Drew thought, I’m sure you will. And I believe my bargaining position will be much stronger when you do.
He held out his hand. The boy shook it again, as briefly as he could while still being polite. As if he were afraid of leaving fingerprints. Which in a way he had already done.
Drew sat where he was until “Hawkins” went out, then dropped into his office chair (it gave out a resigned groan) and woke up his sleeping Macintosh. There were two security cameras mounted above the front door, one pointing each way along Lacemaker Lane. He watched the kid turn the corner onto Crossway Avenue and disappear from sight.
The purple sticker on the spine of Dispatches from Olympus, that was the key. It marked the volume as a library book, and Drew knew every branch in the city. Purple meant a reference volume from the Garner Street Library, and reference volumes weren’t supposed to circulate. If the kid had tried to smuggle it out under his City College jacket, the security gate would have buzzed when he went through, because that purple sticker was also an antitheft device. Which led to another Holmesian deduction, once you added in the kid’s obvious book-smarts.
Drew went to the Garner Street Library’s website, where all sorts of choices were displayed: SUMMER HOURS, KIDS & TEENS, UPCOMING EVENTS, CLASSIC FILM SERIES, and, last but far from least: MEET OUR STAFF.
Drew Halliday clicked on this and needed to click no farther, at least to begin with. Above the thumbnail bios was a photo of the staff, roughly two dozen in all, gathered on the library lawn. The statue of Horace Garner, open book in hand, loomed behind them. They were all smiles, including his boy, sans moustache and bogus spectacles. Second row, third from the left. According to the bio, young Mr. Peter Saubers was a student at Northfield High, currently working part-time. He hoped to major in English, with a minor in Library Science.
Drew continued his researches, aided by the fairly unusual surname. He was sweating lightly, and why not? Six notebooks already seemed like a pittance, a tease. All of them—some containing a fourth Jimmy Gold novel, if his psycho friend had been right all those years ago—might be worth as much as fifty million dollars, if they were broken up and sold to different collectors. The fourth Jimmy Gold alone might fetch twenty. And with Morrie Bellamy safely tucked away in prison, all that stood in his way was one teenage boy who couldn’t even grow a proper moustache.
10
William the Waiter returns with Drew’s check, and Drew tucks his American Express card into the leather folder. It will not be refused, he’s confident of that. He’s less sure about the other two cards, but he keeps the Amex relatively clean, because it’s the one he uses in business transactions.
Business hasn’t been so good over the last few years, although God knew it should have been. It should have been terrific, especially between 2008 and 2012, when the American economy fell into a sinkhole and couldn’t seem to climb back out. In such times the value of precious commodities—real things, as opposed to computer boops and bytes on the New York Stock Exchange—always went up. Gold and diamonds, yes, but also art, antiques, and rare books. Fucking Michael Jarrett in KC is now driving a Porsche. Drew has seen it on his Facebook page.
His thoughts turn to his second meeting with Peter Saubers. He wishes the kid hadn’t found out about the third mortgage; that had been a turning point. Maybe the turning point.
Drew’s financial woes go back to that damned James Agee book, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. Gorgeous copy, mint condition, signed by Agee and Walker Evans, the man who’d taken the photographs. How was Drew supposed to know it had been stolen?
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