Bookman's promise cj-3 Page 7

  “But this time you got stuck with Archer.”

  “No, I asked for him.”

  “Couldn’t be his personality. Must be because he’s an old friend of the judge.”

  “I don’t remember saying that. You sure jump to a lot of conclusions.”

  “I’m trying to get you properly placed in the cosmos and you’re giving me no help at all. Are you saying you knew Archer was a pompous ass and still you asked for him?”

  “Life is strange, isn’t it?”

  She found a layer of dust, flicked it away, and said, “You need a woman’s touch in here.”

  Before I could answer that, she said, “If it wasn’t Archer I wanted to meet that night, who could it be? God knows it couldn’t be you.”

  I did a beating heart gesture that made her smile.

  She said, “I had already met Mr. Archer on a couple of occasions. I lived with Lee and Miranda for several years when I was growing up, so I already had a pretty good line on Archer. Didn’t Miranda tell you that?”

  I made a gesture: I don’t remember.

  “Oh, you’re impossible,” she said.

  “Depends on what you’ve got in mind.” I cleared my throat. “So what happens if you think you’ll like an author, then he gets here and you can’t stand him?”

  “I try to show some class. Sometimes it’s tough but I try to remember who I’m working for, just as you considered Lee and Miranda that night when you were so tempted to call Archer whatever you were tempted to call him. I never put the agency in an embarrassing position.”

  “So you get your choice of jobs, and still you drive Archer.”

  “Be nice to me and maybe someday I’ll tell you why.”

  “Then let’s move on, as you lawyers like to say. You look at my books while I walk up the street and get us a really cheap bottle of wine to go with this grand feast we’re about to have.”

  I bought a fine bottle of wine, but the liquor store, which always stocked corkscrews, failed me tonight and I had to settle for a cheap bottle with a screw top. I kept the good stuff to prove my intentions but I knew I was in for some joshing. So far I was batting a thousand.

  We ate in the front room with only a distant light, a pair of shadows to anyone passing on the street. The screwball mood had deserted us for the moment, and what we now had was a spell of cautious probing. Was she really writing a novel? Yes, and she was serious about it, she had fifty thousand words as of yesterday. She was a light sleeper and there had been lots of time to work on it in the middle of the bleak Rock Springs nights. The law filled her days and she escorted for a woman named Lisa Beaumont, who usually had others she could call in a rush.

  She had always loved books—new, old, it really didn’t matter. Even as a teenager she’d had dreams of doing what I did. “I knew a fellow long ago who showed me the charm of older books. He wanted to be a rare-book seller, just like you.” But what about me? What was it really like in the book trade? It could certainly be boring, but you never knew what might walk in the door the next minute and turn the day into something extraordinary. She cocked her head in bright interest—Like what, for instance?—and the next thing I knew I was telling her about Mrs. Gallant, the whole bloody story beginning with my trip to Boston. “Wow,” she said at the end of it. “So what are you going to do for her?”

  “Whatever I can, which won’t be much. Eighty years is a long time.”

  “A long time,” she echoed. “But wouldn’t it be great if you could find those books?”

  “Oh yeah. It’d be great to win the Nobel Peace Prize while I’m at it.”

  “Don’t make light of it. You could actually do this, if the books are still together. Then you could retire in utter glory. What else would you need to do in your career after that?”

  “Oh, just the little stuff, like make a living.” “That’s the trouble with the world today: there’s too much emphasis on money.”

  “Spoken like one who has money to burn.”

  “Don’t harass me, Janeway, I’m composing your mission statement.”

  We slipped back into cautious probing. Yes, she said with pointed annoyance, she did have a little money saved up. They paid her well at Waterford, Brownwell, Taylor and Waterford, where her office faced the mountains on the twenty-third floor and she was said to be on the fast track to make partner. They liked her, they were doing everything they could to keep her happy, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore. “I wonder how I’d like what you do.”

  Who could say? Some of the smartest people never do get it— they have no idea about the intrigue that can hide in the lineage of a book, or the drama that can erupt between two people when a truly rare one comes between them. I quoted Rosenbach—The thrill of knocking a man down in the ring is nothing compared with the thrill of knocking him down over a book—and she smiled. But there are many quieter thrills in the book world. The bottomless nature of it. The certainty of surprise, even for a specialist. The sudden enlightenment, the pockets of history that can open without warning and turn a bookman toward new fields of passionate interest. Wasn’t that what had just happened with me and Richard Burton? “I think I’d love it,” she said. “You want a partner?” “Sure. I figure a fifty percent interest should be worth at least, oh, thirty or forty bucks. But you won’t have an office on the twenty-third floor.”

  She asked for the grand tour as if we were serious, and I walked her through the store. I pointed out its attributes and shortcomings, and it took us twenty minutes to see every nook and cranny. We ended up back in the dark corner of the front room, where my best books were.

  She looked up at me. “I guess before we seal this partnership we need to know more about each other. I’ll start. How much has Miranda already told you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Lying’s not a good way to begin, Janeway. And you don’t do it very well.”

  “Actually, I’m a pretty good liar when I need to be.”

  “You’re good at stalling too.”

  “You must be a killer on cross.”

  “I sure am, so stay on the point: what Miranda told you and why.”

  “She told me nothing. Nothing, as in no real thing, nada, caput.”

  “Why do I get the feeling she told you about my dad?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you’re a suspicious creature whose instincts are to trust nobody. All she said was that Lee and your father were partners and you lived with them after he died.”

  She leaned into the light. “My father was an embezzler.” Then she was back in the shadows, her voice coming out of the void. “My dad was a crook.”

  “Those are mighty unforgiving words, Erin.”

  “There can be no forgiveness for what he did. He stole from his client.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “When I was little my dad was my hero. He was funny and smart: he could do no wrong. I never wanted to be anything but a lawyer, just like him.”

  I told her I was sorry. Sometimes people fall short of what we want them to be.

  “I was thirteen when it came out. The worst possible age. In school I heard talk every day. The humiliation was brutal. I wanted to run away and change my name but Lee talked me out of that.”

  “Lee’s a smart man.”

  “Lee is a great man. He knew what I needed was not to deny my name but to restore it. I don’t know what I’d have done if not for him. Did you know they put me through law school?”

  I shook my head. “Miranda did say they couldn’t be prouder of what you’ve done.”

  “Well, now I’ve done it. I made all the honor rolls, got a great job, paid them back. My father’s not just dead, he’s really buried, and I don’t need to do it anymore.”

  Abruptly she changed the subject. “Your turn. Bet you’re glad you’re not still a cop.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a cop. There are some fine people who are cops.”

  “I know that.”

  After an awkward pause, sh
e said, “Look, I know what happened to you back then. I read all the stories and if any of it mattered to me, I wouldn’t be here now. I like you. You make me laugh. And just for the record, I like the police too. Most of the time.”

  “Then we’re cool.”

  She flashed me that lovely smile. “We’re cool, man.”

  I wondered how cool we were, but at that moment the phone rang.

  It was Ralston, taking a chance I’d still be here. “Can you come up to my house? Mrs. Gallant wants to see you.”

  “Sure. How about first thing in the morning?”

  I had a dark hunch what he would say, just before he said it.

  “You’d better come now. I think she’s dying.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The address he gave me was in Globeville, a racially mixed North Denver neighborhood, mostly Chicanos and blacks who had escaped the stigma of being poor, if they actually did, by the skin of their teeth. Globeville had none of the fashionably integrated charm of Park Hill, but at least it had avoided the ethnic rage that simmered in Five Points a few years back. The area had its own distinct character: bordered by Interstates 25 and 70, formed by people struggling to get along, defined by a school of architecture best described as modern crackerbox provincial, it was a few dozen square blocks of plain square houses and cyclone fences, crammed tight for maximum efficiency.

  Erin knew Globeville well. “I had a client who lived in that house,” she said, gesturing as we turned off North Washington Street. “Classic case of a woman who desperately needed a man gone from her life. But nobody was gonna tell him what to do with his woman.”

  “Until you came along,” I said with genuine admiration.

  “Me and the Denver Sheriff’s Department. She already had a restraining order, they just didn’t want to bother enforcing it. Because she was black, because she was poor, because, because, because. I just became her instrument to get them off the dime.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a case for Waterford, Brownwell.”

  “It was pro bono. They were less than thrilled when I took it, but I do that once in a while. It keeps my head on straight, reminds me why I got into law in the first place, and lets them know they can’t send me to places like Rock Springs without consequences.”

  She had offered to ride along because she found Mrs. Gallant’s story fascinating, and second, she said, “to see where your idea of a real date finally takes us.” Ralston’s house was on North Pennsylvania, half a block from East Forty-seventh Avenue. By the time we arrived, not a trace of light remained in the western sky. I pulled up behind his car and saw his bearlike silhouette in the doorway. He pushed open a screened door as we came up onto the porch.

  I introduced Erin as a friend and her hand disappeared into his. We walked through a small living room with the sparest imaginable furnishings—no television, I noticed—and on into the kitchen. There was a rickety-looking table, four plain chairs, a cupboard, and straight ahead the door to the backyard. Off to the right, a short passageway led to the bathroom and beyond that was apparently the only other room in the house, their bedroom.

  “Is she in there?”

  He nodded. “Denise is in with her. Sit down, she knows you’re here.”

  We sat at the table and Ralston offered coffee. He caught me looking around at his raggedy surroundings. “I told you it wasn’t the Brown.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I was just wondering where you two planned to sleep tonight.”

  “We’ll get by. Won’t be the first time we bagged it on the floor.”

  I nodded toward the door. “What happened?”

  “She just all of a sudden gave out. Her old heart decided it had enough.”

  “Did you call a doctor?”

  He shook his head. “She didn’t want us to.”

  A long moment passed.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “It seems indecent to let her die when help is just a phone call away. But you’ve got to ask yourself what the hell you’re saving her for—to be sent back to that place, just so she can die next month instead of now? She hated it there, you know.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was thinking. In fact, I agree with everything you’re saying. But I used to be a cop and in situations like this, I still think like one.”

  “Are you saying we could be prosecuted? Man, that would figure, wouldn’t it?”

  “I never had a negligent homicide.” I looked at Erin. “Isn’t that what this would be?”

  She nodded. “Criminally negligent homicide would probably be the statute.”

  “Jesus.” Ralston looked at Erin and said, “You a lawyer?”

  She nodded and I said, “She’s a real lawyer, Mike. Be glad she’s here.”

  “It’s a fairly straightforward law,” she said. “If you cause a death by your failure to act, it could conceivably be prosecuted as a class-five felony. That’s very unlikely to happen, but you should be aware of the possibilities.” She shrugged. “An aggressive DA…”

  “Jesus,” he said again. “The woman just wants to die a natural death, for God’s sake, without having tubes running out of her nose for three months. What’s the law got to do with that?”

  “You’re like me,” I told him: “all fire, no ice. You leap before you look. You do a pretty good job of keeping the fire contained, but it’s always there simmering, isn’t it?”

  He walked to the window and looked out into the backyard.

  “Sit down and talk to me,” I said. “You make me nervous, pacing around.”

  He sat and I made the universal gesture for Go ahead, speak. But when he did, it was not about the old woman’s life, it was about her quest. “Have you asked yourself what she really wants? I mean, what can she hope to gain from this search she’s taken on? Even if she found it all tonight and could legally sell it, what good would it do her?”

  “It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. Maybe she’s got someone to leave it to.”

  “But in the end it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s pretty hopeless, what she’s asking you to do.” I sighed. “Yeah, it is.”

  I brought him up to speed on my talk with Dean Treadwell, but we both knew that the odds of anything coming from that bookstore were less than the snowball in hell. It was still raw speculation, we were spinning our wheels, but at the moment there was nothing else to do. There was no hint yet that Mrs. Ralston was ready to let me into the bedroom.

  “This is great coffee,” Erin said. “What do you do to it?”

  Ralston smiled. “That’s my secret, miss. I’m a gourmet cook by trade.”

  “I’m learning all kinds of stuff about you tonight, Mike,” I said. “So what’s the story of you two? You and the missus.”

  Again he gave me that humorless laugh. “How much time you got?”

  The question seemed to beg itself out of easy answers, but then he had one. “The easy answer is, I screwed up everything I ever touched. I drank, gambled, lost everything. Hell, look around you. We are starting from scratch. I’ve got nothing but that woman sittin‘ in there at the old lady’s bedside, but that’s enough. And that’s the story of us. Since you asked.”

  I heard a stir and Denise appeared in the doorway. She was at least in her late forties, a good ten years older than Ralston: tall, gangly, black as night, homely as hell yet lovely in an exotic way that had nothing to do with what the world thinks of as beauty. She had a satchel mouth to rival Louis Armstrong’s, and when she smiled, she lit up a room.

  “Mr. Janeway. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  I got to my feet. “Mrs. Ralston.”

  I introduced Erin and they had a warm exchange. She insisted at once on being called Denise. Her hand was warm in mine and I liked her eyes. I liked her face, which reflected a heart that I knew I’d also like. She said, “I think we’d better go right on in,” and her voice managed to ask and tell at the same time, steady as it goes, boys, with just a hint of a French accent. “I don’t think
we have much time,” she said.

  Erin backed away from the door. “I’ll just sit out here at the table.”

  The bedroom was cool, bathed in a soothing orange light from a lamp at the side of the bed. Mrs. Gallant lay with her eyes half-closed, but again that second sense, her instinct, something told her I was there. Her eyelids fluttered. I felt Denise at my side and for a crazy moment I had a sense that I had merged with these remarkable women, all of us standing in some single spirit outside ourselves. Denise touched my arm, moving me to the bedside. Mrs. Gallant said, “Mr. Janeway,” and I sat in the chair beside her.

  “Hey, Mrs. G. You’re not feeling so hot, huh?”

  “Not so hot. I’ve really messed things up here, haven’t I?”

  “You have made life very interesting for all of us. We’re very glad you came to us.”

  “I can’t imagine. But somehow I believe you.” She turned her head. “Is Denise here?”

  “She’s right behind me.”

  “I can’t see that far. Mr. Ralston?”

  Ralston loomed out of the shadows. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I want you to promise me something. It’s none of my business but that’s one of the prerogatives of very great age—you get to meddle in other people’s affairs.”

  “You meddle all you want, ma’am.”

  “Just…take good care of this wonderful girl. She is very special.”

  “I do know that, ma’am.”

  “Denise?”

  She came up and took the old woman’s hand.

  “Did you tell Mr. Janeway about the picture?”

  “Not yet.”

  “There used to be a photograph tucked into my book. A picture that proves what I’m saying. It shows Charlie and Richard together, in Charleston.”

  “What happened to it?”

  She looked distressed. “I don’t know. It vanished long ago, like everything else. But I remember it. Koko knows.”

  “Koko?”

  “Yes. Koko can tell you.”

  She turned her face up to Denise. “You’re such a grand girl. I wish you were my daughter.”

  Denise grinned. “Maybe I am.”

  Mrs. Gallant made a sad little laughing sound. “Wouldn’t that have shocked the stuffing out of my proper old Baltimore family?”