"He wasn't. I don't believe he knew what he was looking for."
"But you gave him my book and he was satisfied."
"Apparently so."
"He paid for it?"
"Sales tax and all."
"How nice for the governor. Do you suppose he'll bring it back?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Really? When he realizes it's not what he wanted-"
"He's not going to realize it."
"Why, is he brain-dead?"
I decided he was going to hear about it onLive at Five, or read about it in the morning paper, so why not tell him now? "Among other things," I said. "He walked out of here, book in hand, and a car pulled up and somebody rolled down the window and blew him away."
"Good grief. You're serious, aren't you? It's not just a ruse to get around the fact that someone else paid more money for the book than the price you quoted to me."
"I wouldn't sell it out from under you," I said. "And yes, I'm serious. You can check out the hole in Cooperstone's window. The bullet that made it missed the guy, but most of the other rounds didn't."
"How shocking," he said, "and how dramatic. More exciting than anything old Joe Conrad ever wrote, I'll have to say that for it. Bernie, I'm sure it's in dreadful taste to bring it up, but when they shot him and he crumpled to the pavement-I assume he crumpled, didn't he?"
"More or less."
"Well, he would have dropped the book, wouldn't he? I don't suppose you managed to retrieve it."
"No."
"But do you think you might?"
"No."
"Oh. Evidence? The police have it?"
"The killers have it."
"The killers?"
"Scooped it up and drove off with it. Broke a few traffic laws while they were at it, but I don't suppose they were much concerned about that."
"They killed the man," he said thoughtfully, "and took my book. Well, notmy book. I hadn't paid for it, so title hadn't transferred. It was still your book."
"If you say so, Colby."
"Well, let me see," he said, heading for the stacks. "I've got to find something to read this weekend, haven't I?"
I joined him in Fiction. I pointed out what other books of Conrad's I had, but he wasn't interested in them. The appealing thing aboutThe Secret Agent, he said, was that it was set on dry land. Conrad's sea stories were just too nautical for his taste.
"Here's Graham Greene," I told him. "I've got a larger than usual stock of Greene, and I think a couple of these are firsts."
"Oh, God," he said. "Not Graham Greene."
"Don't care for him?"
"The salient fact about Graham Greene," he said, "is that his characters get less joy from adultery than the rest of us do embracing our wives. No, I'll pass on Graham Greene."
He settled for one of Evelyn Waugh's Guy Crouchback stories, I forget which one. He'd read it, but didn't own it, and enough time had passed so that he could happily read it again. The prospect pleased him so much that he decided it was time to go on a Waugh jag, and accordingly he picked out three more books and wrote out a check for the lot. "But I do still wantThe Secret Agent, " he said from the doorway. "If someone happens to bring in a copy-"
"It's yours," I assured him. "And nobody'll get it away from me, either."
Nineteen
I was getting ready to close when Ray Kirschmann turned up like the bad penny he is. "Perfect," I told him. "Just the man I was hoping to see."
"Yeah?"
"Absolutely," I said. "You're just in time to help me with my bargain table."
"I'd be glad to, Bernie."
"Good. You take that end-"
"Except I ain't supposed to lift nothin'. Doctor's orders, on account of my back."
"If our roles were reversed," I said, "and I tried an excuse like that on you, you'd want to know the name of the doctor. Never mind, I don't want to hear it. You can just stand there and watch me work."
"Fair enough," he said, and did just that. The least he could do was hold the door for me, and he did, being a great believer in doing the least. Inside, he leaned his bulk against my counter while I did what I do to settle Raffles in for the night.
"Soon as you're ready," he said, "we can go over to that gin mill where you an' Shorty go every night. I was gonna head there myself an' surprise you."
"I wish you had."
"Yeah? Why's that? You like surprises?"
"I like them when they happen to other people, and you're the one who would have been surprised, Ray, when we didn't show up."
"You don't like that place no more?"
"Carolyn's got a previous engagement," I told him, "and I don't feel like drinking alone."
"So you'll drink with me, Bernie. Lock up an' let's go."
I shook my head. "Not tonight, Ray."
"Not tonight? Ain't it Friday?"
"Yes," I said, "and thank God and all that, but I don't feel like a drink tonight."
"Cup of coffee, then. Over on University, there's this place opened up that's supposed to be good."
"It's not bad. A little expensive, though."
"No problem," he said. "You're buyin'."
I was buying a grande latte for each of us, it turned out. I'm sure they'd have been cheaper with English names. I brought them to the table he'd picked out over at the side, and told him Colby Riddle had come looking for his copy of the Conrad novel.
"So it's as I figured," I said. "A legitimate customer ordered the book, and I assumed the fat man was there to pick it up, and he assumed it was what he was looking for, because he didn't know exactly what he was looking for. All he knew was that I had it."
"But you say you don't."
"If I did," I said, "you'd be the first to know. People are getting killed over it, whatever it is, so why would I want to hang on to it? I'd turn it over to the proper authorities."
"That'd be a first. This customer of yours got a name?"
"He'd almost have to, Ray. These days it's almost as hard to go through life without a name as it is without a Social Security number."
"You wanna tell me his name, Bernie?"
"Can't."
"Can't? What do you mean, you can't?"
"My lips are sealed," I said. "Don't you read the papers? There was a case in Denver where the cops tried to make a bookstore owner divulge what books one of her clients had bought. He was a dope dealer, and they wanted to prove he'd bought a copy ofHow to Make Crystal Meth in Your Very Own Kitchen. "
"Who'd publish somethin' like that?"
"That may not be the exact title. The point is, Joyce Meskis took a stand, and it must have cost her a fortune in legal fees, but she won. And if she could put her life on the line for the principle of the Freedom to Read, I don't see how I can do less."
"What a load of crap," he said. "What's this Polack Conrad have to do with cooking crank at home? You're blowin' smoke, Bernie, but it don't matter. You don't want to tell me the name, that's fine. I'll tell you a name instead. How's that?"
"You've lost me, Ray."
" Arnold Lyle."
" Arnold Lyle."
"Ring a bell?" I shook my head. "How about Shirley Schnittke?"
" Arnold Lyle and Shirley Schnittke. Schnittke?"
"I think I'm pronouncin' it right."
I suppose it was possible, although when he tried for Mondrian it always came out Moon Drain. " Arnold Lyle and Shirley Schnittke. I can see the two names carved into the trunk of a tree, with a heart around it pierced by an arrow. Who are they, anyway?"
"Remember Rogovin's first name?"
"Give me a moment, it's on the tip of my tongue."
"Spit it out, why don't you?"
"Lyle," I said. "Arnold and Shirley are the Rogovins?"
"They were," he said. "Now they're toast. Fingerprints came back, and that's who they turned out to be, with records almost as long as yours. They both came over from Russia a few years back and went straight to Brighton Beach. There's a lot of hardworkin', law-abidin' Russians in Brighton Beach, but he wasn't one of 'em an' neither was she."