The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery (5 page)

“We’ll never get a seat,” said Israel, staring at the heaving throng. “Shall we go somewhere else?”

“There is nowhere else,” said Ted.

“Ah,” said Israel. “Yes. You see. There’s the rub.”

“Give over,” said Ted.

“Come on, ye, on on in,” said Minnie, bustling over, frilly pinny on, brown cardigan sleeves rolled up. “Plenty of room, gents, plenty of room!”

“God. Really?” said Israel. “Isn’t it a little—”

“And none of yer auld language here today, please. We’ve a visitor. Come on on.” She waved them forward and started to lead them through the crowded café, like a guide taking tourists through a souk in Marrakech.

“Who’s the visitor?” said Israel, squeezing between car coats.

“A Very Important Person,” said Minnie.

“Who?” said Ted.

“Nelson Mandela?” said Israel.

“Och!” said Minnie.

“The Berlin State Philharmonic?”

“What?” said Minnie.

“You know you’ve got Pearce outside busking?”

“Ach, he’s harmless, bless him,” said Minnie.

“He’s away in the head,” said Ted, demonstrating what he considered to be a state of away-in-the-headness by rolling his eyes and lolling his tongue.

“He’s not well,” said Minnie.

“It’s the Haltzeimer’s,” said Ted.

“The what?” said Israel.

“Have you lost weight, pet?” said Minnie, glancing behind her.

“Just a bit,” said Israel.

“He’s depressed,” said Ted.

“I am not depressed,” said Israel.

“Split up with his girlfriend back in London,” said Ted.

“Oh dear,” said Minnie. “And you’ve grown a beard as well,” she added.

“Adding insult to injury,” said Ted.

“Top-up of coffee when you’ve a minute,” said a man in the traditional Zelda’s getup of car coat, plus a suit and a tie, and a zip-up pullover, with a
Racing Post
propped before him, as Minnie bustled by.

“Make that two,” said his similarly attired companion.

“And I’ll take another date and wheaten scone,” piped up another identically clad man at another table.

“And me!”

“Cinnamon scone, and a large cappuccino?” called someone else.

“Och, all right,” said Minnie, squeezing past women whose calorie intake had clearly exceeded recommended daily amounts for some years, and men whose red, flushed faces suggested that an occasional tipple had become a rather more regular routine. “Give me a wee minute here, will ye?”

Zelda’s was not the Kit Kat Club.

“So who’s the VIP?” said Ted. “Not the fat boy off the radio? He gets everywhere.”

“Stephen Nolan?” said Israel. “Oh god, no. Not him.”

“Stop it,” said Ted, pointing a finger at Israel. Ted insisted on the highest standards of nonblaspheming. “I like him.”

“No,” said Minnie. “Maurice Morris.”

“Oh god, not him, the f—” began Israel.

“I said, no language!” said Minnie. “He’s getting worse,” she said to Ted.

“I’ve warned you,” said Ted to Israel. “Ye bad-mannered bastard.”

“Come on, now,” said Minnie. “Let me squeeze you in the wee huxter here, and I’ll see if I can’t bring Maurice over for a wee chat. I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

“No!” said Israel.

“I’ll be back in a minute for your orders,” said Minnie, bustling away.

“Maurice Morris,” said Ted. “Well, well, well. The Man with the Plan.”

Maurice Morris, the Man with the Plan: Independent Unionist candidate for Tumdrum and District, out on the stump, one of Northern Ireland’s most popular politicians, admired by all and loved by many, until he’d fallen from favor and had been defeated—crushed, humiliated—by the Democratic Unionists at the last election, not because of any policy or political crisis, but because of the small complicating matter of his affair with one of his constituency workers, and the accompanying slight whiff of financial impropriety, which never came to more than a whiff but which
was more than enough for the good people of Tumdrum, the scone and coffee crowd, who could smell a rat when they saw one and who had turned their car-coated backs to him and set their po-faces against him. It had taken Maurice years to patch things up and make himself anew, and only now was he seeking to regain his seat, which is why he was here in Zelda’s, the very heartland of Tumdrum, busy working the crowd, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, receding hair swept boldly back from his vast lined but deeply un-troubled forehead, looking every thickset square inch the comeback politician. In his campaign literature Maurice liked to draw attention to his confidence-inspiring six-foot-five-inch frame and his well-cut suits—suits for which he was, according to his campaign literature, renowned provincewide. His Savile Row pinstripes and his Jermyn Street shirts and ties, he believed, spoke for themselves, and they most certainly did; they told you everything you needed to know about Maurice Morris, or M ’n’ M, as he preferred to be called. His sparkling white teeth and his perma-tan spoke eloquently also—they sang out on his behalf—as did his reputation as North Antrim’s most successful independent financial adviser. What M ’n’ M did not know about mortgages, repossessions, and trusts in kind simply was not worth knowing: Maurice was the man, the big man in the big picture, financially, politically, and socially; this was a man who had been photographed consistently, for over a decade, in the
Ulster Tatler
, and the
Belfast Telegraph
, and the
Impartial Recorder
, with every Irish and Northern Irish celebrity, major and minor, excepting Bono, who was still on his wish list. Maurice was not just a politician or a businessman: he was a brand and a celebrity, and he was not a
man to be underestimated, overlooked, doubted, mocked, questioned, queried, or in any other way challenged. Maurice Morris had been blessed at birth—by whimsical, apparently homonymic-and possibly crossword-puzzle-minded parents—with his own surname for a first name, and he had known from an early age that this somehow made him impregnable and unassailable, like God with Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Maurice was like New York, New York. He was entirely in and of himself; he was, according to his campaign literature, the Man with the Plan. His ostensible plan was accountable government, investment in jobs, reform of the planning process: all of the usual. His actual plan was to win back power by any means necessary. He’d done his penance, he’d made his apologies, and now he wanted back in. Israel had followed Maurice’s charmless charm offensive on the many billboards of County Antrim as he drove in the van every day, Maurice Morris’s shining face staring down at him: dominant, necessary, and appalling.

“So what is it, gents,” said Minnie, returning to take orders. “Two coffees and two scones of the day?”

“Aye,” said Ted.

“Right you are,” said Minnie. “And I’ll make sure Maurice comes and has a quick word with you.”

“I heard he’d had a
cafetière
fitted,” said Ted.

“A
cafetière
?” said Israel.

“Aye.”

“A
cafetière
is what you make the coffee in,” said Minnie.

“Not a
cafetière
, then,” said Ted. “Something like that.”

“A catheter?” said Israel.

“Well, I don’t want you asking him about
that
,” said Minnie.

“I don’t want to meet him anyway,” said Israel. “Thanks.”

“The man running to be your own elected representative?” said Minnie.

“Sure, you probably vote for the Shinners,” said Ted.

“The whatters?” said Israel.

“Now!” said Minnie. “We’re one big happy rainbow nation these days, Ted.”

“Does he have any actual policies, Maurice Morris?” asked Israel.

“Aye,” said Ted. “The same as the rest of them. Snouts in the trough and selling the rest of us down the river. I tell ye, I’ve some questions for Mr. Morris if he comes over.”

“That’s fine,” said Minnie, beginning to walk away. “Healthy democracy and all that—just you make sure you go easy on him, Ted. I don’t want any trouble. Nothing personal. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Nothing personal!” said Ted. “Adulterating so-and-so.”

“Ex-adulterer,” said Minnie, as a parting shot.

“Ex-adulterer?” said Israel.

“A leopard doesn’t change its spots,” said Ted.

Israel watched, fascinated, as Maurice slowly worked his ex-adulterating way from wipe-down-gingham-tableclothed table to wipe-down-gingham-tableclothed table, firmly shaking hands with the men and hugging the ladies and kissing the babies—grandchildren, mostly—and grinning and winking with utter conviction, as though there were no other place on earth that he’d rather be right now, a-grinning and a-winking, than right here, in Zelda’s Café. In his years out of office Maurice had read a lot of books about commu
nication and persuasion and entrepreneurial self-realization and reinvention, and during his time in the wilderness he’d learned that in life generally and in politics in particular, no matter how you felt or what your circumstances, you needed to appear always as though
this
really mattered—
this
coffee morning,
this
photo shoot,
this
meeting,
this
community liaison event. Even if it didn’t. Which it didn’t. Maurice had become, even more than he was previously, an
of the
and
in
the moment kind of a guy. When Maurice Morris went out campaigning around Tumdrum and District he put all thoughts of himself, of his many personal successes and achievements, from his mind and focused instead on the little people and their problems and difficulties, and the amazing thing was, it worked. They flocked to him, the people, because he, Maurice Morris, was
in
the moment. He
was
the moment: he had presence, you couldn’t deny it, and right now, at this moment, middle-aged and elderly women who should have known better were in the moment with him, giggling and photographing each other, posing cheek to cheek with him, using the cameras on their mobile phones, many of them for the first time, delighted that they’d upgraded, as their daughters and the suited salespeople in the Carphone Warehouse in the Fountain Center at Rathkeltair had wisely suggested. There were megapixel flashes, and much automatic red-eye reduction, and laughter, and good-natured banter and repartee, and even though it was Zelda’s, and even though it was a Friday afternoon in September, and even though it was softly raining outside, it felt like a glittering gala event. Maurice Morris was about as glamorous as it got on the North Antrim coast. Short of George Clooney himself turning up in Zelda’s, as part of some promotional tour for a new film about the
Giant’s Causeway—
Atlantic Ocean’s Eleven
?—Maurice Morris was
it
.

“Come on now, fellas, sit up straight,” said Minnie, returning with coffee and scones.

“What?” said Israel, mesmerized by this manifestation of pure, adulterated charisma in their midst.

“Sit up straight, for goodness’ sake,” said Minnie. “You make the place look untidy. He’ll be over in a minute.”

Minnie leaned across and pulled Israel’s T-shirt collar straight.

“There,” she said, “that’s better.”

“I’m not a child,” said Israel.

“Well…” said Ted. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. The mental age of a—”

“It’s my birthday next week, actually,” said Israel.

“Ah. Really?” said Minnie. “How old are ye going to be, pet?”

“About a hundred and twenty?” said Ted.

“Sssh,” said Minnie. “I asked
him
, not you. Do you know how old he is?”

“Not a clue,” said Ted. “But I could guess. What do you reckon?”

“Well…” Minnie looked Israel up and down: the mess of hair, the scrap of beard, the sullen cheeks, the gold-rimmed spectacles pushed up onto his forehead, the broken-down brogues, the baggy corduroy trousers, the Triple H World Wrestling Entertainment T-shirt featuring a grimacing sweaty-looking man with long hair in black underpants, one of Brownie’s. “Difficult to say,” she concluded diplomatically. “What do you think?”

“Hello?” said Israel, trying to break into the conversation, unsuccessfully.

“He carries on like a wee cappy, and he blethers on like a grumphie old man,” said Ted. “I’d place him around fifty.”

“Fifty! I’m not fifty!” said Israel. “Fifty! Do I look fifty?!”

“Early fifties?” said Ted.

“It’s the beard, maybe,” said Minnie.

“Fifty! I’m nowhere near fifty! I’m going to be thirty!”

“Thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” said Minnie.

“Middle age,” said Ted. “Make anybody depressed.”

“It’s not middle age,” said Israel. “And I am not depressed.”

“Might be older than middle age,” said Ted.

“Depends when ye’re going to die,” said Minnie.

“Right,” said Israel.

“No man knoweth the hour,” said Minnie.

“Right,” said Israel.

“Never mind,” said Ted.

“Never mind what?” said Israel.

“Thirty. Bad age.”

“It’s not a bad age. I have no problem with reaching thirty. That’s the least of my problems.”

“Good,” said Ted.

“I’ll leave you boys to it, then,” said Minnie. “Enjoy your coffee. And happy birthday for next week.”

“Thanks,” said Israel.

“Thirty,” said Ted, shaking his head.

Israel had no problem with thirty, actually. Thirty is not that old. When you think about it. At thirty, really, you’re still on the cusp of your twenties. At thirty you’re an honorary twentysomething—that’s a good way of looking at it. It’s like you’re the top of your year at school. You’re a September baby. At thirty you might still conceivably be a late developer. You have a whole lifetime still ahead of you. At thirty the world remains your proverbial oyster…

“Buddy Holly,” said Ted, slathering his scone with butter.

“What about Buddy Holly?” said Israel.

“He died young,” said Ted.

“Right. And your point is?”

“I’m just saying, like. He was what, twenty-one, twenty-two?”

“Right.”

“And the other fella.”

“Which other fella?”