Bookman's wake

Then, very much against all my better judgment, I said, “Tell me about it.”

2

Eleanor Rigby had gone to Taos to steal a book: that, at least, was how the betting line was running. On the night of September 14, four weeks ago, she had by her own account arrived in New Mexico. Five nights later she had burglarized the country home of Charles and Jonelle Jeffords. While tossing the house, she was surprised by the Jeffordses sudden return; a struggle ensued and shots were fired. According to a statement by Mrs. Jeffords, the Rigby woman had shot up the place in a panic and escaped the house. The law came quickly and Rigby was flushed out of the surrounding woods. She had initially been charged with aggravated burglary, a violation of New Mexico statute 30- 16-4: then, after further interviews with the victims, the DA had added the more serious business—aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder. I didn’t know what the penalties were in New Mexico, but it probably wasn’t much different from Colorado. The whole package could get her ten years in the state penitentiary. The judge had set a standard bail: the DA had probably argued that Rigby had no ties to the community and was not a good risk, but judges, even in the punitive era we seem to be heading into, are reluctant to throw away the key before a defendant has had her day in court. Bail was $50,000: Rigby had put up as collateral a property she owned, a wooded tract near Atlanta that had been left her by her grandfather. The bondsman had posted the cash bond and had taken title to the property as a guarantee that she’d appear for her court date.

But Rigby did not appear. She returned to the Jeffordses’ house, broke in again, stole some papers and a book, and this time got away.

“That’s where we come in,” Slater said. “The Jeffords woman wants her book back; it’s one of those things, you know how people get over their stuff. A few days later she heard from the cops that Rigby had been seen in Denver; Jeffords got pipelined to me. It didn’t take us long to figure out that Rigby had been here for one night only, just passing through on her way to Seattle. The rest is history. My guy’s got a bead on her and she’s sittin‘ in the bus station, waiting for one of us to come pick her up. That’s when I thought of you, old buddy. I’m sittin’ at my desk thinking about this crazy dame and her book, and all of a sudden it hits me like a bolt of lightning right in the ass. Janeway ! And I wonder where the hell my head’s been the last two years. I didn’t give a damn about the case anymore, I’ve got bigger problems than that on my mind, and you, my good old buddy, are the answer to all of ‘em.”

I looked at him, wondering how much of this bullshit I was expected to swallow at one time.

“Think of it this way, Clime. You got nothing to lose, and you can buy a helluva lot of books for five grand.”

It was almost uncanny: that’s exactly what I was thinking, almost to the word. It was as if Slater had drilled a hole in my head and it had come spilling out.

“And while you’re up there, you can double your money if you happen to stumble over that little book that Jeffords wants back so bad. Best deal you’ve had in a month of Sundays. You get five grand guaranteed, just for getting on the airplane. Get lucky and make yourself another five.”

“What’s the name of this book you’re looking for?”

He got out his wallet and unfolded a paper. “You familiar with a thing called The Raven ?”

“Seems like I’ve heard of it once or twice. It’s a poem. Written by Edgar Allan Poe.”

“This one was by some guy named Grayson. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Not so far.”

“All I can tell you is what the client told me. I wrote it down real careful, went back over it half a dozen times, and it’s still Greek.”

“Can I see the paper?”

He gave it up reluctantly, like a father giving away a daughter at a wedding. The paper was fragile: it was already beginning to wear thin at the creases. I didn’t say anything about that, just unfolded it gingerly and looked at what he had written. “Actually, I do know the book,” I said. “It’s a special edition of The Raven , published by the Grayson Press.”

I sensed a sudden tension in the room, as if I had caught him stealing something. Our eyes met, but he looked away. “I don’t understand this stuff,” he said.

“What about it don’t you understand?”

“What makes these things valuable…why one’s worth more than the others. You’re the expert, you tell me.”

“Supply and demand,” I said in a masterpiece of simplicity.

Slater was probably a lifelong Republican who was born knowing the law of supply and demand. It’s the American way. If you want something I’ve got, the price will be everything the traffic will bear. If I’ve got the only known copy, you’d better get ready to mortgage the homestead, especially if a lot of other people want it too. What he didn’t understand was the quirk of modern life that has inflated ordinary objects and hack talents into a class with Shakespeare, Don Quixote , and the Bible. But that was okay, because I didn’t understand it either.

But I told him what I did know, what almost any good bookman would know. And felt, strangely, even as I was telling it, that Slater knew it too.

“The Grayson Press was a small publishing house that dealt in limited editions. I’ve heard they made some fabulous books, though I’ve never had one myself. Grayson was a master book designer who hand made everything, including his own type. He’d take a classic, something in the public domain like

The Raven , and commission a great artist to illustrate it. Then he’d publish it in a limited run, usually just a few hundred copies, numbered and signed by himself and the artist. In the trade these books are