‘No, but it can make you feel sick. Let me find some gloves for you.’
She returned with a pair of leather gloves. They were too small for Parker’s hands, but he managed to get his fingers partway into them. He removed the book from the box and examined the exterior before proceeding to the contents. A bookplate was fixed to the inside front cover, featuring the letter ‘D’ repeated twice, and the word ‘London’ beneath. The addition of the location was odd, and more indicative of a store or lending library than a private collection.
Parker moved on to the first of the places where the pages were different. A larger single sheet, much older than the rest of the book, had at some point been folded twice and sewn into the binding between two other sections. The visible sides were blank, and made not from paper but what appeared to be some form of vellum, uncut at the top edges. He moved to the second insertion, and discovered the same.
Very gently, Parker lifted one of the pages in an effort to see what was written on the interior of the folds. They were also unmarked. Why, Parker wondered, would someone go to the trouble of inserting blank pages into a volume? Unless, of course, they weren’t really blank at all. He tried to recall the ways in which invisible ink could be applied: lemon juice, wine, vinegar, sugar solution, bodily fluids, their message to be revealed later by the application of heat or chemicals.
‘Empty,’ he said.
‘Not always.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes, if I leave the book open for long enough, I see patterns.’
‘What kind of patterns?’
‘It’ll sound crazy.’
‘Not to me.’
Leila took a deep breath.
‘Okay, not patterns, but the ghosts of them. Sometimes they’re like maps, and other times they’re closer to architects’ drawings, but really detailed.’
That fit with Parker’s thesis: an ink of some kind, activated by heat or light.
‘Drawings of what?’
‘Of the book’s surroundings. Of the room it’s in. This room, for example.’
‘Wait, they change?’
‘I told you it would sound crazy.’
‘Sounding crazy isn’t the same thing as being crazy.’
‘It’s close enough.’
‘I guess it is.’
Parker turned to the copyright page of the book. There, as Leila had said, was the date: 1908. A printer’s error? Wasn’t that the kind of detail that made a book more valuable?
‘Look at the text,’ said Leila.
Parker did as she asked, and noticed that some words, and even the individual letters within them, were so jumbled as to render the stories unintelligible, as though a catastrophic error had been made during the setting process.
‘If you look at them again tomorrow, they could be different,’ said Leila.
‘Different how?’
‘The letters may have rearranged themselves again. Look long enough, and you’ll begin seeing messages. I thought it was kind of cool at first – freaky, but cool – until …’
‘Until?’
‘Until they formed the words “Look Away, Cunt” on page fourteen. I stopped opening the book after that.’
She bit at a thumbnail.
‘And then there are the illustrations.’
99
Billy Ocean hadn’t been in Hogie’s in a long time, not since he was old enough to drink legally. Hogie’s was one of those bars where the lights were always low, the music always loud, and people tended to mind their own business unless forced to do otherwise, which was rarely the case. It lay between Harmony and Corinna in southern Somerset County, and attracted little passing trade due to the unprepossessing nature of its exterior, which was matched by the unprepossessing nature of its interior, and its restrooms in particular, which were notoriously insalubrious. But a Bud Light in Hogie’s was a buck-fifty all day, and the food wasn’t so bad if you didn’t let it linger in your mouth.
Billy found Quayle sitting at a table away from the bar, a glass of clear liquor before him. Billy identified him by his dress sense. It was possible that someone else had previously worn a velvet vest and knitted silk tie in Hogie’s, but if so, it was far enough in the past for the trauma to have faded from the bar’s collective memory. Quayle didn’t look like he belonged in Hogie’s, but neither did he appear particularly uncomfortable in its surroundings. Some people had a way of colonizing spaces, adapting them to form sanctuaries for themselves. Quayle was such a man.
Billy took a seat at the table, and a waitress came by for his order. He noticed that she barely registered Quayle’s presence, and even when she did, her gaze slid from him like water from an oiled boot. Whatever vibes he was giving off, they weren’t good.
‘So you’re British?’ said Billy.
‘I think of myself as English first, British second. It’s a way of keeping the Scots and Welsh at a distance, never mind the Irish.’
Billy was confused, but didn’t care enough one way or the other to seek further clarification.
‘What are you doing over here?’
‘I’m holidaying.’
‘You’re on vacation?’
‘If you prefer.’
Again, Billy didn’t really give a fuck.
‘So,’ Billy said, once his beer had arrived, ‘who blew up my truck?’
‘A man named Charlie Parker. He’s a private investigator.’
Billy consumed this information with a mouthful of beer.
‘I know who he is. And you figure this how?’
‘Because it’s common knowledge, or relatively so. The police are aware, and I believe your father is too. But the police won’t do anything about it because they have no proof, and there also appears to be a don’t-touch rule when it comes to Parker. As for your father, well, I can’t say. Perhaps he’s concerned you might be tempted to do something foolish, and put yourself at risk as a consequence.’
‘Why did Parker pick on me?’
‘Pick on.’ What an interesting choice of words, Quayle thought. They told him all he needed to know about the man sitting opposite.
‘He keeps company with a colored man named Louis. My understanding is that this Louis found certain aspects of your truck’s décor objectionable, and Parker assisted him in registering what was, all things considered, a forceful protest.’
Billy stood.
‘I need to make a call,’ he said.
He went outside and called Dean Harper, his father’s former aide. They hadn’t spoken since Harper’s firing, but Billy was less fearful of Harper when he didn’t have to face him in person.
‘What do you want?’ Harper asked, when Billy identified himself.
‘To get you your job back.’
‘Least you can fucking do, seeing as how you lost it for me.’
‘My old man misses you.’ This was true. Billy’s father regretted letting Harper go, but he didn’t like backtracking on a decision. He thought it made him seem weak. For Harper, though, he might be persuaded to make an exception. ‘It won’t take much to talk him round.’
‘And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?’
‘It’s by way of an apology. I only want a word in return.’
‘What word would that be?’
‘Yes or no.’
‘And the question?’
‘My truck: Was Charlie Parker the name you heard?’
No reply, or not the one he wanted.
‘Jesus, Billy,’ said Harper, ‘you got to let this go.’
‘You want that job back, or don’t you?’
‘Sure I do.’
‘Then answer the question.’
‘Yes. The answer is yes. But Billy—’
Billy didn’t wait to hear the rest. He killed the connection and went back inside to rejoin Quayle.
‘Seeking confirmation?’ said Quayle as Billy sat down.
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s always advisable to secure a second opinion. And what did you learn?’
‘That you might be telling the truth.’
‘That I am telling the truth.’
‘Okay, yeah, so you are. What do you want in return: money?’
‘No, I just want to help you retaliate.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because Parker is in my way, and I’d like to see him distracted.’
‘Getting in the way of your “vacation?”’