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

by Vin Suprynowicz

  “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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  STILL WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  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?”

  “Not exactly. She kept saying we need to hire at least one new body, but when I talked about trying to find a new manager, she got pretty chilly, told me I could do that if I wanted. Obviously, it would be better to promote from within, but who is there, other than Marian herself?”

  “Why would you need to look any further?”

  “Marian? In charge?”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s already handling all the online listings and sales, the online buying program, whatever payroll and accounting we don’t farm out.”

  “In other words, she’s already managing the most lucrative and complicated part of the business, anyway.”

  “She’d be swamped.”

  “So you’ll tell her to hire someone who can learn fast, not some teen-ager but an assistant manager, and she’ll just have to delegate more. Right? Other people can learn to price, at least the under-fifty-dollar stuff. The rest they can leave for you, till they show they can handle it.”

  “Chantal, we’re talking about Marian managing other people.”

  “As in, ‘manage’ starts with the word ‘man,’ so it can only be done by someone with really big testicles?”

  “Her personality is not terribly forceful. She’s a little . . .”

  “Mousy.”

  “I guess.”

  “You never call her that insulting nickname, which I’ve always appreciated. Sure, she’d have a different management style. Do you find her all wishy-washy and indecisive when the chance crops up to buy a thousand-dollar book for sixty dollars?”

  “Hell no.”

  “She takes the chance, and then bites the bullet, no tears spilled when she occasionally gets taken?”

  “Marian doesn’t get taken. If they listed inaccurately we return for a full refund, or there’s hell to pay with the listing service.”

  “Hell to pay . . . from a little mouse? You cannot seriously be thinking about hiring some man from outside, and having Marian train him to become her new boss. It’s not 1947. Besides, what if you ended up with someone who hates cats, or doesn’t know Larry McMurtry from Terence McKenna?”

  “OK. You’re right. But if she can’t do it, we risk losing her altogether. Nobody likes to be demoted.”

  “How can someone show you how they handle responsibility if you don’t give them responsibility? Leaving aside the fact that she’s already practically running the place, by default.”

  “OK, I’ll offer it to her.”

  “She’ll blossom.”

  “You’re smart for your age.”

  “Or else I’d never have had a chance with you.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to pay her almost as much as Bob.”

  “You’re such a joker. Who’s cooking supper, or are we walking down the hill?”

  “Just hot tea, I’m afraid. No solid food tonight, if you’re going to join me tomorrow.”

  “Join you?”

  “I’m going to take a first stab at solving this one.”

  “You’re going to cross over.”

  “We’re going to cross the horizon tomorrow, yes.”

  “I figured it would take longer before you were ready.”

  “Rashid may be in danger; we can’t wait any longer.”

  “And I can join you, just like that?”

  “Only if you want. You can still say no, now, or even in the morning.”

  “Of course I want. . . . Matthew, what happened?”

  “Things change.”

  “When I made a fuss about your shutting me out, we almost . . . Is that it? Because I stopped pushing?”

  “Nothing stands still, Chantal. You’re ready to take this step now, if you want. A certain openness is required. A wish too quickly fulfilled tends to be tossed aside as a thing of little value. The old Chantal treated these things like a check-list she had to get through as fast as possible. If I told her she wasn’t ready, that crossing this horizon can change your life forever, that the old-timers required an apprentice to spend years sweeping the floors and stirring the pots, she exploded. It’s not about breaking your spirit, I’d never want to do that, even if it were possible. But things have to be done in their own time. You’re more ready to accept that now, without anger.”

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  “You are.”

  “Even without sweeping the floors for seven years?”

  “Aging spirit guides are also sometimes wrong, and capable of being shown the error of their ways.”

  “OK then.”

  “OK.”

  * * *

  Marian had been about ready to lock up when she saw Les striding back from his late lunch with
Jackson and the Mighty Quinn, trailing two teen-age fans of the female persuasion — the micro-bopper who’d been looking for him earlier, now accompanied by a chubbier pal. The threesome came in, the bopperettes giggling and gushing over his Blue Moon novels, the one with the long legs hovering close enough to make sure he could catch her scent — but without making any discernible move to actually buy a book, Marian noticed.

  Les had told them it was closing time, but they seemed oblivious.

  “Blue Moon for the Misbegotten was so radical,” one fawned. “Where do you ever come up with the titles?”

  “I really enjoyed the one set in Louisiana, where he takes on the Cajun vampire,” gushed the other one. “What was that one called?”

  “I believe that was Blue Moon on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  “That’s it. How did you ever come up with that scene where the count got away by diving into that huge cauldron of steaming gumbo? I loved that.”

  Since allowing them to take Les out for a drink, which was where this was headed, would put him on the road to committing several statutory felonies, Marian finally got sick of making herself look busy and started turning out the lights, at which point the microboppers finally took the hint and left, after the prettier one slipped Les her phone number.

  “I don’t know if your younger fans even get the basic point of the books,” she said as Les helped check the back doors.

  “The basic point?”

  “That the Count can never keep up with the bloodshed of the mortals around him; the politicians and their police forces spill so much blood that his own contributions are a drop in the bucket.”

  “Yes. That was the original idea. You make it sound like the Blue Moon books are actually worthy of grownup attention.”

  The mouse smiled. It changed her whole appearance. “I keep telling you I’m a big fan.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to take me out and buy me a glass of wine?” Les asked.