“Just for the record,” Crystal said in her Southern voice, “we don’t care what you do for a living. I’m just glad you were in the right place at the right time, and I’m grateful to you and we’re so glad you’re here with us.”
“That was gonna be my next comment,” Moon said, “in more or less that same choice of words.”
“Where’re you staying, Mr. Janeway?” Crystal asked.
“He’s going where the wind blows, Mamma,” Eleanor said, as if that explained everything.
“Tonight the wind dies here,” Crystal said. “I won’t hear any argument about it, we’ve got a fine room in the loft over the shop. It’s warm and dry and there’s a good hard bed. Best of all, it’s private.”
“You’ll love it,” Eleanor said.
“In fact,” Crystal said as Rigby came in carrying some clothes, “why don’t we get that done right now?—get you into some dry duds and checked into your room. We’re putting Mr. Janeway in the loft,” she said to Rigby, who nodded. To me she said, “The only thing I need to ask is that you not smoke over there. Gaston doesn’t allow any smoking in the shop. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Not for me.”
“Good. I’ll whip us up some cinnamon rolls to go along with the coffee. You get yourself thawed out and come back over in half an hour so we can all get acquainted.”
“Me, I gotta go,” Moon said.
“You ornery old cuss,” Crystal said. “Damn if you’re not the unsociablest one man I ever met.”
“I’ll take Mr. Janeway over to the loft while I’m goin‘ out,” Moon said to Rigby. “No sense you gettin’ wet too.”
I followed him back through the house. We popped open two umbrellas and went down into the yard. Moon pointed out the path with a flashlight he carried, leading the way to an outbuilding about twenty yards behind the house. The first thing I noticed, even before he turned on the light, was the smell…the heavy odor of ink mixed with some- thing else. The light revealed a long room, cluttered with machinery and steel cabinets. Two large ancient-looking presses stood against the far wall, a smaller handpress on a table near the door, and, nearer the door, was a vast, complicated machine from another century, which I thought was probably a Linotype. It was. “That smell shouldn’t bother you any,” Moon said. “It’s just the smell of hot type. Gaston must’ve been working out here till just before you showed up. You shouldn’t even notice it upstairs.”
He flipped on the lights. Our eyes touched for less than a second, then he looked away. “I’ll leave you a slicker here by the door, and the flashlight and the umbrella too. If you need anything else, there’s a phone upstairs, you can just call over to the house.”
The first thing I saw was a no smoking sign. Moon moved me past it, onto the circular staircase in the corner opposite the presses, then up to the loft, a spacious gabled room with a skylight and a window facing the house. In the middle of the room was a potbellied stove, which looked to be at least a hundred years old. Moon stoked it and soon had a fire going: “This old bastard’ll really dry out your duds. And it’s safe, Gaston has it checked every so often. It’ll run you right out of here if you let it get too hot on you.” He walked around the room looking in corners. Opened a door, peeped into an adjacent room. “Bathroom. There’s no tub, but you’ve got a shower if you want it.”
He made the full circle and stood before me. He radiated power, though his was wiry, a leaner brand than Rigby’s. His voice was the prime ingredient in the picture of hard male strength that he presented to the world. It was a deep, resonant baritone, bristling with Southern intelligence. He’d be great on talk radio, I thought, and I was just as sure that he’d have nothing to do with it. “The phone’s here beside the bed,” he said. “It’s on a separate line, so you just call over to the house just like any other phone call.” He bent over the end table and wrote a number on a pad. Then he stood up tall and looked at me. “I can’t think of anything else.”
“Everything’s great.”
He turned to leave and stopped at the door. “Crystal kids around a lot, but I really do have to go. There’s a waitress in Issaquah who’s got dibs on my time. You look like a man who understands that.”
“I do have a faint recollection of such a situation, yes.”
He gave a little half-laugh and asked if I’d be around tomorrow. “If you are, come see me. I run the newspaper, my shop’s over in Snoqualmie, just a few minutes from here. Anybody in either town can tell you where I’m at. If the sun comes out tomorrow, I’ll show you some of the best country in the world. I’ve got a cabin up in the hills about an hour’s drive from here. Built it forty years ago and it’s been swallowed up by national-forest lands, about a million acres of it. That’ll keep the Holiday Inn bastards at bay, at least for the rest of my life. It’s yours if you’d like to unwind in solitude for a few days.”
Again he paused. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, Janeway. I’ve got the feeling we owe you more than we know. Does that make any sense?”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“I don’t know either, it’s just a feeling I’ve got. Like maybe you came along in the nick of time, not just to keep our little girl from getting herself wet.”
“If I did, I don’t know about it. But I’m glad I could help her.”
He looked at me hard. “The kid doesn’t tell us much anymore. She’s all grown-up, got a life of her own. She never had a lick of sense when it came to strangers. Hitchhiked home from L.A. when she was eighteen, damn near drove her mamma crazy when she told us about it that night at dinner. Today she got lucky and found you. Don’t ask me how or why, but I know we’re in your debt.”
I made a little motion of dismissal.
