Bookman's wake

“I see he still reads the AB ,” I said.

“That’s probably how he sells most of his books.” Eleanor looked along the shelves behind the desk. She held up a thin canvas bag. “Here’s his briefcase. He never goes anywhere without this. In the old days, when he and Morrice were top dogs, you’d see him at book fairs and stuff, and he’d always have his two or three best pieces in this book bag. It was his trademark: if he liked you, you’d get to look in the bag; if he didn’t, you wouldn’t.”

She fiddled with the straps. “Wanna look?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Reluctantly, she pushed the bag back to the corner of the desk. “He probably hasn’t used it in ten years, except to carry a bottle around.” She sighed. “Not a Grayson book in sight. So much for my good intentions.”

“That looks like another door over there.” I walked across the room and opened it.

A set of steps disappeared into the dark upper floor.

“Try calling him again,” Eleanor said.

I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted Murdock’s name up the stairwell.

“He’s just not here,” she said.

“I don’t know. Something’s not right.” I moved into the stairwell.

“Don’t go up there. That’s how people get blown away.”

I turned and looked at her.

“Otto’s got a gun. I saw it once when I was here last year.”

“Good argument.” I backed away from the stairs.

“He’s gotta be up there sleeping one off. He’ll wake up in a panic over those books, come running down the stairs, and when he finds your note, he’ll be so relieved he’ll drop dead right there on the spot.”

I wavered.

“Goddammit, take the books,” she said. “Don’t be a fool.”

She’s right, I thought. I went back and sat at Otto’s desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote out my offer. I made it three thousand and signed it with both my Denver phone numbers, then taped it to his canvas bag where he’d be sure to find it.

In the car we sat fondling the merchandise, lost in that rapture that comes too seldom these days, even in the book business.

It was just six o’clock when I happened to glance in the mirror and saw Pruitt watching from the far corner.

14

He appeared like a single frame in a set of flash cards. You blink and he’s gone, and you’re not quite sure he was ever there at all. I was as sure as I needed to be: I was suddenly tense, keyed up and ready to fight. We headed down to the Hilton. I was driving now, handling the freeway traffic with one eye on my mirror. If he was on my tail as I swung into town, I didn’t see him. He was a magician, good enough to make you doubt your eyes. The invisible man, Slater had called him, the best tail in the business, and he wasn’t keeping after me because he liked my looks. Who is Slater ? The voice of Trish Aandahl played in my head. I had a hunch I was about to find out who Slater was and what he wanted. He had just five hours to break the stalemate: if Pruitt didn’t play Slater’s hand by then, we’d be in the air and it would all be academic.

I parked in the hotel garage and took Eleanor to my room. I poured us drinks, cutting hers slightly with water. She asked if she could use the shower and I said sure. I sat on the bed at the telephone, happy for a few minutes alone.

I punched up Slater’s number in Denver.

A woman answered. “Yeah?”

The lovely Tina, no doubt.

I tried to sound like someone from their social set, a cross between George Foreman and Bugs Moran: “I need Slater.”

“So who’re you?”

“I’m the man with the money.”

“I’m not followin‘ ya, Jack.”

“Just put Slater on the phone, he’ll be glad you did. Tell him it’s the man with the money.”

“Clyde’s not here.”

“So where’s he at?”