Booked to die

I shook my head.

“A killer book. And let’s see, there was some black stuff, a Richard Wright, a Ralph Ellison, and half a dozen horror titles. Just a super Hell House, by Matheson… that’s two and a half now for one this nice… and a couple of Lovecrafts, and, oh yeah, another great Mathison title, / Am Legend. Now there’s a real vampire book, scared the living bejesus out of me one night when I had nothing else to do. So much better than Salem’s Lot, even King says so, but King’s such a nice guy he always puffs everybody else’s books and poopoos his own. He’s right this time, though. And listen, speaking of black stuff, we got I oni Morrison’s first book, The Bluest Eye… hell, even I never saw that book before. Killer copy, I bet we get five bills for it. Let’s see what else… great Crazy in Berlin, a couple of bills on that, and some Van Guliks with that chink detective, you can get two-fifty easy for those, and a great Chesterton Eather Brown with a jacket that’ll knock your damn eye out…”

I looked at my watch. 1 had stopped listening. I knew he was lost, drifting through that vast and wonderful world that all true bookmen know. The most hypnotic business a man can do, like making love to a beautiful woman.

“You ever read that novel, Dr. J?”

1 shook my head. I didn’t know what novel he was talking about.

“My kinda stuff, baby. Just makes my blood go all tingly when I take it out of the box and it looks like it came off the press an hour ago. Yeah, we’ll do great on this buy, even if we have to wholesale a few items to keep the wolf at bay. It’s like a shot of new blood, you know what I mean? It puts joy back in your heart, makes the world right again for a little while. Wait a minute, there was more…”

“That’s enough, Ruby.”

“Oh wait, I haven’t given you much more than half of it, yet.”

“It’s enough anyway. I think I’ve got what I need.”

“I don’t understand you. What the hell’re you lookin‘ for?”

I looked at my watch. “How’s your sense of time, Ruby?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How long do you think we’ve been sitting here talking— just since I asked you what was in those boxes? How long do you think it’s been?”

“Couldn’t be much more than a minute. Two minutes at the outside. Couldn’t be any longer than that.”

“How about seven minutes and twenty seconds.”

Surprise flicked across his face.

Then a flash of horror.

50

I juggled the pieces on the drive north. It gave me a sick, hollow feeling that deepened as we drove.

Rita knew that something had changed between us. She was very sharp that way.

“What’s the matter?”

I shook my head and shrugged it off.

“What’s wrong with you?” she insisted.

“Nothing.” I looked at her and raised my voice to emphasize the point.

I saw her back stiffen. You couldn’t bully her or force your will. You could mandate silence by being silent, but you couldn’t make the mistake of believing that her own silence meant she was putting up with it.

We went at least ten miles before she spoke again.

“Where’re we going? You mind telling me that?”

“Going to see a fella.”

“What fella?”

I looked at her again. “You ever hear of Emery Neff?”

“I don’t know…I guess I’ve heard that name. He owns one of the bookstores, doesn’t he?”

“You never met him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You never had occasion to sell him any books?”

“How do I know? Do you remember everybody you ever sold books to? I’ll tell you something, I don’t much like the way you’re acting.”

“I’m not acting.”