In the morning I called Hennessey to square things away. I was still enough of a cop to do that. I told him about McKinley’s after-hours visit, what we’d said, and how much I’d given away. He didn’t seem to care much. The mayor wasn’t exactly demanding that cops be called in on overtime to solve Bobby Westfall. He would be happy to talk to McKinley, when they made connections, but he wasn’t hopeful that anything would come of it.
Two hours later, he called back and said McKinley was coming in around eleven o’clock. After that she was fair game.
Fair but elusive.
I called her number around two. She had the recording on, but she called back less than an hour later.
Her voice was cool and distant. “Well, Mr. Janeway, have you figured it out yet?”
“Figured what out, the murder or the book business?”
“If you ever get the book business figured out, let me know how you did it. What can I do for you?”
“Help me figure it out.”
“I told you last night, and I told your Mr. Hennessey again this morning, I don’t know anything about it.”
“I was talking about the book business. I’d like to come up and see your books.”
I felt completely transparent, stripped before the world. I braced for another rebuff and got it.
‘There’s no margin for you up here,“ she said. ”Everything I’ve got is very high retail.“
“I bet I’ll find something.”
“1 don’t think so. You couldn’t possibly make any money, and look, I’m very busy now. I just got home, I’m still tired, and I’ve got a million things to catch up on. Add to that the fact that I’m just not feeling very hospitable. I don’t feel like having company.”
“Well, that’s plain enough.”
“I’m sorry. Good-bye.”
Strike two on Janeway: bottom of the ninth, two out, and the fans begin to head for the turnstiles. I left the store in Miss Pride’s care and made my rounds. I reached the DAV on Montview just as books were being put out. It looked like crap. I looked at it through Rita McKinley’s eyes, and all I could see was crap: small-time books eagerly coveted by eternally small-timers. Book club mysteries. Book club science fiction. Dildo books: the
I’d been staring, thinking of Rita McKinley, when my eyes focused on the title
“Hiya, Dr. J.”
I turned. “Hi, Peter. How’s tricks?”
“Could be better. Y‘ almost missed that one. What’s it worth?”
I opened the book, took off the jacket, sniffed for mold. It was a nice enough first: the flyleaf had been creased and some bozo had written his name in it.
“Oh, for this copy, thirty, forty bucks.”
Miss McKinley probably wouldn’t pick it up, even at $2. But to a guy like Peter, it was a little shot of life.
“Damn,” he said. “Another minute and I’da had it.”
“You can have it anyway,” I said, and I gave it to him.
“Jesus, Dr. J…”
“Merry Christmas, two months early.”
“Jesus.”
We walked out together. In the parking lot we stood and chatted for a moment. I asked if he was finding any books. He said yeah, he had some nice stuff to show me. One or two real honeys. Maybe he’d come in later in the week.
Then he seemed to go stiff. I looked at his face and thought he might be having a heart attack. He tottered and would’ve fallen if I hadn’t grabbed his arm.
“Hey, Pete, you okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He didn’t look okay. He looked like a gaffed fish.
“I gotta go,” he said.
