Now I banked into the familiar North Bend off-ramp. The day was lovely, chilly like a mountain pool, and the wind swirled clouds behind the mountain in the distance. For a moment I thought I saw the Indian in the mountain, but when I blinked and looked again, he was gone. I headed down toward the main street and turned into the motel where I’d left the stash.
The black Cadillac was there in the yard.
“They’re here,” I said.
I got out, went to the office, and asked for Rodney Scofield. Room four, the man said, and I walked up the walk and knocked on the door.
Kenney opened it. He had a cocktail glass in his hand, ice bobbing in amber liquid.
We went in. I drew up a chair and Amy sat on the foot of the bed. “This is Miss Amy Harper. She’s running this show. My name’s Cliff Janeway, I’m a book dealer from Denver.”
“Leith Kenney.” He shook hands, first with Amy, then with me.
“Where’s Scofield?” I asked.
“In the bathroom. He’ll be out. Want a drink?”
“Sure. What’re we having?”
“Can you drink Scotch?”
“I’m a William Faulkner bourbon man. That means between Scotch and nothing, I’ll take Scotch.”
He smiled: he knew the quote. Suddenly we were two old bookmen, hunkering down to bullshit. He looked at Amy and said, “Miss Harper?”
“Got a Coke?”
“7-Up.”
“That’ll be cool.”
Kenney and I smiled at each other. He took a 7-Up out of a bag, filled a glass with ice, and poured it for her. He asked how I wanted my drink and I told him just like they shipped it from Kentucky.
A door clicked open and Rodney Scofield came into the room.
He was thin, with a pale, anemic look. His white hair had held its ground up front, retreating into a half-moon bald spot at the back of his head. His eyes were gray, sharp, and alert: his handshake was firm. He sat at the table, his own 7-Up awaiting his pleasure. He had a way about him that drew everyone around to him, making wherever he chose to sit the head of the class. He was a tough old bird, accustomed to giving orders and having people jump to his side. Now he would sit and listen and take orders himself, from a girl barely out of her teens.
It was up to me to set the stage, which I did quickly. “Everything I told you in the restaurant is true. Gentlemen, this is the Grayson score of your lifetime. This young lady here owns it, and she’s asked me to come and represent her interests.”
“Whatever you pay me,” Amy said to Scofield, “Mr. Janeway gets half.”
I looked at her sharply and said, “No way.”
“I won’t even discuss any other arrangement.” She looked at Kenney and said, “If it wasn’t for this man, I’d‘ve given it away, maybe burned it all in the dump.”
“Amy, listen to me. I couldn’t take your money, it’d be unethical as hell, and Mr. Kenney knows that.”
“Lawyers do it. They take half all the time.”
“So do booksellers, but this is different. And you’ve got two kids to think about.”
“Maybe I can help you resolve this little dilemma,” Kenney said smoothly. “Let’s assume for the moment that you’ve really got what you think you’ve got. That remains to be seen, but if it’s true, Mr. Janeway would have a legitimate claim for a finder’s fee.”
I felt my heart turn over at the implication. I had come here chasing five thousand dollars, and now that jackpot was beginning to look small.
“What does that mean?” Amy said.
“It’s a principle in bookselling,” I told her. “If one dealer steers another onto something good, the first dealer gets a finder’s fee.” I looked at Kenney and arched an eyebrow. “Usually that’s ten percent of the purchase price.”
“That doesn’t sound like much,” Amy said.
“In this case it could he a bit more than that,” Kenney said.
I leaned forward and looked in Amy’s face. “Trust me, it’s fine.”
“Let’s move on,” Kenney said. “Let’s assume we’re all dealing in good faith and everybody will be taken care of. Where’s the material?”
“It’s not far from here,” I said. “Before we get into it, though, I need to ask you some questions. I’d like to see that book you bought back in the restaurant.”
Kenney was immediately on guard. “Why?”
“If you humor me, we’ll get through this faster.”
“What you’re asking goes beyond good faith,” Kenney said. “You must know that. You’ve told us a fascinating story but you haven’t shown us anything. I’ve got to protect our interests. You’d do the same thing if you were me.”
I got up and moved around the bed. “Let’s you and me take a little walk.” I looked at Amy and said, “Sit tight, we’ll be right back.”
We went down the row to the room at the end. I opened the door and stood outside while he went in alone. When he came out, ten minutes later, his face was pale.
My first reaction to the Grayson Raven was disappointment. It’s been oversold as a great book , I thought as Kenney unwrapped it and I got my first real look. It was half-leather with silk-covered pictorial boards. Grayson had done the front-board design himself: his initial stood out in gilt in the lower corner. The leather had a still-fresh new look to it, but the fabric was much older and very fine, elegant to the touch. In the dim light of the motel room it gave off an appearance of antiquity. The boards were surprisingly thin: you could take it in your hands and flex it, it had a kind of whiplash suppleness, slender and tough like an old fly rod. The endpapers were marbled: the sheets again had the feel of another century. You don’t buy paper like that at Woolworth’s and you don’t buy books like this on chain-store sale tables. The slipcase was cut from the same material that had been used for the boards: the covering that same old silk. A variation of the book’s design, but simpler, serving only to suggest, was stamped into the front board of the slipcase. My first reaction passed and I felt the book’s deeper excellence setting in. The effect was of something whisked here untouched from another time. Exactly what Grayson intended, I thought.
I opened it carefully while Kenney stood watch. Scofield hadn’t moved from his chair, nor had Amy. I leafed to the title page where the date, 1969 , stood out boldly at the bottom. A plastic bag containing some handwritten notes had been laid in there: I picked it up and moved it aside so I could look at the type without breaking my thought. The pertinent letters looked the same. Later they could be blown up and compared microscopically and linked beyond any doubt, if we had to do that. For my purpose, now, I was convinced.
I flipped to the limitation page in the back of the book. It was a lettered copy, E , and was signed by Grayson.
E was New Orleans. Laura Warner’s book.
“Well,” I said to Scofield. “How do you like your book?”
“I like it fine.”
“Then you’re satisfied with it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” His eyes were steady, but there was something about him…a wavering, a lingering discontent.
“Are you satisfied you got what you paid for?…That’s what I’m asking.”
“It’s the McCoy,” Kenney said. “If it’s not, I’ll take up selling shoes for a living.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to do that, Mr. Kenney,” I said. “But something’s wrong and I can’t help wondering what.”
They didn’t say anything. Kenney moved away to the table and poured himself another drink.
“On the phone you told me something,” I said. “You said Scofield had touched the book and held it in his hands.”
I looked at Scofield. “What I seem to be hearing in all this silence is that this is not the book.”