A Man of Many Parts

by Edward Kendrick

  When he got home, he showered and went to bed, awaking eight hours later to bright sunshine coming through the window. He stretched lazily, decided it was time to get up, and did so. When he looked in the bathroom mirror he figured he must have been more tired than he’d thought when he’d arrived at the condo as Mick’s face stared back at him. Not that it was a problem. He knew himself well enough to know he wouldn’t have gotten onto his private elevator if anyone had been around to see him.

  He changed his look, becoming Jackson, aka Jax, shaved, got dressed, and went into the kitchen to fix a late breakfast. Or early lunch, he decided when a glance at the clock told him it was almost eleven.

  After he ate, he went into his office behind the living room. The first thing he did after getting online was check for news stories on the jewelry store robbery. He smiled when he saw that Patterson and his accomplice had been apprehended. They had been filmed leaving after the robbery by the camera outside the store, exactly as he’d planned. He laughed aloud when the report said that the police didn’t believe Patterson’s claim that the third man had taken off with the sizable haul from the robbery. Some of the fingerprints lifted from the car belonged to one Calvin Morse, a known burglar. When he was located, he denied any knowledge of the robbery before stupidly, in Jax’s opinion, trying to escape by jumping off his second floor balcony. Guilty conscience about something, apparently. His body was now lying in the morgue, waiting for the next of kin to identify it. No trace of the jewelry was found on his person or in his apartment.

  Satisfied that he had, as always, pulled off the perfect double-cross, Jax went into his business email. “Not that I want to work, but I do have to keep up appearances,” he said under his breath. That wasn’t quite the truth. He liked taking a damaged book and restoring it to its original pristine condition—or as close as was possible.

  There was only one email, from a man by the name of Donovan Hayes.

  ‘Mr. Martin’ it began. ‘I am in need of your expertise. I purchased a book which, unbeknown to me at the time, had significant damage to two pages. If you are available and interested, please call me.’

  No description of the damage? Usually people will over-explain what turns out to be something quite easy, if time-consuming, to repair. Well, Mr. Hayes, let’s see if you’re legitimate, first.

  He always did a thorough check on a potential client who wanted his services. It wouldn’t do to walk into a trap because he was too trusting. It had happened once, when he had first set up his business, many years ago. He managed to escape unscathed, and had learned a valuable lesson in the process. Not all collectors were as honest and aboveboard as one could hope. But then neither am I, except when it comes to my business. Then I’m scrupulously honest.

  Two hours later, he was certain the man was legitimate. At that point he called him to find out precisely what Hayes needed him to do.

  “As I’m certain you know,” Hayes said once Jax had introduced himself as Jackson Martin, “I’m a book dealer with my own well-respected bookshop, and a collector of rare and antiquarian books.”

  I didn’t until I researched you. Jax refrained from saying that aloud. He already had the feeling, just from the tone of his voice, that Mr. Hayes was one of those people who thought everyone would know who he was the moment his name was mentioned. Instead, Jax lied, replying, “Your name is familiar to me.”

  “Very good. Now, to my problem. I bought several cartons of old books at an estate auction. Most of them will go directly onto the shelves of my shop. I expected that. I’ll make enough off them to help defray the cost of the two I was after for my personal collection.”

  “I’m presuming from what you said in your email, that you didn’t discover one was damaged until you got it home.”

  “Yes. The atlas.” There was a pause before Hayes continued. “I’ll admit, I was a bit precipitous in buying it without giving it a thorough examination first. However, the previous owner assured me that it was in close to pristine condition and from what I did see of it, he was correct. There was another bidder and I was determined to get my hands on it rather than let him outbid me.”

  “A true addict,” Jax said with a small laugh.

  “That I am,” Hayes replied. “Atlases are one of my passions. Be that as it may, when I got it home and went through it page by page I was horrified to find that someone, perhaps a child, had scribbled on two of the pages with what I can only believe was a crayon, and did it hard enough that one of the pages tore.”

  Jax frowned, because he knew any competent restorer could handle the problem and cost Mr. Hayes a good deal less than he would charge for the service. He said as much.

  “I want the best,” Hayes replied. “From what I’ve learned, that would be you.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Jax said dryly. “All right, I’ll take a look at it to see exactly what I’ll be dealing with. I can be out there the day after tomorrow, if that works for you.”

  “It does,” Hayes agreed, and then gave him his home address. “It’s a bit outside the city,” he added, as if it would make a difference.

  “All right. I’ll see you sometime on Monday. I’ll let you know exactly when after I’ve made flight arrangements.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Martin. I’ll be expecting you.”

  When they ended the call, Jax went online to bring up the address on a map site. A bit out of the city? I’d say that’s a misnomer. The house, which was more of an estate from what Jax could tell, was twenty miles outside the city, set on approximately seven acres of forested land. To get to it, he would have to take a four-lane highway out of the city when he arrived; get onto a smaller, two-lane one, and then onto what appeared to be a narrow, paved road that would take him the rest of the way. With that in mind, he made his plane reservations, as well as setting up a car rental when he got to the airport, both in a name other than his own. He would have a face, and body to match the ID by the time he got to the airport. Erring on the side of caution, but then when haven’t I?

  He would become Jackson Martin again on his drive to the estate, when he found a restroom at a gas station or a mall where he could safely change identities without anyone being the wiser.

  Chapter 2

  Donovan heard a car approaching the house and went to the living room windows to see who it was. Not that he thought it would be anyone other than Mr. Martin, the man he’d hired to restore the atlas to its original condition. He was still upset with himself for not having noticed what had been done to the volume before he’d made his final bid on it. “Being too competitive will be the death of me,” he murmured. “Or at least of my bank account.”

  He watched as the car came to a stop and the door opened. If asked, and who would, he was surprised when he saw the man who got out. He’d expected someone a good deal older. Mr. Martin, if it was him, was on the tall side, and muscular, with dark hair. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties.

  When the man walked up the stairs to the front door, Donovan gestured to Walton to let him in, which his estate manager did. Donovan heard the man introduce himself as Jackson Martin and Walton reply, “If you’ll follow me. Mr. Hayes is in the living room.”

  A moment later they came through the archway and Donovan joined them, saying to Mr. Martin, “I’m Donovan Hayes.”

  “Jackson Martin,” the restorer replied, looking around. “Impressive.”

  Donovan nodded. “I agree, Mr. Martin.”

  Martin’s eyebrows rose momentarily, but all he said was, “If you don’t mind, can we dispense with the formality and use first names instead?”

  “Of course. Do you prefer Jackson or Jack?”

  “Jackson. I presume no one calls you Don.”

  “That is a presumption, but for the most part you’re correct. Only those few I consider close friends do,” Donovan replied with a brief smile. “If you’ll give Walton the keys to your car, he’ll get your bags.”

  Jackson frowned. “I w
asn’t aware you intended on my staying here.”

  “Of course I do. It’s much more convenient than you traipsing back and forth to even the nearest motel, which is a good ten miles away.”

  With a shrug, Jackson handed Walton his keys. When he left, Jackson asked, “Is he the butler?”

  “The estate manager,” Donovan replied. “When necessary, he functions as my butler. Otherwise, he’s in charge of handling things that I don’t want to be bothered with, like managing my other employees.”

  “How many are there?”

  “The cook, two housemaids, the housekeeper, and the groundskeeper.”

  “No chauffeur?” Jackson asked with apparent sincerity.

  “I’m quite capable of driving myself,” Donovan replied, before realizing from Jackson’s grin that he’d been teasing, which annoyed him. “But enough of this,” he added when Walton appeared with Jackson’s bags. “Dinner is served at seven. It’s five, now, which will give you time to settle in. Afterward, I’ll show you my library and the atlas. Walton will take you to your room.”

  * * * *

  What have I gotten myself into? Jax wondered as he followed Walton up the long, curving staircase to the second floor hallway. He was tempted to ask Walton if Donovan was always so officious, but knew he probably wouldn’t get an honest answer.

  “Your room, Mr. Martin,” Walton said, opening the door at one end of the hallway. “Mr. Hayes’s suite is there.” He pointed to a set of double doors in the center of the hallway. “The stairs down to the kitchen are at the far end of the hallway from you. The other doors lead to more guestrooms.”

  The room was large, with bow windows overlooking the side and back yards of the house. Or mansion, I suppose, given its size. The walls were pale teal, the drapes a dark teal, while the rug and the spread on the queen-sized bed were white. The bedstead, dresser, and nightstands were a dark cherry. A black leather lounger was placed in the curve of the side window. Across from the foot of the bed, which was set in front of the other bow window, there was a large closet and the door to the bathroom—which was done in shades of teal granite and beige cabinetry.

  “If nothing else, he takes care of his guests,” Jax murmured once Walton had left. “That is if every guestroom is like this one,” which he suspected they were.

  He unpacked, then took advantage of the fact it was still a while until dinner to take a shower, after which he dressed in dark slacks and a blue dress shirt before making his way downstairs to the wide entryway.

  He saw Donovan in the living room, wearing slacks and a dress shirt as well, every strand of his blond hair carefully in place. When he saw him, Donovan beckoned for Jax to join him and asked, “Would you care for a drink before dinner?” Jax said he would—“Scotch on the rocks, if you’ve got it,”—at which point Donovan went to what appeared to be a cabinet along one wall. When he opened the doors, a well-appointed bar was revealed. Soon, Jax was sipping his scotch while Donovan drank a vodka martini.

  “So, what do you think of my home so far?” Donovan asked.

  “It’s definitely large, from what I can tell,” Jax replied. “Not that I’ve seen much of it.”

  “Let me give you a quick tour. We still have time before dinner.”

  The tour was exactly that—quick. Donovan took Jax through the living room into what he called the parlor, which consisted of several black leather sofas and armchairs, all facing a large-screen plasma television on the interior wall, with a set of shelves holding books and DVD cases on exterior wall between two bow windows that overlooked the lawn and trees in the side yard. Next to the parlor, behind the staircase, was Donovan’s office, well-lit with overhead lights to make up for the lack of windows. A door at the rear was for the library.

  Across the entryway from the living room was a large formal dining room. It was sparsely furnished, in Jax’s opinion. A dining table that could seat at least eight people sat in lonely splendor on Persian rug in the center of room. There were three sets of French doors which opened onto the side patio, with mahogany cabinets between them. There was also a long bow window facing the front yard.

  In the basement there was a fully equipped gym and a game room with a pool table, a round card table, and two antique pinball machines.

  “No dart board?” Jax asked with a trace of amusement. He laughed when Donovan opened the doors of a small cabinet on the wall next to a full bar to reveal one.

  “I’ll show you the library after dinner, which should be ready by now,” Donovan promised as they went up to the first floor.

  It was ready, and rather than eating in the formal dining room, Donovan led the way to a smaller and more comfortable one in a nook to one side of the kitchen. Before they sat, Donovan introduced Jax to Mrs. Greene, the cook. She was a pleasingly plump middle-aged woman who obviously knew what she was doing if dinner was any example. They started with clear onion soup, followed by an entrée of roast beef au jus, baked potatoes, and caramelized broccoli with garlic. Dessert was peach pie topped with vanilla ice cream.

  “That was excellent,” Jax proclaimed once the meal was over and he was finishing the last of his wine. “I can imagine what a full dinner party would be like.”

  Much to Jax’s surprise, Donovan replied, “I’ve never held one, so I wouldn’t know.” He refilled their wine glasses then took Jax into the library.

  It ran the full length of the back of the house, with tall, glass-fronted bookcases filling all four walls, broken only by the door from the office and bay windows overlooking the side lawns at either end. A six-drawer library table and four Windsor chairs sat in the center of the room. On the table, in front of one of the chairs, was what Jax presumed was the atlas that needed his attention.

  Before looking at it, however, he took time to check out some of the books in the cases, which, he noted, were climate-controlled for optimum temperature and humidity. Much of what he saw were collector’s items, some antiquarian—both first editions and otherwise—and all with fine bindings and high-quality paper. Others were limited editions from the early to mid-twentieth century. Two bookcases held Donovan’s collection of atlases dating, according to Donovan, from the early fifteen-hundreds to the late nineteen-eighties.

  Jax joined Donovan at the table when he was finished. Donovan opened the atlas to the crayon-damaged pages and Jax winced at the childish scribbling, even though he knew that restoring them to their original condition wouldn’t be a hard job, although it would be tedious. “I hope the child’s parent had several very stern words with him, or her.”

  “I would if it were me,” Donovan replied. “I might even have been tempted to cut the kid’s hands off so it wouldn’t happen again.”

  Jax chuckled. “I think that’s a bit extreme.”

  “Probably,” Donovan admitted. “Still, children should never be allowed anywhere near books that are collector’s items.”

  From the expression on his face, Jax had the impression Donovan was not overly fond of children under any circumstances.

  “You will be able to repair it, I hope,” Donovan said.

  “Yes. It might take a day or two, but when I’m finished, you’ll never know a crayon had touched the pages.”

  “Excellent.” Donovan closed the atlas before saying, “Now, if you don’t mind, I have something I need to do. Feel free to watch television or read. There’s a fairly decent collection of books in the parlor.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do one or the other, depending on what’s on TV.”

  Donovan walked with him to the parlor before heading back toward the kitchen area. As it was getting late, Jax chose a book which he took upstairs with him to read before going to bed.

  * * * *

  Jax spent much of Tuesday in the library, after eating breakfast alone in the small dining room. Wherever Donovan was, he didn’t bother to appear either for the morning meal or at lunchtime. That surprised Jax a bit as he’d figured his host—Or employer, I guess—was the kind of man who would ha
ve been watching over his shoulder to make certain he was doing what he’d been hired for. Then it occurred to him that Donovan was undoubtedly at his bookshop. The one he was certain I knew about, as if it was the only one in existence.

  He finished the first steps on restoring the atlas pages by mid-afternoon, leaving the process of repairing the tear until the following day. Then, because it was him and he disliked any damage to valuable books—or any books as far as that went—he did a more careful perusal of the tomes in the bookcases, looking for any evident damage to the covers. He found three that could use his expertise and decided to mention it to Donovan at dinner, if he showed up. For all he knew, he stayed in the city while he ran his shop, only returning home on the weekends.

  Leaving the library, Jax headed upstairs to change clothes and was halfway to the second floor when he heard footsteps coming down the hallway between the staircase and the kitchen. Peering over the railing, he saw Donovan. The man looked as if he’d been working in the yard, or doing something equally as messy. He was in his stockinged feet, carrying mud-caked boots, and wearing old jeans and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Seconds later, Walton came out of the office to join him.

  “How did it go?” Walton asked.

  “We rescued both of them. They’re at the…”

  The two men were almost to the bottom of the staircase, so Jax quickly, and quietly, continued up to his room, not wanting them to think he’d been eavesdropping.

  He chuckled softly. Which I was. Who was he rescuing? From the way he looked, whoever it was must have been…what? Kids who got lost? People who were in an auto accident or a fire? He wasn’t dressed like a first responder, but if he’s a volunteer…

  Possible, he supposed, although from the few interactions he’d had with Donovan, he found it hard to believe. He comes across as…entitled. Huge house, servants, a book collection worth more than the national debt. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it’s definitely worth close to a million or more. Sure, he inherited a lot of money and has invested well, at least from what I found out about him. And he has a well-respected bookshop that must bring in even more money, whether he runs it personally or not. From the way he was dressed and what he told Walton, I’m quite certain he wasn’t there today. I suppose I could ask, but then he’d know I overheard what he said to Walton.