Read Online Book of Secrets by Chris Roberson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Roberson
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alright," he gloated. "I had him before you even left. I just wanted to be able to study his moves without you here hovering over me."
"Alright, then." I paused, looking at him smile. "A name?"
"I've got his name, alright. He's a fair thief, but a miserable human being. Bad teeth, stringy hair, horrible table manners. This guy's an ape in a people suit, son. Gambling problem, too, as I understand."
"His name?" I repeated.
"The problem with guys like him is that you never know which way they're gonna jump. They've got the skills, but they've got no moral center. You know how I've always told you, if you're going to live outside the law you have just got to be honest. Otherwise you're just an animal."
"It was Dylan, old man. Bob Dylan said that."
"He did? He must have heard it from me. I broke into his hotel room once after I heard 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'. Nice guy. That kid was Woody Guthrie all over again. Knew how to treat a guest."
"Focus," I scolded. "The thief?"
"Calm down. It's Marconi; that's the bird you're looking for. Gian Marconi."
I sighed, and made note of the name.
"Anything else you can tell me?" I asked.
"I'm not sure I like your tone, boy."
"Alright, alright. 'Thank you, Tan.' Now, can you tell me anything else?"
The old man straightened up in his chair, smug, and smiled slightly.
"Sure can. First off, this job cost money. Real money. The gizmos and doodads Marconi used to knock out all them motion detectors and whatnot cost a pretty penny, and he was never the kind to have that kind of scratch laying around."
"So somebody put him up to it?"
"Yep, that's what I figure. And but for one thing, it would have been pretty slick job."
"One thing? What?"
"Well, your detective here mentions broken glass on the floor, and something about some torn paper…" Tan gestured meaningfully to the plastic bag containing the ancient paper, lying half hidden by a stack of photos.
"Go on," I prompted.
"Well, for all his finesse gettin' into the joint, it looks like Marconi wasn't real sure what to do once he got there. Near as I can tell, whatever he wanted was in a glass case in the library, and instead of cutting his way in it appears like he just busted it."
"So maybe he didn't know just what he was after?"
"I didn't say that," the old man corrected. "Maybe he knew, and just got all rushed right there at the end. Somebody coming, or one of his gizmos was on the blink or something. Either way, breaking the glass like that seems to have messed up whatever was inside, and that's where the paper on the floor come from. It had a few slivers of glass embedded in the edge of it."
Something struck me.
"So it was definitely a book, then," I said.
"That's what it looks like." He paused, then pulled the plastic bag out from under the photos. "Not that I can tell you what the book is though." He turned the bag over in his hands, inspecting the paper within. "Looks to be handwriting, but I couldn't tell you what language. Indian, maybe?"
"Feather or dot?"
"Hell, either one for all I know," he answered.
I climbed out of my chair and started towards the phone.
"Who you calling?" the old man asked.
"Amador. He's stationed in Houston these days."
"That scab? Shit," he spat. "Take a kid into your home, try to teach him what you know, and he ends up a fuckin' fed." Tan shook his head, and I could tell he was wondering where he'd gone wrong with that one. Where he'd gone wrong with all of us. He'd seen himself as a Cajun Fagin in those days, training a bunch of thieves and then sitting back while we brought him the goods. Instead, he ended up with a reporter, a computer geek, a special effects engineer, and various and sundry other young go-getters. We didn't always stay on the sunny side of the law, to be sure, but I knew that the old man was a bit disappointed.
I shrugged, gave him
"Alright, then." I paused, looking at him smile. "A name?"
"I've got his name, alright. He's a fair thief, but a miserable human being. Bad teeth, stringy hair, horrible table manners. This guy's an ape in a people suit, son. Gambling problem, too, as I understand."
"His name?" I repeated.
"The problem with guys like him is that you never know which way they're gonna jump. They've got the skills, but they've got no moral center. You know how I've always told you, if you're going to live outside the law you have just got to be honest. Otherwise you're just an animal."
"It was Dylan, old man. Bob Dylan said that."
"He did? He must have heard it from me. I broke into his hotel room once after I heard 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'. Nice guy. That kid was Woody Guthrie all over again. Knew how to treat a guest."
"Focus," I scolded. "The thief?"
"Calm down. It's Marconi; that's the bird you're looking for. Gian Marconi."
I sighed, and made note of the name.
"Anything else you can tell me?" I asked.
"I'm not sure I like your tone, boy."
"Alright, alright. 'Thank you, Tan.' Now, can you tell me anything else?"
The old man straightened up in his chair, smug, and smiled slightly.
"Sure can. First off, this job cost money. Real money. The gizmos and doodads Marconi used to knock out all them motion detectors and whatnot cost a pretty penny, and he was never the kind to have that kind of scratch laying around."
"So somebody put him up to it?"
"Yep, that's what I figure. And but for one thing, it would have been pretty slick job."
"One thing? What?"
"Well, your detective here mentions broken glass on the floor, and something about some torn paper…" Tan gestured meaningfully to the plastic bag containing the ancient paper, lying half hidden by a stack of photos.
"Go on," I prompted.
"Well, for all his finesse gettin' into the joint, it looks like Marconi wasn't real sure what to do once he got there. Near as I can tell, whatever he wanted was in a glass case in the library, and instead of cutting his way in it appears like he just busted it."
"So maybe he didn't know just what he was after?"
"I didn't say that," the old man corrected. "Maybe he knew, and just got all rushed right there at the end. Somebody coming, or one of his gizmos was on the blink or something. Either way, breaking the glass like that seems to have messed up whatever was inside, and that's where the paper on the floor come from. It had a few slivers of glass embedded in the edge of it."
Something struck me.
"So it was definitely a book, then," I said.
"That's what it looks like." He paused, then pulled the plastic bag out from under the photos. "Not that I can tell you what the book is though." He turned the bag over in his hands, inspecting the paper within. "Looks to be handwriting, but I couldn't tell you what language. Indian, maybe?"
"Feather or dot?"
"Hell, either one for all I know," he answered.
I climbed out of my chair and started towards the phone.
"Who you calling?" the old man asked.
"Amador. He's stationed in Houston these days."
"That scab? Shit," he spat. "Take a kid into your home, try to teach him what you know, and he ends up a fuckin' fed." Tan shook his head, and I could tell he was wondering where he'd gone wrong with that one. Where he'd gone wrong with all of us. He'd seen himself as a Cajun Fagin in those days, training a bunch of thieves and then sitting back while we brought him the goods. Instead, he ended up with a reporter, a computer geek, a special effects engineer, and various and sundry other young go-getters. We didn't always stay on the sunny side of the law, to be sure, but I knew that the old man was a bit disappointed.
I shrugged, gave him
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