Miss Pride, coming from the back room, said, “Did you say something to me?”
“I said we’ve got company.”
“Oh, God.”
“Don’t even look at ‘em; don’t let ’em faze you at all. Just go on about your business and get ready to leave.”
I turned the sign around, in case they had any notions of coming in. Miss Pride bustled about gathering her things.
“Are we ready to go?” I said.
“I am.”
“Good. I’m driving you home tonight, by way of west Denver. Don’t argue with me, let’s just go. We’ll walk right past the sons of bitches and get in my car and drive away. Got that?”
“I got it.”
I flipped the front room lights. The telephone rang.
I heard the machine kick on and then begin recording. I don’t like machines that answer telephones, but Miss Pride had talked me into it, so we wouldn’t miss anyone with a big library to sell. As usual, she was right: the damned machine had made its cost back, three times over.
“I’m gonna see who that is,” I said. “You wait here. Don’t look at those guys and don’t look worried. I’ll be right back.”
By the time I got into the office, the recorder had cut off. It was probably Rita McKinley, I thought, cancelling tomorrow. I rewound the tape and played the message.
It was Peter. His voice was tense, strained. “I need to talk to you, right now,” he said.
I waited. I knew the line was still open, but he didn’t say anything. He was like a man whose attention has suddenly been captured—like the poor scared fool he’d been in the thrift store parking lot.
“Oh, shit,” he said, and hung up.
I ran the tape back and replayed it. It didn’t make any more sense than anything else he had done that day. I had no idea where he lived or how to reach him. Maybe Ruby knew.
I reset the tape, went up front, killed the last of the lights, and took Miss Pride by the arm. “Let’s go.”
I locked the door and we walked past the car where Newton and his thug sat waiting. The gunsel started the engine and the car rolled along beside us. I’m gonna put up with this about ten seconds, I thought; then I’m gonna kick some ass. I walked up to Ruby’s. The store was closed and locked. I walked past Harkness’s, which was also closed. Only Clyde Fix was still open: he sat in the window and watched the street like a vulture.
We went around the corner to the small lot where everyone on Book Row kept their cars. The headlights of the gunsel’s car swung behind us in a slow arc. I held the door for Miss Pride, then I walked back to the gunsel’s car, which was sitting still with its motor running.
I tapped on the window. Jackie rolled it down a crack.
“That’s all for you, Newton. If I see your ass again tonight there’s gonna be trouble.”
“Izzat so,” the gunsel said.
I kept looking at Jackie. “Does this guy speak English? Keep your hands on the wheel, dogbreath; touch that gun and I’ll blow you right through the door.” There was a long quivering pause. The gunsel’s fists clenched around the steering wheel. “Now I’m gonna tell you something, Newton, and this goes for you too, Anton. If you want to live to celebrate your next birthday, don’t fuck with me. You want to put that in Mon-golese, Jackie, so the ape can understand it? Don’t… fuck… with me.”
“Tough guy,” the gunsel said. “I’m gonna walk on you, tough guy.”
“You couldn’t walk the plank without losing your way. Now get this crate down the street.”
Jackie wanted to look amused, but he couldn’t sell that. He rolled up his window and motioned with his finger and the car pulled away from the curb. I watched the taillights go and thought again of Vinnie Marranzino. I stood for a long moment after they’d gone, watching the empty street.
Just another day on Book Row.
The next day began like every other. How it ended was another matter.
I made my rounds and found nothing of interest. The entire day was colored by my coming meeting with Rita McKinley. I was on edge, nervous and apprehensive and in a very real but strange way, thrilled. I had an early lunch with Hennessey and we talked a little about the Westfall case. Hennessey liked Rita McKinley and was inclined to
