All right, he probably did know, certainly all the red flags were there and flying briskly, and he should have steered clear, but the seller had had no idea of the volume’s actual worth, and Drew had let down his guard a little. Not enough to get fined or thrown in jail, and thank Christ for that, but the results have been long-term. Ever since 1999 he’s carried a certain aroma with him to every convention, symposium, and book auction. Reputable dealers and buyers tend to give him a miss, unless – here is the irony – they’ve got something just a teensy bit sketchy they’d like to turn over for a quick profit. Sometimes when he can’t sleep, Drew thinks, They are pushing me to the dark side. It’s not my fault. Really, I’m the victim here.
All of which makes Peter Saubers even more important.
William comes back with the leather folder, face solemn. Drew doesn’t like that. Maybe the card has been refused after all. Then his favorite waiter smiles, and Drew releases the breath he’s been holding in a soft sigh.
‘Thanks, Mr Halliday. Always great to see you.’
‘Likewise, William. Likewise, I’m sure.’ He signs with a flourish and slides his Amex – a bit bowed but not broken – back into his wallet.
On the street, walking toward his shop (the thought that he might be waddling never crosses his mind), his thoughts turn to the boy’s second visit, which went fairly well, but not nearly as well as Drew had hoped and expected. At their first meeting, the boy had been so uneasy that Drew worried he might be tempted to destroy the priceless trove of manuscript he’d stumbled across. But the glow in his eyes had argued against that, especially when he talked about that second photocopy, with its drunken ramblings about the critics.
It’s alive, Saubers had said. That’s what I think.
And can the boy kill it? Drew asks himself as he enters his shop and turns the sign from CLOSED to OPEN. I don’t think so. Any more than he could let the authorities take all that treasure away, despite his threats.
Tomorrow is Friday. The boy has promised to come in immediately after school so they can conclude their business. The boy thinks it will be a negotiating session. He thinks he’s still holding some cards. Perhaps he is … but Drew’s are higher.
The light on his answering machine is blinking. It’s probably someone wanting to sell him insurance or an extended warranty on his little car (the idea of Jarrett driving a Porsche around Kansas City pinches momentarily at his ego), but you can never tell until you check. Millions are within his reach, but until they are actually in his grasp, it’s business as usual.
Drew goes to see who called while he was having his lunch, and recognizes Saubers’s voice from the first word.
His fists clench as he listens.
11
When the artist formerly known as Hawkins came in on the Friday following his first visit, the moustache was a trifle fuller but his step was just as tentative – a shy animal approaching a bit of tasty bait. By then Drew had learned a great deal about him and his family. And about the notebook pages, those too. Three different computer apps had confirmed that the letter to Flannery O’Connor and the writing on the photocopies were the work of the same man. Two of these apps compared handwriting. The third – not entirely reliable, given the small size of the scanned-in samples – pointed out certain stylistic similarities, most of which the boy had already seen. These results were tools laid by for the time when Drew would approach prospective buyers. He himself had no doubts, having seen one of the notebooks with his own eyes thirty-six years ago, on a table outside the Happy Cup.
‘Hello,’ Drew said. This time he didn’t offer to shake hands.
‘Hi.’
‘You didn’t bring the notebooks.’
‘I need a number from you first. You said you’d make some calls.’
Drew had made none. It was still far too early for that. ‘If you recall, I gave you a number. I said your end would come to thirty thousand dollars.’
The boy shook his head. ‘That’s not enough. And sixty-forty isn’t enough, either. It would have to be seventy-thirty. I’m not stupid. I know what I have.’
‘I know things, too. Your real name is Peter Saubers. You don’t go to City College; you go to Northfield High and work part-time at the Garner Street Library.’
The boy’s eyes widened. His mouth fell open. He actually swayed on his feet, and for a moment Drew thought he might faint.
‘How—’
‘The book you brought. Dispatches from Olympus. I recognized the Reference Room security sticker. After that it was easy. I even know where you live – on Sycamore Street.’ Which made perfect, even divine sense. Morris Bellamy had lived on Sycamore Street, in the same house. Drew had never been there – because Morris didn’t want him to meet his vampire of a mother, Drew suspected – but city records proved it. Had the notebooks been hidden behind a wall in the basement, or buried beneath the floor of the garage? Drew was betting it was one or the other.