The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) (11 page)

“Ignorance is a relative term.”

“Yes it is. A classical scholar lecturing at the University of Rome in 1563 once saw a copy of a history by Eunapius in the Vatican Library. Perhaps you know the story. He asked Cardinal Sirlet to arrange for a copy to be made, but he was refused. He was told the pope himself considered the book ‘impious and wicked.’ A member of the Society of Jesus later informed him that the book ‘had perished by an act of divine providence.’”

“It was the last known copy.” Matthew sighed. “The withholding of knowledge till the would-be recipients are ‘ready’ can be a habit that’s hard to break, Brother Dominic. Who is to decide when the people are ready for knowledge?”

“He who possesses the knowledge.”

“Exactly. And I am not retained by the great religions of the world to help them keep the faithful bound in their chains of ignorance.”

“All this drama, Mr. Hunter, so counterproductive,” the big man himself now sighed as he finally leaned back, a bit theatrically. “In the end, you’re a book dealer, and we’re customers for a book. There’s a saying in the trade that the biggest sales are often the easiest, because you’re dealing with a knowledgeable buyer. He knows ‘the ropes.’”

“That’s often true.”

“I hope I’ve made it clear that my patron can pay cash, there would be no need for any complicated bank transactions to leave tracks for your tax men. This would-be buyer from California, you understand he’s not a real divine. Some kind of mail-order divinity degree, as I understand it. He ministers to the Hollywood set, promoting the latest feel-good nostrums. Not that it isn’t understandable that these wandering souls would try this and that, in a nation with so little authentic religion. But more to the point, a man of limited means, with volatile backers, buying certain older manuscripts for their counter-cultural appeal, merely as a hobby or a means of self-advancement. Sell to an inexperienced amateur, he can go whooping and bragging about his new treasure, he wants his picture in the newspapers, and the taxmen can show up like sharks at the smell of blood.

“In contrast, we understand how greedy state and national governments can be when a large transaction occurs within their . . .
giuriadizione
. We have long experience arranging discreet cash transactions where the seller doesn’t have to share the proceeds with some posturing potentate.”

“But when your patron buys a book, Brother Dominic, it’s never seen again.”

“And how is that so different from any other private sale? One time in a thousand, some overgrown college of agriculture wants to buy a Shakespeare folio to create some good publicity, making up for the fact they lost that promising young athlete to Notre Dame.” He pronounced the name of the Indiana football school like it was a cathedral in France. “Otherwise, you sell a book and it disappears into a private library for a generation, if not longer. Sometimes there are even fires or floods, the work is gone for good.

“My principal is no barbarian, I assure you. His vaults have proven secure for quite a long time. The book will be read, studied, preserved and cared for.”

“Until it rots away. I sincerely doubt the book would be available to any outsider to study, any more than the other copies he’s acquired over the centuries. Besides, as you mentioned, you and your associates haven’t been so very quiet and discreet in recent days, at all. So much drama, Brother Dominic.”

“Yes. You recommend a reasonable budget for an important acquisition, and some ambitious youngster with an eyeshade asks ‘Why so much? We have eager young men who can act boldly and get it for less.’ You try to explain this may work three times out of four, but the fourth time your eager young men will rush in and make a mistake, then panic and make more mistakes. And mistakes can be costly, in addition to attracting so much unwanted attention, leaving more responsible parties to get things . . . untangled.”

“Good help is so hard to find.”

“You understand completely,” said the man in the black cape, gesturing with both hands and possibly quoting Nazorine the baker, from the opening scene of
The Godfather
.

Skeezix brought in two — not three — 9 mm brass cartridge cases from his hands-and-knees search of the front lawn, apologizing that the third had not shown up. Both Tabbyhunter and Mr. Cuddles had stayed close to him, helping with the search except when it became necessary to deal with some moth or other bug, which of course took precedence.

“That’s fine, Skeezix. It’s been six days. A piece of brass can roll into a hole, a blue jay can carry it off.” He examined the rims closely. They were stamped “Fiocchi.” “You did fine, Skeezer, I appreciate the help. Chantal?”

“Yes?”

“Fiocchi is Italian ammunition?”

“Italian owned.”

“Sold in this country?”

“Most of what they sell here is made here, in Missouri, except for the .22 rimfire.”

So the brand wasn’t proof of foreign origin. But still suggestive.

Matthew gave Skeezix a smile and a nod. Marian was waiting for him, though.

“Skeezix, have you been sharing the people food with the cats again?”

“Would I do that?”

“You’re welcome to the food in the kitchen. The people food. And you’re welcome to feed the cats their cat food.”

“Out of milk.”

“Well for heaven’s sake, go buy milk. Just add it to your weekly accounting, so we’ll know where the money went. Not that they should really have a lot of milk, it gives them diarrhea. But we use it, too; just buy the stuff without the Bovine Growth Hormone, right? No RBGH. Check the label.”

“And tuna fish?”

“Albacore only for your lunch, Skeezix. The Solid Gold cat food is top notch, nutritionally balanced, not that awful supermarket stuff that’s mostly GMO corn. It’s already a big budget item for us, and they’re doing fine on it, so they do not need to share your fancy white, OK? Skeezix?”

“How about the juice?”

Marian looked skyward, praying for patience. “You can give them the juice. Only the juice.”

“OK.”

A broad brown woman who hadn’t gotten enough protein as a child to properly grow her long bones — one of those dwarf people who it was Politically Incorrect to call “illegal immigrants” precisely because they were illegal immigrants — waddled up to Matthew, ready to pick a fight.

“How much this book?”

“It’s marked in pencil on the front endpaper. See? Twenty-seven fifty.”

“But thass more than he cost when he wass new,” said the hefty dwarf, showing Matthew the price printed on the front flap.

“Yes, ma’am. Back in the 1950s this book sold for $4.95. Now it’s a somewhat hard-to-find first edition in dust jacket in collectible condition that sells for twenty-seven dollars. I’ll also give you a couple of bucks each for any 1955 silver quarter-dollars you can produce. A shame what they’ve done to the dollar, isn’t it?”

“But thass more than when the book wass new.”

“We’ve established that, ma’am, yes, thass more than when he wass new.”

“So I get him for the lower price, right?”

“No, ma’am. I’m not going to take scissors and mutilate every dust jacket in the store to spare you confusion. In 1939, first editions of
For Whom the Bell Tolls
sold for two dollars and seventy-five cents. I wish grandpa had stocked up, because now they cost quite a bit more. Why don’t you go fill up your car with some 25-cent-a-gallon gasoline, run down to the grocery and pick up a gallon of ice cream for a dollar? Then, if you don’t want to pay 50 cents for a ticket to go out to the movie theater tonight, you might still get home in time to make a nice banana split while you catch the new episode of ‘I Love Lucy’ on your black-and-white TV. It’s supposed to be a hum-dinger; Milton Berle guest-stars.”

“Thass no cheap! Thass no bargain! I doan like this thrift store. Your things are too espensive!”

“I’m so sorry you’ll be leaving us, ma’am. I believe the Methodist church is having just the kind of sale you’re looking for, this Saturday morning.”

“And you call this Benefit Books! I dunno who he’s supposed to benefit!”

“It’s the name of the street, ma’am.”

The little troll trundled off, tossing the book aside without re-shelving it, of course. Another guy was waiting to talk to Matthew, who took a deep breath and offered the newcomer a slightly cracked smile.

“Are these your books?” asked the small man with the wispy hair in the Harris tweed with the suede elbow patches.

“I run the store, yes.”

“I just wanted to thank you. You collect so many interesting things here. I’ve bought many books here, usually from your associates. But I just had to say something this time. I’m not usually this talkative, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t know how you do it, but every bookcase is so full of things that are just . . . different. Things I don’t see other places, books I never knew existed. I always discover new things, and look at this one, it’s only 12 dollars and it’s signed by the author. Twelve dollars! I can just spend hours here.”

“The trick is what not to buy,” Matthew explained. “Diet and exercise, paperback romance, home repair books, some potboiler action-adventure that’s number six in the series,
F Is for Formula
, all interchangeable as potato chips. . . .”

“Yes, that’s it. You just don’t seem to have any crap.”

“Well thank you. That’s nicely put. Maybe we can get that sewn up in a sampler.”

The man shook Matthew’s hand and shuffled his newest treasures up to the front desk, where Marian was shipping the two neighbor girls off to supper after thanking them for bringing Tyrone home, though in fact the big orange tabby had come ambling back under his own steam, the two tykes trailing dutifully behind.

It was near closing time. After she’d rung up the last customer Marian found Matthew seeking shelter among the volumes in the back room, where customers who weren’t idiots could browse by invitation, where the staff shelved the stuff that didn’t quite merit being locked up in the safes, books priced at or a little below a week’s groceries.

Matthew loved the books, each one like a lone survivor of some fifty- or hundred-year trek. He opened them, touched them, each one brought back a memory. He even loved the smell — Matthew grew particularly enraged at customers who complained when books smelled faintly of tobacco; he’d insisted on posting on their Web site the prominent notice that they sold used books that had been stored in human habitations for decades; Books on Benefit would provide no certificates of hypoallergenic purity; those who “wished to make symbolic gestures of support for the Prohibition of tobacco or other medicinal plant extracts should apply elsewhere.”

“There you are.”

“Hi, Marian. Long day.”

“Matthew,” she stopped, cleared her throat. Marian was not accustomed to making long speeches, which generally meant the kind with more than six words. She took a deep breath and screwed up her courage. “Your talents are in acquisitions — locating and buying and pricing the top-end stock — and keeping up our relations with the whales, like Lance and Jackson. That’s where we need you to spend your time. You should not be on the floor, getting tied up with these browsers off the street.”

“Meaning I’m such an asshole that I’m driving them away in droves.”

“I wouldn’t use that word. Actually, you showed great patience today with idiots who have no grounding to even discuss our stock. The heads of major financial firms aren’t required to explain amortization and depreciation to a bunch of gomers off the tour bus. I just hate to see you wasting your time, and I know how it affects you.”

“To tell you the truth, Marian, I don’t know whether to kill them or kill myself. I don’t remember it being like this. It used to be you could discuss the authors’ lives, illustrators, a suppressed first book, a presentation copy, you could show them a book they hadn’t known about, they got excited, it was fun. Now it’s ‘Why this book cost more than the original jacket price?’ Gee, honey, I don’t know, try to go buy a mint 1965 Ford Mustang for the original list of $2,500. I’m surprised they even know how to hold the books right-side-up.”

“I agree completely. I’ve threatened to make them wear cow bells as soon as they get past the dollar rack, so we can hear them coming. From what I recall, that’s why Bob was made manager, in the first place, to free you from all this hand-holding. I hope it isn’t unseemly, Bob being gone such a short time, but if we’re going to be open regular hours, we’re now down to me and Skeezix, which forces you onto the floor. We need to fix that before you go after one of these nincompoops with the baseball bat, especially now that you’ve got this missing Egyptian and his missing book and this sudden invasion of Holy Dobermans to deal with. Skeezix can do a little more, as long as we let him nap with the cats for a few hours in the afternoon. But even if Chantal is back, at least part time, which would be great by the way, we still need to hire another full-timer. You can make the hire, or just give me the go-ahead. And if Chantal isn’t going to pull shifts, which is between the two of you, then we should hire two people. Plus you need to name a manager.”

“How am I going to bring someone in from outside to be a manager?”

“That’s not exactly what I said, but if you want to hire in an outside manager, in this economy it’s a buyer’s market. For an inside desk job? They’ll be lined up at the door.”

“Until we ask them who wrote
The Riddle of the Sands
.”

“Until we ask them who wrote
Oliver Twist
. But someone who can read and write will show up, maybe someone from Britain or Singapore or Holland, where they still read books.”

“Let me sleep on it, Marian. I suspect Chantal will want to go back to pulling some shifts, but I’ll ask about that, too.”

“Thank you, Matthew.”

Skeezix had left for the day. Matthew and Chantal headed upstairs, leaving Marian to lock up once the clock chimed. He told Chantal what Marian had said about needing more help.

“So you interpreted that as Marian asking you to hire a new manager?”