Finders Keepers (20 page)

Drew Halliday clicked on this and needed to click no farther, at least to begin with. Above the thumbnail bios was a photo of the staff, roughly two dozen in all, gathered on the library lawn. The statue of Horace Garner, open book in hand, loomed behind them. They were all smiles, including his boy, sans moustache and bogus spectacles. Second row, third from the left. According to the bio, young Mr. Peter Saubers was a student at Northfield High, currently working part-time. He hoped to major in English, with a minor in Library Science.

Drew continued his researches, aided by the fairly unusual surname. He was sweating lightly, and why not? Six notebooks already seemed like a pittance, a tease.
All
of them—some containing a fourth Jimmy Gold novel, if his psycho friend had been right all those years ago—might be worth as much as fifty million dollars, if they were broken up and sold to different collectors. The fourth Jimmy Gold alone might fetch twenty. And with Morrie Bellamy safely tucked away in prison, all that stood in his way was one teenage boy who couldn't even grow a proper moustache.

10

William the Waiter returns with Drew's check, and Drew tucks his American Express card into the leather folder. It will not be refused, he's confident of that. He's less sure about the other two
cards, but he keeps the Amex relatively clean, because it's the one he uses in business transactions.

Business hasn't been so good over the last few years, although God knew it
should
have been. It should have been terrific, especially between 2008 and 2012, when the American economy fell into a sinkhole and couldn't seem to climb back out. In such times the value of precious commodities—real things, as opposed to computer boops and bytes on the New York Stock Exchange—always went up. Gold and diamonds, yes, but also art, antiques, and rare books. Fucking Michael Jarrett in KC is now driving a Porsche. Drew has seen it on his Facebook page.

His thoughts turn to his second meeting with Peter Saubers. He wishes the kid hadn't found out about the third mortgage; that had been a turning point. Maybe
the
turning point.

Drew's financial woes go back to that damned James Agee book,
Let Us Now Praise Famous Men
. Gorgeous copy, mint condition, signed by Agee
and
Walker Evans, the man who'd taken the photographs. How was Drew supposed to know it had been stolen?

All right, he probably
did
know, certainly all the red flags were there and flying briskly, and he should have steered clear, but the seller had had no idea of the volume's actual worth, and Drew had let down his guard a little. Not enough to get fined or thrown in jail, and thank Christ for that, but the results have been long-term. Ever since 1999 he's carried a certain
aroma
with him to every convention, symposium, and book auction. Reputable dealers and buyers tend to give him a miss, unless—here is the irony—they've got something just a teensy bit sketchy they'd like to turn over for a quick profit. Sometimes when he can't sleep, Drew thinks, They are pushing me to the dark side. It's not my fault. Really, I'm the victim here.

All of which makes Peter Saubers even more important.

William comes back with the leather folder, face solemn. Drew doesn't like that. Maybe the card has been refused after all. Then his favorite waiter smiles, and Drew releases the breath he's been holding in a soft sigh.

“Thanks, Mr. Halliday. Always great to see you.”

“Likewise, William. Likewise, I'm sure.” He signs with a flourish and slides his Amex—a bit bowed but not broken—back into his wallet.

On the street, walking toward his shop (the thought that he might be waddling never crosses his mind), his thoughts turn to the boy's second visit, which went
fairly
well, but not nearly as well as Drew had hoped and expected. At their first meeting, the boy had been so uneasy that Drew worried he might be tempted to destroy the priceless trove of manuscript he'd stumbled across. But the glow in his eyes had argued against that, especially when he talked about that second photocopy, with its drunken ramblings about the critics.

It's alive,
Saubers had said.
That's what I think
.

And can the boy kill it? Drew asks himself as he enters his shop and turns the sign from CLOSED to OPEN. I don't think so. Any more than he could let the authorities take all that treasure away, despite his threats.

Tomorrow is Friday. The boy has promised to come in immediately after school so they can conclude their business. The boy thinks it will be a negotiating session. He thinks he's still holding some cards. Perhaps he is . . . but Drew's are higher.

The light on his answering machine is blinking. It's probably someone wanting to sell him insurance or an extended warranty on his little car (the idea of Jarrett driving a Porsche around Kansas City pinches momentarily at his ego), but you can never tell until you check. Millions are within his reach, but until they are actually in his grasp, it's business as usual.

Drew goes to see who called while he was having his lunch, and recognizes Saubers's voice from the first word.

His fists clench as he listens.

11

When the artist formerly known as Hawkins came in on the Friday following his first visit, the moustache was a trifle fuller but his step was just as tentative—a shy animal approaching a bit of tasty bait. By then Drew had learned a great deal about him and his family. And about the notebook pages, those too. Three different computer apps had confirmed that the letter to Flannery O'Connor and the writing on the photocopies were the work of the same man. Two of these apps compared handwriting. The third—not entirely reliable, given the small size of the scanned-in samples—pointed out certain stylistic similarities, most of which the boy had already seen. These results were tools laid by for the time when Drew would approach prospective buyers. He himself had no doubts, having seen one of the notebooks with his own eyes thirty-six years ago, on a table outside the Happy Cup.

“Hello,” Drew said. This time he didn't offer to shake hands.

“Hi.”

“You didn't bring the notebooks.”

“I need a number from you first. You said you'd make some calls.”

Drew had made none. It was still far too early for that. “If you recall, I gave
you
a number. I said your end would come to thirty thousand dollars.”

The boy shook his head. “That's not enough. And sixty-forty isn't enough, either. It would have to be seventy-thirty. I'm not stupid. I know what I have.”

“I know things, too. Your real name is Peter Saubers. You don't go to City College; you go to Northfield High and work part-time at the Garner Street Library.”

The boy's eyes widened. His mouth fell open. He actually swayed on his feet, and for a moment Drew thought he might faint.

“How—”

“The book you brought.
Dispatches from Olympus
. I recognized the Reference Room security sticker. After that it was easy. I even know where you live—on Sycamore Street.” Which made perfect, even divine sense. Morris Bellamy had lived on Sycamore Street, in the same house. Drew had never been there—because Morris didn't want him to meet his vampire of a mother, Drew suspected—but city records proved it. Had the notebooks been hidden behind a wall in the basement, or buried beneath the floor of the garage? Drew was betting it was one or the other.

He leaned forward as far forward as his paunch would allow and engaged the boy's dismayed eyes.

“Here's some more. Your father was seriously injured in the City Center Massacre back in '09. He was there because he became unemployed after the downturn in '08. There was a feature story in the Sunday paper a couple of years ago, about how some of the people who survived were doing. I looked it up, and it made for interesting reading. Your family moved to the North Side after your father got hurt, which must have been a considerable comedown, but you Sauberses landed on your feet. A nip here and a tuck there with just your mom working, but plenty of people did worse. American success story. Get knocked down? Arise, brush yourself off, and get back in the race! Except the story never really said how your family managed that. Did it?”

The boy wet his lips, tried to speak, couldn't, cleared his throat, tried again. “I'm leaving. Coming here was a big mistake.”

He turned away from the desk.

“Peter, if you walk out that door, I can just about guarantee you'll be in jail by tonight. What a shame that would be, with your whole life ahead of you.”

Saubers turned back, eyes wide, mouth open and trembling.

“I researched the Rothstein killing, too. The police believed that the thieves who murdered him only took the notebooks because they were in his safe along with his money. According to the theory, they broke in for what thieves usually break in for, which is cash. Plenty of people in the town where he lived knew the old guy kept cash in the house, maybe a lot of it. Those stories circulated in Talbot Corners for years. Finally the wrong someones decided to find out if the stories were true. And they were, weren't they?”

Saubers returned to the desk. Slowly. Step by step.

“You found his stolen notebooks, but you also found some stolen money, that's what I think. Enough to keep your family solvent until your dad could get back on his feet again. Literally on his feet, because the story said he was busted up quite badly. Do your folks know, Peter? Are they in on it? Did Mom and Dad send you here to sell the notebooks now that the money's gone?”

Most of this was guesswork—if Morris had said anything about money that day outside the Happy Cup, Drew couldn't remember it—but he observed each of his guesses hit home like hard punches to the face and midsection. Drew felt any detective's delight in seeing he had followed a true trail.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” The boy sounded more like a phone answering machine than a human being.

“And as for there only being six notebooks, that really doesn't compute. Rothstein went dark in 1960, after publishing his last short story in
The New Yorker
. He was murdered in 1978. Hard to
believe he only filled six eighty-page notebooks in eighteen years. I bet there were more. A
lot
more.”

“You can't prove anything.” Still in that same robotic monotone. Saubers was teetering; two or three more punches and he'd fall. It was rather thrilling.

“What would the police find if they came to your house with a search warrant, my young friend?”

Instead of falling, Saubers pulled himself together. If it hadn't been so annoying, it would have been admirable. “What about you, Mr. Halliday? You've already been in trouble once about selling what wasn't yours to sell.”

Okay, that was a hit . . . but only a glancing blow. Drew nodded cheerfully.

“It's why you came to me, isn't it? You found out about the Agee business and thought I might help you do something illegal. Only my hands were clean then and they're clean now.” He spread them to demonstrate. “I'd say I took some time to make sure that what you were trying to sell was the real deal, and once I was, I did my civic duty and called the police.”

“But that's not true! It's not and you know it!”

Welcome to the real world, Peter, Drew thought. He said nothing, just let the kid explore the box he was in.

“I could burn them.” Saubers seemed to be speaking to himself rather than Drew, trying the idea on for size. “I could go h . . . to where they are, and just burn them.”

“How many are there? Eighty? A hundred and twenty? A hundred and
forty
? They'd find residue, son. The ashes. Even if they didn't, I have the photocopied pages. They'd start asking questions about just how your family
did
manage to get through the big recession as well as it did, especially with your father's injuries and all the medical bills. I think a competent accountant
might find that your family's outlay extended its income by quite a bit.”

Drew had no idea if this was true, but the kid didn't, either. He was close to panic now, and that was good. Panicked people never thought clearly.

“There's no proof.” Saubers could hardly talk above a whisper. “The money is gone.”

“I'm sure it is, or you wouldn't be here. But the financial trail remains. And who will follow it besides the police? The IRS! Who knows, Peter, maybe your mother and dad can also go to jail, for tax evasion. That would leave your sister—Tina, I believe?—all alone, but perhaps she has a kind old auntie she can live with until your folks get out.”

“What do you want?”

“Don't be dense. I want the notebooks.
All
of them.”

“If I give them to you, what do I get?”

“The knowledge that you're free and clear. Which, given your situation, is priceless.”

“Are you
serious
?”

“Son—”

“Don't call me that!” The boy clenched his fists.

“Peter, think it through. If you refuse to turn the notebooks over to me, I'm going to turn
you
over to the police. But once you hand them over, my hold on you vanishes, because I have received stolen property. You'll be safe.”

While he spoke, Drew's right index finger hovered near the silent alarm button beneath his desk. Pushing it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but he didn't like those clenched fists. In his panic, it might occur to Saubers that there was one other way to shut Drew Halliday's mouth. They were currently being recorded on security video, but the boy might not have realized that.

“And you walk away with hundreds and thousands of dollars,” Saubers said bitterly. “Maybe even millions.”

“You got your family through a tough time,” Drew said. He thought of adding
why be greedy
, but under the circumstances, that might sound a little . . . off. “I think you should be content with that.”