“Listen…Janeway…”
“It’s o-kay,” I said warmly. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“All I ever said about Burton was what a grand figure he was. I never said I was writing about him.”
“I understand completely. My lips are sealed.”
“You don’t understand anything. There’s nothing to seal. Get that? Nothing.”
“Sure.” I put on my best look of phony camaraderie, guaranteed to let him know that I knew bullshit when I heard it. I did everything but wink at him. Then I said, in a masterpiece of my own bullshit, “Look, I’ve taken up way too much of your time.”
I started to get up. But he said, as I knew he would, “Just as a point of curiosity…what the hell are you talking about?”
“You mean about Burton?”
He looked at me like a scientist studies a lower-life form. No, about the queen’s sex life, you bumbling goddamn ignoramus!
I leaned close, as if spies were everywhere. “I’ve found a great source of untapped Burton material. Somebody with a direct link to his time in America.”
“And who might that be?”
“Mrs. Josephine Gallant. Does that ring a bell?”
“Not at all,” he said.
“Well, since your interest in Burton is just academic, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
The silence stretched. I nibbled at my cornbread, then said, with lighthearted malice, “Looks like your friend’s gonna be late. Maybe she ran into traffic.”
Again I made as if to rise. He said, “So who is this woman?”
“Josephine? Oh, she died last week in Denver.”
“Well, then.”
“Mmmm, I wouldn’t say that. She left behind some interesting stuff.”
“Such as?”
“Way more than we can discuss here and now. But listen, if you ever do write that book you’re not writing, you’d better get together with me before you send it in.”
He gave me a bitter little half-smile. “For which you would want…what? Assuming there was anything to any of this, which there isn’t.”
“Oh, Hal, I am hurt by the implication that I’d do this for money. I’m a bookman! All I want is to see a great book come out of it. I can’t write it, but somebody sure needs to. If that’s really not gonna be you, maybe I should talk to somebody else.”
“Such as…who?”
“Oh, there’s no end of writers around. I know lots of ‘em. Some really good ones. That’s one of the things about the book business, you meet writers.”
I saw the flesh sag a little around his cheeks and that alone was worth the price of my ticket to Baltimore.
“I gotta go,” I said abruptly.
It cost him a million in trumped-up arrogance to say this, but he said it. “You haven’t finished eating yet.”
“Yeah, but I’m going to another table now.” I looked away at an absolutely stunning brunette who had just come in alone. “I think your date is here.”
“That’s not who I’m waiting for.”
“Well, that’s a damn shame. Jesus, what a dish. Anyway, I’m sure your friend will be along any minute, and I’ve taken up way more of your time than I intended to.”
Before he could say Stop, Wait a minute, or Get up from that chair and I’ll kill you, I was gone. I went clear across the dining room to a place near the window, but not so far away that we couldn’t see each other. I ate hungrily while Archer picked at his food, and every so often our eyes would meet and I’d smile at him and nod pleasantly. A roving waiter came by and asked if I wanted coffee and I said yes, thank you, even though I’d had three times my caffeine allowance for the day. I went back to the buffet for dessert, something else I didn’t need, but at least I stayed away from the cheesecake. The stewed apples were sensational.
Archer didn’t seem to be eating much at all. After a while he pushed back from the table and got up. The moment of truth had arrived. He was coming my way.
He was sitting at my table.
“You should try these apples,” I said. “Wanna bite?”
When he spoke again, all the bullshit between us was suddenly gone.
“You really are an annoying bastard, Janeway. Do you have any idea how annoying you are?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s my one real talent, so I work at it.”
He seethed while I ate the last of my apples.
“So, Hal…what does this mean? Do you want to talk real now?”
“Come up to my room. The number is 1015.”
“I know what the number is.”
“I need to make a phone call. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. But listen very carefully to what I say. Don’t try any funny stuff with me, Hal. If Dean’s brother shows up with his gangster bodyguard, I promise—are you listening to me, Hal?—I promise, Hal, the first casualty of the evening will be you.”
Fifteen minutes later I stepped off on the tenth floor. Archer opened the door to a midpriced plastic hotel room, indistinguishable from every Holiday Inn or Ramada the world over. I looked in the bathroom and closet, I opened the balcony door and looked outside; I barely resisted the urge to look under the bed. I checked the lock on the door, slipped the security chain into its slot, and sat on the bed. Archer watched in annoyance, but there was also a trace of alarm on his face. “What’s wrong with you? You act like a man on the run from somebody.”
“Let’s just say I’ve lived this long partly because I make most of my mistakes on the right side of caution. I had the pleasure of meeting Dante this afternoon.”
“Who’s Dante?”
“You’re not helping us much here, Hal. I hope I don’t have to reinvent the wheel with every question.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then just this once I’ll draw you a picture. Big, ugly-assed thug who goes around with Carl Treadwell. An intimidator. A genuine bone-cruncher. Attila the Hun would cut him some real slack.”
“I don’t know anything about Carl’s friends.”
I looked dubious.
“Believe what you want, but I stay away from Carl.”
“What about Dean?”
He went over to the bureau, picked up a pint bottle of scotch, and poured himself a short one. He was putting the bottle away when I said, “I take mine straight, thanks,” and he looked at me again with that mix of bitter amusement and contempt. But he poured me the drink.
I took a sip. “I believe we were talking about Dean.”
“Why don’t you refresh my memory about why I’m talking to you at all.”
I sighed. “This is gonna be a toolbox-and-coveralls conversation all the way, isn’t it? You’re gonna make me work for everything I get.”
At last he said, “Dean Treadwell helps me find books that I need in my work.”
“Are you still living in Charleston?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“This seems like a long way to come, just to find a bookseller.”
“That’s my damn business.”
I sipped my scotch.
“You try finding books in Charleston,” he said. “See how long it takes you to turn up a copy of anything truly rare.”
“So you’re saying you stumbled upon Dean, way up here in Baltimore, and he performed for you. He found the books you wanted and that’s all there is to it.”
“If I’m saying anything, that’s probably what I’m saying.”
“Who’d you call on the phone just now?”
“What possible business—”
“Maybe I’m making it my business. Maybe I’m suddenly starting to see a whole scheme unfolding and it’s making me nervous as hell.”
“What scheme? I don’t know what—”