The Dirty Book Murder Read Online Free Page A

his ear with his plastic prosthesis probably did. The sneaky bastard must have been reporting my bidding with the Afrikaner to his client, waiting for the right moment to jump in.
    And thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for that.
    For a few seconds you couldn’t have heard a mouse fart, then the room exploded in wild applause and laughter.
    The Afrikaner appeared as startled as I, only now he had his own cell phone to his ear and the look of renewed interest. He didn’t hesitate to top Chezik’s bid by another $2,500 while I looked on in relief and wonder. Chezik reported the raise into his cell phone and raised the ante, which, in turn, was quickly countered by the person calling the shots on the Afrikaner’s phone.
    Sixty grand is what Richard Chezik’s client and I cost the stranger’s boss that day.
    After Colonel Bender slapped down the gavel, the crowd remained silent for a few moments before madly rushing toward the table to see what prizes had lain before their unschooled eyes. The pandemonium provided enough diversion for Gareth Hughes to sneak the Colette into his leather satchel and skulk out a side door.
    I didn’t pursue him. My colleague was long past reason. It happens sometimes with bibliophiles; that “gentle madness” Nick Basbanes is always writing about.
    If the stranger noticed that Gareth had fled with the Colette, he didn’t show it as he shoveled the books, far too carelessly for a true book lover, into four cardboard boxes. When they were filled, the colonel motioned for three of his helpers to pick them up, leaving the fourth on the floor.
    “Are you ready to go?” Colonel Bender asked the man.
    “I’m ready.”
    “Well then, you’d best get that last one and show the boys to your car.”
    The set of the big fella’s jaw made it clear he wasn’t doing any physical labor,even though the remaining box weighed all of twenty-five pounds.
    “One of the boys will come back and get it,” the colonel said diplomatically.
    “I want ’em taken out togetter. Now.”
    Bender’s crimson face puffed up like a blowfish. He still held the check for $60,000 in his right hand and, for an instant, I thought hillbilly pride would prevail over common sense.
    No such luck.
    “I’ll get this one, Colonel,” I said, picking up the box. “Go ahead with the rest of your business.”
    “Why, thank you, son. That’s mighty decent of you.”
    I figure it never hurts to protect another man’s dignity, especially if there’s no threat to my own in doing it, and, as I’d have some questions for the colonel later, I thought it wise to get on his good side.
    “Show us the way, Shakespeare,” I said to the Afrikaner.
    He snorted contemptuously, aiming those piggy eyes at me again until satisfied he had stored my features in his memory bank. Then the other three book haulers and I followed him out of the building.
    His black Lincoln Continental sat in a no-parking zone near the front door. He opened the trunk with an electric key and watched in silence as we put the books in place. Then, showing a two-inch smile that promised to drain my liver sometime soon, he got into the car and sped away, the tires spraying gravel against our kneecaps.
    I barely had time to jot down the personalized license plate.
    It read
2 L 8
.

Chapter Four
    After the auction, I headed for Riverrun Books, my shop located in the heart of Brookside.
    It’s a middle-class urban neighborhood where people glide away summer afternoons on porch swings, nodding friendly greetings to strollers on shaded sidewalks under the canopies of hardwood trees four and five stories high. Although well tended, the lawns are not particularly wide or deep so that the houses lie close to the street, expressing their owners’ trust in the outside world and pride in their handsome oak doors and exterior walls of native stone.
    The soft, fresh air after the heat of the River Market warehouse lightened my mood. I counted my blessings, such as they were, while