We began to go through the nightly ritual, preparing to close.
“So you didn’t tell me,” I said: “how was Harkness?”
“A dear. A perfect gentleman.”
I sighed.
“I know you’d love an excuse to go up there and tear his head off, but I’m afraid I can’t give you one. He was just fine. His manners were beyond reproach.”
“Just watch your flank, Miss Pride, just watch the water fore and aft, port and starboard. Now what do you say we lock this baby up and call it a bad day?”
“It was pretty dreary. I’ll get the lights and put the recording on.”
She disappeared into the back room. I locked the front door and began counting the money. I had just got started when I felt my hackles go up. I turned and looked through the glass. Jackie Newton was sitting in a car at the curb, watching me. It was a long black car, not one of his. The gunsel was behind the wheel.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
Miss Pride, coming from the back room, said, “Did you say something to me?”
“I said we’ve got company.”
“Oh, God.”
“Don’t even look at ‘em; don’t let ’em faze you at all. Just go on about your business and get ready to leave.”
I turned the sign around, in case they had any notions of coming in. Miss Pride bustled about gathering her things.
“Are we ready to go?” I said.
“I am.”
“Good. I’m driving you home tonight, by way of west Denver. Don’t argue with me, let’s just go. We’ll walk right past the sons of bitches and get in my car and drive away. Got that?”
“I got it.”
I flipped the front room lights. The telephone rang.
I heard the machine kick on and then begin recording. I don’t like machines that answer telephones, but Miss Pride had talked me into it, so we wouldn’t miss anyone with a big library to sell. As usual, she was right: the damned machine had made its cost back, three times over.
“I’m gonna see who that is,” I said. “You wait here. Don’t look at those guys and don’t look worried. I’ll be right back.”
By the time I got into the office, the recorder had cut off. It was probably Rita McKinley, I thought, cancelling tomorrow. I rewound the tape and played the message.
It was Peter. His voice was tense, strained. “I need to talk to you, right now,” he said.
I waited. I knew the line was still open, but he didn’t say anything. He was like a man whose attention has suddenly been captured—like the poor scared fool he’d been in the thrift store parking lot.
“Oh, shit,” he said, and hung up.
I ran the tape back and replayed it. It didn’t make any more sense than anything else he had done that day. I had no idea where he lived or how to reach him. Maybe Ruby knew.
I reset the tape, went up front, killed the last of the lights, and took Miss Pride by the arm. “Let’s go.”
I locked the door and we walked past the car where Newton and his thug sat waiting. The gunsel started the engine and the car rolled along beside us. I’m gonna put up with this about ten seconds, I thought; then I’m gonna kick some ass. I walked up to Ruby’s. The store was closed and locked. I walked past Harkness’s, which was also closed. Only Clyde Fix was still open: he sat in the window and watched the street like a vulture.
We went around the corner to the small lot where everyone on Book Row kept their cars. The headlights of the gunsel’s car swung behind us in a slow arc. I held the door for Miss Pride, then I walked back to the gunsel’s car, which was sitting still with its motor running.
I tapped on the window. Jackie rolled it down a crack.
“That’s all for you, Newton. If I see your ass again tonight there’s gonna be trouble.”
“Izzat so,” the gunsel said.
I kept looking at Jackie. “Does this guy speak English? Keep your hands on the wheel, dogbreath; touch that gun and I’ll blow you right through the door.” There was a long quivering pause. The gunsel’s fists clenched around the steering wheel. “Now I’m gonna tell you something, Newton, and this goes for you too, Anton. If you want to live to celebrate your next birthday, don’t fuck with me. You want to put that in Mon-golese, Jackie, so the ape can understand it? Don’t… fuck… with me.”
“Tough guy,” the gunsel said. “I’m gonna walk on you, tough guy.”
“You couldn’t walk the plank without losing your way. Now get this crate down the street.”
Jackie wanted to look amused, but he couldn’t sell that. He rolled up his window and motioned with his finger and the car pulled away from the curb. I watched the taillights go and thought again of Vinnie Marranzino. I stood for a long moment after they’d gone, watching the empty street.
Just another day on Book Row.
27
The next day began like every other. How it ended was another matter.
I made my rounds and found nothing of interest. The entire day was colored by my coming meeting with Rita McKinley. I was on edge, nervous and apprehensive and in a very real but strange way, thrilled. I had an early lunch with Hennessey and we talked a little about the Westfall case. Hennessey liked Rita McKinley and was inclined to believe everything she said. The line from the police department now seemed to be that Bobby Westfall had been killed by a petty thief, who was likely to remain unknown until he was caught for another crime and confessed to this as well. “Right, Neal,” I said, and he gave me a look over a ten-pound sandwich and decided to say no more about it.
I had time to kill and I didn’t want to go into the store. I called in instead, and told Miss Pride I was heading west and probably wouldn’t see her till tomorrow. “Well, that’s going to be a problem for Peter,” she said. “He was here a while ago looking for you. He seemed quite put out when you weren’t here. I told him to come back at closing time, you’re always here by then.”
“Well, tonight I won’t be. Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, but he certainly made it sound urgent.”
“When he comes in, try to help him. He mentioned to me yesterday that he might have some pretty good books to sell. If he needs some money, give him some. Give him up to a couple of hundred if that’s what it takes. Write him a check on the bank up the street and tell him I’ll square it with him tomorrow.”
“Well, all right, but I don’t think that’s what it’s about. He didn’t have any books with him and he didn’t say anything about money.”
“All right, if worse comes to worst, have him call me up at Rita McKinley’s place. Now, one more thing. Call your friend Harkness and let him know you’re gonna be alone at closing tonight. Tell Ruby and Neff too.”
“I’ll be fine, Mr. Janeway.”
“Listen to me. Do what I tell you. That’s the most dangerous time of day for businesses run by women alone. Just let the others on the block know that you’ll be closing up alone tonight. That way they can keep an eye on you.”
I heard her sigh with feminist impatience.
“Miss Pride? Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Mr. Janeway.”
“Do it.”
“Yes, Mr. Janeway.”
I decided to scout west Denver, work my way through Golden and Morrison and let my momentum carry me to McKinley’s place by late afternoon. For some reason, west Denver is a bookscout’s ghetto. There are a few thrift stores, but nothing to write home about, and Golden is a complete wash. Morrison is an interesting little mountain town, full of antique stores that will sometimes cough up a garnet in the sea of junk. It was, however, less than a blue-ribbon performance: the sum total of the day’s work was less than a dozen books, none even on the fringe of greatness. Some days are like that.
It was almost dark when I drove up the road to Rita McKinley’s. The clock in my dashboard said 4:53. I was run-ning a little later than I’d planned—a place in Evergreen had caught my eye, and you know how bookscouting is. She had left the gate open and I drove right through. She was working when I arrived: she had a fire going in the yard and huge piles of trash waiting to be fed to it. It was chilly. She wore faded jeans and a red flannel shirt and a heavy coat. The house was perched on top of the mountain, a great stone building with a porch that looked east, toward Denver. You couldn’t see the city from there, but that didn’t hurt the view. Miss McKinley gave a wave as I came into the yard. I parked beside her car, a plain Dodge about four years old.