Booked to Die (8 page)

I did a quick tally. Call it three grand retail and put me down as momentarily confused. When we last saw Bobby Westfall, through the eyes of Jerry Harkness, Ruby Seals, et cetera, he was broke, pissed off, and without hope. Books had been drying up: Harkness doubted that Bobby even had bus fare back downtown. That was two weeks ago, and now I had discovered a stash of books, extremely wholesalable at a thousand dollars. There was simply no way for this stack to have been scouted in two weeks, probably not in two years. I looked at it again. No way, I thought. Even a titan of bookscouts couldn’t‘ve done it piecemeal. So where did they come from and what did it mean? Here were the possibilities that initially occurred to me.

Bobby had come upon them as a lot, sometime within the past ten days, and had stolen them from some ignorant soul for pennies.

He had literally stolen them.

He had been hoarding them for a long time.

It was possible, I guessed, though not likely, that he had been hoarding books. There are people like that, guys who pigeonhole things for a specific reason and then have the will-power—no matter how bad the times are—never to touch the stash. Say Bobby had been building this pile for three or four years. When he found a book he particularly liked, it went into the Good Pile marked NFS, not for sale. Sometimes he had to sell books that he’d like to’ve put there, but once a book actually went in the cupboard he never, ever took it out again.

That made sense, didn’t it?

I looked at the books again, singly and as a group. Hoarding was possible, but thievery was likely. Bobby had shafted someone; then that someone had found out what the books were really worth and had come after Bobby with a crescent wrench. Maybe, maybe. I stared at the books and let my mind play with them. Common denominators, I thought. For one thing, they were all modern lit. They were all easily disposable—any bookstore worth the name would buy any or all at forty percent. I revised my estimate of condition upward. These were uniformly pristine. There wasn’t a tear anywhere: even on the Cain and Gardner and Rawlings, the three oldest, the jackets were fresh and bright and had minimal sun fading to the spines. Three grand might actually be very low retail for stuff this nice: books don’t come along every day in this condition. So Bobby had a standard, if I wanted to go back to the hoarding theory, and that was another common denominator. Nothing went in here unless it was damn near perfect. One hundred retail seemed to be the cutoff point on the low end. There was a healthy mix of mainstream and genre fiction, but you had to keep going back to one sure thing: the books were all desirable, all eminently salable.

Now I began to examine them page by page. Tucked into a back page of
The Last Picture Show
, I found the sheath of notes.

They were figures, chicken scratches, columns of multiplication like a kid might have to do for homework. There were lots of figures on four separate sheets. The sheets were small, the kind you might tear off of a memo pad. At the top of each was a printed name: Rita McKinley. She had signed each with scribbled initials. One had some writing at the bottom. It said:

“These are the good ones. Not much gold, I’m afraid, for all the mining. R.M.” I took the papers, handling them carefully, and dropped them into an envelope. Then I put the books back in the cupboard, closed the door on them, and turned off the kitchen light. I felt an almost physical pain leaving them there.

Good thing I’m an honest cop.

I drank the last of my swill, and that pretty well threw a wrap on it.

I picked up Bobby’s little address book and put it in my pocket along with the Rita McKinley notes. I turned off the light in the bathroom and felt the first wave of weariness wash over my aging bones.

Then I heard a noise, a creaking sound, like a man trying to be quiet.

I waited. It came again, then died and went away.

I listened.

Rats, maybe?

Rats with two legs.

I took out my gun and eased up to the door. I put my head against it and in a minute I heard it again. Someone had come up the steps and was standing just outside in the hallway.

I leveled the gun and ripped open the door.

He let out a yell and cringed back against the stairwell.

“Jesus Christ, Dr. J! God Almighty, don’t shoot me!”

I sighed and put the gun away. “Ruby, what the hell are you doing here?”

He held up his hand and with the other hand clutched his heart. “Jesus, you scared me out of ten years’ growth. You better let me come in and take a leak before I lose it right here in the hall.”

“Not in here you don’t. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came up to see if I could help.”

I looked at him.

“Swear to God, Dr. J. I was over to some friends, shootin‘ the shit and listenin’ to some old Dylan records. We just broke up. I drove by and saw the light on and I figured it was you. Thought you might be able to use a hand, you know, from somebody who’s been around the Cape and knows his books.“

“You know better than that. Look, I appreciate the thought, but you can’t come in here. I thought I made that clear this afternoon.”

“Yeah, but the cops’ve already gone through the place. What do I know about po-lice procedure. I just thought a question might pop up that you couldn’t pin down for yourself. The last thing I want to do is get in the way. I want you to catch the prick that did this, that’s all I want.”

“All right, Ruby. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Took ten years off my goddamn life is all.”

“Just stay away from here. Don’t even think of stopping here again. If I need any help, I’ll come to you.”

“That’s all I want, just to help out. You know how tricky this stuff can be, trying to figure out what’s what in books. I know you’re pretty good, Dr. J, but a real bookman could maybe help you knock some time off the clock.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

“You think it’d be okay if I took a leak? I got a sudden urgent need, Dr. J, and that’s no lie.”

“I’ll have to watch you.”

“Hey, I ain’t proud.”

I walked him through to the bathroom. I lifted the lid on the toilet and stood back in the doorway while he did his business. His eyes ran down the book titles on the back of the toilet, a natural bookseller’s habit.

“Some crap,” he said.

“Yeah.”

He zipped up his pants and flushed the toilet. “Thanks, Dr.J.”

We walked back to the door. Suddenly, I said, “What do you know about Rita McKinley?”

“The ice lady?”

“Is that what you call her?”

“That’s what everybody calls her. Once every year or so she makes a sweep through all the Denver stores. Drops a ton of dough. Buys anything unusual but cherry-picks like hell. She’s got the best eye I’ve ever seen. Won’t touch a book with a bumped corner, no matter how much it’s got going for it. She won’t take anything that’s got even a little problem, but doesn’t mind paying top money for those perfect pieces.”

“And that, I guess, is why she’s called the ice lady.”

“That’s part of it. The other part is that people in the trade think she’s got a cold shoulder. She don’t stand over the counter engaging in mindless bullshit. She don’t seem to be interested in shoptalk at all.”

“How do you like her?”

“Man, I love her. I wish she’d come twice a week; maybe then I could get out of the poorhouse. She’s not bad-looking, either. Brightens up the joint while she’s in there.”

“How come I never heard of her before today?”

“Beats me. Maybe ‘cause she don’t do retail.”

“How long’s she been here?”

“In Denver? I don’t know, a few years I guess.”

“Where’d she come from?”

“Back east, I think. Hell, I don’t know. I don’t exactly ask her this stuff when she comes in.”

“When was she in last?”

“It’s been a while… maybe a year? Longer than usual. I remember that last time because we had some great stuff for her. She dropped six grand in our place alone. Man, what I could do with six grand now.”

“What else do you know about her?”

“Not a damn thing, really. Is she mixed up in this?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“It don’t make much sense to me. I mean, Bobby Westfall and Rita McKinley? It just don’t play in Peoria.”

I had said the same thing a few hours before. But the human comedy makes some strange whistle-stops on the way to Peoria.

I kept looking at him, encouraging him.

“Look, Dr. J… almost anything you hear about Rita McKinley is gonna be rumors. Nobody knows her well enough to talk about her. That doesn’t stop ‘em from talking anyway, though. Sure, I hear some shit. You can’t help but pick up stuff in this business, but I hate to spread trash about people when I really don’t know. You see what I’m saying?”

“Ruby, I’ve got a dead man and no suspects. You see what I’m saying?”

He sighed. “Some people think she’s a gold digger.”

“What people?”

“Who the hell knows where something like that starts? One day you just start hearing it. If you hear it enough, you might even start believing it.”

I looked at him.

He shuffled and said, “For one thing, she didn’t always have money. Didn’t always have books. She’s got a lot of both now. I know plenty of rich book dealers, but very few who started with no money. It’s hard to work your way up in this business without a bankroll to start with. There are damn few ways, inside the law, to get that much money and that many good books in that short a time… divine intervention excluded.”

“Where do people think she got ‘em?”

“Oh, everybody knows where she got ‘em. There wasn’t any mystery about that—it was all wrapped up in a big AB spread a few years ago. What nobody knows is the circumstances of that deal. That’s what the mystery is. What I remember about it is this. She had been dating a book collector. She moved in with him. He died, and when he went he left her everything… books, estate, money… the whole works.”

“Was this man old?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you know anything about when and where he died?”

He shook his head. “I can’t remember. You could write to the AB, I’m sure they’d send you the article. There was another piece about Rita McKinley when she moved her stuff here and opened her business. I remember reading it. It wasn’t much of a piece, just a little one-column job saying she had come here and was open for business… about three, four years ago. The guy’s name escapes me just now… I ought to remember it, he was a good enough collector that the AB devoted two pages to his death.”

“Did the article say how he died?”

“Sure. That’s the part that keeps the tongues wagging. He killed himself.”

Ruby’s visit to
Bobby Westfall’s apartment bothered me, and on second thought I decided to take the good books along with me when I left. Carol was sitting by the bed reading Faulkner when I came in. I put Bobby’s books on the floor and pushed the bag containing her birthday present behind the stack.

“Hi,” she said. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Just some stuff for the evidence room. I didn’t want to leave it in that empty apartment.”

She came over and looked. “These are valuable?”

“Yeah, but this is all of it. The rest is like total junk.” I looked at my watch: it was one-fifteen. “What’re you still doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. What’s your excuse?”

“Liftin‘ that barge. Totin’ that bale… payin‘ my debt to the company store.”

“So how was your day?”

“Ducky.”

“Did I ever tell you, Clifford, that the thing I love best about you is your communications skill? Did you go out to see Newton?”

“Uh-huh.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “
And
?”

“He’s gonna be my date at the policeman’s ball.”

“Wonderful. You girls will look great together.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I’d really rather talk about the cockroach problem some other time. Right now I’m gonna grab a shower and mount a major assault with heavy artillery on your body.”

Later, in bed, she lay in the crook of my arm. She was a great lover, good for what ailed me after a twenty-four-hour shift. Now, I thought, I could sleep. But again I found myself thinking about us, our situation, permanence, and me., I was in the middle of a vast sea change. I wondered what she would think of me if I suddenly wasn’t a cop anymore. She had been a tomboy: being a cop was all she’d ever wanted. She had never mentioned children: we had simply never talked of it. In my mind I could hear her saying, I’ve got to tell you. Cliff, I don’t want kids—I’m just not cut out for the motherhood bit. I could see her staring in disbelief when I told her I’d rather be a bookman, I think, than a cop, and not thirty years from now. Maybe she wouldn’t do any of those things. She had been in the department long enough now—almost eight years—to be building up her own case of burnout. Maybe she was getting ready to hear what I was thinking but was still not inclined to talk about.

“What’re you thinking?” she said.

“Think I’m gonna turn in my badge and become a book dealer,” I said.

But I said this in a safe, singsong voice, the same tone you use when you say you’re going to the policeman’s ball with Jackie Newton. She couldn’t do much with it but laugh.

Only she didn’t laugh. She just lay there in my arm and we didn’t speak again for a long time.

It was the telephone that finally broke the spell.

“God Almighty,” I said wearily. “If that’s Henness;ey I’ll kill the bastard.”

“I’ll get it,” she said, reaching over me. “I’ll tell him you’ve died and the funeral’s the day after tomorrow.”

She picked up the phone. I heard her say hello and then there was a long silence. Without saying another word, she hung up.

“What’s that all about?”

“A guy trying to sell me a water softener.”

“At two o’clock in the morning?”

She didn’t say anything.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“I seem to’ve got myself a heavy breather. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. It started about eight o’clock and he’s been calling back every hour or two.”

“Does he say anything?”

“He whispered once.”

“What’d he say?”

“The usual stuff. Cunt, bitch, whore. Some other stuff.”

“Did he say anything personal… anything to indicate that he might know who you are?”

“Why would he know who I am? Those kinds of calls are mostly random, you know that.”

“I don’t think this one is.”

She sat up and turned on the light.

“What happened out there today?”

I told her about my day with Jackie. I could see it wasn’t convincing her that Jackie had taken up telephone harassment for revenge.

“I’m taking the phone off,” she said. “If you don’t get some sleep you’ll be a zombie tomorrow.”

The phone rang.

“Let it go,” she said. “He’ll get tired of it and hang up.”

But I picked it up. Didn’t say anything, just listened. He was there, listening too. This went on for almost a minute. Then I said, “You having fun, Newton?”

He hung up.

“It’s Newton,” I said. “He hung up when I called him by name.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“All right, then, I can smell the son of a bitch, okay?”

“Okay, Cliff. I’m sure not going to argue about it at two o’clock in the morning.”

“Listen,” I said sometime later. “Jackie and me, we shifted gears out there today. There never was any love lost between us, you know that. But it’s different now, it’s on a whole new plain.”

She had propped herself up on one arm, a silhouette against the window.

“He’ll do whatever he can to get at me. I don’t think it matters to him that I’m a cop, or that you are. I don’t think anything matters. It’s him and me.”

“Hatfields and McCoys.”

“Yeah. It’s gotten that deep. I may’ve given Barbara Crowell some very bad advice today.”

“Cliff, you need a vacation.”

“I need to get something on that weasel. That’s the only vacation I need. To get him good and make it stick.”

“You’re a classic type-A, you’ll die before you’re forty. You need to go and lie on a beach and listen to tropical breezes blowing through luscious palm trees.”

“And go crazy with boredom. That’s not what I need.”

“I’d go along too… try to keep you from getting too bored.”

More long minutes passed.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” Carol said.

“As a matter of fact, there is something you can do.”

“Just tell me.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“Oh, Cliff, that’s not going to help anything.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all day, ever since I gave Jackie the thirty-eight-caliber lollipop. Newton doesn’t know who you are. All he knows is, he called my place and a woman answered. Nobody knows about us. We’ve taken a lot of trouble to keep what’s ours private.”

She took a deep, long-suffering breath.

“Well? Will you do it?”

“Of course I’ll do it,” she said. “But God damn it, don’t ask me to like it.”

I patted her rump. “Good girl.”

“You sexist bastard.”

We laughed. At that moment I came as close to asking her the big question as I ever would.

It was a long time before we got to sleep. When I did sleep, I slept soundly, untroubled by dreams. In the morning we got her things together and I carried them down the back way and put them in her car. I watched the street for ten minutes before I let her come down and drive away.

She rolled down her window. “I’m not afraid, you know.”

“I know you’re not,” I said. “But I am.”