Finders Keepers (28 page)

“Yes, and they say tomorrow's going to be even hotter. Can I help you with something special?”

“Just browsing. Although . . . I
have
been looking for a rather rare book called
The Executioners
. It's by a mystery novelist named John D. MacDonald.” MacDonald's books were very popular in the prison library.

“Know him well!” Andy says jovially. “Wrote all those Travis
McGee stories. The ones with colors in the titles. Paperback writer for the most part, wasn't he? I don't deal in paperbacks, as a rule; very few of collectible quality.”

What about notebooks? Morris thinks. Moleskines, to be specific. Do you deal in those, you fat, thieving fuck?

“
The Executioners
was published in hardcover,” he says, examining a shelf of books near the door. He wants to stay close to the door for the time being. And the bag with the hatchet in it. “It was the basis of a movie called
Cape Fear
. I'd buy a copy of that, if you happened to have one in mint condition. What I believe you people call very fine as new. And if the price was right, of course.”

Andy looks engaged now, and why not? He has a fish on the line. “I'm sure I don't have it in stock, but I could check BookFinder for you. That's a database. If it's listed, and a MacDonald hardcover probably is, especially if it was made into a film . . .
and
if it's a first edition . . . I could probably have it for you by Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest. Would you like me to look?”

“I would,” Morris says. “But the price has to be right.”

“Naturally, naturally.” Andy's chuckle is as fat as his gut. He lowers his eyes to the screen of his laptop. As soon as he does this, Morris flips the sign hanging in the door from OPEN to CLOSED. He bends down and takes the hatchet from the open duffel bag. He moves up the narrow central aisle with it held beside his leg. He doesn't hurry. He doesn't have to hurry. Andy is clicking away at his laptop and absorbed by whatever he's seeing on the screen.

“Found it!” his old pal exclaims. “James Graham has one, very fine as new, for just three hundred dol—”

He ceases speaking as the blade of the hatchet floats first into his peripheral vision, then front and center. He looks up, his face slack with shock.

“I want your hands where I can see them,” Morris says. “There's
probably an alarm button in the kneehole of your desk. If you want to keep all your fingers, don't reach for it.”

“What do you want? Why are you—”

“Don't recognize me, do you?” Morris doesn't know whether to be amused by this or infuriated. “Not even right up close and personal.”

“No, I . . . I . . .”

“Not surprising, I guess. It's been a long time since the Happy Cup, hasn't it?”

Halliday stares into Morris's lined and haggard face with dreadful fascination. Morris thinks, He's like a bird looking at a snake. This is a pleasant thought, and makes him smile.

“Oh my God,” Andy says. His face has gone the color of old cheese. “It can't be you. You're in jail.”

Morris shakes his head, still smiling. “There's probably a database for parolees as well as rare books, but I'm guessing you never checked it. Good for me, not so good for you.”

One of Andy's hands is creeping away from the keyboard of his laptop. Morris wiggles the hatchet.

“Don't do that, Andy. I want to see your hands on either side of your computer, palms down. Don't try to hit the button with your knee, either. I'll know if you try, and the consequences for you will be unpleasant in the extreme.”

“What do you want?”

The question makes him angry, but his smile widens. “As if you don't know.”

“I don't, Morrie, my God!” Andy's mouth is lying but his eyes tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“Let's go in your office. I'm sure you have one back there.”

“No!”

Morris wiggles the hatchet again. “You can come out of this
whole and intact, or with some of your fingers lying on the desk. Believe me on this, Andy. I'm not the man you knew.”

Andy gets up, his eyes never leaving Morris's face, but Morris isn't sure his old pal is actually seeing him anymore. He sways as if to invisible music, on the verge of passing out. If he does that, he won't be able to answer questions until he comes around. Also, Morris would have to
drag
him to the office. He's not sure he can do that; if Andy doesn't tip the scales at three hundred, he's got to be pushing it.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Calm down. All I want is a few answers. Then I'm gone.”

“You promise?” Andy's lower lip is pushed out, shining with spit. He looks like a fat little boy who's in dutch with his father.

“Yes. Now breathe.”

Andy breathes.

“Again.”

Andy's massive chest rises, straining the buttons of his shirt, then lowers. A bit of his color comes back.

“Office. Now. Do it.”

Andy turns and lumbers to the back of the store, weaving his way between boxes and stacks of books with the finicky grace some fat men possess. Morris follows. His anger is growing. It's something about the girlish flex and sway of Andy's buttocks, clad in gray gabardine trousers, that fuels it.

There's a keypad beside the door. Andy punches in four numbers—9118—and a green light flashes. As he enters, Morris reads his mind right through the back of his bald head.

“You're not quick enough to slam the door on me. If you try, you're going to lose something that can't be replaced. Count on it.”

Andy's shoulders, which have risen as he tenses to make just
this attempt, slump again. He steps in. Morris follows and closes the door.

The office is small, lined with stuffed bookshelves, lit by hanging globes. On the floor is a Turkish rug. The desk in here is much nicer—mahogany or teak or some other expensive wood. On it is a lamp with a shade that looks like real Tiffany glass. To the left of the door is a sideboard with four heavy crystal decanters on it. Morris doesn't know about the two containing clear liquid, but he bets the others hold scotch and bourbon. The good stuff, too, if he knows his old pal. For toasting big sales, no doubt.

Morris remembers the only kinds of booze available in the joint, prunejack and raisinjack, and even though he only imbibed on rare occasions like his birthday (and John Rothstein's, which he always marked with a single jolt), his anger grows. Good booze to drink and good food to gobble—that's what Andy Halliday had while Morris was dyeing bluejeans, inhaling varnish fumes, and living in a cell not much bigger than a coffin. He was in the joint for rape, true enough, but he never would have been in that alley, in a furious drunken blackout, if this man had not denied him and sent him packing.
Morris, I shouldn't even be seen with you
. That's what he said that day. And then called him batshit-crazy.

“Luxy accommodations, my friend.”

Andy looks around as if noting the luxy accommodations for the first time. “It looks that way,” he admits, “but appearances can be deceiving, Morrie. The truth is, I'm next door to broke. This place never came back from the recession, and from certain . . . allegations. You have to believe that.”

Morris rarely thinks about the money envelopes Curtis Rogers found along with the notebooks in Rothstein's safe that night, but he thinks about them now. His old pal got the cash as well as the
notebooks. For all Morris knows, that money paid for the desk, and the rug, and the fancy crystal decanters of booze.

At this, the balloon of rage finally bursts and Morris slings the hatchet in a low sideways arc, his cap tumbling from his head. The hatchet bites through gray gabardine and buries itself in the bloated buttock beneath with a
chump
sound. Andy screams and stumbles forward. He breaks his fall on the edge of his desk with his forearms, then goes to his knees. Blood pours through a six-inch slit in his pants. He claps a hand over it and more blood runs through his fingers. He falls on his side, then rolls over on the Turkish rug. With some satisfaction, Morris thinks, You'll never get
that
stain out, homie.

Andy squalls, “You said you wouldn't hurt me!”

Morris considers this and shakes his head. “I don't believe I ever said that in so many words, although I suppose I might have implied it.” He stares into Andy's contorted face with serious sincerity. “Think of it as DIY liposuction. And you can still come out of this alive. All you have to do is give me the notebooks. Where are they?”

This time Andy doesn't pretend not to know what Morris is talking about, not with his ass on fire and blood seeping out from beneath one hip. “I don't have them!”

Morris drops to one knee, careful to avoid the growing pool of blood. “I don't believe you. They're gone, nothing left but the trunk they were in, and nobody knew I had them but you. So I'm going to ask you again, and if you don't want to get a close look at your own guts and whatever you ate for lunch, you should be careful how you answer.
Where are the notebooks
?”

“A kid found them! It wasn't me, it was a kid! He lives in your old house, Morrie! He must have found them buried in the basement, or something!”

Morris stares into his old pal's face. He's looking for a lie, but he's also trying to cope with this sudden rearrangement of what he thought he knew. It's like a hard left turn in a car doing sixty.

“Please, Morrie, please! His name is Peter Saubers!”

It's the convincer, because Morris knows the name of the family now living in the house where he grew up. Besides, a man with a deep gash in his ass could hardly make up such specifics on the spur of the moment.

“How do you know that?”

“
Because he's trying to sell them to me!
Morrie, I need a doctor! I'm bleeding like a stuck pig!”

You
are
a pig, Morris thinks. But don't worry, old pal, pretty soon you'll be out of your misery. I'm going to send you to that big bookstore in the sky. But not yet, because Morris sees a bright ray of hope.

He's trying,
Andy said, not
He tried
.

“Tell me everything,” Morris says. “Then I'll leave. You'll have to call for an ambulance yourself, but I'm sure you can manage that.”

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“Because if the kid has the notebooks, I have no more interest in you. Of course, you have to promise not to tell them who hurt you. It was a masked man, wasn't it? Probably a drug addict. He wanted money, right?”

Andy nods eagerly.

“It had nothing to do with the notebooks, right?”

“No, nothing! You think I want my name involved with this?”

“I suppose not. But if you tried making up some story—and if my name was in that story—I'd have to come back.”

“I won't, Morrie, I won't!” Next comes a declaration as childish as that pushed-out, spit-shiny lower lip: “Honest injun!”

“Then tell me everything.”

Andy does. Saubers's first visit, with photocopies from the notebooks and
Dispatches from Olympus
for comparison. Andy's identification of the boy calling himself James Hawkins, using no more than the library sticker on the spine of
Dispatches
. The boy's second visit, when Andy turned the screws on him. The voicemail about the weekend class-officer trip to River Bend Resort, and the promise to come in Monday afternoon, just two days from now.

“What time on Monday?”

“He . . . he didn't say. After school, I'd assume. He goes to Northfield High. Morrie, I'm still bleeding.”

“Yes,” Morris says absently. “I guess you are.” He's thinking furiously. The boy claims to have all the notebooks. He might be lying about that, but probably not. The number of them that he quoted to Andy sounds right.
And he's read them
. This ignites a spark of poison jealousy in Morris Bellamy's head and lights a fire that quickly spreads to his heart. The Saubers boy has read what was meant for Morris and Morris alone. This is a grave injustice, and must be addressed.

He leans closer to Andy and says, “Are you gay? You are, aren't you?”

Andy's eyes flutter. “Am I . . . what does that matter? Morrie, I need an
ambulance
!”

“Do you have a partner?”

His old pal is hurt, but not stupid. He can see what such a question portends. “Yes!”

No, Morris thinks, and swings the hatchet:
chump
.

Andy screams and begins to writhe on the bloody rug. Morris swings again and Andy screams again. Lucky the room's lined with books, Morris thinks. Books make good insulation.

“Hold still, damn you,” he says, but Andy doesn't. It takes four blows in all. The last one comes down above the bridge of Andy's
nose, splitting both of his eyes like grapes, and at last the writhing stops. Morris pulls the hatchet free with a low squall of steel on bone and drops it on the rug beside one of Andy's outstretched hands. “There,” he says. “All finished.”

The rug is sodden with blood. The front of the desk is beaded with it. So is one of the walls, and Morris himself. The inner office is your basic abbatoir. This doesn't upset Morris much; he's pretty calm. It's probably shock, he thinks, but so what if it is? He
needs
to be calm. Upset people forget things.

There are two doors behind the desk. One opens on his old pal's private bathroom, the other on a closet. There are plenty of clothes in the closet, including two suits that look expensive. They're of no use to Morris, though. He'd float in them.

He wishes the bathroom had a shower, but if wishes were horses, et cetera, et cetera. He'll make do with the basin. As he strips off his bloody shirt and washes up, he tries to replay everything he touched since entering the shop. He doesn't believe there's much. He will have to remember to wipe down the sign hanging in the front door, though. Also the doorknobs of the closet and this bathroom.