How different my own life might have been. Only some quirk in my character had kept me from becoming what I now despised. I could be rich now on crooked money. I had seldom seen Vince Marranzino since the old days but that possibility had been rife between us. On another night he had stepped out of a big touring car with a wicked-looking sidekick. I’d opened the door, hiding the apprehension I felt, and Vince embraced me like some godfather out of Mario Puzo. I’d slapped his back. He was still hard and tough, and the scar on his face had deepened where long ago a young hood had gashed him with a broken beer bottle. Thinking of him now, his scars reminded me of Richard Burton.
The muscle had waited on the sidewalk while Vince and I talked. Now he was called Vinnie, but I could still call him Vince. He remembered old debts and I could call him anything I wanted. Only you can call me that old name, Cliffie.
He knew his presence made me uneasy. But he’d had to come: he’d seen the newspaper stories about my fall from grace, and he wanted to help me square things.
He’d looked around him and said, You like this book racket?
Yeah, I do.
You wanna buy some real books?
I dunno, Vince. What would I have to do for ‘em?
Just let me throw a little work your way. I’ve got a job now, you could do it in a week. Make you fifty, seventy-five grand. Buy all the goddamn books you want for that.
Well, I’d said, smiling. That would be a start, anyway.
But I’d said no thanks without hearing what the job was.
Vince had looked disgusted. Hey you, you big bazooka, when are you gonna let me square accounts with you?
We’re square now, Vince. You don’t owe me anything.
But I had once saved his life and he shook his head sadly. To a man like Vince, that account could never be squared with words alone.
He’d gripped my arm. Strong as ever, ain’tcha, Cliff? Bet I can throw your ass.
I’d laughed. I’ll bet you can.
When I looked up again the afternoon had faded. It was five-fifteen and no word from Erin. I faced the fact that she wasn’t coming.
It was two hours later in Baltimore, probably too late to call Treadwell’s—assuming I had some valid excuse, or could think of one, or could say anything that sounded at all real. I was caught up in an old cop’s impulse: I wanted to hear the man’s voice, so I picked up the phone and punched in the number.
It rang, five times…six. Nobody there, just as I thought, and just as well. Then I heard a click on the other end, and a woman’s voice. “Hi, Treadwell’s.”
“Is Treadwell there?”
“Which one?”
“Whoever’s handy.”
She said, “Justa minute, hon,” and I was put on hold. Well, I was into it now: nothing to do but hang up or play it out. There was no elevator music, nothing but that dead-flat line to help me while away the hours. How many times had I done this as a cop, made a cold call with no plan of action and only a hunch to go on? Sometimes it worked out fine, and if there was a compelling reason to pussyfoot around with these guys, I couldn’t see it.
Long minutes later I heard the phone click again, and suddenly there was a faint hum on the line. Almost at once the man spoke: “This’s Dean.”
“Hey, Dean,” I said in my best good-old-boy voice. “I was referred to you as a possible source for some books I want to find.”
“Well, whoever sent you got one thing right—I got books. You buying ‘em by the pound or the ton? Or are you interested in something particular?”
I laughed politely. “The last book I bought by the ton was an Oxford textbook on erectile dysfunction.”
He bellowed into the phone, a raspy laugh followed by a hacking smoker’s cough. “Buddy, if you’ve got that problem, ain’t no book gonna cure it. Might as well slice off the old ginger root and donate it to medical research.”
“Jesus, Dean, don’t jump to that conclusion. That book was for a friend of mine.”
He laughed again. “Yeah, right. So listen, what the hell can I do for you?”
“I heard through the grapevine you might have some books by Richard Burton. I’m talking about real stuff, you know what I mean?”
I thought the pause was long enough to be significant. He coughed again and said, “What grapevine did you hear that through?”
“Oh, you know…here and there. The main question is whether it’s true.”
This time the pause was long enough to be halftime at the Rose Bowl. After a while I said, “Dean? You still with me?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Just trying to think what I might have. We got a lot of books here, pal. I gave up long ago trying to keep track of it all.”
“I don’t think you’d have any trouble keeping track of this stuff. You got a rare book room, I imagine you’d know what’s in it, right? I mean, this isn’t like the two million books you put out on the open shelves.”
“Easy for you to say. You got two million books?”
“Hell no, thank God.”
I waited. I heard the sound of a cigarette being lit. I heard him blow smoke. “Where you calling from?”
“I’m on the road. Trying to decide if it’s worth my time and energy to come all the way out to the coast.”
“And you’re a serious buyer, right?”
“Serious enough to make your day.” I decided to lie a little for the cause. “Maybe your month, if you’ve got what I want.”
“We might still have something, I’m not sure.”
Still? A damned significant word, I thought. He said, “I’ll have to check and call you back. What’s your name?”
Screw it, I thought: let’s see where this goes. “Cliff Janeway.”
“The guy in Denver?”
“I can’t believe how that story got around.”
“Yeah. You’ll have to tell me who the hell your press agent is.”
“His last name’s luck. First name’s dumb.”
“I could use some of that.”
“Maybe you’re having it right now, Dean,” I said with a nice touch of arrogance.
“Yeah, we’ll see. I’m sure you know if I did have something like that, it wouldn’t be at any dealer’s prices. I wouldn’t want you to come all the way here thinking there’d be a lot of margin in a book like that.”
“I’m used to that. I didn’t pay a dealer’s price in Boston, either.”
“Okay, so where are we? You want to call me back?”
“Yeah, sure. You say when.”
“How about tomorrow, about this same time.”
“You got it. Good talking to you, Dean.”
I hung up and sat there quietly, thinking about it.
About ten minutes later the phone rang. When I answered it, nobody was there.
Actually, somebody was there. For a moment I could hear him breathing, then he covered the phone to cough. And there was that faint hum on the line.
Dean.
My new old buddy, Dean Treadwell. The last of the good old boys, checking up on me.
Now he knew I’d been lying. I wasn’t on the road at all, was I?
I heard the click as he hung up the phone. The hum went away and the line went dead.
It was now twilight time, the beginning of my long nightly journey through the dark. For the moment the Treadwell business had played itself out. I didn’t want to leave it there, but there it sat, spreading its discontent. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to call a friend, catch a movie, do a crossword puzzle. I sure as hell didn’t want to sit in a bar full of strangers as an alternative to Erin d’Angelo’s luminous presence. When all else fails I usually work on books, but that night I didn’t want to do that, either.