Mrs. Grabowski shrugged. “This is Little Ukraine. Where else could we go? Now we have to clear it out by the end of the week. The owners want to rent to someone else.”
She had an accent, though she might’ve been living in the United States for twenty years. Lillian never lost that faint British lilt that had got her hired by Glamour Time over forty years ago. Apollo used to get such a laugh out of hearing his mother pronounce aluminum like a Brit. Al-loo-min-ee-um.
Igor waggled the business card as if he was a bouncer checking ID.
“Did you go to school to do this?” Igor asked.
“Those are the books?” Apollo said, pointing to the boxes on the table. He didn’t wait for her to answer—he just wanted to clear some space between himself and Igor. Keep it moving, Igor.
“He enjoyed reading,” Mrs. Grabowski said as Apollo opened the flaps of the first box. “But his eyes became worse with age.”
Igor didn’t like being ignored. He raised his voice. “You heard of Bauman’s?” he demanded.
His mother looked at him. “Please don’t be foolish,” she said.
Apollo didn’t even have to peek inside the box to be sure this one was worthless. The scent of mildew—water damage—rose into the air like a specter. He moved on to the next box, but the same smell greeted him.
“Bauman’s Rare Books,” Igor said. “They have already made an offer for my father’s collection.”
The old woman turned now and slapped her son’s arm. She spoke in their native tongue, and as Apollo moved on to the third box, he felt himself shrinking. He’d come all the way out here for what would no doubt turn out to be six boxes of stained, curled, and torn books.
He did this instead of going straight to the dinner with Emma. One of her oldest friends, Nichelle, was visiting town and made reservations for them at Bouley. Just say that name with the proper French accent to guess how much the meal would cost. And here he was in Ridgewood, listening to a Ukrainian family bicker in Ukrainian. Or were they speaking Russian? He had traveled all this way so this twit Igor could try and tell him that Bauman’s Rare Books made an offer on Mr. Grabowski’s collection of sour-smelling paperbacks. He had come all this way to have his authority and experience questioned by a man who assumed superiority as a kind of birthright. But a good book man never turns down the chance at some rare find.
Especially not a book man with a child on the way.
Igor took out his cellphone, and as he tapped at the screen, he spoke in English again. “I’ve got the direct line for the Baumans,” he said.
Apollo reached the sixth box. Hardcovers this time, and a quick sniff suggested mildew hadn’t been introduced to the batch. This time he reached in and checked the books.
“Which Bauman?” Apollo asked. “David or Natalie?”
A few works of nonfiction about Vietnam. Some of these books even had their book jackets. If he hadn’t been on his way to dinner, he might’ve offered twenty bucks for the box just so he could sift through it all at home.
Mrs. Grabowski swung at her son again. “I told you not to lie!” she shouted.
She hit his cellphone this time, and it soared out of his hand, into the den, skittering across the hardwood floor and under the couch.
“Mama!” He ran for the device, and Apollo’s card fluttered to the floor.
The old woman turned back to Apollo. “Do you like to buy these books?”
“Well,” Apollo said, looking into the sixth box again. How to be nice about this? “It’s obvious your husband got a lot of enjoyment out of them.”
She dropped her head, trembling with desperation. When she did, he came across a book that made him stiffen. A novel called Fields of Fire by James Webb. No discoloration to the book jacket, and the book itself showed no fading to the board edges, no rubbing, and when he turned to the copyright page, he saw it was a true first edition. Nothing like the Crowley postcard of course, but he had a regular customer in Virginia, a history hound, who might pay two hundred and fifty for this book.
Apollo scanned the house again. Old clothes in garbage bags, a decaying sectional couch. The kitchen, visible from the dining room, looked like a graveyard for pots and appliances. Apollo doubted Mrs. Grabowski’s ex-husband had left her anything worth a damn. She’d even said this house was only a rental. She’d inherited a messy house that she had to clear quickly, and her only help was feckless Igor.
And yet she’d retained dignity, hadn’t she? She’d refused to go along with her son’s stupid plan. Even as much as she no doubt needed money, any money, she hadn’t been willing to lie to Apollo to get it. He imagined her working some job during the day, then coming out to Ridgewood each evening to sweep up after her dead, no doubt equally feckless husband. Though she was Ukrainian, she reminded him of his mother. Someone who worked like hell and still didn’t get all the good luck she deserved. If he paid her what this book was actually worth, it would be a kindness. Even half its value, even a hundred bucks, might make a difference: a week’s worth of groceries, a month’s Con Ed bill.
From the other room, Igor shouted, “You better not have cracked the screen, Mama!”
She looked over her shoulder at her son, on his knees, pawing for the device under the couch. He looked like a toddler scrambling for his toy. Mrs. Grabowski visibly deflated. Apollo felt his sympathies flare across his face like a rash.
But quickly Apollo reminded himself why he’d come out to Ridgewood tonight: because it had been six years since the D’Agostino haul and nothing worth even as much as the Webb novel had come his way since then. Because Emma’s job at the library had been reduced from full time to part time. Because Apollo Kagwa and Emma Valentine were expecting their first child in two weeks.
When Mrs. Grabowski looked back, Apollo held two hardcovers out to her. “I missed these when I first looked,” he said.
She peeked at the covers and mouthed the titles to herself. “They’re valuable?” she asked. She watched his face closely.
“A little,” he finally said.
If he’d tried to buy only one book, Mrs. Grabowski would’ve felt sure it was valuable, but the second book—a ratty copy of an unremarkable thriller—acted as a kind of camouflage for Fields of Fire. Apollo learned this trick from the old dealers long ago. He hated doing all this, and so he decided, deep in the well of his mind, that he was doing it for his unborn child. It’s for the kid, he told himself. The words soothed his conscience, like applying aloe to a light burn.
“I’ll give you fifty dollars,” Apollo said softly.
“Each?” Mrs. Grabowski asked, her voice rising.
Apollo went to his wallet. “For both,” he said.
He waited until she nodded and took the cash.
Igor returned from the other room, his phone gripped tight in one hand. “You’re proud of yourself?” he asked. “Cheating an old widow?”