All My Colors

by David Quantick

  Timothy had no idea which poet he was quoting, or even if he was quoting: as far as he knew, he could be saying the first weak shit that came into his shiny bald head. But it must have done the trick, because the woman looked impressed.

  “You still looking for that mystery tome?” Timothy said and was surprised to see Todd turn around abruptly, as if about to—what? Tell him to shut up?

  “No,” said Todd, forcing a smile. “I found it, actually.”

  “Really?” said Timothy. “Have you been seeing… other bookstores?”

  “Of course not,” Todd said, apparently not caring to join in the merry banter. “As it turns out, I had it at home all the time.”

  “Well, there we go,” Timothy said. “A man with so many books, he doesn’t know what’s in his own library. I know the feeling!”

  And Timothy gestured around the store, as if to say, “This may not be the Great Library of Alexandria but to me it is the finest repository of books in all the world.” He even thought of actually saying it, but decided that it might be some bull too far.

  “How then can I help you today?” he said.

  “I’m looking for a book for this lady,” said Todd.

  “I was hoping for jewels, or furs,” said Sara. “But I guess a book will do. I’m joking,” she added to Timothy. “I love books.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said Timothy. He made a decision. “This may not be the Great Library of Alexandria but to me it is the finest repository of books in all the world.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” said Sara, clearly possessed of a bullshit detector of her own.

  Timothy decided to ignore the cow.

  “Did you have a particular book in mind, sir?” he asked mock-genteelly.

  “Yes,” said Todd.

  “Here we go,” Sara said. “The books men buy for women. Fear of Flying. The Joy of Sex. Jonathan Livingston Seagull.”

  “All classics of their kind,” said Timothy, who would have gone under in 1972 without Jonathan Livingston Seagull. “May I enquire as to your own tastes?”

  Sara was too wise to fall for this. “Oh, I have no tastes,” she said. “Or taste. Right, Todd?”

  She laughed, but Todd wasn’t laughing back. Instead he was standing beside her, an old hardback in his hand.

  “Where the heck did that come from?” said Timothy.

  “I found it on the cart,” said Todd.

  “Old stock,” said Timothy. “All that stuff is destined for the dumper.”

  “Not the goodwill?” said Sara. “Not the old folks’ home or the prison library?”

  Timothy, who was actually going to sell his old stock as a job lot at auction next month, suspected he might actually hate Sara.

  “Good idea, miss,” he said in his kindly old fucker voice. “I might just do that.”

  “Well, if you’re giving your old stock away,” said Sara, with just a hint of a smile in her voice, “you should let Todd have this one for nothing.”

  Timothy almost swallowed his own tongue in anger.

  “Another good idea!” he cried, feeling bile mingle with saliva in his mouth. “And Mr. Milstead’s been such a good customer over the years that I’m sure the gods of literature won’t begrudge him one small—”

  “Thank you,” said Sara, cutting Timothy off mid-flow.

  “Thanks, Timothy,” Todd said, sounding as though he meant it, too. He handed the book to Sara. “It’s old, I know, and it’s been around the block, and—let me finish, please—and I’m sure you’ve read it, be a bit weird if you hadn’t, but this is the book that made me want to be…”

  He stopped. “—well, it’s an important book. To me, anyway.”

  Sara looked at the book.

  “The Catcher in the Rye,” she said. “Wow, I haven’t read this since high school. Thank you, Todd.”

  She kissed him. Then she opened the book.

  “It’s a first edition,” she said to Timothy. “Lucky Todd saved it from the dumper.”

  “I couldn’t possibly give it to you, I’m afraid,” Timothy began.

  Sara’s face fell.

  “But you said I could take anything,” she said. She looked stricken.

  “I did say that,” Timothy agreed. “But—”

  “You did say that,” Todd intervened.

  “Folks,” Timothy said, agitated, “I really don’t know what to say, but that fu—that book is not leaving this store.”

  “Relax, I’m kidding,” Sara said. “It’s not a first edition.” She opened it and showed Timothy. “You only had to look,” she added, putting the book in her bag.

  Timothy was too much gripped by fury and hate to respond. Todd opened the door for Sara and they exited to the silvery tinkle of the bookstore bell. Timothy shut the door, flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED and spent a few minutes in the bathroom shouting obscenities into the toilet until he felt a little better.

  * * *

  “You fucked him over,” said Todd, admiringly. “You fucked Timothy over.”

  He looked at Sara in amazement.

  “Guess I’d better read it now,” said Sara.

  “What?”

  “Look at your face. You look like my mom did when I told her I had smoked dope.”

  “You smoke dope?” said Todd.

  “Yeah, want me to get some?” Sara said.

  Todd was about to reply when he saw someone standing outside the house. It was Behm.

  “Excuse me a moment,” he said, and walked up to the front door.

  “Hi there,” said Behm, and coughed up a fusillade.

  “Is everything all right?” Todd asked.

  “I’m sorry to come up to the house,” Behm said. “But I couldn’t get you on the phone and I needed to see you in person.”

  “All right,” said Todd.

  He walked back to the car.

  “Do you know that guy?” said Sara.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Todd said.

  “He looks like he returned from the grave and he can’t wait to get back there,” Sara said.

  “I have to speak to him for a moment.”

  Sara gave Todd an appraising look.

  “Okay,” she said. “I have some things to do at home. Call me later?”

  “I only meant I need to talk to this guy for a—”

  “I know.” Sara was already retreating. “Call me!”

  Todd went back to the house. Behm was lighting a cigarette.

  “She the new lady?” he said.

  “Mind your own business,” Todd said.

  “No problem,” said Behm and followed Todd into the house.

  Todd gave Behm an ashtray and a glass of water. Behm put the glass to one side and set the ashtray in front of him at the kitchen table. Then he pulled out a thin buff envelope from his jacket and dropped it onto the table.

  “What’s this?” said Todd, although he had a pretty good idea what it was.

  “What you pay me for,” said Behm. “Open it.”

  Inside was a set of grainy black and white photographs. Todd flipped through them.

  “When were these—when did you take these?” he asked Behm.

  “Over the course of three, four days,” said Behm. “All over town.”

  Todd nodded. “Night shots, too?”

  “I spend your dollar wisely,” Behm said.

  Todd picked up a print. “Where’s this?”

  “Outside a bar in midtown.”

  “Janis doesn’t go to bars.”

  “Maybe she just likes to stand outside them.”

  “You didn’t follow her in?”

  “I would have stood out.”

  Todd looked at Behm. “I don’t get you.”

  Behm pulled out two more prints.

  “You don’t really know this town, do you, Mr. Milstead?”

  “I’ve lived here most of my life,” Todd said.

  Behm pointed to a photograph of Janis outside a different bar. “That’s J
anis outside Flagg’s Bar,” he said.

  “Never heard of it,” said Todd.

  “No reason why you should,” Behm said. He picked up another print.

  “Laura’s Place,” he said. “Doubt you heard of that one either.”

  Todd shrugged. “Where are we going with this?” he asked.

  In answer, Behm took a red matchbook from his pocket. LAURA’S PLACE it said in brutal black letters. He flipped it over. On the back was a drawing, not too badly executed, of two androgynous figures embracing.

  “Laura’s Place is a gay bar,” said Behm. “So is Flagg’s.”

  “Gay?” said Todd. “But Janis isn’t a man.”

  Behm looked at him.

  “Nor,” he said, “is the person she’s been seeing.”

  * * *

  “Well, I think it’s pretty cool,” Sara said. Todd had gone straight around to hers after writing Behm another check.

  “Explains a lot, I guess,” said Todd.

  “You mean she never liked you because she never liked guys?” said Sara. “I think that’s a little simplistic, Todd.”

  “What other explanation could there be?” Todd said.

  “Maybe we should go into this some other time,” Sara said. “It’s late.”

  Todd agreed. It was all too much for him.

  “This guy you hired to follow Janis,” said Sara. “Did he say who she is?”

  “Who?” said Todd.

  Sara raised an eyebrow. “The woman she’s seeing, of course.”

  * * *

  When Todd got home, he poured himself a whiskey for the first time in he didn’t know when, drank it, thought about having another, decided against it, and went to bed. He tried to read for a while, but the only book he could find was an old paperback that Janis had left behind, and after wasting a half hour trying to find clues about her secret life by reading Watership Down, Todd gave up and drifted into uneasy slumber.

  * * *

  That night, Todd dreamed he was back in Legolas Books.

  “Hi, Timothy,” said Todd as the bell tinkled behind him.

  But Timothy didn’t reply. He was bent over something at the counter.

  “Nose deep in a book as usual?” said Todd.

  “Not exaffly,” Timothy said in a muffled voice and turned around. He was face deep in Todd’s copy of The Catcher in the Rye, shredding it with his teeth like a dog tearing into a ragdoll.

  “Good book?” said Todd, taken aback. Timothy spat a few pages out. Todd could see his teeth, jagged and gunmetal gray.

  “I’m devouring it,” said Timothy, and grinned.

  * * *

  Todd woke early, remembered the dream, shuddered, shrugged, and went downstairs to make coffee. He put Behm’s prints back in their envelope—that could all be dealt with later—and picked up the phone in the hall to call Sara. Then he hesitated. He picked up the envelope and spread the photos out on the table again.

  There was something here he was missing. Todd was sure of it. But what? Todd looked from print to print. Janis outside Flagg’s. Janis outside Laura’s Place. Janis getting into her car… Then it came to him. They were all Janis. But Behm had been clear: Janis was seeing someone else. So why wasn’t the other person in the photos?

  Todd was about to pick up the phone when it rang. He answered it at once.

  “Hello, Milstead residence, Todd Milstead speaking?”

  It was a woman. She sounded breathless.

  “Mr. Milstead, this is Nora Franklyn.”

  “Hi.”

  “From Franklyn and Sullivan.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “The publishers. You sent us your manuscript? All My Colors.”

  “Oh, right. Did I not put a return address on the packet?”

  “Mr. Milstead, we are very excited about All My Colors and we’d like you to come to New York to discuss it.”

  Todd held the phone out like it was a tiny crying baby.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  Now Nora Franklyn was sounding slightly less breathless and slightly more tetchy, like a bringer of good news who feels that her good news-bringing is not getting the overwhelming joyful response that it deserves.

  “Mr. Milstead, we feel that All My Colors is an extremely saleable work. I’ve already taken the liberty of showing it to one or two of my colleagues and I can confirm that they think the same as we do.”

  “Okay,” said Todd, who wasn’t so much lost for words as abandoned by words in a deep forest and left to the wolves. “I—when can you—when do you want to see me?”

  “Tomorrow would be great,” said Nora. “My secretary will call you with the details.”

  “New York tomorrow?” said Todd. “Okay,” he added, again.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Milstead. It’s going to be a real pleasure working with you,” said Nora Franklyn, and she put the phone down.

  Todd continued to stare at the telephone receiver for several minutes, until eventually his arm began to ache and he had to put it down again.

  FOUR

  Sara drove Todd to the airport.

  “I am nervous,” Todd admitted.

  “Don’t be,” Sara said. “They want your book, don’t they? Your book,” she teased, “that you wrote without telling anyone.”

  “I was going to tell someone,” said Todd. “I just—didn’t know if it would turn out.”

  “All that time, working on it,” Sara said, marveling. “And all the time during the Saturday nights with the boys and all the trouble with Janis. No wonder you were kind of tetchy.”

  “Tetchy’s one word for it,” Todd said.

  “Yeah well, I don’t have time to list all the other words for it.” Sara smiled. Todd tried to smile back.

  “Todd,” said Sara. She put her hands on his shoulders. “You wrote this book, didn’t you?”

  “Excuse me?” Todd almost stammered.

  “It’s a rhetorical question.”

  “Yes, I wrote it,” said Todd. “Of course I did.”

  “Then go out there and get ’em.”

  Sara kissed him on the lips.

  * * *

  Todd’s flight was relatively short and not too uncomfortable. He declined a free drink and tried to nap instead. He had just succeeded when the plane began its descent.

  * * *

  Todd carried his sole bag through the concourse and was about to start looking for the transit stop when he saw a huge young man holding a piece of card with MILSTEAD written on it.

  “Is that for me?” he asked. “I’m Todd Milstead.”

  “Then it’s you,” said the huge young man. “Welcome to New York. I’m Barry.”

  Barry took Todd’s bag in a hand so large that the action reminded Todd of Gulliver picking up a barrel of beer. “Follow me,” he said.

  * * *

  “New York’s cold for the time of year,” said Barry. He wasn’t wrong. Everything around them was gray or white, except the sky, which was both. Barry led Todd to a large gray sedan, opened the trunk to let it swallow Todd’s bag, and then opened the sedan’s door for Todd.

  Todd slid inside. Barry started the engine and the sedan nosed its way out of the airport parking lot.

  “Ever been to New York before?” said Barry.

  “Few times,” said Todd, by which he meant he’d been once.

  “Great city, despite what they say,” Barry said.

  Todd had to take his word for that, as they were now enveloped in rolling clouds of sleet. When he could see anything, it was boarded up and covered in angular, sprawling graffiti.

  “Manhattan,” said Barry as they cruised past Times Square. Now Todd could see through the snow, not the wealthy socialites of his favorite noir movies, but an entire city of people swathed up in huge coats, heads wrapped in what looked like gray rags, huddled around braziers, walking through clouds of steam belched from subways, and all dodging around hundreds—no, thousands—of yellow taxi cabs. Todd wondered how it was that there were s
o many cabs and yet so few people were having any luck hailing one.

  Barry turned the sedan abruptly right and drew up outside a large building with a low gold-frosted frontage.

  “The Excelsior,” he said. “This is where you’ll be staying tonight.”

  “I had planned to go home this evening,” Todd said.

  “Well, I guess you’re welcome to do that,” Barry said, “but I’m told the rooms here are terribly nice. I’ll wait here while you check in and then I’ll take you to your meeting.”

  Todd gave Barry two dollars—he had no idea if that was too little or too much—and checked in. His room was large, beige and had the kind of bed you could swim in. There was a minibar and a room service menu. The TV had a cord coming out of it with a remote control device on the end. There was a robe in the bathroom and a lot of tiny things wrapped up in perfumed paper.

  The phone rang. Todd took a moment to work out that he was standing next to it.

  “Hello, Milstead res—Todd Milstead,” he said.

  “Mr. Milstead,” said Nora. “I just wanted to welcome you to New York and ask if your room is okay.”

  “I’d have preferred a suite,” said Todd. “I’m joking,” he added, and heard Nora breathe out. “It’s magnificent,” he said.

  “Wonderful,” said Nora. “We’ll see you very soon.”

  * * *

  Barry was waiting outside, massive on the sidewalk.

  “Where are we going?” said Todd.

  “The Schirmer Building,” Barry said. “It’s only a couple of blocks.”

  Twenty minutes later, after completing a journey slow enough to impress a funeral director, they were outside a tall gray-faced building with its own doorman. The handover of Todd from Barry to the doorman was smooth and efficient, and Todd found himself inside a moderately opulent lobby.

  “Hi, I’m Carrie,” said a woman, appearing from nowhere. She was tall, thin and nervous-looking with strong teeth, like a racehorse owner who’d spent too much time with her thoroughbreds. She was wearing, Todd noticed, a skinny tie and an Elvis Costello pin in her lapel.

  “Todd,” said Todd, and followed Carrie into the elevator.

  “I read All My Colors,” said Carrie. For a moment, Todd thought she meant the other All My Colors, the one he tried not to think about.

  “You’re a brilliant writer,” Carrie continued. She went red. Todd smiled graciously.