It seemed impossible but it was still only one o’clock. I thought about Trish and wondered how she was doing with Pruitt. I had left Bowman’s truck at her house and changed over to the Nash before meeting Huggins at the Hilton.
Now I banked into the familiar North Bend off-ramp. The day was lovely, chilly like a mountain pool, and the wind swirled clouds behind the mountain in the distance. For a moment I thought I saw the Indian in the mountain, but when I blinked and looked again, he was gone. I headed down toward the main street and turned into the motel where I’d left the stash.
The black Cadillac was there in the yard.
“They’re here,” I said.
I got out, went to the office, and asked for Rodney Scofield. Room four, the man said, and I walked up the walk and knocked on the door.
Kenney opened it. He had a cocktail glass in his hand, ice bobbing in amber liquid.
We went in. I drew up a chair and Amy sat on the foot of the bed. “This is Miss Amy Harper. She’s running this show. My name’s Cliff Janeway, I’m a book dealer from Denver.”
“Leith Kenney.” He shook hands, first with Amy, then with me.
“Where’s Scofield?” I asked.
“In the bathroom. He’ll be out. Want a drink?”
“Sure. What’re we having?”
“Can you drink Scotch?”
“I’m a William Faulkner bourbon man. That means between Scotch and nothing, I’ll take Scotch.”
He smiled: he knew the quote. Suddenly we were two old bookmen, hunkering down to bullshit. He looked at Amy and said, “Miss Harper?”
“Got a Coke?”
“7-Up.”
“That’ll be cool.”
Kenney and I smiled at each other. He took a 7-Up out of a bag, filled a glass with ice, and poured it for her. He asked how I wanted my drink and I told him just like they shipped it from Kentucky.
A door clicked open and Rodney Scofield came into the room.
He was thin, with a pale, anemic look. His white hair had held its ground up front, retreating into a half-moon bald spot at the back of his head. His eyes were gray, sharp, and alert: his handshake was firm. He sat at the table, his own 7-Up awaiting his pleasure. He had a way about him that drew everyone around to him, making wherever he chose to sit the head of the class. He was a tough old bird, accustomed to giving orders and having people jump to his side. Now he would sit and listen and take orders himself, from a girl barely out of her teens.
It was up to me to set the stage, which I did quickly. “Everything I told you in the restaurant is true. Gentlemen, this is the Grayson score of your lifetime. This young lady here owns it, and she’s asked me to come and represent her interests.”
“Whatever you pay me,” Amy said to Scofield, “Mr. Janeway gets half.”
I looked at her sharply and said, “No way.”
“I won’t even discuss any other arrangement.” She looked at Kenney and said, “If it wasn’t for this man, I’d‘ve given it away, maybe burned it all in the dump.”
“Amy, listen to me. I couldn’t take your money, it’d be unethical as hell, and Mr. Kenney knows that.”
“Lawyers do it. They take half all the time.”
“So do booksellers, but this is different. And you’ve got two kids to think about.”
“Maybe I can help you resolve this little dilemma,” Kenney said smoothly. “Let’s assume for the moment that you’ve really got what you think you’ve got. That remains to be seen, but if it’s true, Mr. Janeway would have a legitimate claim for a finder’s fee.”
I felt my heart turn over at the implication. I had come here chasing five thousand dollars, and now that jackpot was beginning to look small.
“What does that mean?” Amy said.
“It’s a principle in bookselling,” I told her. “If one dealer steers another onto something good, the first dealer gets a finder’s fee.” I looked at Kenney and arched an eyebrow. “Usually that’s ten percent of the purchase price.”
“That doesn’t sound like much,” Amy said.
“In this case it could he a bit more than that,” Kenney said.
