Authors: John Dunning
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural
Copyright © 1992 by John Dunning
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Charles Scribner’s Sons Maxwell Macmillan Canada, Inc.
Macmillan Publishing Company 200 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 200
866 Third Avenue Don Mills, Ontario M3C 3N1 New York, NY 10022
Macmillan Publishing Company is part of the Maxwell Communication Group of Companies.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dunning, John, 1942—
Booked to die: a mystery introducing Cliff Janeway/John Dunning.
PS3554.U49394B66 1992 813.54—dc20 91-26889
10 987654321 Printed in the United States of America
To Warwick Downing,
who got me started again,
to the Denver antiquarian book trade: the good, the bad, and the ugly
Certain unique books discussed in
Booked to Die
(Hawthorne’s copy of
and Mencken’s copy of
This Side of Paradise
, among others) have been fictionalized for the sake of the story and may actually reside in real libraries, public or private. Dealers who would argue with the author over prices should remember that the story takes place in 1986. Values on some books have risen dramatically in five years.
Catcher in the Rye
, for example, is now a $1,500 piece.
Interview with the Vampire
is usually seen at $600 plus. And so it goes.
Bobby the bookscout
was killed at midnight on June 13, 1986. This was the first strange fact, leading to the question,
What was he doing out that late at night
? To Bobby, midnight was the witching hour and Friday the thirteenth was a day to be spent in bed. He was found in an alley under one of those pulldown iron ladders that give access to a fire escape—another odd thing. In life, Bobby would never walk under a ladder, so it would seem ironic to some people in the Denver book trade when they heard in the morning that he had died there.
You should know something about bookscouts and the world they go around in. This is an age when almost everyone scouts for books. Doctors and lawyers with six-figure incomes prowl the thrift stores and garage sales, hoping to pick up a treasure for pennies on the dollar. But the real bookscout, the pro, has changed very little in the last thirty years. He’s a guy who can’t make it in the real world. He operates out of the trunk of a car, if he’s lucky enough to have a car, out of a knapsack or a bike bag if he isn’t. He’s an outcast, a fighter, or a man who’s been driven out of every other line of work. He can be quiet and humble or aggressive and intimidating. Some are renegades and, yes, there are a few psychos. The one thing the best of them have in common is an eye for books. It’s almost spooky, a pessimistic book dealer once said—the nearest thing you can think of to prove the existence of God. How these guys, largely uneducated, many unread, gravitate toward books and inevitably choose the good ones is a prime mystery of human nature.
They get their stock in any dusty corner where books are sold cheap, ten cents to a buck. If they’re lucky they’ll find $100 worth on any given day, for which an honest book dealer will pay them $30 or $40. They stand their own expenses and may come out of the day $30 to the good. They live for the prospect of the One Good Book, something that’ll bring $200 or more. This happens very seldom, but it happens. It happened to Bobby Westfall more often than to alll the others put together.
In one seventy-two-hour period, the story goes, Bobby turned up the following startling inventory:
, the story of the Truman administration, normally a $6 book unless it’s signed by Truman, which this was, under an interesting page-long inscription, also in Truman’s hand—call it $800 easy;
, the great cornerstone of modern fiction (or the great unreadable novel, take your pick) by William Gaddis, also inscribed, $400 retail;
, John Fowles’s strange and irresistible book of wonder, first British edition in a flawless jacket, $300; and
Terry’s Texas Rangers
, a thin little book of ninety-odd pages that happens to be a mighty big piece of Texas history, $750. Total retail for the weekend, $2,000 to $2,500; Bobby’s wholesale cut, $900, a once-in-a-lifetime series of strikes that people in the Denver book trade still talk about.
If it was that easy, everybody’d be doing it. Usually Bobby Westfall led a bleak, lonely life. He took in cats, never could stand to pass up a homeless kitty. Sometimes he slept in unwashed clothes, and on days when pickings weren’t so good, he didn’t eat. He spent his $900 quickly and was soon back to basics. He had a ragged appearance and a chronic cough. There were days when he hurt inside: his eyes would go wide and he’d clutch himself, a sudden pain streaking across his insides like a comet tearing up the summer sky. He was thirty-four years old, already an old man at an age when life should just begin.
He didn’t drive. He packed his books from place to place on his back, looking for a score and a dealer who’d treat him right. Some of the stores were miles apart, and often you’d see Bobby trudging up East Colfax Avenue, his knees buckling under the weight. His turf was the Goodwill store on Colfax and Havana, the DAV thrift shop on Montview Boulevard, and the dim-lit antique stores along South Broadway, where people think they know books. Heaven to Bobby the Book-scout was finding a sucker who thought he knew more than he knew, a furniture peddler or a dealer in glass who also thought he knew books. On South Broadway, in that particular mind-set, the equation goes like this: old + bulk = value. An antique dealer would slap $50 on a worthless etiquette book from the 1880s and let a true $150 collectible like Anne Tyler’s
go for a quarter. When that happened, Bobby Westfall would be there with his quarter in hand, with a poker face and a high heart. He’d eat very well tonight.
Like all bookscouts, Bobby could be a pain in the ass. He was a born-again Christian: he’d tell you about Christ all day long if you’d stand still and listen. There was gossip that he’d been into dope years ago, that he’d done some hard time. People said that’s where he found the Lord, doing five-to-ten at Canon City. None of that mattered now. He was a piece of the Denver book world, part of the landscape, and the trade was a little poorer for his death.
He had been bludgeoned, battered into the bookscout’s hereafter by a heavy metal object. According to the coroner, Bobby had felt no pain: he never knew what hit him. The body was found facedown in the alley, about three blocks from the old
. A cat was curled up at his feet, as if waiting for Bobby to wake up and take her home.
This is the story of a dead man, how he got that way, and what happened to some other people because of his death.
He was a gentle man, quiet, a human mystery.
He had no relatives, no next of kin to notify. He had no close friends, but no enemies either.
His cats would miss him.
No one could think of a reason why anyone would kill Bobby. Who would murder a harmless man like that?
I’ll tell you why. Then I’ll tell you who.
The phone rang
. It was 2:30 a.m.
Normally I am a light sleeper, but that night I was down among the dead. I had just finished a thirteen-hour shift, my fourth day running of heavy overtime, and I hadn’t been sleeping well until tonight. A guy named Jackie Newton was haunting my dreams. He was my enemy and I thought that someday I would probably have to kill him. When the bell went off, I was dreaming about Jackie Newton and our final showdown. For some reason—logic is never the strong point of a dream like that—Jackie and I were in the hallway at East High School. The bell brought the kids out for the change of classes; Jackie started shooting and the kids began to drop, and that hell kept ringing as if it couldn’t stop.
In the bed beside me, Carol stirred.
“Oh, Cliff,” she groaned. “Would somebody please get that goddamn telephone?”
I groped for the night table, felt the phone, and knocked the damn thing to the floor. From some distant galaxy I could hear the midget voice of Neal Hennessey, saying, “Cliff?… Cliff?… Hey, Clifford!” I reached along the black floor and found the phone, but it was still many seconds later before Hennessey took on his bearlike image in my mind.
“Looks like we got another one,” Hennessey said without preamble.
I struggled to sit up, trying to get used to the idea that Jackie Newton hadn’t shot me after all.
“Hey, Cliffie… you alive yet?”
“Yeah, Neal, sure. First time I been sound asleep in a week.”
He didn’t apologize; he just waited.
“Where you at?” I said.
“Alley off Fifteenth, just up from the
. This one looks an awful lot like the others.”
“Give me about half an hour.”
“We’ll be here.”
I sat for another minute, then I got up and went into the bathroom. I turned on the light and looked in the mirror and got the first terrifying look at myself in the cold hard light of the new day. You’re getting old, Janeway, I thought. Old Andrew Wyeth could make a masterpiece out of a face like that. Call it
Clifford Liberty Janeway at 36, with no blemish eliminated and no character line unexplored
I splashed cold water on my face: it had a great deal less character after that. To finally answer Hennessey, yes, I was almost alive again. The vision of Jackie Newton rose up before me and my hand went automatically to the white splash of scar tissue just under my right shoulder. A bank robber had shot me there five years ago. I knew Jackie Newton would give a lot to put in another one, about three inches to the left and an inch or so down.
Man with an old bullet wound
, by Wyeth: an atypical work, definitely not your garden-variety Helga picture.
When I came out of the bathroom Carol was up. She had boiled water and had a cup of instant coffee steaming on my nightstand.
“What now?” she said.
As I struggled into my clothes, I told her it looked like another derelict murder. She sighed loudly and sat on the bed.
She was lovely even in a semistupor. She had long auburn hair and could probably double for Helga in a pinch. No one but Wyeth would know.
“Would you like me to come with you?”
I gave a little laugh, blowing the steam from my coffee.
“Call it moral support,” she said. “Just for the ride down and back. Nobody needs to see me. I could stay in the car.”
“Somebody would see you, all right, and then the tongues would start. It’d be all over the department by tomorrow.”
“You know something? I don’t even care.”
“I care. What we do in our own time is nobody’s business.”
I went to the closet and opened it. Our clothes hung there side by side—the blue uniform Carol had worn on yesterday’s shift; my dark sport coat; our guns, which had become as much a part of the wardrobe as pants, shirts, ties, badges. I never went anywhere without mine, not even to the corner store. I had had a long career for a guy thirty-six: I’d made my share of enemies, and Jackie Newton was only the latest.
I put the gun on under my coat. I didn’t wear a tie, wasn’t about to at that time of night. I was off duty and I’d just been roused from a sound sleep; I wasn’t running for city council, and I hated neckties.
“I know you’ve been saying that for a long time now, that stuff about privacy,” Carol said dreamily. “But I think the real reason is, if people know about me, I make you vulnerable.”
I didn’t want to get into it. It was just too early for a philosophical discourse. There was something in what Carol said, but something in what I said too. I’ve never liked office gossip, and I didn’t want people talking about her and me.
But Carol had been looking at it from another angle lately. We had been seeing each other, in the polite vernacular, for a year now, and she was starting to want something more permanent. Maybe bringing our arrangement into the public eye would show me how little there was to worry about. People did it all the time. For most of them the world didn’t come to an end. Occasionally something good came out of it.
So she thought.
“I’m going back to bed,” she said. “Wake me when you come in. Maybe I’ll have a nice surprise for you.”
She lay back and closed her eyes. Her hair made a spectacular sunburst on the pillow. I sat for a while longer, sipping my coffee. There wasn’t any hurry: a crime lab can take three hours at the scene. I’d leave in five minutes and still be well within the half hour I’d promised Hennessey. The trouble is, when I have dead time—even five minutes unfilled in the middle of the night—I begin to think. I think about Carol and me and all the days to come. I think about the job and all the burned-out gone-forever days behind us. I think about quitting and I wonder what I’d do. I think about being tied to someone and anchoring those ties with children.
Carol would not be a bad one to do that with. She’s pretty and bright, and maybe this is what love is. She’s good company: her interests broaden almost every day. She reads three books to my one, and I read a lot. We talk far into the night. She still doesn’t understand the first edition game: Hemingway, she says, reads just as well in a two-bit paperback as he does in a $500 first printing. I can still hear myself lecturing her the first time she said that. Only a fool would read a first edition. Simply having such a book makes life in general and Hemingway in particular go better when you do break out the reading copies. I listened to myself and thought, This woman must think I’m a government-inspected horse’s ass. Then I showed her my Faulkners, one with a signature, and I saw her shiver with an almost sexual pleasure as she touched the paper where he’d signed it. Faulkner was her most recent god, and I had managed to put together a small but respectable collection of his first editions. You’ve got to read this stuff, she said to me when she was a month deep in his work. How can you collect the man without ever reading what he’s written? In fact, I had read him, years ago: I never could get the viewpoints straight in
The Sound and the Fury
, but I had sense enough at sixteen to know that the problem wasn’t with Faulkner but with me. I was trying to work up the courage to tackle him again: if I began to collect him, I reasoned, I’d have to read him sooner or later. Carol shook her head. Look at it this way, I said, the Faulkners have appreciated about twenty percent in the three years I’ve owned them. That she understood.
My apartment looked like an adjunct of the Denver Public Library. There were wall-to-wall books in every room. Carol had never asked the Big Dumb Question that people always ask when they come into a place like this:
Jeez, dya read all these
? She browsed, fascinated. The books have a loose logic to their shelving: mysteries in the bedroom; novels out here; art books, notably by the Wyeths, on the far wall. There’s no discrimination—they are all first editions—and when people try to go highbrow on me, I love reminding them that my as-new copy of Raymond Chandler’s
Lady in the Lake
is worth a cool $1,000 today, more than a bale of books by most of the critically acclaimed and already forgotten so-called masters of the art-and-beauty school. There’s nothing wrong with writing detective stories if you do it well enough.
I’ve been collecting books for a long time. Once I killed two men in the same day, and this room had an almost immediate healing effect.
I’ve missed my calling, I thought. But now was probably years too late to be thinking about it.
Time to go.
Her eyes were still closed, but she was not quite asleep.
“I’m leaving now,” I said.
“You going out to see Jackie Newton?”
“If this is what it looks like, you better believe it.”
“Have Neal watch your flank. And both of you be careful.”
I went over and kissed her on the temple. Two minutes later I was in my car, gliding through the cool Denver night.