by John Dunning
“You son of a bitch,” Joel said. “You get away from me.”
“Gimme that book,” Popeye said.
Joel moved toward the stairs. Popeye moved to cut him off. Joel picked up a poker from the fireplace.
“I’ll kill ya, Popeye, so help me Jesus I’ll split your damn head open.”
He was breathing hard and trembling. He couldn’t imagine himself frightening a man like Popeye, being at least twenty-five years off his prime, but there must have been something in his eyes. Popeye moved back. Joel slipped past him and dropped the poker on the stairs as he went up. At the door he stopped to catch his breath. The man at the cash box eyed him suspiciously.
“You okay, fella?”
“Yeah, sure. How much’re your books, pardner?”
“Fifty cents apiece.”
He fished out two quarters, tucked the book under his arm and went out into the street. He didn’t know where Lacy was, didn’t care just now. Nothing mattered but to get the book home safe.
He heard Lacy’s voice, too late. He turned and Popeye was coming down on him, looming like some medieval giant. Popeye suckerpunched him, caught him a straight right to the ribs as he was turning. He doubled up, his breath gone, and fell to the sidewalk. The book spun away in the grass. Popeye stepped over him and went after it, but Joel reached up and grabbed his leg. “Get the book Lacy, get it and run!” he shouted.
Popeye kicked at him and tore his leg free. But by then Lacy had scooped up the book and was running hell-for-leather down the street.
Popeye chased him for half a block, then gave up. He stood on the street shouting senselessly after Lacy’s dwindling form. “Lacy, you bastard! I’ll get you for this, Lacy! You feeble-brained moron, I’ll kick your brains in!”
He waited in agony for Lacy to return. He hunched over the back of a chair and gazed down into Broadway traffic, imagining the worst. At last Lacy appeared, darting furtively between people pouring out of the Woolworth store across the street. Lacy had his coat buttoned tightly around him, concealing, one could only hope, the book; his head moved quickly from side to side. He came in fits and starts, a fugitive looking more than ever like a fugitive by trying so hard not to, taking cover in a doorway for minutes on end, then hurrying on to the next one.
Of course Popeye had no way of knowing where they lived. Besides, that kind of anger would quickly wash away. Popeye would have gone back into the house, and perhaps found more good books there, and in an hour it would be all over. They would see Popeye again next week, and nothing would be said about it.
Lacy looked up and saw Joel sitting in the window. Joel motioned him over and Lacy dashed out in traffic and was almost felled by a car.
Joel had visions of a book mangled beyond repair, but it was still picture perfect. The cover was just as he’d remembered it, just as he’d first seen it all those years ago: the lovely pale background, the cracked teacup, the drop of dark fluid spilling like a tear toward the author’s name. Walter Behr. Damn. He opened it ever so slightly and heard the binding crack. Inside was a pink reviewer’s slip. A mint review copy, worth maybe another hundred over what a standard first might bring. Six hundred dollars over the counter; Ramsey would give him one-fifty sure, maybe two-fifty if Joel told him how much that money meant, maybe three if he had a buyer primed and ready. Two hundred would set him right again: pay up the rent, buy some groceries, buy him some time. But there was a bigger question gnawing at him.
Did he want to sell it?
Could he sell it?
“I done good, didn’t I, Joel?”
“Yeah, Lacy. You done just fine.”
He decided to go to Ramsey’s. Lacy was afraid to venture out into the streets, so Joel left him there. He wrapped the book in a brown bag and put it under the seat of his car. He brooded as he drove, as a man will when he reaches a fork and may take only one road. The book was so special, and if he let it go now he’d never live long enough to find another copy. The publisher, Henry Holt, had brought out maybe three thousand copies. Press runs were smaller then; costs were so much lower, and it was a lot easier for a book to earn itself clear. Say thirty-five hundred copies, but it had not come even close to selling that many. Too literary, the public said. Not literary enough, the critics said. Pretentiously literary, but without a proper foundation, the academics said. And they were all wrong. It was a helluva book, a novel about a man who comes to a new level of self-awareness in two hundred pages. But it didn’t sell. Maybe eight hundred copies sold and the rest were pulped. And after that Walter Behr had gone off in another direction. His second novel was a success; his third made lots of money and got all the attention in the world. But it was that rare first book that was still, after all these years, considered the author’s best.
Life was funny, wasn’t it?
And the book world was small, incredibly confined and self-contained. Ramsey knew about his fight with Popeye before he arrived. The moment he opened the door, Ramsey said, “Where’s the book?”
Joel laughed. “God, news travels fast.”
“Popeye was in a while ago. Says he’s laying for you guys. Claims you pulled the book right outa his hands.”
“You’ll believe anything if you’ll believe that.”
Ramsey smiled. “Yeah, I figured it might be the other way around.”
Joel pulled up a stool and they sat talking. The store was empty; Saturday afternoons were unpredictable, and today was one of the bad days. “People are bracing for the cold,” Ramsey said. “They’re out buying firewood, not books. So what’s happening? You gonna sell me that Behr book or not?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Ramsey; I just don’t know. I found some other stuff this morning.”
“What stuff?”
“Aw,” Joel said, “nothing much, really.”
“No,” Ramsey said. “When you find a Walter Behr, the other stuff don’t matter much, does it?”
“You want to see it?”
“Sure I want to see it. You got it on you?”
“It’s in the car.”
He got the book, took it carefully out of the bag and laid it on the counter under Ramsey’s eyes. “Ummmm-uh” Ramsey said. “Review copy, too. Damn, that’s nice, Joel. Bet it’s been sitting on that shelf untouched for thirty years from the look of it. Look here, some of the pages still haven’t been cut open yet. Tighter’n a drum and twice as pretty. Let’s get that cover in plastic before something happens to it.” He took a protective cover from under the counter and began to wrap the dust jacket as if it were a newborn babe.
Their eyes met. “Two-fifty,” Ramsey said.
Joel took a deep breath.
“All right, Joel,” Ramsey said, “You know I don’t lie. I got somebody who’s just slobbering to find one of these. She’s been hounding me for three years to get her one. I’ll split with you fifty-fifty. Call it three and a quarter.”
Joel looked at the floor.
“Now come on, Joel, you’re not going to get near that anywhere else.”
“Oh, I know that. I’m not trying to pump you up, Mr. Ramsey. It’s just … Well, the book’s got meaning to me.”
“Sentiment, Joel? How’s that gonna pay the rent?”
“Y’see, it’s like this.” He struggled to find the words and finally settled on these: “I knew the author.”
Ramsey’s eyes narrowed. “You knew Walter Behr?”
This was not something he wanted to discuss. It was an uncomfortable part of his life, and Ramsey had a way of getting inside things. If he hadn’t been a book dealer, Ramsey might have made a good detective. In a way, the two businesses were much alike.
“How well did you know him, Joel?”
“Well enough, I guess.”
“What happened to ’him?”
“What’d ’ya mean what happened.”
“Joel,” Ramsey said patiently, “if you knew Walter Behr, you’ve got to know that the mystique about this particular book is based on a couple of things. Li
ke (a), why did he change directions so radically after this, and (b), why did he write just three more books when he was obviously such a hot item? Not to mention (c), where did he disappear to and what became of him?”
They just stared at each other for a long moment.
“Joel?”
“Yeah, I heard you. Well, Mr. Ramsey, he changed directions to make money. He was damn sick of being poor.” Joel realized his voice was rising, and with it his temper. “He always felt he’d sold out with those next two books, and he once swore he’d never do that, see? Behr always believed whoring should be done in bed, not at the typewriter. That’s what kinda man he was, y’see. Then with that fourth book he tried to go back. Nobody liked it, not the critics, not the public, not a god damn reader in the whole United States of America liked that book.” He took a deep breath, then, softly, said. “Then he got sick of that too. He just got damn tired of the way the world was going. Got tired of writing. Starting thinking good writing was passe, you know what I mean?”
“Damn,” Ramsey shivered. “I just got the queerest feeling.”
“He was just tired of having to do it the way everybody else wanted it,” Joel said. “So he quit. Then he died.”
“Died,” Ramsey said. His eyes never left Joel’s face. “You’re telling me Walter Behr died. When was this, Joel?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Few years back.”
“Walter Behr died and nobody knew about it?”
“That’s how he wanted it.”
“Okay.” But Ramsey continued to scrutinize him. His eyes were relentless, digging through the topsoil of the soul. Without either of them saying anything more, something basic and elemental had changed between them; their relationship had shifted to another level.
“Well, then,” Ramsey said; “let’s talk about this.” He touched the book lovingly.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“It’s your decision, But I’d hate like hell to think of you carrying something like this around all weekend in a brown paper bag.”
“I guess it oughta be in a library,” Joel said. “Some private library of somebody who likes it.”
Ramsey didn’t say anything. He was through prompting.
“Go ahead; call the woman,” Joel said.
He was amazed at the depth of his pain. It was like parting with a dear old friend. He was aware of Ramsey’s voice droning into the telephone, like a kid vaguely hears his mother’s voice as she gives away the family dog. Ramsey laughed out loud as he hung up the phone. “God, she can’t wait. Tell you, Joel, this woman is a Walter Behr fanatic.” They sat, and after a few brief attempts at conversation, gave it up. Twenty minutes later the woman arrived. She came in breathlessly, like she had run all the way from Cherry Hills Village. By Joel’s standard, she was young: probably thirty-five with dark hair and an attractive face. Joel stood in the shadow of a bookcase and watched her buy the book. Ramsey called her “Miz Leslie.” Her face bristled with intelligence, and she almost cried when the book was placed in her hands.
“Well, Mr. Ramsey,” she said, “Looks like you did it.”
“It’s a mint copy,” Ramsey said. “Review copy, as you can see.”
“I know what it’s worth, Mr. Ramsey. I won’t quibble over the price.”
“Seven hundred?” Ramsey said tentatively.
She wrote out the check. “This is the greatest book I’ve ever read,” she said. “When I read it, I feel like he’s talking to me alone. You know that feeling, Mr. Ramsey?”
“Oh, yes ma’am.”
Then she wrote out another check. “Give this to the man who found it. Tell him it’s a Christmas present from a woman who appreciates his finding it more than she can ever say.”
“I’ll do that, Miz Leslie. And thanks.”
She walked out with her treasure, and again they were alone.
“Hundred bucks, Joel,” Ramsey said, looking at the second check.
“Amazing,” Joel said. “Sometimes I can’t believe the way rich people spend their money.”
“I’ll cash it for you f’you want.”
“Please.”
Ramsey disappeared into a back room. Joel looked at the check. Miss Carol Leslie. There was a phone number and an address. She had left the payee blank. He had this insane urge to take down her number and call her tonight: he had a sudden, almost uncontrollable need to talk to her. Instead, he signed her check. He filled in the blank with his real name, Walter Joel Behr, and savored his vision of her surprise when the check cleared the bank.
Somehow it wasn’t enough; not for what she’d just given him. He turned the check over and wrote on the back, To Miss Carol Leslie, kindred spirit, with love from the author. He endorsed the check under this, then turned it over and slipped it under the first check so Ramsey wouldn’t see it.
It didn’t mater; Ramsey was on to him anyway. But he didn’t want to face those eyes again.
Ramsey came from the back room with a fistful of cash. “Here’s your hundred, Joel. And another three-fifty for your half of the book. Damn good payday to us both.”
Joel folded the precious greenbacks and put them in his pocket. Then Ramsey did a curious thing, something Joel had never seen a book dealer do. He rang open his register and took out another two bills. “Here,” he said, “keep it.”
“We had a deal,” Joel said. “I’m satisfied with my end of it.”
“Take it,” Ramsey said. “You deserve it, I reckon. All I did was make a phone call. One-fifty’s profit enough for that. Go on, take it or I’ll throw it in the trash.”
One thing was certain: he was finished in Denver. He moved out of his place that afternoon. There was little to gather: a few extra pants, three shirts and some longjohns. A suitcase held them all. He put the money for three months back rent in an envelope and slipped it under Mr. Jacobs’ door as he went out.
Lacy came with him, taking only the clothes on his back. He supposed he was stuck with Lacy for as long as he’d tolerate it, and really, Lacy was okay; he didn’t mind. The snow began as they headed east on the interstate. His car hit a chuckhole and the radio went off; a bad sign, an omen of a cloudy future. But he wouldn’t believe that now, not with Miss Carol Leslie’s money hot in his pocket and the fire of her words in his ears. To her he was he greatest writer who’d ever lived. He was a giant who could move nations with his words. The only people he couldn’t move were those in New York publishing. You can’t tell that kinda story, Behr… ya gotta do it this way. The trends were there as early as 1950; things were, if what he heard was true, ever so much worse now. Bigger was better; more was all that mattered. More and more and more. People seldom told stories about ordinary people now. Everything had its hook, its gimmick, everybody was a fast buck artist. One day a few years ago, he’d gone through a fit of wanting to write again. So he’d gone to the Denver Public Library and checked into Publisher’s Weekly. He was appalled at what he found there. Every book that was advertised looked just like every other book. Gimmick fiction. The President of the United States, hanging by his heels from the Golden Gate Bridge, with Arab fanatics standing by to blow it all up at midnight. Slick stories of Madison Avenue infighting, of puppets, not people, clawing their way to the top of advertising, TV, movies, music or the modeling jungle. He realized with some alarm that he hadn’t read a book published since 1955. He was out of touch, out of step with the times. He was a dinosaur.
“Where we goin’, Joel?”
“I don’t know. Kansas City maybe.”
“I never been there.”
But he had. Kansas City was home. He hadn’t seen it in thirty years, but it was probably safe now. No one would know him.
The snow swirled around the car. They couldn’t drive much farther but that didn’t matter: from his years on the road, he was prepared for any weather.
They beat the snow to a cluster of trees some thirty-miles east of Denver. “Gotta hustle, now, Lacy, get us some dry wood.” Joel opened hi
s trunk. There he had two rolls of heavy canvas, with hooks that attached to holes on the roof of the car. There were two army cots and half a dozen heavy horse blankets from his days on the racetrack. He made up the beds, drove a pole in the ground and curled the canvas around it. He picked up small kindling sticks and soon had a fire going. Lacy came up with heavy wood from the arroyo.
They made two more loads. By then night was coming and the snow was blanketing the plains. “I’m scared, Joel,” Lacy said. “I’m used to th’ city. I don’t like this country stuff.”
“It’ll be fine, Lacy. You’ll get used to it quick enough.”
They crawled into the tent and sat on their cots. Smoke billowed out through the opening and the fire cast their faces in bright orange.
“I’m scared, Joel,” Lacy said.
Joel looked at him absently. His mind was a million miles away, in another time and place.
“It’ll be fine,” he said again. His eyes focused on Lacy’s quivering Adams apple. “Button your shirt, Lacy. Button up and hunker down. It’s gonna be a hard winter.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
