Bookman's promise

The muscle had waited on the sidewalk while Vince and I talked. Now he was called Vinnie, but I could still call him Vince. He remembered old debts and I could call him anything I wanted. Only you can call me that old name, Cliffie.

He knew his presence made me uneasy. But he’d had to come: he’d seen the newspaper stories about my fall from grace, and he wanted to help me square things.

He’d looked around him and said, You like this book racket?

Yeah, I do.

You wanna buy some real books?

I dunno, Vince. What would I have to do for ‘em?

Just let me throw a little work your way. I’ve got a job now, you could do it in a week. Make you fifty, seventy-five grand. Buy all the goddamn books you want for that.

Well, I’d said, smiling. That would be a start, anyway.

But I’d said no thanks without hearing what the job was.

Vince had looked disgusted. Hey you, you big bazooka, when are you gonna let me square accounts with you?

We’re square now, Vince. You don’t owe me anything.

But I had once saved his life and he shook his head sadly. To a man like Vince, that account could never be squared with words alone.

He’d gripped my arm. Strong as ever, ain’tcha, Cliff? Bet I can throw your ass.

I’d laughed. I’ll bet you can.

When I looked up again the afternoon had faded. It was five-fifteen and no word from Erin. I faced the fact that she wasn’t coming.

It was two hours later in Baltimore, probably too late to call Treadwell’s—assuming I had some valid excuse, or could think of one, or could say anything that sounded at all real. I was caught up in an old cop’s impulse: I wanted to hear the man’s voice, so I picked up the phone and punched in the number.

It rang, five times…six. Nobody there, just as I thought, and just as well. Then I heard a click on the other end, and a woman’s voice. “Hi, Treadwell’s.”

“Is Treadwell there?”

“Which one?”

“Whoever’s handy.”

She said, “Justa minute, hon,” and I was put on hold. Well, I was into it now: nothing to do but hang up or play it out. There was no elevator music, nothing but that dead-flat line to help me while away the hours. How many times had I done this as a cop, made a cold call with no plan of action and only a hunch to go on? Sometimes it worked out fine, and if there was a compelling reason to pussyfoot around with these guys, I couldn’t see it.

Long minutes later I heard the phone click again, and suddenly there was a faint hum on the line. Almost at once the man spoke: “This’s Dean.”

“Hey, Dean,” I said in my best good-old-boy voice. “I was referred to you as a possible source for some books I want to find.”

“Well, whoever sent you got one thing right—I got books. You buying ‘em by the pound or the ton? Or are you interested in something particular?”

I laughed politely. “The last book I bought by the ton was an Oxford textbook on erectile dysfunction.”

He bellowed into the phone, a raspy laugh followed by a hacking smoker’s cough. “Buddy, if you’ve got that problem, ain’t no book gonna cure it. Might as well slice off the old ginger root and donate it to medical research.”

“Jesus, Dean, don’t jump to that conclusion. That book was for a friend of mine.”

He laughed again. “Yeah, right. So listen, what the hell can I do for you?”

“I heard through the grapevine you might have some books by Richard Burton. I’m talking about real stuff, you know what I mean?”