The Book (6 page)

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, kid,” he blurted, scanning Holden with a cagey gaze. “Books are illegal. Book pages are made out of paper which means they are against the Laws of Environmentalism. You ain’t gonna find any books here. If you do, point them out to me and I’ll have them destroyed.”

The man returned to his mound of microchips and circuit boards, leaving Holden aggravated. He normally wasn’t spoken to in that way. Most people respected guys with a lot of build and a little patience, especially when they had a confusing tattoo on their arm that could have come from prison. Holden reached into his jacket pocket, took out the page of
The Catcher in the Rye
he had torn from the wall of Marion’s bar and slapped it onto the counter.

“Listen, I don’t give a dog’s tail about your environmentalist viewpoint. I just need to know if you have a copy of this book or know where I can find a copy of this book.”

The man looked down at the page, shocked. And for a moment, Holden almost believed he saw a flicker of interest, a spirit of excitement kindled behind the man’s eyes before it vanished and Holden was wrenched over the counter like a blanket over a woman’s cold shoulders. The man looped his fist in Holden’s shirt and yanked him across the counter, toward a half-open door at the back wall, toppling many boxes of impulse items. There was a short flight of curving steps beyond the door and Holden fought to climb them under the man’s grip, but tripped on each one except the last.

Holden realized too late that the shop owner with mummified muscles was shockingly strong and was fully against the idea of discussing the topic of illegal, unrecycled books. At the top of the stairs, surrounded by boxes of curious items and a fort of furniture that yearned for its own demise, the man, half Holden’s size, charged forward and slammed him against the cracked, plaster wall. He crowded Holden, revealing a face as red as the shirt on his wrinkled back. He was close enough that Holden felt the tickle of the man’s beard and could smell whatever sauerkraut delight the shop owner had enjoyed during his lunch break. The pointy odor was the only thing that covered the must of molding antiques and, for a fraction of a moment, it was refreshing.

The man spat a fevered barrage of words. “I told you already, I don’t have any books. I don’t sell any books. No one does. It’s not worth the suffering we would go through. What are you here for? Who sent you here?”

Holden lifted the page he was still holding, stumbling over his tongue as it got in the way of his defense. “I’m just looking for this book. That’s all.”

“You’re lying to me and I’m going to find out who sent you here.”

“I’m not lying. I’m serious. I found this page from my favorite story and something wasn’t right when I compared it to my Book. I just want to see an original copy.” Holden fought the man’s grip and it loosened. “Just tell me…do you have a copy of this book? I’ll pay anything. I need to read it.”

The shop owner apologized with conscious embarrassment. “I am sorry. I’m afraid that I can’t help you. For your own sake, I suggest you forget that we ever had this discussion. The world of thought is not safe these days...”

Holden watched as the man’s expression gradually shifted to a well-controlled concern. He began studying the area around them, at the many boxes of remarkable items, and seemed suddenly more concerned that he had dragged someone into a space he never wanted anyone to see. Holden didn’t care about the contraband or paraphernalia the man was harboring. None of that mattered. It had been a mistake to come into the antique store, and that man, while he may have had a book or two hidden in that back room, did not have
The Catcher in the Rye
.

The long walk through the rain was shameful and when Holden returned to his home, if that was what you called it, he found messages blinking his answering machine again. Talk about antiques, that archaic machine had been getting more use that week than ever!

A short, delightful message from Jane compelled Holden to pick up the phone and call her back. They spoke for a short time about really nothing at all. Pleasant nothings between dad and daughter. When Holden hung up, he listened to the second message, which was far less enjoyable. Numbskull’s voice rattled the speaker in eagerness.

“I know you need another day of work like a hog needs a side-saddle, but a job has opened up for tomorrow morning and hey…luck of the draw, right? Side job, so off the books…which means cash, baby. If I don’t hear back from you by nine, I’ll assume your holiness is going to church instead.”

As the message crackled to a finish and beeped its last breath before deletion, Holden’s face lit up, and not from the hope of cash in hand. The answer to the question that was picking away at his brain had been on his answering machine the whole time, waiting for him.

He went to his fridge and cracked open a beer, nodding his head in realization. He wouldn’t be working a side job tomorrow. Holden had finally figured out where he would be able to find a copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
by J.D. Salinger.

And the drive would take forty-five minutes.

* * * * *

007-12549

The ladders clanged atop Holden’s wide, windowless, semi-white van, jerking the ropes taut as he banked a corner on Sheridan Road and drove further into the forest encroached suburb of Wilmette. He hadn’t slept last night. Two things had kept him awake: the lasting, raspy words of the antique shop owner,
the world of thought is not safe these days
and the message from Numbskull about a side job for cash. Throughout the night Holden watched as the sun gently rose through the milky bay window in his living room, knowing that he had finally figured out where he could find a copy of his favorite book and that the answers to so many unasked questions were only a wily, lie away.

At the end, when everything would make sense, Holden would recall this day, driving to Wilmette, as the culmination of seemingly unrelated acts that led to his beginning – a curious greed that forced him to accept a side job from an enchantingly worried elderly man named Winston and a lack of social skills that led to the discovery of the page from his favorite book. He thought, of course, that the answers awaiting him that morning would be simple. This was a gross error in expectation.

General Fire Protection had kept Holden constantly busy. His free time was limited because he often worked late into the evening. Even his weekends were detained for emergency calls and random side jobs that were too good to pass up. He made enough money to live well, if he chose to, but he was too cautious to enjoy it.
You never know when Uncle Sam is gonna take a bite out of ya.
It was good to feel a sense of security, no matter how false it was. But with such little free time available, it was better for Holden to turn down side jobs that weren’t worth the effort.

For that reason, when he was approached by an elderly man about a side job a year prior during his break at a café in Wilmette, Holden did his best to get rid of him so he could get back to his van and return to work. Fortunately, he hadn’t been able to. There was a deceptive persistence in the man who had eagerly introduced himself as Winston. Although his face was innocent and his manner gentle, Winston chose to place his walker fully between Holden and the door. Behind frail, thin glasses were two of the most active eyes Holden had ever seen. While Winston explained that he had seen Holden a few times that week and had noticed the emblem of a sprinkler head on the side of his clunky work van, Holden watched the man’s beady, gray eyes analyze his own. It was obvious that there was more happening at that moment than the man led him to believe.

“Well, I’m a wealthy man and I need to protect my house,” Winston continued, as he labored to recycle his plastic coffee cup. “I don’t move as well as I used to and if a fire erupted somewhere in my home, I fear I would be unable to put it out. The items within it are very precious to me.”

The man had one and a half feet in the grave. Holden had to laugh.
You can’t take it with you buddy.

He tried to pass Winston onto someone from General Fire, but Winston continued. The man wanted Holden, and no one else, to do the work. When Holden pressed him for an explanation, the man dodged the question with ease. In an effort to end the conversation, Holden finally threw out a disgracefully high quote, assuming that the man would abruptly disengage and allow him to finish his croissant in the van. This was the moment when their conversation became the most memorable. Instead of responding, Winston asked Holden his name. When he replied, the man’s tender face brightened and he lost five years of age in a smile before speaking the words Holden would never forget, “Double it and the job is yours.” As Holden attempted to regain his composure, the man removed his copy of The Book from a satchel bag and rested the corner against Holden’s copy, transferring his contact information to Holden’s screen. “I expect you’ll be professional,” Winston continued, “because I intend to leave this off the books and pay you up front…in cash.”

Cash.

It was the only form of paper that was still legal. Really, the only use for paper anymore. All money was composed of synthetic material, but it was the paper element that proved authenticity. With the limitless technological advancements, anyone with a computer could create counterfeit money if it weren’t for the integration of paper. Paper was so expensive, especially clean, bleached paper, that it was nearly worth more than the bill itself. Cash was unforgable. Cash was untraceable. Receiving such an amount for a side job that was completely off the books was nearly impossible to pass up.

Holden slammed on his brakes and the van rocked to an abrupt stop as an over-eager driver tore out of their hidden driveway, yanking him back to the present. Their bumpers stopped inches apart from one another. The owner of the Jaguar ignored his recklessness and headed in the opposite direction without a worry in the world. Holden shook his head clear and took a deep breath before releasing the break and pressing the accelerator, throttling his memory further into the events that had taken place at Winston’s home a week after their first meeting.

That day had also been murky. Chicago clouds interrupted the sky with cumulus resentment, as if waiting for the moment to pour out their wet revenge on unsuspecting citizens who were enjoying life too much. When Holden arrived at Winston’s home, the man led him quietly throughout the large estate, pointing out the many locations where he would like added protection. While the estate was luxurious and divided into many bewildering rooms, it was all very typical. That is, until Winston brought him down to the cellar.

From first glance, the cellar appeared to be fitted for a lavish wine collection. The brick ceiling was vaulted and the long walls were lined with empty racks that jutted out at even intervals to create many rows. But something was odd about them. They were shallow, almost too shallow, and seemed impractical for displaying wine. It almost seemed that these little alleyways created by the empty rack system were used to store food or containers of some sort in expectation of an apocalyptic disaster. Whatever the items were that the man had been storing in the cellar prior to Holden’s arrival, they had been moved. The entire cellar was bare.

Holden began sketching out a plan for the arrangement of the piping system on his Book with a sharpened fingernail. Winston watched as the sketchy lines quickly transformed to a well-drafted blueprint with dimensions and line weights and interrupted by placing a hand over the screen. “This room is quite unlike any area you have ever done before,” he said, with unease. “And I find it necessary to request that you triple the average number of sprinkler heads.”

Holden grinned at this. He had seen such reactions before from people who were obnoxiously protective of their home, regardless of what he said to set their mind at ease. Although it made logical sense in Winston’s mind to cover the basement with an overkill of sprinkler heads, Holden’s experience was to always keep the spray radius simple and orderly. Winston’s reaction to Holden’s grin was unforgettable. The man stated that he wanted saturation; that not a centimeter of space should be dry if a fire began. He then squeezed Holden’s hand to punctuate his declaration. Holden remembered that this articulated gesture gave more substance to the discovery he would find later that day, because the items that the shelving had been built for were not as plain as fine wine or containers of food. No, it was something far more precious to the man. Something that could touch water, but not fire.

After the complicated structure of plans had been devised, Winston trudged back up the stairs, leaving Holden in the cellar to map out his array of sprinkler heads. The space was vast and hauntingly empty, like a train station without smoking engines, and Holden had difficulty finding the existing water system. He began his usual reconnaissance mission of following the piping in the ceiling and was soon forced to twist Winston’s old appliances from the walls and peek behind closed doors. It was then, when he found a closet with a short door that angled sharply from the handle to the hinge, that he stumbled upon the source of the elderly man’s insatiable need for protection.

The space beyond the door was misleading. It resembled a long hallway but it led nowhere and was lit by a single bulb that hung like a specter at the center of the tight space. The wall opposite the door was lined with plastic boxes stacked waist-high and draped in a thick, tangerine tarp. Curious despite his caution, Holden lifted the tarp enough to notice that the first box had a series of names written on it in thick, black lettering. Eleven surnames, to be precise. He remembered these names very clearly because the moment he noticed them, Holden understood why the cellar had been lined with shelving and why Winston had needed to hire a sprinkler fitter surreptitiously to protect it all. The names were: Farrell, Faulkner, Feynman, Fitzgerald, Flynn, Ford, Forster, Fowles, Frazer, Friedman and Fussell. Each name began with the same letter and each name was that of a famous author.