‘I soothed him.’
Pete laughs. It’s good to hear him do that. Hodges ends the call and heads back to the city, well on the way to being twenty thousand dollars richer, courtesy of a crusty old Texan named Dwight Cramm. He’ll call and give Cramm the good news after he finds out what the Barbster wants.
8
Drew Halliday (Drew is what he prefers to be called now, among his small circle of friends) eats eggs Benedict at his usual corner table in Jamais Toujours. He ingests slowly, pacing himself, although he could gobble everything in four large gulps, then pick up the plate and lick the tasty yellow sauce like a dog licking its bowl. He has no close relatives, his lovelife has been in the rearview mirror for over fifteen years now, and – face it – his small circle of friends are really no more than acquaintances. The only things he cares about these days are books and food.
Well, no.
These days there’s a third thing.
John Rothstein’s notebooks have made a reappearance in his life.
The waiter, a young fellow in a white shirt and tight black pants, glides over. Longish dark blond hair, clean and tied back at the nape so his elegant cheekbones show. Drew has been in a little theater group for thirty years now (funny how time glides away … only not really), and he thinks William would make a perfectly adequate Romeo, always assuming he could act. And good waiters always can, a little.
‘Will there be anything else, Mr Halliday?’
Yes! he thinks. Two more of these, followed by two crème br?lées and a strawberry shortcake!
‘Another cup of coffee, I think.’
William smiles, exposing teeth that have received nothing but the best of dental care. ‘I’ll be back with it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
Drew pushes his plate away regretfully, leaving the last smear of yolk and hollandaise behind. He takes out his appointment book. It’s a Moleskine, of course, the pocket-sized one. He pages past four months’ worth of jottings – addresses, reminders to self, prices of books he’s ordered or will order for various clients. Near the end, on a blank page all its own, are two names. The first is James Hawkins. He wonders if it’s a coincidence or if the boy picked it deliberately. Do boys still read Robert Louis Stevenson these days? Drew tends to think this one did; after all, he claims to be a lit major, and Jim Hawkins is the hero-narrator of Treasure Island.
The name written below James Hawkins is Peter Saubers.
9
Saubers – aka Hawkins – came into the shop for the first time two weeks ago, hiding behind a ridiculous adolescent moustache that hadn’t had a chance to grow out much. He was wearing black hornrims like the ones Drew (then Andy) affected back in the days when Jimmy Carter was president. Teenagers did not as a rule come into the shop, and that was fine with Drew; he might still be attracted to the occasional young male – William the Waiter being a case in point – but teens tended to be careless with valuable books, handling them roughly, reshelving them upside down, even dropping them. Also, they had a regrettable tendency to shoplift.
This one looked as if he would turn and sprint for the door if Drew so much as said boo. He was wearing a City College jacket, although the day was too warm for it. Drew, who’d read his share of Sherlock Holmes, put it together with the moustache and studious hornrims and deduced that here was a lad attempting to look older, as if he were trying to get into one of the dance clubs downtown instead of a bookshop specializing in rare volumes.
You want me to take you for at least twenty-one, Drew thought, but if you’re a day past seventeen, I’ll eat my hat. You’re not here to browse, either, are you? I believe you are a young man on a mission.
Under his arm, the boy carried a large book and a manila envelope. Drew’s first thought was that the kid wanted an appraisal on some moldy old thing he’d found in the attic, but as Mr Moustache drew hesitantly closer, Drew saw a purple sticker he recognized at once on the spine of the book.
Drew’s first impulse was to say Hello, son, but he quashed it. Let the kid have his college-boy disguise. What harm?
‘Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?’
For a moment young Mr Moustache said nothing. The dark brown of his new facial hair was in stark contrast to the pallor of his cheeks. Drew realized he was deciding whether to stay or mutter Guess not and get the hell out. One word would probably be enough to turn him around, but Drew suffered the not unusual antiquarian disease of curiosity. So he favored the boy with his most pleasant wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly smile, folded his hands, and kept silent.
‘Well …’ the boy said at length. ‘Maybe.’
Drew raised his eyebrows.
‘You buy rarities as well as sell them, right? That’s what your website says.’