The Dirty Book Murder Read Online Free
Author: Thomas Shawver
sell two hundred and fifty shares of inherited stock for $6,000, use a $10,000 line of credit at Midwest Bank, and unload a first-edition of
The Reivers
by Faulkner that I’d been saving for myself. But did I really want to risk that kind of money for books I hadn’t researched thoroughly?
“Twenty-five thousand,” I said.
The room erupted in applause.
Gareth Hughes barked a surprised laugh and the colonel performed a brief jig as if struggling to control his bladder. Even his wife emitted a constipated smile as she tallied up the commission on her calculator.
The Afrikaner leveled his porcine eyes at me as if I was the only person in the universe. His look confirmed that he would make up the difference out of his own pocket.
“Thirty-five thousand,” he said.
“Forty,” I countered blithely and totally beyond reason, except for my renewed belief that, up to a point, my opponent could not afford to let me win. The trick was to guess where that amount stopped.
Everyone in the room stared at me, including Gareth Hughes, who stepped forward and gave me a cool, one-sided smile accompanied by a shake of the head that made it clear I was not to count on him. Whether it was the stifling heat of the room or the insane position I had placed myself in from misplaced pride and an old-fashioned devotion to rare books, I felt dizzy and nauseous.
“Forty-five.”
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath.
Those near enough to hear my curse smiled sympathetically, assuming I was disappointed because I could bid no higher. But my small outburst was only for the effect it would have on the Afrikaner.
Sick as I was with worry, I knew with all my quavering heart that we had not yet reached the end sum. We were close, however, and I shed my poker face just long enough for him to see I was near the end of my challenges.
I waited for Herl Bender to threaten dropping the hammer before quietly upping the count by $2,500. To have raised the ante by another increment of $5,000 ran the risk of scaring away the competition, the last thing I wanted.
My opponent studied me long enough for mankind to evolve into something else. The colonel went through his by now well-practiced prolonging of the raised gavel, letting it quiver in the left hand he held high above his head, his patience bubble-gum stretched as he aimed his eyes at the man, urging the final bid to top mine.
But the stranger only continued to stare at me.
Outside Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day, I’m not a religious man, but my eyeballs shifted upward, seeking divine deliverance from owing a fortune I did not have for items I had inspected for less than two minutes. Add to this the miserable fact that they were offered by an auctioneer with about as much credibility handling rare books as Mike Tyson. Any wonder that during those milliseconds my bowels slipped into my Nikes?
If there was any consolation to be had, it was that the Afrikaner seemed as concerned as I at what was about to transpire, confirming that his boss was not a very understanding individual when it came to losing.
Except that he had nothing to worry about.
If I couldn’t honor the bid, which was extremely likely, he would get the books for the first price he bid before I originally countered.
Namely, $10,000.
Not only would I owe a substantial amount in damages to the auctioneer and face possible felony charges for fraud, my credibility as a book dealer would be ruined unless I could make good the $47,500.
I began to calculate the fair market value of my house (naturally, the economy was experiencing the worst recession in modern history) when I heard a quivering voice from the back of the room utter the magic words that renewed my faith in Catholicism.
“I bid fifty.”
The voice didn’t belong to the Afrikaner, but to Richard Chezik, that thieving book scout who wasn’t supposed to have a pot to piss in. On the other hand, the person at the other end of the cell phone that Richard held to
The Reivers
by Faulkner that I’d been saving for myself. But did I really want to risk that kind of money for books I hadn’t researched thoroughly?
“Twenty-five thousand,” I said.
The room erupted in applause.
Gareth Hughes barked a surprised laugh and the colonel performed a brief jig as if struggling to control his bladder. Even his wife emitted a constipated smile as she tallied up the commission on her calculator.
The Afrikaner leveled his porcine eyes at me as if I was the only person in the universe. His look confirmed that he would make up the difference out of his own pocket.
“Thirty-five thousand,” he said.
“Forty,” I countered blithely and totally beyond reason, except for my renewed belief that, up to a point, my opponent could not afford to let me win. The trick was to guess where that amount stopped.
Everyone in the room stared at me, including Gareth Hughes, who stepped forward and gave me a cool, one-sided smile accompanied by a shake of the head that made it clear I was not to count on him. Whether it was the stifling heat of the room or the insane position I had placed myself in from misplaced pride and an old-fashioned devotion to rare books, I felt dizzy and nauseous.
“Forty-five.”
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath.
Those near enough to hear my curse smiled sympathetically, assuming I was disappointed because I could bid no higher. But my small outburst was only for the effect it would have on the Afrikaner.
Sick as I was with worry, I knew with all my quavering heart that we had not yet reached the end sum. We were close, however, and I shed my poker face just long enough for him to see I was near the end of my challenges.
I waited for Herl Bender to threaten dropping the hammer before quietly upping the count by $2,500. To have raised the ante by another increment of $5,000 ran the risk of scaring away the competition, the last thing I wanted.
My opponent studied me long enough for mankind to evolve into something else. The colonel went through his by now well-practiced prolonging of the raised gavel, letting it quiver in the left hand he held high above his head, his patience bubble-gum stretched as he aimed his eyes at the man, urging the final bid to top mine.
But the stranger only continued to stare at me.
Outside Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day, I’m not a religious man, but my eyeballs shifted upward, seeking divine deliverance from owing a fortune I did not have for items I had inspected for less than two minutes. Add to this the miserable fact that they were offered by an auctioneer with about as much credibility handling rare books as Mike Tyson. Any wonder that during those milliseconds my bowels slipped into my Nikes?
If there was any consolation to be had, it was that the Afrikaner seemed as concerned as I at what was about to transpire, confirming that his boss was not a very understanding individual when it came to losing.
Except that he had nothing to worry about.
If I couldn’t honor the bid, which was extremely likely, he would get the books for the first price he bid before I originally countered.
Namely, $10,000.
Not only would I owe a substantial amount in damages to the auctioneer and face possible felony charges for fraud, my credibility as a book dealer would be ruined unless I could make good the $47,500.
I began to calculate the fair market value of my house (naturally, the economy was experiencing the worst recession in modern history) when I heard a quivering voice from the back of the room utter the magic words that renewed my faith in Catholicism.
“I bid fifty.”
The voice didn’t belong to the Afrikaner, but to Richard Chezik, that thieving book scout who wasn’t supposed to have a pot to piss in. On the other hand, the person at the other end of the cell phone that Richard held to
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