act would result in his losing them. Every book Gilkey added to his collection could now be only a private pleasure, not for anyone else’s viewing, with one exception: me. I had become his audience of one. He couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me everything, nor show me all of his books, but he could show me small paperbacks that may or may not have been bought at a library sale and talk to me about their significance. The bigger “purchases,” however, would remain in hiding, at least for the time being. Still, I had the sense that if I talked to Gilkey enough, some book- related gem would come out of it, and I was compelled to find it. I was hoping to dig up surprises as fervently as any book collector, so we set up another time to meet.
The discovery of valuable book treasures is not limited to out-of-the-way barns in New Hampshire. San Francisco dealer John Windle told me about going to an auction in London several years ago for the estate sale of a famous book collector whose books, furniture, and other items were up for bid. While reviewing the inventory, Windle opened a bureau drawer. Inside, unknown to anyone—not the auction house, nor his fellow dealers, nor the bidders—lay a copy of William Blake’s illustrated
“Tucked inside the
At our next meeting at Cafe Fresco, Gilkey told me about how his hunting was going. He had been researching Iris Murdoch, whose book
“The way they can’t differentiate between right and wrong,” he said of existentialists. “Well, I’ve been thinking that could be me.”
Gilkey told me he was hoping to visit Los Angeles for a book fair and Arizona for a horror book festival. I asked him if traveling wasn’t awfully risky, suggesting that he might get caught violating the terms of his parole, but he dismissed capture as unlikely. And being around so many books would surely be a temptation too strong for him to resist, but when I asked him about it, he said, “Sometimes it’s tempting to do it again, to be honest, but it’s too much of a risk.” But taking risks, gambling even on his freedom, had never been a deterrent.
Earlier, Gilkey had agreed to show me the pay phones he used to call in book orders, and now I suggested we visit one.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “this one here is pretty good.”
Next to the cafe we’d met in so often, in the lobby of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, stood one of his favorites. We gathered our things and walked over to it.
Gilkey opened the Yellow Pages, turned to the rare book pages, and ran his finger across the advertisements.
“Now, see, I’ve done some of these. . . . Looking back at it, I should have probably stayed away from that one,” he said as his finger drifted down the page. “I’ve been to Kayo, I’ve been to Argonaut . . . Brick Row . . . Thomas Goldwasser. He almost got me in trouble. And here’s Black Oak Books,” he said, with his finger on the ad. “I’ll just call them. It’s toll-free.”
I thought that perhaps I hadn’t heard him correctly, that he was only going to pantomime a call, but a moment later he was actually punching in the numbers. With the receiver at his ear, waiting for someone to answer, he said to me, “I pretty much remember the phrases I used. I memorized them.”
I watched, dumbfounded, grateful, and guilty.
“No one answered,” he said as he hung up the phone. “It’s a little irritating when they don’t. When they would do that, later I would definitely make sure to get a book from them. I’d make it a priority.”
He searched the ads again. “Brick Row?”
I couldn’t help myself. “You’re not really going to call them,” I said.
“Maybe just to ask a question,” he said. “Well, okay, maybe not. How about Jeffrey Thomas Fine and Rare Books?” he asked, referring to an ad. “Or Robert Dagg? Here’s Moe’s Books. They’re actually quite good.”
He settled on Serendipity Books in Berkeley, from which he’d stolen more than once, and dialed the number.
“Hello. I’m looking for a gift for a wedding. Do you have any rare books by Iris Murdoch?
While the person on the line searched for a Murdoch or Donleavy, Gilkey, not covering the receiver, said to me, “That’s usually what I do, ask for a book I happen to be reading. Right now, she’s checking. I think I told you, they’ve got thousands of books there.”
Gilkey continued waiting. I continued watching.
“Only problem with this phone,” he said to me, “is it doesn’t take incoming calls. So I’d tell them I’m busy and don’t take calls at work. Then later I’d call the store back to make sure the charge went through.”
Gilkey waited another moment while the woman tried to find a book that might satisfy him. He grew impatient.
“See, for something like this, where they made me wait and wait and wait, I would definitely make sure they were next on the list.”
The woman at Serendipity returned and must have asked for his phone number, because he read the number posted on the phone, and his name, because the next thing he said was, “Uh . . . Robert.”
“I read on the Internet,” he said to her, “that you specialize in Irish writers, especially James Joyce. Could you make a recommendation for a gift from an Irish writer? Oh, I think anything up to five thousand. Yeah, it’s a wedding gift. Or if you have an autograph by James Joyce or Charles Dickens or . . . Okay, if you can just take a quick look. Okay, thank you.”
I had heard this scenario before, from Sanders and from Gilkey’s victims. They’d described for me Gilkey’s voice while placing an order, his way of demonstrating a measure of book knowledge, his story that he was buying a gift. In tone and content, his enactment seemed almost a parody of itself. It was also going very smoothly. Even though Gilkey was not, I assumed, going to provide the dealer with a credit card number or hotel address, it was a deception I was witnessing, a half-crime—and I was half horrified, half fascinated.
Gilkey hung up the phone and gave me his take on the call, a blend of disdain for the dealer, pride for himself.
“See, that would have been perfect because the owner wasn’t there,” he said. “She probably wouldn’t know the correct procedure. She doesn’t even know where anything is. If I wanted it today, I probably would have done it. I’d have given her the credit card number. It would definitely go through. If it didn’t go through, I’d have a spare one ready. I’d have three or four spares in my pocket. I’d order the book and say, ‘What time do you close?’ I’d say, ‘Can you gift wrap it?’ Then they’d stutter around and say, ‘Uh, okay.’ If they close at five, I’d get there around four-fifteen, four-thirty, take a look around, make sure there are no suspicious characters around. Then I’d go in there and say, ‘I’m picking up a book for Robert,’ and hopefully they’d have it ready. Sometimes they wouldn’t have it ready, which would make me a little bit nervous. That’s how stupid they were. They should have asked for the credit card. A few times they would run the number through when I got there. It didn’t make any sense to me. But I signed it, and that’s it. I didn’t do anything suspicious or anything. I just said, ‘Thank you.’ I’d probably take a look at a couple more books and say, ‘This is great. Thank you very much. I’ll probably be back. You have a great collection.’ And then I’d calmly walk out.”
I nodded, balancing my notebook on the small shelf under the next pay phone, taking in just how replenished
