treasure nestled among the junk. James Crumley’s
One to Count Cadence
, a $100 book then, two or three times that now. The mutual lunge, the struggle, the tumble into a counter of glassware, Fix coming up with the book, whirling and knocking a little old lady flat. The cops arrived, but Fix and Bobby were gone. So was the book.
I hassled him for a while: it was good for my constitution. Where were you last night, Fix? Anybody there with you? Can you prove where you were between ten o’clock and midnight? You didn’t like Bobby much… did you kill him?
Pleasantries like that help get me through a dull day. If only I had something to do with my hands.
I moseyed back up the street. It was a quiet day on Book Row. At Seals & Neff a few customers had come and gone and the day was quickly settling into its inevitable, uneventful course. There was a young woman in the store, who had brought in a bag of books. Bookscouts, like dealers, come in all sizes, colors, and sexes. This one was a cut above the others I had seen, at least in the category of looks, but it was clear from what was being said that she had more than a smattering of ignorance when it came to books.
Neff was explaining to her why her as-new copy of Faulkner’s
The Reivers
wasn’t a first edition. “But it says first edition,” she protested. “Right here on the copyright page… look. First edition. How much clearer can it be than that? Random House always states first edition, right? You told me that yourself the last time I was in here. Now I’ve got a first edition and you’re telling me it isn’t a first edition. I don’t know what to believe.”
“Believe this, honey,” Neff said. “I don’t need the grief. If you think I’m trying to steal your book…”
“I didn’t say that. I’m not accusing you, I just want to know.”
“It’s a Book-of-the-Month Club first,” Neff said, enunci-ating each word with chilly distinction. “It’s printed from the same plates as the first, or maybe the same sheets are ever used; that’s why it says first edition. But the binding is different, there’s no price on the jacket, and the book has a blind stamp on the back board.”
“What’s a blind stamp?”
“A little dent, pressed right into the cloth. Look, I’ll show you. You see that little stamp? That means it’s a book club book. Whenever you see that, it came from a book club, even if it’s written ‘I’m a first edition’ in Christ’s own blood inside. Okay?”
She sighed. “I’ll never learn this stuff. How much is it worth?”
“This book? Five bucks tops. There are eight million copies of this in the naked city.”
“
I paid
more than that for it. Didn’t I come in here last week and ask you what it was worth? You said fifty dollars. That’s why I went and bought it.”
“We’re talking about two different animals. You asked me a question, I answered you. How was I supposed to know you couldn’t tell one from the other?”
“I paid seven-fifty,” she said sadly.
“You got rooked.”
“Damn shit,” she said.
“You tell her, Mr. Janeway,” Neff said. “Lady, this guy is a Denver cop. Would a cop lie to you? He’s a cop and he’s also a damn good bookman. Show him the book.”
She handed it to me. I looked at it and told her Neff was right. It was a $5 book and you had to pray mighty hard to ever get the five.
“Let me see your badge,” she said. “You don’t look like a cop to me.”
I showed her my badge. She sagged in final defeat.
“It’s a tough world, hon,” Neff said.
“Don’t give me that. I see some of the characters who sell you books. They don’t look like any Einsteins to me. If they can do it, I know I can. I’ve got as much brains as they have.”
“I’m sure that’s true. The difference between you and them is that they’ve already made their mistakes.”
“Seven dollars and fifty cents, shot to hell,” she said. “Bet you won’t even give me two for
One to Count Cadence
, a $100 book then, two or three times that now. The mutual lunge, the struggle, the tumble into a counter of glassware, Fix coming up with the book, whirling and knocking a little old lady flat. The cops arrived, but Fix and Bobby were gone. So was the book.
I hassled him for a while: it was good for my constitution. Where were you last night, Fix? Anybody there with you? Can you prove where you were between ten o’clock and midnight? You didn’t like Bobby much… did you kill him?
Pleasantries like that help get me through a dull day. If only I had something to do with my hands.
I moseyed back up the street. It was a quiet day on Book Row. At Seals & Neff a few customers had come and gone and the day was quickly settling into its inevitable, uneventful course. There was a young woman in the store, who had brought in a bag of books. Bookscouts, like dealers, come in all sizes, colors, and sexes. This one was a cut above the others I had seen, at least in the category of looks, but it was clear from what was being said that she had more than a smattering of ignorance when it came to books.
Neff was explaining to her why her as-new copy of Faulkner’s
The Reivers
wasn’t a first edition. “But it says first edition,” she protested. “Right here on the copyright page… look. First edition. How much clearer can it be than that? Random House always states first edition, right? You told me that yourself the last time I was in here. Now I’ve got a first edition and you’re telling me it isn’t a first edition. I don’t know what to believe.”
“Believe this, honey,” Neff said. “I don’t need the grief. If you think I’m trying to steal your book…”
“I didn’t say that. I’m not accusing you, I just want to know.”
“It’s a Book-of-the-Month Club first,” Neff said, enunci-ating each word with chilly distinction. “It’s printed from the same plates as the first, or maybe the same sheets are ever used; that’s why it says first edition. But the binding is different, there’s no price on the jacket, and the book has a blind stamp on the back board.”
“What’s a blind stamp?”
“A little dent, pressed right into the cloth. Look, I’ll show you. You see that little stamp? That means it’s a book club book. Whenever you see that, it came from a book club, even if it’s written ‘I’m a first edition’ in Christ’s own blood inside. Okay?”
She sighed. “I’ll never learn this stuff. How much is it worth?”
“This book? Five bucks tops. There are eight million copies of this in the naked city.”
“
I paid
more than that for it. Didn’t I come in here last week and ask you what it was worth? You said fifty dollars. That’s why I went and bought it.”
“We’re talking about two different animals. You asked me a question, I answered you. How was I supposed to know you couldn’t tell one from the other?”
“I paid seven-fifty,” she said sadly.
“You got rooked.”
“Damn shit,” she said.
“You tell her, Mr. Janeway,” Neff said. “Lady, this guy is a Denver cop. Would a cop lie to you? He’s a cop and he’s also a damn good bookman. Show him the book.”
She handed it to me. I looked at it and told her Neff was right. It was a $5 book and you had to pray mighty hard to ever get the five.
“Let me see your badge,” she said. “You don’t look like a cop to me.”
I showed her my badge. She sagged in final defeat.
“It’s a tough world, hon,” Neff said.
“Don’t give me that. I see some of the characters who sell you books. They don’t look like any Einsteins to me. If they can do it, I know I can. I’ve got as much brains as they have.”
“I’m sure that’s true. The difference between you and them is that they’ve already made their mistakes.”
“Seven dollars and fifty cents, shot to hell,” she said. “Bet you won’t even give me two for
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