Morris pretends to tie his shoe and unzips the Tuff Tote with the hatchet inside. Then he stands and, with no hesitation, opens the door of Andrew Halliday Rare Editions.
His old pal looks up from his book and scopes the sunglasses, the long-brimmed cap, the tote bags. He frowns, but only a little, because everyone in this area is carrying bags, and the day is warm and bright. Morris sees caution but no signs of real alarm, which is good.
‘Would you mind putting your bags under the coatrack?’ Andy asks. He smiles. ‘Store policy.’
‘Not at all,’ Morris says. He puts the Tuff Totes down, removes his sunglasses, folds the bows, and slides them into his shirt pocket. Then he takes off his new hat and runs a hand through the short scruff of his white hair. He thinks, See? Just an elderly geezer who’s come in to get out of the hot sun and do a little browsing. Nothing to worry about here. ‘Whew! It’s hot outside today.’ He puts his cap back on.
‘Yes, and they say tomorrow’s going to be even hotter. Can I help you with something special?’
‘Just browsing. Although … I have been looking for a rather rare book called The Executioners. It’s by a mystery novelist named John D. MacDonald.’ MacDonald’s books were very popular in the prison library.
‘Know him well!’ Andy says jovially. ‘Wrote all those Travis McGee stories. The ones with colors in the titles. Paperback writer for the most part, wasn’t he? I don’t deal in paperbacks, as a rule; very few of collectible quality.’
What about notebooks? Morris thinks. Moleskines, to be specific. Do you deal in those, you fat, thieving fuck?
‘The Executioners was published in hardcover,’ he says, examining a shelf of books near the door. He wants to stay close to the door for the time being. And the bag with the hatchet in it. ‘It was the basis of a movie called Cape Fear. I’d buy a copy of that, if you happened to have one in mint condition. What I believe you people call very fine as new. And if the price was right, of course.’
Andy looks engaged now, and why not? He has a fish on the line. ‘I’m sure I don’t have it in stock, but I could check Book-Finder for you. That’s a database. If it’s listed, and a MacDonald hardcover probably is, especially if it was made into a film … and if it’s a first edition … I could probably have it for you by Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest. Would you like me to look?’
‘I would,’ Morris says. ‘But the price has to be right.’
‘Naturally, naturally.’ Andy’s chuckle is as fat as his gut. He lowers his eyes to the screen of his laptop. As soon as he does this, Morris flips the sign hanging in the door from OPEN to CLOSED. He bends down and takes the hatchet from the open duffel bag. He moves up the narrow central aisle with it held beside his leg. He doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t have to hurry. Andy is clicking away at his laptop and absorbed by whatever he’s seeing on the screen.
‘Found it!’ his old pal exclaims. ‘James Graham has one, very fine as new, for just three hundred dol—’
He ceases speaking as the blade of the hatchet floats first into his peripheral vision, then front and center. He looks up, his face slack with shock.
‘I want your hands where I can see them,’ Morris says. ‘There’s probably an alarm button in the kneehole of your desk. If you want to keep all your fingers, don’t reach for it.’
‘What do you want? Why are you—’
‘Don’t recognize me, do you?’ Morris doesn’t know whether to be amused by this or infuriated. ‘Not even right up close and personal.’
‘No, I … I …’
‘Not surprising, I guess. It’s been a long time since the Happy Cup, hasn’t it? Lot of water under the bridge since then.’
Halliday stares into Morris’s lined and haggard face with dreadful fascination. Morris thinks, He’s like a bird looking at a snake. This is a pleasant thought, and makes him smile.
‘Oh my God,’ Andy says. His face has gone the color of old cheese. ‘It can’t be you. You’re in jail.’
Morris shakes his head, still smiling. ‘There’s probably a database for parolees as well as rare books, but I’m guessing you never checked it. Good for me, not so good for you.’
One of Andy’s hands is creeping away from the keyboard of his laptop. Morris wiggles the hatchet.
‘Don’t do that, Andy. I want to see your hands on either side of your computer, palms down. Don’t try to hit the button with your knee, either. I’ll know if you try, and the consequences for you will be unpleasant in the extreme.’
‘What do you want?’
The question makes him angry, but his smile widens. ‘As if you don’t know.’
‘I don’t, Morrie, my God!’ Andy’s mouth is lying but his eyes tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
‘Let’s go in your office. I’m sure you have one back there.’
‘No!’