for the big score.”

“Big scores don’t come along every day, Ruby.”

“Tell me about it. They do happen, though. They happen when you least expect ‘em. But I’m beginning to believe what Neffs always said, the big score always happens to the guy who isn’t looking for it.”

We were at the end of another night. 1 was packing the tools and putting things away.

“And then there’s the problem of gettin‘ old,” Ruby said. “I can’t do this forever, I can’t keep hauling books all my life. Frankly, I don’t care if I never see another ten-dollar book. I want to do expensive stuff, like Rita McKinley. But almost everybody I know who does that has money to begin with. The rest of us just break our backs and get old.”

“You sure find your perspectives changing.”

“Ain’t that the damn truth. Everybody gets old in different ways. Me, I’m just slowing down. Neffs becoming a recluse. His uncle died a year or so ago and left him a scruffy broken-down ranch in Longmont. He lives up there on weekends now, and you know what?…he won’t even give me his goddamn phone number. He’s like Greta Garbo, he vants to be alone. He says if the store burns down he don’t want to know about it anyway, and he doesn’t want to be bothered for anything less. But I’ll tell you a secret, Dr. J, if you don’t tell anybody you heard it from me. 1 think he’s gettin’ in that Millie Farmer’s pants. She let something slip last week about the ranch, so I know she’s been up there. She thinks Neffs the most brilliant bastard she’s ever met. Hard to believe, considering she’s also met me.”

I was still at least two weeks from opening, but already the books were piling up. Bookscouts were coming by at all hours, tapping on the glass, offering their wares. People were curious and that was good. Neighbors looked in and some gave me a thumbs-up gesture as they walked away.

I knew I would open with good stock, but it wouldn’t begin to fill the place up. I had to decide about the books in Arizona. Ruby waved his hand, a gesture of dismissal. “I’ll tell you something, Dr. J, and I’ll tell you this in good faith because you and me, we’re becoming friends, I hope. You don’t need that stuff. I would really give my left nut for that finder’s fee, but if I were you I’d build this mother from the ground up. That’s how you learn, that’s how you keep deadwood off your shelves. Trust me. You’ll be up to your ass in books before you know it. As soon as people find out you’re paying real money, you won’t know where all the damn books came from.”

We had barely begun work that night when the girl arrived. It was still midsummer and the door was open to catch the early-evening breeze. I looked up and she was standing in the doorway, looking about seventeen in her spring-green dress. She had long coppery hair and when she spoke her voice had Scotland stamped all over it.

“Is this the bookstore? The new one the paper wrote about?”

“You’ve found us,” I said. “You’re a little early, though. I haven’t put out the Shakespeare folios or the Gutenbergs yet, and we won’t open for another week or two. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for a job. I’m honest and I work hard, I’m pleasant to be around and I like books.”

“You’re hired,” Ruby said from across the room.

“Pay no attention to this street rat,” I said. “I’m the boss.”

“I knew that from your picture. I did think when he spoke up so forcefully that perhaps he’s the power behind the throne.”

“Hire this kid, Dr. J,” Ruby said. “In addition to all the obvious stuff, she sounds smart.”

“I am smart. I’ve got a brain like a whip. Ask me something.”

“What’s your name?”

“That’s too easy. Ask me something bookish.”

“What’s the point on
The Sun Also Rises
?” Ruby said. “Every bookman knows that.”

“What’s a point?”

We laughed.

“You can’t expect me to know something I never learned. But tell me once and I’ll never forget it. Oh, I forgot to mention one other thing. I work cheap.”

“Hire this woman, Dr. J, before the word gets out,” Ruby said.

“Don’t pressure the man, I can see he’s thinking it over. Why don’t you make yourself useful and tell me what a point is.”‘

“Three p’s in ‘stopped,’ page 181,” Ruby said. “That’s a point.”

“In other words, the first edition has a mistake and the later ones don’t. Now that I know that, I’m a valued employee.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“What difference does that make?”

“I’d like to know I’m not aiding and abetting a runaway.”

“For goodness sakes! I’m twenty-six.”

“In a pig’s eye.”

“I am twenty-six. What are you looking at, don’t you believe me? That’s another of my virtues—I never lie. My judgment’s good, I’ll always give you a sound opinion, and I’m compulsively punctual. What more do you want for the pittance you’re paying me?”

We looked at each other.

“I have a great sense of humor,” she said.

“You don’t look a day over fifteen,” I said.

“I’m twenty-six. When I come back tomorrow, I’ll bring you something to prove it.”

“We won’t be open tomorrow. I won’t be ready for a couple of weeks.”

“I know that. I’m coming in to help you paint and stuff.”

“Look, miss, I haven’t even opened the door yet. I don’t know if I can afford an employee.”

Ruby cleared his throat. “May I interject, Dr. J?”

“I haven’t found a way to stop you yet.”

“A word to the wise is all. You don’t want to shackle your legs to the front counter. You don’t want to be an in-shop bookman. You want to keep yourself free for the hunt.”

“Exactly,” the girl said.

“You need to be out in the world. Meet people. Make house calls.”

“House calls are important,” the girl said.

Our eyes met. Hers were hazel, lovely with that tinge of innocence.

“If you’re twenty-six, I’m Whistler’s mother,” I said.

“I’m nineteen. Everything else I’ve told you so far’s the truth, except that I do fib sometimes when I have to. I’m hungry and tired and I desperately need a job. I need it bad enough to lie, or to fight for it if I have to. I’ll come back tomorrow in my grubbys if you’ll let me do something—no charge, just a bite to eat during the day. I’m wonderful with a paintbrush. I could save you a lot of time staining those shelves.”

I started to speak. She cried out: “Don’t say no, please! Please, please,
please
don’t say anything before you at least see what I can do! Just have something for me tomorrow; in a week you’ll wonder what you ever did without me. I promise… I promise… I really do.”

She backed out the way she had come and hustled off down the street.

“Well,” I said. “What do you make of that?”

“I told you what I think,” Ruby said. “She’s a Grade-A sweetie, right off the last boat from Glasgow. She’s just what this place needs, the piece de resistance. She might even be two pieces.”

We went back to work. After a while Ruby said, “Remember what Neff told you about the book business, Dr. J? Honey draws flies. Truer words were never said, and it works on more levels than one.”

“She never even told us her name,” I said. “Five’ll get you ten she’ll never come back.”

But there was something relentless about her, something that didn’t give up, something I liked. She was sitting on the sidewalk in the morning when I got there; she was wearing an old gingham dress that had seen better times.

“You’re late,” she lectured. “I’ve been here since eight. Here, I brought you a plant for the front window.”

She handed me a tin can in which grew a pathetic little weed.

“It’s a symbol,” she said. “It starts out little and insignificant, almost nonexistent like your business. Both will get strong together.”

“If this thing dies, I guess I can give up and close the doors.”

“It won’t die, Mr. Janeway. I won’t let it.”

I opened the door and we went inside. The early-morning rays from the sun came through the plate glass, making everything hazy and new. The place smelled like fresh sawdust, tangy and wonderful.

“Are you gonna tell me your name or is that some deep secret you’re keeping?”

“Elspeth Pride.” Her hand disappeared into mine. “What friends I’ve had have called me Pinky, for my hair. You may call me Miss Pride.”

I laughed.

“I believe in keeping things professional,” she said. “Don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let’s get to work.”

She started in one of the back rooms, staining while I worked the shelving up front. In a while the smell of the stain mingled with the sawdust and made a new smell, pleasant but strong. I propped open the front door. The sound of the saw buzzed along the street: people stopped and looked in and some of them asked questions. I’ve never been good at idle chatter, but these were potential customers and I was now a businessman. I didn’t get as much done as I might have, but Miss Pride worked steadily through the morning and never took a break. At noon I went back to ask if she’d like some lunch. She had done two-thirds of the room and her work was excellent.

I went to a fast-food joint and brought back some sandwiches. We ate together in the front room. She was very hungry, and it didn’t take long and she didn’t say much. Personal questions were put on a back burner. Now there was just the job: the work finished and the work yet to come. She was relentless. When she spoke it was to make suggestions about color schemes and decorating and what the walls would need. “Are you going to do art as well as books?” she asked. When I told her I believed in learning one difficult trade at a time, she said, “Then you’ll need a picture for that wall, not for sale, for show.” The interest she took was personal and real, and by midafternoon I found her promise coming true: I was beginning to wonder what I’d have done without her.

At three o’clock I looked up and Peter was standing in the door. “I got a box of sports books, Dr. J.” They had all taken to calling me that, taking their cue from Ruby. I went through his books and bought about half. I bought with confidence and paid fair money. I knew what I wanted and nothing else qualified. I would buy no book that had a problem: no water stains, no ink underlined. I set a standard that still holds: if one page of a book is underlined, that’s the same as underlining on every page; if the leather on one volume of a fine set is chipped, the whole set is flawed. I would have only pristine copies of very good books. I would do only books of permanent value, not the trendy cotton-candy junk that’s so prevalent today. I paid Peter out of my pocket and reminded him that Hennessey still wanted to see him about Bobby Westfall’s death. “I don’t know nuthin‘ about that,” he said, and went on his way.

When I turned back to my work, Miss Pride was standing there. “I’m not sluffing off, you know. I wanted to see how you bought these things. I’m going to be your buyer someday, so you might say this is my first lesson. Why did you buy these and not something else? Why pass up the Jane Fonda book? I thought that was an enormous seller.”

I sat beside her on the floor and went through them book by book. Some of it Ruby had told me.
Baseball books are all wonderful, Dr. J. Football books are a waste of paper. For some reason baseball fans read and football fans drink beer and raise hell. Basketball sucks and hockey can be slow. But always buy golf books, any damn golf book that comes through the door will sell. Buy anything on horses or auto racing. Buy billiards and chess, the older the better, but don’t ever buy a bowling book
. On my own, I added this: a good biography on Jackie Robinson is worth ten books on Joe Namath. Robinson’s story had conflict and drama and racial tension, not to mention baseball. It would still be interesting a hundred years from now.

And as for the
Jane Fonda Workout Book
, phooie! There are two distinct kinds of book people, best-seller people and the others. Sometimes they cross over, but usually a best-seller like Jane Fonda or Dr. Atkins lives and dies on the best-seller list. Every single person who wants one gets it while it’s hot: six months later you can’t give them away.

We worked on toward evening. I could see she was getting tired, but I was just coming into my second wind. Every so often she’d come out and stretch, then go back in for another hour. She asked if Mr. Seals was planning on coming tonight. I said I didn’t know: Mr. Seals came and went according to his own whim. That night Mr. Seals did not come. At eight o’clock I told her to go home: I’d stay and putter around a little more. She said she’d stay and putter with me. We ate a late supper, delivered, and I pushed on to eleven o’clock. 1 could’ve gone another three hours, but it’s no fun working with a zombie. She was making a heroic effort, however, for a dead person.

“Come on,” I said, “I’ll drive you home.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to. But it’s midnight and you’ve worked hard and this is East Colfax Avenue. Get your stuff and let’s go.”

“Well the fact is, Mr. Janeway, you’re embarrassing me. I have no home. There’s no place to drive me to.”

“Then where are you staying?”

“At the moment I’m, um, between things.”

“What the hell are you doing, sleeping in the park?”

“I hadn’t quite decided yet, for tonight.” She went into the back room and fetched the little valise she’d been carrying. “The fact is, I just got to Denver an hour before I turned up on your doorstep. I got here with five dollars and spent half of that in the Laundromat. That’s how I found out about you—there was an old newspaper there from Sunday. Fate, Mr. Janeway.”

“Well, Miss Pride, tonight you sleep in a good bed.” I reached for my wallet.

“No you don’t, I’m not taking any money for this. I told you—”

“Pardon my French, Miss Pride, but bullshit.”

“I want a job, sir, not day wages.”

“Day wages would look pretty good to me right now if I had two bucks in my pocket. Besides, nobody works for me free, not now or ever. So take the money”—I shoved $60 in her hand—“and we’ll go find you a motel.”

“I will take it, then, but only if you agree that it’s a loan against wages.”

“Don’t push me, Miss Pride. You’ve been real good today; don’t try to back me into a corner at the last minute. Now let’s button it up and get out of here.”