Necessity by Brian Garfield Read Free Book Online Page B

and heaves his thin arm high, pointing toward the very top of the bookcase. “Up there—all those? Firsts. Lippincott. Complete works of General Charles King, starting with The Colonel’s Daughter, eighteen and eighty-one. The first Western novel. The very first Western of all time.”
    He possesses a bashful wicked smile like a little boy’s: peeking at you out of the corner of his eye, trying to get away with something when he thinks you’re not looking. “That is if you don’t count the penny dreadfuls and the Prentiss Ingraham dime novels and those God-awful stage melodramas of Buntline’s.”
    She watches his face. He isn’t smiling any longer. He says in a different voice, “Who the hell remembers General Charles King now.”
    â€œI’m afraid not I.”
    â€œWhy, shoot,” he says with a scoffing theatrical snort, “without Charles King there’d’ve been no John Ford, no John Wayne, no nothing.”
    He is glaring at her. “I gather that doesn’t mean a whole hill of beans to you. So tell me, Mrs. Hartman. What are you doing here?”
    She smiles to deflect the challenge. Liking him, she says, “What if you found an investor to back you with operating capital?”
    He looks as if cold water has been thrown in his face. He catches his breath. “What are you saying to me?”
    â€œI’m asking whether you’d prefer to settle your debts and close up shop and go spend the rest of your days in a trailer park—or whether, given the chance, you’d stay in business here.”
    It evokes his ebullient laugh. “What the hell do you think?”
    She turns a full circle on her heels, surveying the place.
    He says: “It’d be very painful if I thought you were kidding around with me.”
    It’s nothing wonderful, really. A self-indulgent novelty-specialty enterprise in a cutesy-poo shopping mall. A couple of walls of books, most of them of no interest to anyone whose interests don’t include such arcane memorabilia.
    No one from her past life will ever dream of looking for her in a place like this.
    â€œI’m not kidding around with you.” She faces Doyle Stevens. “How much do you need?”
    â€œThirty-five thousand for the moment. And no guarantee you’d ever see a penny’s return on it.” He says it quickly and takes a backward step, ready to flinch.
    She says, “You’re just a hell of a salesman, aren’t you.”
    â€œI’m glad you’re perceptive enough to recognize that God-given talent in me. Marian doubts I could sell air conditioners in Death Valley. God knows what ever got me into retail trade.”
    â€œDo you regret it, then?”
    â€œI regret I’m not rich, yes ma’am.”
    â€œI doubt that.”
    â€œDo you now.” His smile has warmth in it for the first time.
    She asks, “How much does the business lose in the course of a year?”
    â€œDepends on the year. By the time Marian and I take our living expenses out—we can usually figure on breaking even more or less. But the last two years have been poorer than normal. Partly the economy. Partly that our customers keep getting older—the demographics would make a market researcher weep. Half our clients are geriatric cases. Sooner or later their eyesight goes bad or they pass away. Whichever comes first.”
    A motorcycle goes by with a roar calculated to offend, and the white-haired man glares toward the window. “Our new generation there doesn’t give a hang about the old West. When was the last time you saw a Western in the movies? You don’t see any horse operas on the tube any more. Was a time twenty years ago there’d be two dozen cowboy series on the television every week.”
    He looks grim. “Remember True Grit ? When was the last respectable Western book on the bestseller list? It’s a sad thing, you know,