Bookman's promise

“Who’s Dante?”

“You’re not helping us much here, Hal. I hope I don’t have to reinvent the wheel with every question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then just this once I’ll draw you a picture. Big, ugly-assed thug who goes around with Carl Treadwell. An intimidator. A genuine bone-cruncher. Attila the Hun would cut him some real slack.”

“I don’t know anything about Carl’s friends.”

I looked dubious.

“Believe what you want, but I stay away from Carl.”

“What about Dean?”

He went over to the bureau, picked up a pint bottle of scotch, and poured himself a short one. He was putting the bottle away when I said, “I take mine straight, thanks,” and he looked at me again with that mix of bitter amusement and contempt. But he poured me the drink.

I took a sip. “I believe we were talking about Dean.”

“Why don’t you refresh my memory about why I’m talking to you at all.”

I sighed. “This is gonna be a toolbox-and-coveralls conversation all the way, isn’t it? You’re gonna make me work for everything I get.”

At last he said, “Dean Treadwell helps me find books that I need in my work.”

“Are you still living in Charleston?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“This seems like a long way to come, just to find a bookseller.”

“That’s my damn business.”

I sipped my scotch.

“You try finding books in Charleston,” he said. “See how long it takes you to turn up a copy of anything truly rare.”

“So you’re saying you stumbled upon Dean, way up here in Baltimore, and he performed for you. He found the books you wanted and that’s all there is to it.”

“If I’m saying anything, that’s probably what I’m saying.”

“Who’d you call on the phone just now?”

“What possible business—”

“Maybe I’m making it my business. Maybe I’m suddenly starting to see a whole scheme unfolding and it’s making me nervous as hell.”

“What scheme? I don’t know what—”

“How long have you really known about Mrs. Gallant and her books?”

“I never heard that name in my life before tonight.”

“Now see, Hal, that’s a lie. If you’ve got to lie, at least try to develop some style to go along with it. People appreciate honest bullshitters like Dean and me, but nobody likes a cold liar like you, Archer. Nobody.”

“How dare you,” he seethed.

“Yeah, right. Maybe you can sell that indignation in polite society, but to me you just look like another scared street rat.”

“How dare you!” he shouted.

“Gosh, Hal, I seem to have offended you, and just when you were beginning to like me so much. Could it have been something I said?”

“You’re wasting my time. I don’t think you know anything.”

“About what? Is that why you invited me up here, to find out what I know? I’ve got startling news for you, Hal. I came up here to find out what you know.”

He swished his drink, buying himself a moment to think. In a calmer voice, he said, “Let’s get this straight. I don’t care anything about your little old lady, or her…”

He blinked, as if he’d just saved himself from a stupid blunder.

I smiled at him. “Or her what?”

“Or her books. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

“Nice try, but I think you were about to say something else.”