“Oh, guys who’ve worked their butts off to get off the street and get into a big office telling you how much they miss the street.”
That evening, Frank had a message on his answering machine from John McDonnell at Olsson’s. The message, like McDonnell, was spare and abrupt. A book had come in, McDonnell was holding it for him.
John McDonnell, round-faced and in his seventies, leaned forward in the scarred wooden chair. His deep blue eyes and rimless bifocals gave him a priestly, bemused look-a beneficence conferred by a lifetime spent with books. Peering into the tiny green screen of an ancient Kaypro computer, he pecked at the keyboard.
Frank saw the screen flicker, but McDonnell’s somber expression didn’t change. Books surrounded him: books stacked on either side of the Kaypro, books on floor-to-ceiling shelves around him, three books in his lap.
Olsson’s Books amp; Records, like McDonnell, was a cherished Georgetown landmark. A place where little old ladies could bring their dogs in. Only two windows wide, it had fronted Wisconsin Avenue for at least twenty years. Inside, the store extended back beyond sight. Immediately through the narrow door, an island of literary trade paperbacks. To the right of the island, a Ritz camera booth; to the left, three registers framed by racks of mass-market paperbacks. Farther on, the music section, with CDs, cassettes, and a curling black-and-white poster of Johnny Cash. The serious books were at the rear, where McDonnell and his Kaypro constantly inventoried the shop’s backlist.
Foreclosure was in the air. Taxes go up. Leases run out. The chains open on every corner. An end of what had been. And what would be no more.
“Evening, John.”
McDonnell didn’t look up right away. He glanced at the computer screen, then opened a book in his lap and began easing an art gum eraser over the price penciled inside. That done, he closed the cover and looked up at Frank. The book, Frank saw, was Larteguy’s The Centurions.
“First British edition, the Xan Fielding translation,” McDonnell said, fingertips caressing the dust jacket. He lifted the book, and the way he did it made Frank think of a priest offering the cup in communion. McDonnell held out the book, looking at it sadly.
“Here.”
“How much?”
McDonnell shook his head. “Here. Take it.”
“I can’t. How much?”
McDonnell looked at Frank, then at the book, then back to Frank.
“You already have The Praetorians.” McDonnell thrust the book closer to Frank. “Please.”
Frank took it. Tight binding. Only the slightest shelf wear at the jacket edges.
“I can’t.”
McDonnell had dropped his hand back into his lap. “Make a donation to the Salvation Army.”
Frank thought about putting the book down on the stack by the Kaypro, then thought better of it.
“Thanks,” he said. He felt uncomfortable. As if he’d witnessed a personal tragedy and knew he ought to say something comforting but couldn’t find the words.
McDonnell broke the silence. “Haven’t seen your dad.”
“Moved back to the country.”
McDonnell nodded approvingly.
On impulse, Frank asked, “What’s the deal on Frederick Rhinelander?”
A woman came by, paused to browse over the books by the computer, and moved on. McDonnell watched her walk away, then looked up at Frank.
“Three-term congressman. Republican. New Hampshire.” McDonnell recited the basics.
Like somebody had flipped a memory switch.
“Personals?”
“Personal?… A piss-ant.” McDonnell said it dispassionately, without a trace of rancor. “All the nightmare insecurities of a little man who’s got a lot of money he didn’t earn.”
“Piss-ant? A member of Congress?”
McDonnell smiled, shrugged, and went back to his inventory.
Frank held up The Centurions. “Thanks.”
“You’re still missing Yellow Fever,” McDonnell said, eyes on the computer screen.
“You look for it?”
“Yes. But time’s running out.”
“And I pay.”
“Sure.”
“Closing a bookstore must be a lot like going to the gallows,” Frank said. It had popped into his head and out of his mouth.
McDonnell, eyes still on the computer screen, gave no sign he’d heard.
Frank hesitated, and turned to leave. Then he heard McDonnell behind him.
“Life’s pleasant, Frank. Death’s peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.”
Frank turned back.
McDonnell looked up from the computer and smiled a benediction.
ELEVEN
Milton, a white guy with a graying brush-cut, wore jeans and a khaki shirt. Yellow-lens shooting glasses and a pair of sound-suppressing earmuffs around his neck accented his high cheekbones and gave him the lean look of a hunter, which he had been once.
He sat on the bench between Frank and Jose, the Gentry case folder open in his lap. On the firing line, ten or so feet away, a single plainclothes-a female officer-practiced slow fire at a silhouette target. The peppery nitro odor of gunpowder hung in the air.
Milton ran his hand over the jacket. He looked at Jose, then Frank. “You say ballistics connect Gentry and Skeeter?”
Frank nodded.
“And Calkins did the analysis?”
“Yes.”
Milton’s eyes shifted into the distance, as he worked to pull together the implications of what Frank and Jose were saying.
“Tell us about your snitch, Milt.”
“In so many words, the guy told me that Zelmer Austin got his head fucked up and decided to bag a honkie. He came back that night and told his woman he’d done it. Shot a guy at the Capitol South station.”
“That’s it?”
“Look,” Milton said. “You guys know how it is… It’s a cold day in hell when a snitch comes to you with the whole story. All’s you get are little pieces. This was this asshole’s little piece. It wasn’t the only piece.”
“He say how he knew?”
“Said he got it from Austin’s woman.”
“You check?”
“We couldn’t find her. You know how these bitches are…” Milton turned to Frank, then Jose, seeking agreement.
Milton got a look as if things were crumbling inside him. He was silent for a long time, staring at the jacket. “I got a goddamn ulcer from that case. Everybody from the mayor on down was on my ass. Fucking Emerson was over me like flies on a manure pile.”
“We remember,” Frank said.
Milton looked at Frank. “I guess it’s open again.”
“Yeah,” Jose said.
Giving no sign he’d heard Jose, Milton watched the shooter on the firing line squeeze off another round.
