by John Dunning
“You’re a gambler?”
“It’s not exactly gambling,” I said.
“Aw, c’mon. You tellin’ me you play the horses for a living and it’s not gambling?”
“Not in the long run. Not if you’re careful and know your business.”
“What the hell, then… are the races fixed?”
“Not at all. I’ve just worked out a formula.”
“Damn, I could use some of that formula.”
“I’m not saying I never lose,” I said easily. “When I do lose, I take it big in the shorts. But I win a lot more than I lose, just by knowing when certain horses are miles better than the competition. I play small fields, no more than half a dozen in a race, so a good horse doesn’t get screwed in traffic jams. I bet big, and I put it all on the nose.”
“You must get no odds at all.”
“You never do with a sure thing, but it’s better than you’d imagine. I average four-to-five. Eighty cents on the dollar. That’s fine if you’ve put down ten grand to win eight, and you win nine out of ten.”
“Jesus Christ,” Wally said. “Man, I wouldn’t have the balls to do that.”
“You’ve got to know how to pick the right horse, that’s for sure. Can’t just play every four-to-five shot that steps on the racetrack.”
“Deep pockets probably don’t hurt either.”
“Don’t kid yourself; my pockets aren’t that deep. I’ve got a little money in the bank, but there’ve been times when I came this close to looking for a job. Once I was down to my last grubstake. Then I won fifteen in a row and was back on top again.”
“Jesus. How long’ve you been doing this?”
“Ten years.”
“Jesus! You never know who the hell you’re gonna meet.”
I almost wanted to laugh. This all sounded real because it was real. Once I had known a guy who had lived just that way. He had a powerhouse system and he had put two kids through school with it. He had won fifteen in a row many times and once had a fabulous win streak of twenty-three. But then came the day he hit the inevitable skids, lost six big ones, and died in the stretch. The last I heard he was working in a gas station, but I knew enough about his good years to make the story fascinating to a pair of wannabe fast-buck artists.
We talked our way up the pass and across it: they asked naive questions and I gave them sophisticated answers that sounded legit even to me. It kept them away from each other’s throat long enough to get us into relatively flat country, then across that on the swing into Monte Vista.
“Looks like we survived,” I said.
“Yeah,” Willie said. “We can drop our goods and get home from here. Pal, you sure came along at the right time. Don’t know what the hell we’da done without you.”
“Happy to oblige,” I said.
“We need to get together sometime. We could maybe go racing and you could show us that magic system you’ve got.”
Ahead the lights of Monte Vista stretched across the horizon. It was a small town, no more than four or five thousand people: strange place for a book drop, I thought.
“Turn left up there,” Wally said. “That gray building in the middle of the block.”
I pulled up in front. “Lemme give you boys a hand with that stuff.”
“Oh, we’re fine now.”
“I could use a stretch about now, if you don’t mind.”
“Hell, then come on in. The least we can do is give you a cup of coffee.”
There were no signs anywhere on the building: just a plain warehouse of some kind. In the front was a small room that looked like an office. A light was shining in the window and another somewhere back in the building itself. Willie climbed a ramp and rang a bell. An outer light came on and a door went up. I saw a man standing there in silhouette. There was my third alternate suspect.
He loomed over the Keeler boys like a giant. Behind him I could see a long row of bookshelves, and beyond that another. Books on the shelves, books on the floor: I had been in a hundred places like that, but those had been bookstores, open for business.
The three of them looked at me down the ramp. “Come on in,” one of them said.
15
I climbed up the ramp and met a thin, towering creature. “This is Mr. Kevin Simms,” Willie said, and Simms shook my hand warily, limply. He was at least six-ten, a beanpole with a severe look on his face. “What’s going on?” he said, and immediately the bickering began again. Willie said, “A. J. fuckin’ Foyt here lost the goddamn truck is all,” and for most of the next minute Simms had to stand between them to prevent what each tried to sell as true mayhem for the other. They screamed insults and I stood back and watched it all and tried not to laugh. In fact it was no laughing matter. Even before I stepped into that room I had a hunch, it wasn’t a good one, and I was already planning my exit strategy in case something went suddenly, desperately wrong. Simms seemed to be the authority here, and above all the screaming I had sensed his distrust. This was more than a look I picked up over the bickering brothers, I was getting powerful vibes even with nothing to back it up. But I had learned long ago to always, always trust my own juice. I was still alive because I had listened to that inner voice at least three times when it counted.
Simms would be the dangerous one. I could feel his suspicion rippling across the gap between us: I could see it in his eyes. If something happened, I would take him down first and fast. I would get him with a sucker punch if I had to: a hard shot under the sternum should take out what wind he had. I didn’t figure the brothers as patsies, but I liked my odds against the two of them without the severe-looking giant in the mix. At last Simms shouted, “All right, knock it off!” and the Keelers immediately pushed away from each other and stood apart, seething. “What’s the matter with you two?” Simms yelled. “Are you both crazy?”
“It was an accident,” Wally sulked. “That’s all it was, a goddamn accident, and now he’s trying to make out like it was some kinda diabolical thing I did on purpose.”
“We can do without the language,” Simms said. “I hope I don’t need to tell you boys again, I don’t like having the Lord’s name taken in vain.”
“Sorry,” Wally said.
“You too, Willie.”
“Me? What did I say?”
“Just…” Simms closed his eyes. “Just… watch your mouth.”
He opened his eyes wide and they stared straight at me: the coldest, bluest eyes I had ever seen. “So, sir, I take it you came along and pulled these two out of trouble.”
“I was coming over the pass and I was able to give them a ride,” I said. “I was in the right place at the right time.”
“You can say that again,” Willie said. “Tell you what, Preacher, if it wasn’t for Clint here, we’d still be back in that snowbank.”
The blue eyes fastened on me. “Your name is Clint?”
“Cliff.”
“Then it’s good indeed that you came along… Cliff.”
He didn’t seem much interested in last names and that was fine with me. Willie said, “I told him to come in and have some coffee,” and the Preacher said, “That’s good. You’ll have to make some.”
“Y’know what?” I said. “Maybe I should move on down the highway. I’m meeting somebody in Alamosa.”
“He’s got a hot date,” Wally said.
I saw Simms react again with distaste.
“When’re you meeting this dish?” Wally said.
“She gets off at eleven.”
“Alamosa’s just up the road,” the Preacher said. “Let us extend you some courtesy: warm yourself, and then you can be on your way.”
He rolled down the ramp door and locked it. Not a good sign.
I smiled, Mr. All-Easy America. “You ever play basketball?”
“I never had time for games.”
“I guess maybe it’s just the name, Kevin. You remind me of Kevin McHale.”
“I don’t know who Kevin McHale is.”
“Great basketball p
layer for the Celtics.”
“Preacher probably never heard of the Celtics either,” Wally said.
Simms gave him a cold look but Wally said, “Preacher’d blanch if I told him what you do for a living.”
Simms looked at me. “And what might that be?”
“He’s a gambler,” Wally said, enjoying the moment. “An honest-to-gosh hossplayer, Preach.”
“Hey, you,” Willie said from some distance. “How about remembering that this guy saved your butt back there.”
“Well, I am most extremely sorry, sir,” Wally said, grinning at me. “I certainly had no intention to offend.”
“That’ll be the damned day,” Willie muttered.
“How’s the coffee doing?” Simms asked.
“It’s getting there,” Willie said.
I looked at Simms and said, “You guys mind if I look around?”
“You interested in books?” Simms said.
“Sure, isn’t everybody?” I said, knowing full well how few people really are, how pitifully few ever read anything more than the morning newspaper.
“I do read a lot,” I said. “And I’ve got a small collection of first editions.”
“What kind of first editions?”
“Mostly modern stuff. Literature… you know, fiction. It’s nothing special, just books I liked reading and wanted my own copies. Nice stuff in nice jackets, all since around 1945. With a few exceptions.”
“Then do by all means, look.”
I moved away from them and wandered along the first row. It was all modern, a mix of fiction and fact but all firsts, very nice, and no remainder marks. “Any of this stuff for sale?” I called.
“Everything’s for sale,” Simms said.
“No prices on any of it, so I just wondered.”
“Make yourself a stack, I’ll be reasonable.”
I found my first signed one: The Philosophy of Andy Warhol, with his drawing of the Campbell’s tomato soup can. I knew some dealers were asking big money for that book, but even signed it was far from uncommon. I had sold it several times for around three bills.
“Just so’s we know we’re on the same page, what do you want for the Warhol?”
“That’s signed, you know, with a drawing. But I’d take two hundred for it.”
“Okay.” I began to stack up some stuff. “I could be in here all night.”
“Take your time,” Simms said. “I happen to have all night.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve got to be in Alamosa.”
“Yes,” he said, the distaste still evident on his face. “I almost forgot.”
“Coffee’s ready,” Willie said.
“Never mind the coffee, we’re doing business now.” Simms tried smiling to blunt the harsh tone of his voice, but his smile, like the rest of him, was ice-cold. To me he said, “I’d have him bring it back to you, except—”
“—books and coffee don’t mix.”
“Exactly.”
I browsed for another twenty minutes and had what I estimated would be eight hundred retail. “I really do have to go.”
“Well, have your coffee while the Preacher tallies you up,” Willie said.
I took a cup and shot the breeze with Willie. Simms shuffled through the stack and said, “How about five hundred?”
“That’ll work.” I fished five bills out of my wallet.
The money disappeared into a thin hand. Wally laughed and said, “The hoss racket must be pretty good, hey, Preach?”
I sipped at my coffee. “You a real preacher?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” he said, and in that moment a kind of fever lit up his eyes and I could see the face of zealots everywhere. In that moment a collage of righteous oppressors swirled through my head and I saw our Preacher in medieval days, sentencing harlots to be stoned. I saw his face behind the judge’s bench in the modern Middle East, condemning a woman for showing her face in public. I watched him deny help to a sick child, ordering parents to pray and leaving them with their guilt when help failed to arrive. Somehow the failing was theirs, their son was dead because they weren’t good enough, they hadn’t prayed hard enough, and the Lord wouldn’t hear them. Modern medicine would have saved the child but damned his soul. The Preacher moves on and finds another sick kid and keeps on preaching. Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses, he is everywhere. I saw him on the stage, sending the farmer to death in The Crucible for refusing to confess, and he was that preacher’s real-life role model, Senator Joe McCarthy, damning by innuendo, wrecking lives and getting away with it by preaching to the fear of a gutless majority. I hated zealots, and in the moment he knew that, he saw me as clearly as I had seen him. We spoke cordially but he knew me well. I was the enemy.
He said, “So how are you with the Lord, stranger?”
“Well, Preacher, I do the best I can. You know how it is.”
“I know very well how it is. And it may be that you think you do the best you can, that’s what a lot of people think. But deep inside you must know that gambling and women are not the way.”
“Then I’ll have to try and do better.” I looked around and said, “Maybe I’ll give it all up and become a bookseller.”
“That would depend on whether you have a greater goal and what that is. Books can be a simple means to an end. Whatever I make here, for example, goes directly into the service of the Lord.”
I wanted to get away from his Lord and my own inevitable damnation. “I bet you’d sell a lot of stuff here if you’d hang out a sign and open it up.”
“Undoubtedly. But then I’d have… people… pawing over it. It doesn’t take long for people to mess things up. People have no idea what’s coming.”
I looked around: there were still dark corners crammed with books, places that I hadn’t even seen yet. “You’ve been collecting this stuff quite a while I’ll bet,” I said. “You must have twenty thousand books in here.”
“Oh, at least that.”
“I get down this way occasionally. I really would like to spend some time here.”
“I’m sure that could be arranged, if I’m here. You’d have to take a chance. Just pull up and ring the bell. Now that we’ve done business together, I’ll let you in.”
“Maybe I could call ahead.”
“I don’t have a telephone,” he said.
That seemed to settle it, but at that exact moment a phone rang somewhere. I looked at him and he looked at me. I tried not to react, but there are times when no reaction says more than an outcry. I was dying to say, Thou shall not lie, Preacher, but instead I picked up my books and sidled toward the door. He moved across the room, surprisingly quick for a big man. I shouldn’t have been so surprised: Kevin McHale was pretty quick, too.
He was standing in my way at the ramp door, and in that half moment I wasn’t at all certain how it would go. I was right on the verge of throwing that punch but I waited. I looked down at the lock and said, “Well, Preacher, it’s been real.”
He had about two seconds to get out of my way. He may have sensed that, because he moved aside and flipped open the lock, bent down, and pulled up the door.
“Have a good time in Alamosa,” he said, but his tone said the opposite. His tone said, Get syphilis, go blind, and die in agony, whoremonger.
“Night, boys,” I said to the Keelers.
I hurried down the ramp, got in the car, and backed out into the street.
16
I drove around the block and parked; got out, drew my heavy coat tight, and pulled the hood over my head. I walked back to the corner and stood in the shadows watching the book warehouse. I’d give a thousand dollars to be in there now, I thought: an invisible man or a mouse in the corner. I’d give a hundred if the Preacher had provoked me just a little more. I wished to hell I could’ve thrown that punch. But that was crazy.
Time passed. Was this going to be another marathon stakeout? I didn’t think Zen would help me much this time: I needed to be awake and alert now till something happened. I had slept o
nly a few hours last night, and I knew that soon I’d begin paying a stiff price for that. At the moment I seemed to be okay: I was still in the grip of a heavy blood rush, drawn on by the excitement that always comes with sudden discovery, and I was in no immediate danger of falling asleep on my feet. I might be good through the night, if I had to be.
But within minutes I felt the most crushing fatigue. When that comes on, it comes so damned quickly… one minute you’re fine, the next you feel your blood beginning to thicken and you’re dead on your feet. I toyed with the idea of getting closer. I needed any kind of movement: if I could wiggle under that ramp, better yet crawl under the floor of that room, I might be able to hear something. At least that would keep me going.
I struggled against it for ten minutes and felt myself losing the battle. That relentless light from the office window was having a mesmerizing effect.
Gotta move. Can’t stay here. Gotta move now.
I crossed the street and walked boldly up to the ramp. Nothing was going on anywhere. No sound from inside, not even a muffled voice beyond that rolling tin door. I knew I couldn’t stand there long…one or all of them might come out anytime now, but the crawl space under the warehouse looked so cold and dark that I hated the thought of going there.
I heard a bump and that opened my eyes wide.
A footstep: not inside, but somewhere much more immediate. The sound of a boot on gravel and a smoke being lit.
Now a voice. “That goddamn Preacher better stop talkin’ to me like that.”
Wally. Apparently they had come out through a door on the other side of the building and were standing just a few feet away. Willie said, “Yeah? What’re you gonna do about it?”
“Maybe I’m gonna quit this shit.”
“Do I look like I’m stoppin’ you? You wanna quit, quit. Soon as we get the truck out and see what the insurance will fix for us, you can go wherever the hell you want.”
“You can have the fuckin’ truck.”
“Big deal. Don’t do me no favors, okay?”
“Man, this’s bullshit.”
“Then quit. You see anybody out here stoppin’ you?”
