Read Online The Bookman's Promise by John Dunning - Free Book Online Page B

again, and suddenly there was a faint hum on the line. Almost at once the man spoke: “This’s Dean.”
    “Hey, Dean,” I said in my best good-old-boy voice. “I was referred to you as a possible source for some books I want to find.”
    “Well, whoever sent you got one thing right—I got books. You buying ‘em by the pound or the ton? Or are you interested in something particular?”
    I laughed politely. “The last book I bought by the ton was an Oxford textbook on erectile dysfunction.”
    He bellowed into the phone, a raspy laugh followed by a hacking smoker’s cough. “Buddy, if you’ve got that problem, ain’t no book gonna cure it. Might as well slice off the old ginger root and donate it to medical research.”
    “Jesus, Dean, don’t jump to that conclusion. That book was for a friend of mine.”
    He laughed again. “Yeah, right. So listen, what the hell can I do for you?”
    “I heard through the grapevine you might have some books by Richard Burton. I’m talking about real stuff, you know what I mean?”
    I thought the pause was long enough to be significant. He coughed again and said, “What grapevine did you hear that through?”
    “Oh, you know…here and there. The main question is whether it’s true.”
    This time the pause was long enough to be halftime at the Rose Bowl. After a while I said, “Dean? You still with me?”
    “Yeah, I’m here. Just trying to think what I might have. We got a lot of books here, pal. I gave up long ago trying to keep track of it all.”
    “I don’t think you’d have any trouble keeping track of this stuff. You got a rare book room, I imagine you’d know what’s in it, right? I mean, this isn’t like the two million books you put out on the open shelves.”
    “Easy for you to say. You got two million books?”
    “Hell no, thank God.”
    I waited. I heard the sound of a cigarette being lit. I heard him blow smoke. “Where you calling from?”
    “I’m on the road. Trying to decide if it’s worth my time and energy to come all the way out to the coast.”
    “And you’re a serious buyer, right?”
    “Serious enough to make your day.” I decided to lie a little for the cause. “Maybe your month, if you’ve got what I want.”
    “We might still have something, I’m not sure.”
    Still
? A damned significant word, I thought. He said, “I’ll have to check and call you back. What’s your name?”
    Screw it, I thought: let’s see where this goes. “Cliff Janeway.”
    “The guy in Denver?”
    “I can’t believe how that story got around.”
    “Yeah. You’ll have to tell me who the hell your press agent is.”
    “His last name’s luck. First name’s dumb.”
    “I could use some of that.”
    “Maybe you’re having it right now, Dean,” I said with a nice touch of arrogance.
    “Yeah, we’ll see. I’m sure you know if I did have something like that, it wouldn’t be at any dealer’s prices. I wouldn’t want you to come all the way here thinking there’d be a lot of margin in a book like that.”
    “I’m used to that. I didn’t pay a dealer’s price in Boston, either.”
    “Okay, so where are we? You want to call me back?”
    “Yeah, sure. You say when.”
    “How about tomorrow, about this same time.”
    “You got it. Good talking to you, Dean.”
    I hung up and sat there quietly, thinking about it.
    About ten minutes later the phone rang. When I answered it, nobody was there.
    Actually, somebody
was
there. For a moment I could hear him breathing, then he covered the phone to cough. And there was that faint hum on the line.
    Dean.
    My new old buddy, Dean Treadwell. The last of the good old boys, checking up on me.
    Now he knew I’d been lying. I wasn’t on the road at all, was I?
    I heard the click as he hung up the phone. The hum went away and the line went dead.
    It was now twilight time, the beginning of my long nightly journey through the dark. For the moment the Treadwell business had played itself out. I didn’t