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Authors: John Dunning
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condition, and by whose standard must condition be measured? We don’t like to admit it but the flimflam man has a trait that’s all too common to the rest of us. The degree of his crookedness is a wild variant, and our own generosity can vary as much from one of us to the next.
It’s no wonder that the trade is such a warm, fertile place for pond scum; what’s amazing is how little of it you actually find there. Most dealers pay 30 to 40 percent, straight across the board, which is certainly decent, considering the overhead. Many do scale back what they pay because they may have those books for years. Some of them may never sell. And there’s one thing that will always separate us from a cheese-pushing hose artist: we never lie on either end, buying or selling, and he
always
lies—on either end, both ends, and in the middle.
How different my own life might have been. Only some quirk in my character had kept me from becoming what I now despised. I could be rich now on crooked money. I had seldom seen Vince Marranzino since the old days but that possibility had been rife between us. On another night he had stepped out of a big touring car with a wicked-looking sidekick. I’d opened the door, hiding the apprehension I felt, and Vince embraced me like some godfather out of Mario Puzo. I’d slapped his back. He was still hard and tough, and the scar on his face had deepened where long ago a young hood had gashed him with a broken beer bottle. Thinking of him now, his scars reminded me of Richard Burton.
The muscle had waited on the sidewalk while Vince and I talked. Now he was called Vinnie, but I could still call him Vince. He remembered old debts and I could call him anything I wanted.
Only you can call me that old name, Cliffie
.
He knew his presence made me uneasy. But he’d had to come: he’d seen the newspaper stories about my fall from grace, and he wanted to help me square things.
He’d looked around him and said,
You like this book racket
?
Yeah, I do.
You wanna buy some real books?
I dunno, Vince. What would I have to do for ‘em?
Just let me throw a little work your way. I’ve got a job now, you could do it in a week. Make you fifty, seventy-five grand. Buy all the goddamn books you want for that.
Well
, I’d said, smiling.
That would be a start, anyway
.
But I’d said no thanks without hearing what the job was.
Vince had looked disgusted.
Hey you, you big bazooka, when are you gonna let me square accounts with you
?
We’re square now, Vince. You don’t owe me anything.
But I had once saved his life and he shook his head sadly. To a man like Vince, that account could never be squared with words alone.
He’d gripped my arm.
Strong as ever, ain’tcha, Cliff? Bet I can throw your ass
.
I’d laughed.
I’ll bet you can
.
When I looked up again the afternoon had faded. It was five-fifteen and no word from Erin. I faced the fact that she wasn’t coming.
It was two hours later in Baltimore, probably too late to call Treadwell’s—assuming I had some valid excuse, or could think of one, or could say anything that sounded at all real. I was caught up in an old cop’s impulse: I wanted to hear the man’s voice, so I picked up the phone and punched in the number.
It rang, five times…six. Nobody there, just as I thought, and just as well. Then I heard a click on the other end, and a woman’s voice. “Hi, Treadwell’s.”
“Is Treadwell there?”
“Which one?”
“Whoever’s handy.”
She said, “Justa minute, hon,” and I was put on hold. Well, I was into it now: nothing to do but hang up or play it out. There was no elevator music, nothing but that dead-flat line to help me while away the hours. How many times had I done this as a cop, made a cold call with no plan of action and only a hunch to go on? Sometimes it worked out fine, and if there was a compelling reason to pussyfoot around with these guys, I couldn’t see it.
Long minutes later I heard the phone click
It’s no wonder that the trade is such a warm, fertile place for pond scum; what’s amazing is how little of it you actually find there. Most dealers pay 30 to 40 percent, straight across the board, which is certainly decent, considering the overhead. Many do scale back what they pay because they may have those books for years. Some of them may never sell. And there’s one thing that will always separate us from a cheese-pushing hose artist: we never lie on either end, buying or selling, and he
always
lies—on either end, both ends, and in the middle.
How different my own life might have been. Only some quirk in my character had kept me from becoming what I now despised. I could be rich now on crooked money. I had seldom seen Vince Marranzino since the old days but that possibility had been rife between us. On another night he had stepped out of a big touring car with a wicked-looking sidekick. I’d opened the door, hiding the apprehension I felt, and Vince embraced me like some godfather out of Mario Puzo. I’d slapped his back. He was still hard and tough, and the scar on his face had deepened where long ago a young hood had gashed him with a broken beer bottle. Thinking of him now, his scars reminded me of Richard Burton.
The muscle had waited on the sidewalk while Vince and I talked. Now he was called Vinnie, but I could still call him Vince. He remembered old debts and I could call him anything I wanted.
Only you can call me that old name, Cliffie
.
He knew his presence made me uneasy. But he’d had to come: he’d seen the newspaper stories about my fall from grace, and he wanted to help me square things.
He’d looked around him and said,
You like this book racket
?
Yeah, I do.
You wanna buy some real books?
I dunno, Vince. What would I have to do for ‘em?
Just let me throw a little work your way. I’ve got a job now, you could do it in a week. Make you fifty, seventy-five grand. Buy all the goddamn books you want for that.
Well
, I’d said, smiling.
That would be a start, anyway
.
But I’d said no thanks without hearing what the job was.
Vince had looked disgusted.
Hey you, you big bazooka, when are you gonna let me square accounts with you
?
We’re square now, Vince. You don’t owe me anything.
But I had once saved his life and he shook his head sadly. To a man like Vince, that account could never be squared with words alone.
He’d gripped my arm.
Strong as ever, ain’tcha, Cliff? Bet I can throw your ass
.
I’d laughed.
I’ll bet you can
.
When I looked up again the afternoon had faded. It was five-fifteen and no word from Erin. I faced the fact that she wasn’t coming.
It was two hours later in Baltimore, probably too late to call Treadwell’s—assuming I had some valid excuse, or could think of one, or could say anything that sounded at all real. I was caught up in an old cop’s impulse: I wanted to hear the man’s voice, so I picked up the phone and punched in the number.
It rang, five times…six. Nobody there, just as I thought, and just as well. Then I heard a click on the other end, and a woman’s voice. “Hi, Treadwell’s.”
“Is Treadwell there?”
“Which one?”
“Whoever’s handy.”
She said, “Justa minute, hon,” and I was put on hold. Well, I was into it now: nothing to do but hang up or play it out. There was no elevator music, nothing but that dead-flat line to help me while away the hours. How many times had I done this as a cop, made a cold call with no plan of action and only a hunch to go on? Sometimes it worked out fine, and if there was a compelling reason to pussyfoot around with these guys, I couldn’t see it.
Long minutes later I heard the phone click
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