“He was holding a book for me, on which I have made a deposit. A first edition of They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? It’s by—”
“Horace McCoy,” Morris finishes for him. The books on the shelf to the left of the desk—the ones the security DVDs were hiding behind—had slips sticking out of them, and since entering the bookstore today, Morris has examined them all. They’re customer orders, and the McCoy is among them. “Fine copy, signed. Flat signature, no dedication. Some foxing on the spine.”
Elmer smiles. “That’s the one.”
Morris takes it down from the shelf, sneaking a glance at his watch as he does. 3:13. Northfield High classes end at three, which means the boy should be here by three-thirty at the latest.
He pulls the slip and sees Irving Yankovic, $750. He hands the book to Elmer with a smile. “I remember this one especially. Andy—I guess he prefers Drew these days—told me he’s only going to charge you five hundred. He got a better deal on it than he expected, and wanted to pass the savings along.”
Any suspicion Elmer might have felt at finding a stranger in Drew’s customary spot evaporates at the prospect of saving two hundred and fifty dollars. He takes out his checkbook. “So . . . with the deposit, that comes to . . .”
Morris waves a magnanimous hand. “He neglected to tell me what the deposit was. Just deduct it. I’m sure he trusts you.”
“After all these years, he certainly ought to.” Elmer bends over the counter and begins writing the check. He does this with excruciating slowness. Morris checks the clock. 3:16. “Have you read They Shoot Horses?”
“No,” Morris says. “I missed that one.”
What will he do if the kid comes in while this pretentious goateed asshole is still dithering over his checkbook? He won’t be able to tell Saubers that Andy’s in back, not after he’s told Elmer Fudd he’s in Michigan. Sweat begins to trickle out of his hairline and down his cheeks. He can feel it. He used to sweat like that in prison, while he was waiting to be raped.
“Marvelous book,” Elmer says, pausing with his pen poised over the half-written check. “Marvelous noir, and a piece of social commentary to rival The Grapes of Wrath.” He pauses, thinking instead of writing, and now it’s 3:18. “Well . . . perhaps not Grapes, that might be going too far, but it certainly rivals In Dubious Battle, which is more of a socialist tract than a novel, don’t you agree?”
Morris says he does. His hands feel numb. If he has to pull out the gun, he’s apt to drop it. Or shoot himself straight down the crack of his ass. This makes him yawp a sudden laugh, a startling sound in this narrow, book-lined space.
Elmer looks up, frowning. “Something funny? About Steinbeck, perhaps?”
“Absolutely not,” Morris says. “It’s . . . I have a medical condition.” He runs a hand down one damp cheek. “It makes me sweat, and then I start laughing.” The look on Elmer Fudd’s face makes him laugh again. He wonders if Andy and Elmer ever had sex, and the thought of that bouncing, slapping flesh makes him laugh some more. “I’m sorry, Mr. Yankovic. It’s not you. And by the way . . . are you related to the noted popular-music humorist Weird Al Yankovic?”
“No, not at all.” Yankovic scribbles his signature in a hurry, rips the check loose from his checkbook, and passes it to Morris, who is grinning and thinking that this is a scene John Rothstein could have written. During the exchange, Yankovic takes care that their fingers should not touch.
“Sorry about the laughing,” Morris says, laughing harder. He’s remembering that they used to call the noted popular-musical humorist Weird Al Yank-My-Dick. “I really can’t control it.” The clock now reads 3:21, and even that is funny.
“I understand.” Elmer is backing away with the book clutched to his chest. “Thank you.”
He hurries toward the door. Morris calls after him, “Make sure you tell Andy I gave you the discount. When you see him.”
This makes Morris laugh harder than ever, because that’s a good one. When you see him! Get it?
When the fit finally passes, it’s 3:25, and for the first time it occurs to Morris that maybe he hurried Mr. Irving “Elmer Fudd” Yankovic out for no reason at all. Maybe the boy has changed his mind. Maybe he’s not coming, and there’s nothing funny about that.
Well, Morris thinks, if he doesn’t show up here, I’ll just have to pay a house call. Then the joke will be on him. Won’t it?
24
Twenty to four.
There’s no need to park on a yellow curb now; the parents who clogged the area around the high school earlier, waiting to pick up their kids, have all departed. The buses are gone, too. Hodges, Holly, and Jerome are in a Mercedes sedan that once belonged to Holly’s cousin Olivia. It was used as a murder weapon at City Center, but none of them is thinking about that now. They have other things in mind, chiefly Thomas Saubers’s son.
“The kid may be in trouble, but you have to admit he’s a quick thinker,” Jerome says. After ten minutes parked down the street from City Drug, he went inside and ascertained that the boy he was tasked to follow had departed. “A pro couldn’t have done much better.”
“True,” Hodges says. The boy has turned into a challenge, certainly more of a challenge than the airplane-stealing Mr. Madden. Hodges hasn’t questioned the pharmacist himself and doesn’t need to. Pete’s been getting prescriptions filled there for years, he knows the pharmacist and the pharmacist knows him. The kid made up some bullshit story, the pharmacist let him use the back door, and pop goes the weasel. They never covered Frederick Street, because there seemed to be no need.
“Now what?” Jerome asks.
“I think we should go over to the Saubers house. We had a slim chance of keeping his parents out of this, per Tina’s request, but I think that just went by the boards.”
“They must already have some idea it was him,” Jerome says. “I mean, they’re his folks.”
Hodges thinks of saying There are none so blind as those who will not see, and shrugs instead.
Holly has contributed nothing to the discussion so far, has just sat behind the wheel of her big boat of a car, arms crossed over her bosom, fingers tapping lightly at her shoulders. Now she turns to Hodges, who is sprawled in the backseat. “Did you ask Peter about the notebook?”
“I never got a chance,” Hodges says. Holly’s got a bee in her hat about that notebook, and he should have asked, just to satisfy her, but the truth is, it never even crossed his mind. “He decided to go, and boogied. Wouldn’t even take my card.”
Holly points to the school. “I think we should talk to Ricky the Hippie before we leave.” And when neither of them replies: “Peter’s house will still be there, you know. It’s not going to fly away, or anything.”