The Bookman's Promise (13 page)

I had to move away from the door. People were now coming in a steady stream, so I walked behind Archer to the end of the bar, where I could hopefully blend into the heavy afternoon crowd. I had just taken the last available stool when Dean came out of the John, went over to Archer’s table, and sat down. They had a long powwow that ran into the happy hour, through half a dozen beers for Dean and two slow-sipping cocktails for Archer. I sat, watched, and nursed my own beer, thinking of these two odd bedfellows and what a small world it was. Small world, my ass. Seeing them together made everything murkier, but it left no room in my mind for coincidence.

Archer left first. He got up, said something to Dean, hit the boys’ room, and walked out of the bar a few minutes later. Dean had ordered another beer and seemed to be settling in for the night. I decided there might be more to gain by tailing Archer than watching Dean get drunk, so I followed him out into the street. I had to be careful now: one mistake and my cover would be blown. But on second thought, how much did that really matter? My time here was short: I would have to confront them all at some point.

I half expected Archer to hop a cab and leave me gaffing on the street, but for once I was lucky. He kept walking and he never looked back. Five minutes later he went into a hotel. I followed him into the lobby, just in time to see him get into an elevator and go up to the tenth floor.

What now?

I would wait, at least for a while: sit in the lobby with a newspaper, and if my luck held nobody would bother me till Archer came down again. Again I was lucky. The desk clerk had just begun eyeing me suspiciously after an hour when the elevator opened and Archer stepped out.

He had changed clothes and now wore a dark evening jacket and a bright turtleneck. I watched him over the top of my newspaper as he turned in to the dining room. The old Murphy’s Law derivative ran through my head.
If something jams, force it. If it breaks, it needed replacing anyway
. A plan, whole and devious, unfolded in my mind.
Hit him where he lives
—
in the book he’s writing. Don’t wait for it to grow cold. Just do it
.

I followed him in. The hotel offered a buffet in addition to the regular menu and Archer had opted for that. I got into the line a few people behind him.

I was close enough now to hear him giving the cashier his room number. He took a table in the far corner of the room, a solitary figure with all his glory unrecognized. The Pulitzer prize may have its charms, but it’s a lousy bedmate.

I paid with a twenty and headed across the room toward him. “Well, Hal Archer, imagine seeing you here.” He looked up. “Do I know you?”

He knew me, all right: I could see it in his face. But I said, “Cliff Janeway. We met at Lee Huxley’s.” I said this warmly, as if we had become buddies at once that night. Boldly I put my tray down on his table and sat down. “Do you mind?”

“Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh, listen, I’ll get out of your hair as soon as she gets here. I’ve just got to tell you something that’s been on my mind since Miranda’s party. I never should’ve fawned over you like that; I know it must be a drag being set upon by strangers. I’ll bet it gets tiresome as hell, being told how great you are every minute of your life.”

“That’s all right,” he said coldly.

“How generous of you to say that. But I was a boob and I need to say so.”

“Well, you’ve said it.” His face remained passive, indifferent, distant, and finally tinged with annoyance. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” But I had already started to eat. “I really did mean it when I said I liked your stuff. I was your biggest fan, long before you won anything.”

“Look,” he said. “If I’ve written something you liked, I’m happy for both of us. But at the moment—”

“In fact, I owe you a big favor.”

He looked at me with doleful eyes, like a man afraid to ask.

“You’re the guy who turned me on to Richard Burton.”

He said nothing but his eyes wondered where the hell
this
was going.

“I’m a book dealer, you know.” “I remember.”

“Because of you, Burton has become one of those burning passions that comes along just a few times in a bookman’s life.”

He looked at me coldly.

“I’ve done a lot of homework on the man and his life and times since that night, and I’ll bet I can even tell you a thing or two. I know you’ve been researching him for years and you’ve got a book in the works, but I’ve come across stuff nobody else knows.”

The plan was suddenly on track: I had rattled him. For a moment he kept staring at me, then he said, “Who told you that?”

“What, that you’re writing a book? Oh, come on, it was so obvious that night even a blind man could see it. But your secret’s safe with me. I know how writers are. Just let it be known that Hal Archer is doing Sir Richard Burton, and half a dozen wannabe writers will rush into print with warmed-over retreads. And of course that’ll cut into your market even if their books are lousy. Which they will be, right?”

“Listen…Janeway…”

“It’s
o-kay
,” I said warmly. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“All I ever said about Burton was what a grand figure he was. I
never
said I was writing about him.”

“I understand completely. My lips are sealed.”

“You don’t understand anything. There’s nothing to seal. Get that? Nothing.”

“Sure.” I put on my best look of phony camaraderie, guaranteed to let him know that I knew bullshit when I heard it. I did everything but wink at him. Then I said, in a masterpiece of my own bullshit, “Look, I’ve taken up way too much of your time.”

I started to get up. But he said, as I knew he would, “Just as a point of curiosity…what the hell
are
you talking about?”

“You mean about Burton?”

He looked at me like a scientist studies a lower-life form.
No, about the queen’s sex life, you bumbling goddamn ignoramus
!

I leaned close, as if spies were everywhere. “I’ve found a great source of untapped Burton material. Somebody with a direct link to his time in America.”

“And who might that be?”

“Mrs. Josephine Gallant. Does that ring a bell?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Well, since your interest in Burton is just academic, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

The silence stretched. I nibbled at my cornbread, then said, with lighthearted malice, “Looks like your friend’s gonna be late. Maybe she ran into traffic.”

Again I made as if to rise. He said, “So who is this woman?”

“Josephine? Oh, she died last week in Denver.”

“Well, then.”

“Mmmm, I wouldn’t say that. She left behind some interesting stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Way more than we can discuss here and now. But listen, if you ever do write that book you’re not writing, you’d better get together with me before you send it in.”

He gave me a bitter little half-smile. “For which you would want…what? Assuming there was anything to any of this, which there isn’t.”

“Oh, Hal, I am
hurt
by the implication that I’d do this for money. I’m a bookman! All I want is to see a great book come out of it.
I
can’t write it, but somebody sure needs to. If that’s really not gonna be you, maybe I should talk to somebody else.”

“Such as…who?”

“Oh, there’s no end of writers around. I know lots of ‘em. Some really good ones. That’s one of the things about the book business, you meet writers.”

I saw the flesh sag a little around his cheeks and that alone was worth the price of my ticket to Baltimore.

“I gotta go,” I said abruptly.

It cost him a million in trumped-up arrogance to say this, but he said it. “You haven’t finished eating yet.”

“Yeah, but I’m going to another table now.” I looked away at an absolutely stunning brunette who had just come in alone. “I think your date is here.”

“That’s not who I’m waiting for.”

“Well,
that’s
a damn shame. Jesus, what a dish. Anyway, I’m sure your friend will be along any minute, and I’ve taken up way more of your time than I intended to.”

Before he could say
Stop, Wait a minute
, or
Get up from that chair and I’ll kill you
, I was gone. I went clear across the dining room to a place near the window, but not so far away that we couldn’t see each other. I ate hungrily while Archer picked at his food, and every so often our eyes would meet and I’d smile at him and nod pleasantly. A roving waiter came by and asked if I wanted coffee and I said yes, thank you, even though I’d had three times my caffeine allowance for the day. I went back to the buffet for dessert, something else I didn’t need, but at least I stayed away from the cheesecake. The stewed apples were sensational.

Archer didn’t seem to be eating much at all. After a while he pushed back from the table and got up. The moment of truth had arrived. He was coming my way.

He was sitting at my table.

“You should try these apples,” I said. “Wanna bite?”

When he spoke again, all the bullshit between us was suddenly gone.

“You really are an annoying bastard, Janeway. Do you have any
idea
how annoying you are?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s my one real talent, so I work at it.”

He seethed while I ate the last of my apples.

“So, Hal…what does this mean? Do you want to talk real now?”

“Come up to my room. The number is 1015.”

“I know what the number is.”

“I need to make a phone call. Give me fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. But listen very carefully to what I say. Don’t try any funny stuff with me, Hal. If Dean’s brother shows up with his gangster bodyguard, I promise—are you listening to me, Hal?—I
promise
, Hal, the first casualty of the evening will be you.”

Fifteen minutes later I stepped off on the tenth floor. Archer opened the door to a midpriced plastic hotel room, indistinguishable from every Holiday Inn or Ramada the world over. I looked in the bathroom and closet, I opened the balcony door and looked outside; I barely resisted the urge to look under the bed. I checked the lock on the door, slipped the security chain into its slot, and sat on the bed. Archer watched in annoyance, but there was also a trace of alarm on his face. “What’s wrong with you? You act like a man on the run from somebody.”

“Let’s just say I’ve lived this long partly because I make most of my mistakes on the right side of caution. I had the pleasure of meeting Dante this afternoon.”

“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.”

“I can’t be held accountable for your silly hunches.”

“Hal, please. I know you’re much the superior being here, but do I really look that stupid?” I cleared my throat. “Obviously I do. It’s amazing, dense as I am, how I picked right up on that crack in your story.”

“What crack? You’re talking in riddles.”

“Are you still trying to tell me that what you were going to say was you have no interest in my little old lady or her
books?
Isn’t the whole reason you brought me up here
because
of Josephine and her books?”

We stared at each other.

“Oops,” I said.

He went on, blindly stonewalling. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Could it be you were about to say my little old lady and her
grandfather?
Or my little old lady and her
mother
, who was screwed out of what should have been her daughter’s by a shyster bookman and her drunken husband?”

“You should be the one writing fiction, Janeway. My interest is purely academic.
If
there’s Burton material that has never been seen, and
if
you have some kind of access, which based on this conversation so far looks goddamned doubtful, then yes, I would be interested in knowing about it.”

“Even though you’re not doing Burton.”

“Yes! Jesus Christ, do we have to go
all
the way through this stupid dance? Of course I’m interested. What historian wouldn’t be interested in seeing material like that?”

“Then maybe we can work out a deal.”

“I don’t even know what you’ve got to deal with. Why should I
deal
anything with you when all you’re probably doing is wasting my time?”

“Bluster all you want, Hal, but these questions won’t go away. What are you doing with the Treadwells? Don’t you know how suspicious this is, given the history of that bookstore and its double-dealing with Mrs. Gallant’s books? Don’t you realize how far beyond chance it is that you went looking for a rare-book dealer and just happened to stumble over Dean Treadwell, six hundred miles away, at exactly this moment in time?”

“What double-dealing? What coincidence?”

“Are you actually trying to tell me you don’t know about the Treadwells? You don’t know how Josephine was robbed of those books eighty years ago?“

He tried an artificial laugh but it came out shrill, like a hyena’s bark. “Eighty years ago! Jesus, you
are
out of your mind.”

“Do you really think you’re fooling anybody with this bluff? I didn’t kick your door down, you’re the one who brought me up here. If you want to talk, talk, but don’t try feeding me any more of that bullshit about Dean looking for rare books on your behalf. Do I look like I just leaped out of some bookstore in far left field? What rare books? What books do you need that only Dean Treadwell can find for you? Old Dean must be a killer bookman. I saw him in action this morning and I didn’t think he could find his own cock in a pissing contest, but hey, maybe I was wrong. Give me the titles of a few books he’s finding for you. I’m prepared to be knocked out by Dean’s brilliance, so go ahead, give me his best shot.”

“I don’t have to give you anything.”

“Tell me just two titles you’ve been looking for and only Dean can find them.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Just
one
title, Hal. One lousy title and I’ll believe anything you say.”

“This conversation is over.”

“Have we been having a conversation? I couldn’t tell.”

“Get the hell out of here! Get out now or I’ll call hotel security.”

“I’ve got to improve my manners, I’m getting thrown out of everywhere these days.” I tried for a look of contriteness. “Can I finish my drink first?”

The room went suddenly quiet, and only in its void did I realize how completely I had been thinking and acting like a cop again. It had started last week with Whiteside, with Denise, and it wasn’t just the nature of my questions or my interrogative manner, it was part of my heartbeat. A good cop suspects everybody of everything.

In that minute the case swirled through my mind and I saw them all: Josephine, Ralston, the Treadwells, and Denise, carried out of her bedroom on a coroner’s stretcher. The thought I’d just had was so farfetched it had come only as an impression, lacking even the words to give it substance, but almost at once it became specific. I thought of the kid who had seen a fleeting white man leaving Ral-ston’s house. Archer was a white man. So were the Treadwells. So was Dante. And Denise had had Josephine’s Burton: for one night only, but who would have known that?

What if these sons of bitches had been following Josephine? What if they knew she’d died at Ralston’s? What if they’d killed Denise?

Denver’s three hours away. They hop a plane, bingo!

I leaned forward on the bed and riddled Archer with my eyes. “Where were you this time last week?”

“That’s none of your business either, but I was in South Carolina, working.”

“Can anybody verify that?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“It’s a really, really simple one, Hal. It means, did anybody see you there?”

“I
know
what it means. Why are you asking? Why do I have to verify anything?”

“Obviously you don’t…yet. I’d still like an answer.”

“The answer is no. When I’m working I see no one and I don’t pick up the telephone. Does that satisfy you?”

“Sure. I admire that intensity, that’s why you’re so good. But I couldn’t help wondering if you were in Denver last Wednesday night.”

“Why would you wonder that?”

“I don’t know, just a wild hair. You’re sure you weren’t there?”

“Of course I’m sure. Do you think I wouldn’t know if I’d just been halfway across the goddamn country?”

“You’d know, all right.”

“Why would I hide that? Did somebody rob a bank last Wednesday?”

“Yeah, that’s what happened, Hal, I’m trying to pin a bank robbery on you.”

He walked to the window and looked out into the night. “I think I’d like you to leave now,” he said softly. “This meeting hasn’t exactly been productive.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

I got up and went to the door, betting he’d say something.

“What are you going to do now?” he said.

I looked back across the room. “Oh, I don’t know, screw up your life as much as possible, I guess. I’ve got a friend at
Publishers Weekly
who’ll be interested that you’re doing Burton. She’ll call you to verify. Of course you’ll lie, but I’ll tell her to expect that. It won’t be much of a story, just a little squib. ‘Is he or isn’t he?’ Enough to let the world know.”

“Damn it, Janeway, will you please listen? I am
not
doing Richard Burton.”

“Then whatever I say won’t matter, will it?” I reached into my distant past and pulled out a name, a freckle-faced kid with pigtails I had loved madly in the third grade. “My friend’s name is Janie Morrison. If you read
Publishers Weekly
, you’ve probably seen her byline. She’ll love you, Hal, you’re such an awful liar. Janie cut her teeth on the
New York Post
, so she knows a bad liar when she hears one.”

I pulled the chain out of its slot and looked through the peephole at the empty hall. I could feel his eyes on my back, and when I turned for a final look, he had moved away from the window and was regarding me with a pitiful, whipped-dog look. “I’m really sorry, Hal,” I said. “I’m sorry you’re such a flaming fucking dick-head, because I really did love your books. You’ve got the rarest of all rare gifts, and you’ve got it by the bucket. If you’d just get your head out of your ass, maybe you’d even be happy.”

“What would you know about happy? Are you happy?”

“Hey, I’m doing what I like, why wouldn’t I be happy? So what if it’s not perfect, I don’t believe in perfection. Maybe happy’s as good as it gets.”

He said nothing.

“C’mon, honey, talk to me. It’s not too late, we can still be friends.”

He looked up and met my eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“I never do. But if you change your mind, I’m at the Bozeman Inn.”