Necessity by Brian Garfield Read Free Book Online Page A

work a six-day week. And most of our evenings on the cataloging and the mail order.”
    He squints at her. “You don’t do this to make money. And you can’t treat it like some kind of part-time hobby.”
    She says: “No. You do it because you adore it.”
    But her smile seems to exacerbate his anger.
    She says, “You have to love the smell of old books.”
    â€œDon’t romanticize it. I hate sentimentality.”
    Sure you do, she thinks. What she says is, “Do you and Mrs. Stevens work here together?”
    â€œNormally. She’s at the accountant’s office this morning. Trying to untangle some of the shambles. Paperwork. Federal government, state, county of Los Angeles, you’d think we were right up there alongside General Motors. A small binness like this, the paperwork alone can—Aagh, doesn’t matter.”
    He pulls an old-fashioned pocketwatch out of his shirt pocket and snaps its lid open and consults it. Oddly, she does not have the impulse to laugh at the affectation.
    He says, “She’s got a good head for that kind of paperwork. And she’s saintly patient with the bureaucracies and their fools. I expect her back shortly, in time for lunch.”
    Then he peers at her. “Ever been in the retail book trade?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen maybe you’re a Western buff. Afficionado of frontier feminism or Indian folk medicine—one of these fashionable concerns?”
    â€œI wouldn’t know a frontier feminist from Martha Washington. But I adore books and I’d like to learn.”
    Doyle Stevens doesn’t try to conceal his suspicion. “Care to tell me why you called?”
    â€œWill you answer one question first?”
    He has the talent to cock one eyebrow inquisitively. For some nonsensical reason she has always admired men who can do that. Ever since her third birthday when Uncle Dave—
    She shuts off the thought, slamming a door roughly upon it; she says: “‘Investment opportunity for Western Americana bibliophile’—don’t you think that’s ambiguous? Your ad doesn’t make it clear whether you want someone to invest in your business so you can keep it going—or whether you just want to sell it and get out.”
    He turns away momentarily. She guesses he’s looking at the customer in the back of the store. The man is well beyond earshot, putting a book back on its shelf and taking another down to examine it.
    Doyle Stevens says, “How many sane people you think I’d find, invest money in this loony operation to keep it going?”
    â€œSo you want to sell it and get out.”
    He waves a hand around, bringing within its compass everything in the shop.
    â€œMy wife and I owe the publishers close to ten thousand dollars in unpaid invoices. Another two, three thousand to the jobbers. Owe the bank sixty-five thousand in business loans, eighty thousand mortgage on our house. So you see the plain fact is, Miss Hartman—”
    â€œMrs.”
    â€œBeg your pardon.” He takes it without a break in expression. “Mrs. Hartman. Plain fact is I could’ve filed bankruptcy but I’d rather not see a receiver take over this inventory. I kind of doubt we’d be fortunate enough to have it fall into the hands of a banker with a true hankering for Western books.”
    He folds his hands, interlacing the fingers, looking down at them as if making a religious obeisance. “I was hoping to sell to somebody who’d have—at least a certain respect for this collection. Here, look here.”
    He takes down off the shelf behind him a heavy hardcover with a pale blue dust jacket. It looks quite new. Stevens opens it with reverent care. “Triggernometry. Cunningham. The first edition, Caxton Press. Pret’ near mint condition. You have any idea how rare and precious this book is to a true collector?”
    Then he replaces it on its shelf