by Philip Kerr
“Er, yes,” said Billy.
“Just think of all the trees we can save if we don’t have paper bags,” said Miss Danvers.
Billy nodded and then looked uncertainly at the book she had just bought. This was eight hundred pages long. A real blockbuster, thought Billy.
Mr. Stoker seemed to guess what Billy was thinking and said, “Ah yes, but think how many trees might be saved if Esteban Rex never wrote another book.” He chuckled. “That really would save some trees. Not to mention one’s arms. Esteban Rex must write the heaviest books in the world. Don’t you think so, Billy?”
Without thinking, Billy agreed with Mr. Stoker, which seemed to make Miss Danvers very cross indeed because she snatched up her book and her ten dollars and one cent change and said, “Well, really. I can go somewhere else and be insulted, you know.”
Billy had no idea what this meant and watched her leaving the shop with horror.
“What did I say?” he asked Mr. Stoker.
“Oh, forget about her,” said Mr. Stoker. “She’s always been a bit touchy.”
He handed Billy his purchases: a copy of Deacon Wordz’s book Sick Schloss, and On Legs of Lightning by Phyllis P. T. Barnum.
Billy didn’t think much of either of them, but of course he was too polite to tell Mr. Stoker. Besides, that wouldn’t have been good business. He’d noticed that whenever Mr. Rapscallion sold a book, he always said how good it was even when Billy knew Mr. Rapscallion thought that the book wasn’t very good at all. In the beginning he thought that this was dishonest, until Mr. Rapscallion had told him that the first principle of running a shop was that “the customer is always right.”
“What, even when he’s wrong?”
Mr. Rapscallion had shaken his head. “The customer is never wrong,” he said.
“Yes, but what if he is?” asked Billy.
But Mr. Rapscallion had just kept on shaking his head. “It’s the trading policy of all good shops that they should always put the customer first in all situations. And that includes a situation when he’s talking out of his hat.”
“So what if the customer wanted Sick Schloss but insisted that it had been written by Esteban Rex?” Billy had asked Mr. Rapscallion. “Then what do you do?”
“You do what you can,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “You do what you can without making the lunkheaded customer feel small or stupid.”
“And if they are small or stupid?” Billy had asked him. “What then?”
Mr. Rapscallion started to shake his head again, and, inspired, Billy thought of an example of a customer Mr. Rapscallion could hardly disagree was small and stupid.
“What if the customer was Wilson Dirtbag?” he asked, giving the name of one of the bad children who had painted the mummy pink in the Curse of the Pharaohs room. And then some others: “Or Kate Ramsbottom? Or Lloyd Sputum? What if they were the customers? Are they always right?”
Mr. Rapscallion didn’t have an answer for Billy.
“How much do I owe you?” asked Mr. Stoker.
“One hundred and twenty-one dollars,” said Billy. The rest of the boy’s mind was still occupied with the foolish notion that the customer is always right even when he’s wrong. And that was probably why he was standing immediately behind the Brown Bomber when he hit the cash register’s one-hundred-dollar key.
The drawer exploded out of the machine like a team of horses in a chariot race and almost took Billy’s young head off.
“Yikes!” he said, finding himself on the floor. And, looking up, he saw Mr. Stoker peering over the counter to see if he was injured.
“Are you all right, young fellow me lad?” asked Mr. Stoker.
“Yes,” said Billy, picking himself up. “I think so.” He let out a nervous breath. “Phew! That was close.”
“Close? Close? It looked like yon drawer went straight through you,” said Mr. Stoker. “So it did.”
“I guess I ducked just in time.” Billy grinned sheepishly.
“It’s a miracle, so it is. You ask me, you’re very lucky to be alive.”
“I don’t think it was that bad.”
“That fool Rapscallion needs to get a proper cash register. Sure, this one belongs in a police museum. Take my word. It could have killed you, son, and no mistake.”
“Mr. Rapscallion did warn me,” said Billy. “About the cash register.”
“You might need this.” Mr. Stoker handed Billy his business card. “In case you should wish to sue your employer. I’m a lawyer, you know.”
“Sue?” Billy shrugged. “Why would I want to sue?”
“Nervous shock,” suggested Mr. Stoker. “Or a possible whiplash injury from having to duck that drawer so quickly. My advice would be to see a doctor and have yourself checked out, as soon as possible. Just in case you sustained some kind of injury you don’t yet know about.”
“I’ve seen enough doctors to last me a lifetime,” said Billy. “Besides, Mr. Rapscallion’s not my employer. He’s my friend.”
Mr. Stoker nodded. “Well then, we’ll say no more about it, eh?”
“Yes, that would be best,” said Billy. “Honestly, I’m fine.”
And when the sale was concluded, Mr. Stoker left the shop.
Ten minutes later Mr. Rapscallion returned from the bank.
“Sell any books?”
“Yes, I sold…a few,” said Billy, and recited the three titles that had been sold to Miss Danvers and Mr. Stoker.
“Excellent,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
“Your daughter dropped by,” added Billy.
“Oh yeah?” Mr. Rapscallion tried to look indifferent. “What did she want? Money, I guess. It certainly couldn’t have been that she came in here because she wanted to buy a book.”
“She didn’t say what she wanted,” said Billy.
“That figures.”
“I liked her. She was…pretty.”
“You think?”
“Definitely.”
“Did anything else happen while I was out?”
“No.” Billy grinned. “Nothing at all.”
Before very long, Mr. Rapscallion was frequently relying on Billy to mind the store while he went to the bank or to get a latte from the coffee shop. Sometimes he got one for Billy, too.
One day, the mailwoman, whose name was Janine Delafons, delivered a rather formal-looking envelope on which, in very fine handwriting of the kind for which you really need a good fountain pen, was Mr. Rapscallion’s full name and address:
REXFORD ERASMUS RAPSCALLION THE THIRD
C/O THE HAUNTED HOUSE OF BOOKS
65 HIGH STREET, HITCHCOCK, MA 01779
“I wouldn’t have ever guessed that Erasmus was his middle name,” admitted Janine.
A little later on, Billy watched Mr. Rapscallion come behind the cash register and open the envelope.
“What is it?” he asked.
Mr. Rapscallion showed him a letter and a large square of stiff card with a lot of embossed writing and a golden edge.
“It’s an invitation,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “To the B.A.B. dinner. They want me to make a speech about independent bookselling.”
“What’s the B.A.B.?” asked Billy.
“It stands for Bankrupt American Booksellers,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
Billy frowned. “You’re not bankrupt,” he said. “At least not yet. So why have you been invited?”
“Good question,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For sounding like you were surprised I should get myself invited to such an event. Except, of course, that I was joking. It’s actually called the Board of American Booksellers. Not the Bankrupt American Booksellers, although I sometimes think it should be. Every time I go to the dinner, I think that everyone there is on the edge of going out of business.”
Mr. Rapscallion looked thoughtful for a moment, which meant he kept on gathering his ponytail and drawing its length through one of his heavily ringed hands.
/> “You know, that gives me an idea,” he said. “This is a ticket for two people. Me and a guest. And I don’t have anyone else to take. Last year I hardly wanted to go myself. But I guess I’ll have to go because they seem to want me to make a speech. And, well, since you’ve been working here, you do kind of qualify as an American bookseller. So how would you like to go along with me, Billy?”
“Me?”
“Well, why not?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to take your own daughter? Altaira?”
“Are you kidding? She’d hate it. It was Altaira who first started calling the B.A.B. the Bankrupt American Booksellers in the first place. She thinks the whole business is on the edge of going belly-up.”
“Or a lady? Miss Danvers, for instance?”
“Miss Danvers?” Mr. Rapscallion nearly choked. “That nutcase? I’d rather ask a skunk to tea than take her along.”
“Then what about Janine, the mailwoman? She’s attractive.”
“True.” Mr. Rapscallion looked embarrassed. “But if I was going to ask her, then it’s plain I’d actually have to ask her, if you know what I mean. And the fact of the matter is that I just don’t have the nerve to ask her anything except what kind of day she’s had. Besides, she’s not even a bookseller, so I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation. Do you want to come to the stupid dinner, or not?”
“Yes, all right,” said Billy.
“Of course, as a minor you’ll have to get permission from your parents,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
“I’ll get my dad to write you a letter,” said Billy. “Will that do?”
Mr. Rapscallion nodded. “Good, well, that’s settled. Now all I have to do is think what the heck I’m going to talk about. In my speech.” He shrugged. “To that extent, it’s like real life, I guess.”
“Can I see the invitation?” asked Billy.
“Sure.” Mr. Rapscallion handed it over.
“Oh my god,” said Billy. “You didn’t tell me that it’s in Kansas City. This is so great.”
“It’s always in Kansas City. At the public library.”
“You don’t understand. I’ve never been out of Hitchcock in my life. I’ve never even been to Boston, and that’s just nineteen miles away. This is so fantastic.”
Mr. Rapscallion winced. “No more numbers, please. I told you. I’ve always had a thing about numbers.”
But Billy was so excited about the idea of going to Kansas City he had quite forgotten Mr. Rapscallion’s fear of numbers. Besides, he didn’t really understand how anyone could ever be nervous of numbers. Especially in the Haunted House of Books.
“How far away is Kansas City?” he asked unwittingly. “Exactly.”
Mr. Rapscallion closed his eyes and looked weary. “Now you’ve done it, Billy.”
“Done what? All I asked was the distance between Hitchcock and Kansas City.”
“Let me see now.” Mr. Rapscallion started counting on his fingers. “Boston is one hour ahead of Kansas City. One thousand and eighty-nine nautical miles. Except of course that we can’t go there by ship. On account of how there’s no water between here and Kansas City. Not enough to put a ship in, anyway. So we’ll be going west. By plane.”
“We’re actually going on a plane?” Billy gasped.
“We’re certainly not going by covered wagon,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
“I’ve never been on a plane,” said Billy. “I’d better get myself some ID.”
Mr. Rapscallion was still counting, madly. “That means we’ll have to take account of the curvature of the earth. And using the great circle formula to compute the air travel mileage, as the crow flies, so to speak, I should say the distance is exactly one thousand two hundred and fifty-three miles. Which will take us three hours and twenty-seven minutes. That’s aboard a Boeing 707, which normally seats one hundred and fifty passengers. But only one hundred and thirty-nine on a Boeing 757-400.”
“It’s okay,” said Billy. “It’s okay. I just wanted to know how far it was. You can stop now.”
“Shh, let me finish,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Now then. The total carbon footprint for a flight on the 707 from Boston to Kansas City is seven hundred and two pounds of CO2. That will give us each a carbon footprint of around four and a half pounds of CO2, so call it nine, there and back. That’s assuming the plane is full, mind. So it could be more.”
“Thanks,” said Billy. “I think you’ve answered my question. Really.”
“You asked me this, Billy. This is your fault. Of course, the flight time ought to be less than that. I mean, if you were to assume a flight speed of five hundred miles an hour—not unreasonable on a 757—it ought to be just two and a half hours. But they fly slow to save on fuel. So you can’t make that assumption.”
“Hello-oh,” said Billy. “Mr. Rapscallion, sir. You can shut up now.”
Mr. Rapscallion was starting to look desperate. He nodded at the Brown Bomber. “Hit the key, Billy.” He said this even as he started off on yet another calculation. “Incidentally, Kansas produced a record 492.2 million bushels of wheat last year and that’s enough to make 35.9 billion loaves of bread. Of course if we drove there it would take us twenty-two hours and forty-seven minutes,” added Mr. Rapscallion. “Assuming an average driving speed of fifty-five miles per hour. Hit the key on the Brown Bomber, Billy. At six dollars a gallon for gas, that means—”
“But the drawer will hit you,” protested Billy.
“—in a car like mine, that gets twenty-five miles to the gallon, at a steady fifty-five, we’ll use approximately fifty gallons of gas, which means that we’ll spend around three hundred dollars in gas to get to Kansas City. And three hundred back again, which is six hundred dollars; and we would spend forty-five and one-half hours driving, in total, spending thirteen dollars an hour on fuel….For Pete’s sake, hit the key, Billy!”
Billy hit the key on the Brown Bomber. The drawer came flying out of the cash register like an express train and struck Mr. Rapscallion square in the tummy like a car trapped on a level crossing. The impact carried him halfway across the shop and dumped him on his behind at the front door, where he sat like a pile of junk mail.
“For every locked mind there’s a key to find,” said Mr. Rapscallion, rubbing his stomach in pain.
Billy rushed to Mr. Rapscallion’s side. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I think I’ll live,” said Mr. Rapscallion, standing up. “Thanks for helping me out there, kid. Once I get started on those numbers, it’s like I get trapped inside an electronic calculator and I have to keep doing the math on things. Stupid things. Once I get going, I have to see the process right through to the end. Until I can’t think of any other numbers to calculate. Sometimes that can take days. So it’s quicker if something hits me. That breaks the chain of concentration, see?”
“There was a boy in my class at school who was a bit like that,” said Billy. “People used to say he had an allergy to asparagus. But if you ask me, that guy would eat anything.”
Mr. Rapscallion smiled. “Sounds to me like what he actually had was Asperger’s syndrome.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, that makes more sense, doesn’t it? Dumb of me.”
“Forget about it. Anyway, that’s what I have. A mild form of A.S. It just means that sometimes I appear to be a little eccentric.”
“If you ask me, the world would be a pretty boring place if everyone was the same. So three cheers for eccentricity. That’s what I say.”
“You’re right,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “If it wasn’t for eccentricity, we’d have to light the streets with gas.”
The next day Mr. Rapscallion left Billy in charge of the shop for a whole morning while he went to the dentist. When, an hour later, the front door opened, it was to admit neither a customer nor Mr. Rapscallion but his daughter, Altaira, who preferred to be called Redford.
“You seem to have a knack for coming in here when your father is out,” Billy told her. “He’s gone to the dentist and won’t b
e back until lunchtime.”
“That’s all right,” said Redford. “As a matter of fact, it was you I came to see, not my dad.”
Which was true, only she hadn’t actually realized this until she said it. There was something about Billy she liked a lot. He wasn’t the same as other boys she had met. She thought that most of them were dorks, always fooling around and saying stupid things. But Billy was more thoughtful than them. Sensitive, too. She appreciated that.
“Oh?” Billy blushed and nervously smiled a little ghost of a smile. “That’s nice. Er, what can I do for you, Altaira? I mean Redford.”
“Nothing.” Redford bridled a little with embarrassment. “Do I need a reason for wanting to talk to you?”
“No, of course not.”
“I was passing, okay? I thought I could just hang out here awhile with you.”
“Okay.” Billy shrugged. “That’d be great.”
“Only don’t make the mistake of thinking I have nothing else to do with my time. I do. I’m actually a very busy person. In that respect I’m quite like my dad. At least that’s what my mother tells me.”
“Right.”
“As a matter of fact, I knew he wouldn’t be here,” said Redford. “You see, my mom is also my dad’s dentist. I know that sounds weird, given that they’re not actually married anymore. But this is a small town and good dentists are kind of few and far between. Personally, I wouldn’t care for the idea of having my ex-wife in charge of my dental procedures. I would be too worried that she might take the opportunity of inflicting some extra pain on me. Then again, if I was my mom I might find that idea just too tempting to resist.”
Billy smiled. “You’ve got such a lot of imagination it makes me wonder that you don’t like reading.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, but did he tell you why?”
“No. But he kind of implied that it’s because you hate him.”
“That is so not true. And typical of my dad to believe he’s the reason. He’s not. You want to know the truth?”
“Sure.” Billy shrugged. “If you want to tell me.”
“The fact is, it was one particular book in this shop that put me off reading, forever,” explained Redford.