though most of this affection was born from pity. He had been an important man once. Someone the Caesars of the London underworld had come to for advice and succor. He had been a man of letters and science and, if his story was true, of women. Going from there to sometime nurse for drunks and drugged-up surfers was a long way to fall. And so I didnât blame him for reveling in our attention; for taking a long drink from that fountain. Grady, on the other hand, did not suffer such things.
âCome on Doc, for chrissakes,â he growled, âwhat makes you say that?â
âWould you buy a car without checking to see if it ran?â Doc said with a light chuckle. He placed his spectacles back onto his bony nose. âYou see the problem is there is no way of telling if the manuscript is real or not just by looking at it. At least not at first blush. I imagine the initials on the portfolio are for Harry Brague, the original editor who helped Hemingwayâs last wife put the book together. If thatâs the case, then I would love to know how it came to be in a random trunk at an auction, selling for twenty dollars.â
âHow the hell should I know?â Milch said, and it came off more defensively than Docâs statement had warranted. Doc gave a solemn nod.
âYes, of course,â he said. âBut you have to understand it would take a team of scholars from several disciplines to determine its authenticity. Youâd need a literary scholar, at the very least. Preferably someone with a heavy background in Hemingway. There are chemical tests to determine the age of the paper. You could get access to Hemingwayâs typewriters and compare the ink and typing structure to determine if the pages came from one of them. There are ways, gentlemen, indeed there are ways, to determine if this is truly the work of Ernest Hemingway; but I assure you, taking a look through a magnifying glass, even one with a little light on it, is not one of them.â
âWell, someone thinks itâs real,â Milch spat. âI got a guy lined up in Ensenada to buy it.â
âIs that N. Thandy from Atlanta?â I asked.
Milch flinched again, this time almost imperceptibly. His visible eye narrowed, and he looked at me down along the line of his nose.
âHow do you know that name?â he asked. I took the business card out of my pocket and tossed it at him like throwing a playing card into a hat. Milch looked at it for a moment, checking both sides.
âIt was in the portfolio,â I said.
âYeah, well, he was the first guy I brought the manuscript to,â Milch said, sticking the card in his shirt pocket.
âAnd you went all the way to Atlanta to meet him?â I said with a raised eyebrow.
âNo, smart guy. In California. I found him on the Internet and he was already in Cali on a thing. So I met him up in Modesto. Thatâs where he did his thing with the magnifying glass and the little light. Told me he thought it was real, offered the five grand, but, see, the guy Iâm meeting up in Ensenada is named Norwood, Philip Norwood. Seventy grand heâs offering. Thatâs why Iâm down here. I figured I could use the money to pay off my debt.â
âBut Dell and Andy thought you were lamming it, right?â Grady said.
ââLamming itâ?â Milch said. âWho are you? James Cagney? Yeah, they thought Iâd rabbited, but Iâd told them about the manuscript and how I was going to get the money to pay them. I owed them thirty grand. I guess they wanted the whole thing.â
âSeventy thousand?â Grady said. He adjusted his weight on the orange crate with a series of clicks. âThat sound right to you, Doc?â
âWho knows,â Doc said, and pulled on the end of his nose as he thought about it. âOf course, Iâd be suspicious of anybody offering money for it at this stage, especially that kind of
Learning to Kill: Stories